《The Great Effigy》 As The World Burns The airship floated like a phantom above the land, its massive metal hull gleaming under the shifting twilight, suspended in the thickening night. Garren Vex stood still at the front of the deck, arms folded, his boots heavy on the cold steel beneath him. Above, the city below was fading, the last vestiges of daylight struggling against the encroaching storm clouds. The sky was a cruel gradient of purple and black, threatening to open up into a downpour at any moment. Yet the airship cut through it all, its engines humming with eerie precision as it glided into the endless unknown. Around him, the X-Unit stood in perfect formation. They were an imposing line of silent figures, their angular helmets reflecting the dim light of the sky like polished obsidian. Their armor was sleek and practical¡ªbuilt for efficiency and dominance. Slate gray and metallic black, each chest plate was embossed with the unmistakable X on their shoulders¡ªa mark of loyalty and absolute submission to the Dominion. The X was their uniform, their signature, their identity¡ªa letter, impersonal but powerful. Garren felt the weight of the insignia on his shoulder, heavy like a stone pressing into his skin. He had worn it longer than any of them, had believed in it once, fought for it. But now, standing amidst them, he felt it like a branding iron¡ªevery inch of him resisting the meaning it once held. His fingers twitched at his side, a subtle movement, the only sign of his unrest. He was unsure if the airship or the X-Unit itself suffocated him. The cold, mechanical precision of the soldiers around him was oppressive, like the rigid grip of a world that demanded order and control. The X-Unit was a collective force¡ªsilent, unwavering. Their movements were synchronized in a way that could only be described as unnatural. Every step was calculated. Every breath was measured. Even the rustling of their cloaks, flickering in the heavy wind, was uniform. Their helmets were blank slates, expressionless, revealing nothing of the men and women beneath them, their thoughts, their fears. They were tools. Weapons. Enforcers. Garren''s gaze drifted across their facades and faceless visors, and he couldn''t help but remember the countless missions he''d been part of. The unreadable soldiers had always been a blur¡ªa wall of authority and obedience. But now, for the first time, he saw them for what they were: echoes of his past. These faceless people did the bidding of the Dominion without question, without reflection. He was one of them. The wind grew sharper, tugging at their cloaks. The wooden airship deck creaked as the ship adjusted its trajectory, swaying slightly in the gusts. Garren held his ground, feet firmly planted, though his mind raced. He had always believed in the power of the X, the promise it symbolized¡ªcontrol, order, righteousness. But now, standing among them, he felt no such certainty. What was no glory in this? Where was the honor? Was this an actualization of his will to power? "Keep your focus, Vex." The voice came from his right, warbling through the speakers. It was a sharp, low growl of authority, like the hum of an arcblade being drawn. It belonged to the officer beside him, another higher-ranking X-Unit, and his commander. The officer''s helmet glinted, catching a brief flash of light from the distant city below. Garren didn''t reply. He hadn''t needed to. They all knew their role. No one spoke unless spoken to. Talking happened when the mission demanded it. Silence was both their strength and their shield. But still, Garren couldn''t shake the unease that gnawed at his gut. The airship was a monstrosity in the sky, floating just above the city like an old kingdom dragon. Below, the city was a sprawling mess of buildings and roads, illuminated by streetlamps in a harsh phosphorous glow. From above, it looked like a labyrinth¡ªa maze of concrete and steel broken up by the occasional patch of green from a park or courtyard. The airship was headed for the city''s heart. The buildings were taller there¡ªskyscrapers reaching high into the air like skeletal fingers. Their windows glowed with soft light, and Garren could almost imagine the warmth within each one. People went about their daily lives, unaware of the impending danger above them. The airship descended into the heart of the city. The X-Unit moved closer to the edge, their weapons raised, ready to unleash their power at any moment. "X-Unit," the officer said, his voice cold. "Prepare to engage any resistance." Garren''s eyes widened beneath his mask, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. But hesitation was not an option. He gripped his rifle¡ªa long, heavy weapon with a sleek stock and a barrel glowing faint blue with magical energy. The muzzle, a cube perforated with vents, hummed ominously as he steadied his aim. Above, the airship loomed, its massive engines roaring as it descended over the city. The X-Unit dropped from its side like a torrent of metal-clad rain, landing with precision on rooftops and streets. Their weapons snapped into position, ready to strike down anyone who resisted. Garren hit the ground hard. His knockboots absorbed most of the impact, but the shock still rattled through his legs. The air was frigid, biting through his uniform, and the wind stung his eyes. Around him, the city quaked with chaos¡ªscreams, running footsteps, the crackle of flames. He raised his rifle, sighting a cluster of fleeing civilians. His finger hovered over the trigger. They ran, their cries sharp with terror. His hand trembled. Then he fired. The rifle bucked against his shoulder, discharging a burst of searing blue energy. The bolt struck a man in the back¡ªhe crumpled, spasming before falling still. A child rushed toward the fallen body. Garren pulled the trigger again. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. The stench of burning buildings thickened the air, drowning out everything else. There was no stopping this. No turning back. He was the Dominion''s weapon. And the city burned. The X-Units moved in formation, firing their weapons and setting the streets ablaze. Buildings exploded and crumbled into piles of rubble, and the city descended into chaos. Garren felt tears streaming down his face, his heart pounding in his chest as the city around him erupted into a nightmare landscape of destruction. The sky turned black, and the air was filled with gunfire. As the city burned around him, Garren saw a squad break away from the leading group of soldiers and head toward a building in the center of the street. He wasn''t sure what prompted him to follow them. His own subunit was continuing down the street. But, something compelled him. He followed them, his rifle still humming from his earlier shots. The door was kicked down, and the subunit entered the building. Garren followed them inside and found himself standing in a small room with a table and chairs. In one corner of the room was an old, worn sofa. On it sat a young mother with her three children: two boys and a girl. They huddled together, clinging to each other for support, their eyes wide with terror as they stared up at the intruders. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. The squad leader slung his rifle over his shoulders, "Well, what do we have here?" Garren felt a pang in his gut. The mother hugged the children to her, her eyes filled with fear. She had a look of resignation as though she was waiting to die. She looked at the X-Unit with a mix of fear and defiance. She didn''t want her children to see their own deaths. The squad leader stepped forward, his hand reaching for the mother''s face, his fingers trailing along her jawline. He grabbed her chin in his gauntlet and tilted it upwards to look her in the eye. He spoke in a low tone, his voice grating and cruel. "Tell me where the rebel leaders are hiding." "I don''t know!" she replied. "I swear! I don''t know!" "Lies," he said, slapping her hard across the face. The force sent her sprawling backward, and she fell to the ground, her body slamming against the floorboards. The squad leaders gestured for the other squad members to grab the children. "Let go of me!" The boy shouted. He kicked at his attacker, his fists flying. His sister was sobbing. She tried to run away, but one of the X-Unit caught her by the arm and pulled her back. Another soldier drew a pistol and held it to her head, forcing her to sit still. They were all crying. All but the little girl. She stared up at the men, her expression blank. She was so young, Garren realized. She must have been five or six at most, and her innocence was shattered. "You''re a pretty slut, unsorted like you just keep breeding." The squad leader said. He looked down at her body and smirked. "I''ve got an idea. I think we should have some fun with this bitch." Garren froze. He was no longer in control of his own body. He was paralyzed with horror, guilt, and shame. The Iron Catechism had taught Garren one truth: Strength is the only virtue. Mercy is decay. Empathy is sen. The weak exist to serve or perish. The Dominion saw itself as a return to nature''s law¡ªa world where power alone determined justice. The X-Units were its enforcers, stripping away the pretense of morality and reducing war to its purest form: dominate or be dominated. But as the squad leader struck the woman, as the soldiers seized the children, as their laughter turned to something uglier, Garren felt sick. This wasn''t strength, this wasn''t order, this was filth. He had sworn himself to warriors, not butchers. And yet, he was one of them. The thought burned worse than shame. It was realization. If this is what the Dominion stands for¡­ then what the hell am I fighting for? The others in the X-Unit laughed at the squad leader''s suggestion. One of them grabbed her and pulled her up off the floor. He pinned her hands behind her back and held her tight. She struggled and screamed. She kicked out with her legs, trying to escape his hold. The X-Unit forced her to the table. The horror was interrupted by the high-pitched pulse of Garren''s auto rifle. It was a sound like a whip cracking through the air. The shot tore into the squad leader''s armor, and he crumbled to the ground. His lifeless body slumped forward on its knees, his head lolling back limply. The room exploded in chaos. The squad members scrambled for their weapons and turned to face him, the traitor. Garren opened fire. His finger squeezed the trigger of his gun, and the rounds flew through the room like hail. He fired until there were no more targets. Garren stood in silence for a moment. Then, he knelt down next to the mother and children. "Come on," he said, trying to calm his panic. "We have to get you out of here." The woman was trembling with fear. Her children clung to her legs. She stared up at him with wide eyes. She was still in shock from what happened. She was covered in bruises, and her lip was bleeding. "Thank you," she said quietly. The woman''s eyes met his and held them for a moment. She seemed to be trying to tell him something, but he didn''t understand what her eyes were saying. He couldn''t remember what a thank you looked like.
Garren''s mind was a haze. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. He could feel his body moving, but he wasn''t aware of anything else. He was now AWOL, a traitor to the X-Unit and the Dominion. The word ''traitor'' rang in his head, a deafening roar of guilt, fear, anger, and confusion. What happened? He had killed his comrades, the people he once called family, and saved these civilians. These civilians were strangers and enemies, the ones they were trained to destroy without remorse and dominate. And now he had killed his own in the name of saving them? He couldn''t understand what he''d done, why he had done it, or the consequences. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and his emotions were raw. He could barely comprehend what this meant. "Sir?" A voice cut through the chaos. "We can''t move this fast with the children. We need to go slower. They''re tired and scared." The words snapped him out of his daze. The civilians stared at him, and the children clung tightly to the woman. Their eyes were wide, filled with terror. They were right; the children couldn''t run at his pace. Suddenly, the sound of a cannon strike from the airship shook him from his daze. The sound of gunfire filled his ears, and the world seemed to blur. The ground trembled beneath his feet; the air was suddenly thick with smoke and dust. He could see buildings collapsing, bodies flying through the air, and the screams of people dying. The smell of burning flesh permeated his nose, and the sound of explosions filled the streets. He had no time for guilt or self-pity or to think about what might have been. There were too many lives in danger and too much at stake to dwell on the past. His mind raced to formulate an escape plan. "We''re going to take a detour. Come with me." He said, leading the group away from the main road and toward the city''s outskirts, where he hoped to avoid detection. They traveled for several hours, taking shelter in abandoned buildings and moving on before dawn. Garren didn''t sleep a wink. As night fell, he saw the glow of fires on the horizon. He knew the fighting had moved to other districts, but it was far from over. "Come on, follow me. This way." He urged them along the path, his voice steady. His eyes darted back and forth between the trees and bushes as they passed through an old forest that had been left untouched since the days of the First Empire. The sun was beginning to set, and the shadows were lengthening. The trees cast long shadows that stretched across the ground in eerie shapes. A chill ran up his spine, and a cold sweat broke out over his body. Chapter 2: The Weight of Dust and Time The smell of ink and mildew clung to the air, thick as rot. Rows of yellowed parchment lined the stone shelves, stacked haphazardly as though no one had cared about their contents in decades. A single beam of light filtered through the narrow stained-glass window above, illuminating motes of dust that drifted lazily in the stagnant air. Lena Rhyse adjusted the stack of ledgers in her arms, her fingers stiff from a morning spent cataloging¡ªnot knowledge, discoveries, or the lost histories that set her mind on fire¡ªbut shipping records. Barrels of wheat delivered to Whitehall''s kitchens. Ink expenditures for the Chancellor''s office. The number of candles requisitioned for the Theology department. She dumped the ledgers onto her already overburdened desk, exhaling as they landed with a dull thud. This was her life. Not pouring over lost civilizations, not tracing the rise and fall of empires, not unraveling the truth buried beneath centuries of noble revisionism. No. Lena Rhyse, one of the sharpest minds of her generation, was a glorified paper-pusher assigned to the University''s Department of Inventory and Procurement. She glanced at the looming shelves surrounding her, filled with documents stretching back centuries¡ªonly none mattered. Not to the University, not to the nobles who ran it. They didn''t care about the truth. They wanted to maintain the status quo. Research had calcified into religion. The words of rejection filled her mind as she filled squares with numbers: "A fascinating subject, Miss Rhyse, but hardly relevant to our current academic pursuits.", "Perhaps if you were sponsored by a noble house...", "These theories are interesting, but we have a tradition to uphold." Tradition. The word still made her stomach twist. It was their excuse for rot¡ªfor keeping themselves preserved like statues, never changing, never growing. At the same time, people like her, people who actually cared, were left to decay in the margins. She sighed and pulled out the ledger for military expenditures, flipping through the pages. Another round of payments was made to lords who had not fought a battle in two centuries. They still collected their stipends, carried arc-swords, and attended grand feasts where they spoke of "honor" and "duty" while spilling wine on their embroidered tunics. Lena closed the book and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling and watching cracks of spiderweb across the plaster. Nothing worked anymore¡ªnot the government, not the economy, not even the very fabric of the world. The old kingdom had boxed itself in with rules and rituals, traditions that served no purpose, and authorities that had no vision. It was an empire that refused to collapse long past the point where it should have. And no one cared. Her door creaked open. "Miss Rhyse?" She sat up instantly in a startle as if caught performing lewd acts. Master Clerk Holtham peered inside. His face was as pinched and miserable as ever, his ink-stained fingers twitching against the doorframe. "The Chancellor¡¯s Office has received your request," he said, his voice laced with barely concealed amusement. "I regret to inform you that it has been denied." Lena exhaled slowly. She didn''t even need to ask which request. "Did they give a reason?" Holtham sniffed, stepping inside and tossing a parchment onto her desk. "The study the fall of the Dominion is not a priority for Whitehall University at this time." Of course. Lena forced a smile. "I appreciate the response." Holtham smirked, already turning to leave. He paused at the door. "I would advise, Librarian, that you focus on your assigned duties. You have a promising future in the University, should you learn to direct your talents appropriately." And then he was gone. Lena sat still, staring at the rejection letter. A long silence stretched between her and the shelves of forgotten knowledge. Then, carefully, deliberately, she picked up her quill, dipped it into ink, and wrote a name on the corner of the parchment. The Dominion. It was only a theory. A ghost of an idea she had glimpsed while studying lost texts, a whisper buried beneath centuries of false records and rewritten history. A time before the Old Kingdom, a civilization wiped from memory. They said it was a myth. But Lena Rhyse did not believe in myths. She believed in patterns. She believed that power, once entrenched, does not yield, that a ruling class, when faced with its own decline, would rather burn the world than risk losing control, and that somewhere, buried in the oldest records, was evidence that this had all happened before. Not just once. Over and over again. The Kingdoms grew. They flourished. They stratified. They calcified. And when the gulf between ruler and ruled became too vast to ignore, something always emerged from the darkness to bridge it in blood. The old texts spoke of a movement¡ªa faction. It had many names, its ideology shifting like smoke, but its purpose was always the same: to sweep away the weak, the decadent, the dying and build something "pure" in their place. The ancient Dominion had failed, but the conditions that birthed it were here again. And soon, someone besides her would grasp that truth¡ªsomeone with power. Someone would seize it, shape it, and mold it into something new and terrifying. Lena pressed the quill harder against the parchment, the ink bleeding into the fibers like a spreading wound. If she could see it coming, then so could they. And when they rose, they would erase anyone who recognized what had come before. They would erase her. Her hand trembled slightly as she folded the parchment. She needed to get this out. Get it somewhere before it is too late. Before Whitehall swallowed her whole and buried her with the rest of history. She glanced at the flickering candlelight, at the endless shelves of dust and silence. Then she stood. There was work to do, but first, she had to meet her boyfriend for their date. *** The candlelight flickered against the polished marble of the caf¨¦, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meat. Conversations drifted through the room¡ªnoblemen murmuring about the latest duels, scholars pontificating on theories that would never leave the confines of their velvet-lined debates. Across the table, Adrian leaned forward, his fingers tapping against his glass. "They all benefit from it, you know," he said, his voice low but charged with something that made Lena uneasy. She frowned, setting down her fork. "Who?" "All of them." He gestured vaguely toward the nobles at the adjacent table, toward the open balcony where a priestess in flowing white robes recited a hymn to the Goddess, and toward the streets below, where commoners argued politics beneath banners of the Zealot movement. "The nobles do nothing," he continued, "but it''s not just them. The priesthood¡ªthe Goddess-worshippers¡ªthey tell men to be meek, dutiful, and serve while they hoard knowledge and power. And the Zealots?" He scoffed. "They talk about equality but are just another branch of the same rot. They don''t want men to rise. They want to keep us all leashed." Lena exhaled slowly. "You sound like the worst kind of aristocrat," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Complaining that the world is keeping you from greatness while drinking fine wine and sitting on your ass." Adrian''s jaw tightened. "I don''t mean me. I mean us. Every man in this kingdom who could be something more. A hero. A warrior. A king." Lena scoffed, "A king?" "Not literally," he said quickly, but how his eyes flicked away told her otherwise. "But something greater than what we are now. We''re being smothered by tradition, by rules. Strength used to matter. Honor used to matter. Now? Everything''s a game. The nobility sits in their estates, the priesthood drowns us in guilt, and the Zealots¡ª" He shook his head. "They claim they want freedom, but it''s just another trick. They don''t want heroes. They want cattle." Lena felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. She had spent years watching the Old Kingdom rot¡ªwatched knowledge wither in neglected archives, watched power calcify into the hands of men too afraid to wield it. But this¡ªthis was new. This was resentment, curling at the edges of his words like smoke before a fire. And she knew that fire was coming. She leaned forward, meeting his gaze. "What exactly are you saying, Adrian?" His lips pressed into a thin line. Then, quietly whispered, "We need to take it back." The room felt suddenly too warm. Noble laughter, the scent of wine and candle wax, the soft echoes of the priestess''s hymn¡ªall of it blurred into background noise, irrelevant and distant. "Take what back?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. He smiled, a cold, sharp thing. "Everything." He leaned closer, his eyes alight with something dark and hungry. "I''ve seen it in you, Lena. We''re both tired of being puppets, of dancing for their amusement. We''re more than that. You and me, we could really be a part of something." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He reached across the table and gripped her hand, his fingers cool, his touch electric. "I''ve been meeting some people. People who see what I see¡ªwho understand." He paused and looked around before asking, "Can we go?" He nodded to the door. *** The smell of mold hung in the air, heavy and cloying. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling, brushing against her cheek. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet. The walls were damp with the moisture of neglect, the wallpaper peeling and stained. Adrian''s home was a testament to decay¡ªa mausoleum of a man who had given up on life. He led her through the entryway and down a dark hall. A lantern flickered on a dusty shelf, casting shadows against the cracked plaster. Adrian stopped at the door at the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden thing that looked as if it had once been grand. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a key. With a twist of his wrist, the door swung open. They stepped into the dim room beyond, the lantern''s light casting a soft orange glow across the space. "The ancients had servants," he said, "so they could dedicate themselves to higher pursuits." Lena glanced at Adrian as he spoke. "I think there are better ways than having a caste of servants." Adrian frowned at her. "How else would you do it?" he asked, waving to the mess. "If we do not have a system to ensure people serve the state, then you have this." Lena sighed and asked, "What makes you think you''d have servants instead of being one?" Adrian paused. "Because," he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "I''m not weak. I have the strength to take what I deserve. To rule." He gestured toward the cluttered shelves lining the room, filled with dusty tomes and yellowing manuscripts. "History is filled with examples. Great men who took power, who made something of the world, rather than being crushed under the wheels of tradition." Lena had been in his home many times, but her eyes brightened when she saw a new book on the shelf. Adrian saw it and pulled the book from its place on the shelf. It was an ancient tome, its pages cracked with age, its binding worn. "My clubs, they''re more than just social gatherings. We share ideas. Books. Theories that the University would rather keep hidden." She frowned, her fingers trailing the faded gilt lettering. "What kind of theories?" she asked. Adrian stepped closer, his breath hot against her ear. "The kind that speak to our potential. To what we could become, if only we were free to act. Free to rule." Lena turned, meeting his gaze. His eyes burned with intensity. "And what do you intend to do with these theories, Adrian? How do you intend to ''free'' us?" Adrian hesitated. Doubt flickered across his face for a moment, then his jaw tightened with determination. He grabbed her wrist, his grip like a vice, and yanked her against him. Lena gasped at the sudden pain. "By taking what''s ours," he said, his voice low and rough. "By burning this world to the fucking ground and building something better. Something pure." He leaned in, his breath hot on her cheek. "With me, Lena." Lena scowled and pushed him away. "You''re insane." He laughed a wild, manic sound that echoed in the cramped space. "Am I?" he asked. Or is everyone else just too afraid to see what''s right in front of them? This is human nature, Lena. God isn''t a woman; it''s us, man." She shook her head, stepping back, but Adrian moved with her, closing the distance between them. He was too close¡ªhis breath, his heat, his scent, it was suffocating. "I think I should go," she said, trying to keep her voice level. "No," he said. His voice was calm. Cold. He was a different person. A stranger. His eyes burned with a fevered intensity. "You know I''m right," he whispered. His fingers brushed the nape of Lena''s neck, and she flinched. "We were meant to be kings. And you and me¡ª" He paused, his eyes tracing the curve of her jaw, the swell of her breast. Lena slapped him. It was enough to shock him. Adrian had expected her to swoon at his feet, be captivated by his vision, and be seduced by his masculine energy. His hand flew to his cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, he just stood there, stunned. Then his expression darkened, the manic energy draining into something colder, more calculating. "You¡¯ll regret that," he murmured. Lena took another step back, her heart pounding in her ears. The flickering lantern cast jagged shadows across his face, twisting his features into something unrecognizable. "You talk about power, about ruling," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But all I see is a pathetic man playing emperor in a dirty house." Adrian''s nostrils flared. His fingers twitched like he was resisting the urge to grab her again. But Lena had already turned toward the door. "Wait," he said, his voice soft now, almost pleading. "You don¡¯t understand." "I understand perfectly." She reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped her. "They won¡¯t let you stay neutral, Lena. When the time comes, you¡¯ll have to choose." Lena hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she pulled open the door and stepped out, leaving Adrian in the dim, suffocating room, surrounded by his rotting books and delusions of grandeur. And for the first time, she realized¡ªAdrian wasn''t just another bitter noble with too much time and too little power. He was dangerous. *** The grand doors of the throne room loomed ahead, gilded and imposing. Their intricate carvings depicted the victories of a kingdom that had not fought a real war in generations. Lena''s breath came ragged. Her legs burned as she sprinted past the stunned guards, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Stop her!" one of them shouted, the clatter of armor echoing behind her. She didn''t stop. Couldn''t. The heavy doors were already beginning to close, the guards moving to seal off the chamber, but she threw herself forward, slipping through the narrowing gap as rough hands grabbed her cloak. She stumbled into the throne room, collapsing onto her hands and knees and ripping the cloak from her body. The marble floor was cold beneath her palms. Gasps rang out. The courtiers in their elaborate silks recoiled, affronted by the sight of a disheveled woman bursting into their sacred chamber. At the far end of the hall, the king sat upon his throne, a figure of regal stillness draped in layers of brocade and gold. His face, once strong, had softened with years of comfort and political stagnation. Yet his gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto her with curiosity rather than anger. The guards grabbed her arms, wrenching her to her feet. "My lord, she¡ª" "Enough." The king raised a hand. The murmurs died. He leaned forward, studying her. "What is it that you believe is so important, scholar, that you would risk death to break into my throne room?" Lena swallowed, forcing herself to stand tall despite the guards restraining her. "Your Majesty, the Dominion is not just a movement. It is an uprising in the making. I have proof¡ªrecords of secret gatherings, noble houses financing them, even connections to members of your own court." A ripple of unease passed through the nobles. The king''s gaze did not waver. "Continue." Lena took a shaky breath. "They are not seeking reform. They are seeking control. They believe the Old Kingdom is weak, that you have allowed power to decay. They will not stop until they rule, until they erase everything that does not fit their vision of the world." The king was silent. Then, slowly, he sat back. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne, the only sign of his contemplation. "You claim to have proof," he mused. "I do," she said. "If you act now, you can stop this before it¡ª" A low chuckle interrupted her. One of the nobles, Count Sarentis, stepped forward, shaking his head. "Your Majesty, are we truly entertaining the delusions of an overzealous academic?" He turned toward Lena with a practiced smirk. "What would you have us do? Start a war over whispers?" Lena''s stomach twisted. This was precisely the response she had feared. But then, to her shock, the king raised a hand again. "No, Lord Callen. If what she says is true, then this is no small matter." The court fell into stunned silence. The king exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then, he turned to his advisors. "Summon the High Council. I will form a committee to investigate these claims. If there is disloyalty within our ranks, it must be addressed. We will issue a censure against those found to be involved." Lena''s breath caught in her throat. No. That wasn''t enough. "Your Majesty," she tried, stepping forward before the guards yanked her back, "censure won''t stop them. This is bigger than¡ª" "You have done your duty in bringing this to my attention," the king interrupted, his voice firm and final. Now leave it to those who govern." Lena opened her mouth, but no words came. The guards were already dragging her back, back through the gilded doors, back into the hands of the nobility who would do nothing. The Dominion wasn''t coming. It was already here.