And don't feel bad for deceiving them. They deserve it, and I know you have the people's best interests at heart."
- Note from Gaius to Elize upon her promotion to Praetor.
In the central region of the galaxy, touted and referred to as the ‘Heart,’ a great many figures gathered. Upon the capital planet of the Roman Empire, Romul, nestled within the core of the city spanning the whole globe, nearly five hundred figures took their places amongst a circular auditorium.
It was the Decennium, a meeting only orchestrated once a decade.
Seats spanned the entirety of the grand building, decorated with gold, silver, bronze, and countless other glittering gems. The opulence spoke of Rome’s power and prestige as the founding empire of the common era.
They were the oldest.
They were the strongest.
And they had all gathered this day, December 25th, all in one place.
Enemies. Friends. Lovers. Rivals.
The clangor of greetings, curses, and schemes rang out incessantly as the Praetors and Heads took their places. Here, each Praetor held a vote of two. The Head of a House boasted five, both a sign of power and tradition.
Some Praetors sat beside their fathers or mothers, raised and empowered within their ancient House. Most did, in fact. Few were the Praetors without a House, for reaching such a level of power and fame required inestimable resources and time.
After half an hour, the seats were mostly filled. Only five Praetors were missing, with two Heads vacant.
Hundreds of eyes flittered to the absentees with curiosity and suspicion.
Praetor Sun. Praetor Oswen. Praetor Aurora. Praetor Spiro. Praetor Pathos. These five were either out on missions deemed too essential to return from or carried too much weight to be easily ordered.
Only the first and last names heeded the second, however.
As for the Heads...
House Argent remained empty beside Praetor Spiro’s seat, drawing many curious gazes as both their prized Anomaly 131 was absent, and so was their honored Head. The other chair, however, brought gasps.
House Vermillion.
“What? Must be some kind of mistake.”
“Hmmph. Elize is making some moves.”
“How interesting...”
Hushed voices echoed through the vast openness until a figure walked to the center. She strode with measured steps, the practiced facade of a perfectionist. Her long, blonde hair, edged toward silver, ran down her back as she turned to face her audience.
The threaded, smoky-colored eyepatch across her right eye welcomed the gazes of countless. None questioned her or spoke, falling silent in respect.
For she was not any ordinary Praetor.
Praetor Crownlean, the Head-Praetor, feared and revered almost as much as the Legates, cleared her throat before speaking, “Hello all! Welcome to the Decennium! We have a few new faces. Greet them, please, will you?”
A thunderous applause burst into the air as several hundred hands clapped in tandem, congratulating the six new Praetors. Ruthea Crownlean smiled under her half-blindfold as she stepped around the circular center.
Her hands trailed the marble furniture until her hand laid still upon Praetor Sun’s seat, found at the front row. Ruthea paused for a moment as the noise fell to hushed reverence.
She hadn’t said a word. But all knew what such a gesture meant, and eyes widened as people immediately reached for their communicators.
However, Crownlean raised her voice with a harsh glare, one that left each and every Praetor’s clothes ruffled and primed against their throats, “Cease! Do not be so disrespectful. Praetor Sun has served our empire for many years. One day, I believed she would take my seat. Perhaps stand higher. But our own ignorance had misled us. My own ignorance and spite had blinded me.”
Hearts hung in chests as the Praetors and Heads hung on her every word. Even amongst these influential figures, leading millions or billions each, she captivated them like children in a circus.
“You all recall her proposition last Decennium? To investigate and infiltrate the Minor Dimensions scattered across the Wings? We had deposed it due to prior failures and a waste of resources. But... this time, things are different,” Crownlean’s scarlet eye roamed over her constituents, enthralled by the attention. Suddenly, however, her tone sharpened from its calm charm. “She died. One of our strongest, our brightest, and our most determined fell against the darkness that also seeks these MDs.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Hands rose to question the Head-Praetor, voted in office once a Saeculum, every one hundred years. Nevertheless, Ruthea dismissed them all for now, no matter how critical the bearers were.
“The Inheritances of all the MDs we claimed prior were but parlor tricks. But this one... and those that are appearing close to the Great Cavity...” her voice trailed as she clicked a button, with a hologram forming above her head.
It showcased the impossible regeneration of stitching vines within a Martian's insides, displayed the remarkable fire from a hooded figure, and even had a short clip of a young man turning himself invisible. All the footage seemed to come from a person’s eye as if recorded for this sole purpose.
Whispers fell between Praetors and their House Heads or the lonesome Praetors and their partners near them. All saw the potential of these abilities.
With her point established, Praetor Crownlean chomped on the opportunity with a proclamation over a hidden grin, “I propose that we investigate and claim these MDs en masse. No matter the cost. Now that we have seen the benefits... imagine. If any one of us could add an ability like that to our repetoire? The regeneration of a Reactive-Domain? The illusions of a Mystique? Or the protective and attacking flame of an empowered Stigmata?”
Ideas swam within the minds of all the Praetors present. The Heads of Houses trembled, imagining their sons, daughters, and grandchildren rushing for these opportunities. It was a rush for a resource far more valuable and rare than gold, diamond, or blood.
All but five Praetors bore a Domain Collapse, and with that came a passive presence from their mastery. The lights dimmed as the hologram faded from view. The restless minds birthed the dissonance in the technology, which only furthered Ruthea’s gleaming smile.
Quickly, a vote was held. Hands raised, some fell.
In but a moment, the scores were tallied.
Yay - 1500
Nay - 100
A complete landslide. Every single House voted for while only about fifty Praetors were against the notion. Crownlean’s grin boasted a virulent joy, but the sound of a footstep behind her froze the warmth. Her heart stopped within her chest, for only a handful of beings in the galaxy could evade her perception.
And most of those were slumbering.
She turned gradually and without any sign of disrespect. Ruthea’s ears welcomed the man’s voice as she met the galaxy’s premier Cultivator, “Is this a bit rushed for legislation, Ruthea? I mean, don't we usually iron out the details first?”
The air collapsed beneath the presence of the figure before her. Once upon a time, he served in this Congress. Ruthea’s mind spun in a hurry as she recalled all her information on the secluded battle maniac who reached the Shattered Peak in a mere thirty years from his birth.
It hadn’t even been ten years since his inauguration. Seven years.
That was how long it had been since Ruthea last saw Ganun Dvril.
Rippling muscles, unfathomable scars, and a profoundness that did not previously exist now lay within his being. Not even the Head-Praetor could imagine the trials and tribulations Vicar had placed Ganun within to guarantee his strength, aptitude, and mindset.
After all, only the greatest, those who could battle against God-like creatures, shatter planets, rebuild civilizations, reposition Sectors, and protect trillions, could stand upon the Shattered Peak.
Publicly, he fought Oswort for his seat, but Ruthea knew it was more than that. Her seconds of silence and hesitation were rapidly replaced with her trademark smile as she opened her mouth with a greeting, “Welcome, Ganun! I was not aware you would be coming. Typically Legates do not come to Decenniums, only one or two for the Saeculum. What would you suggest we add to the piece, then?”
One of the six active Legates, among the most influential and disastrous beings across the entire galaxy, bore a cunning grin. He strode around the Head-Praetor and voiced his recommendation, “We Legates, truthfully, mostly Vicar and Yarnen, have concluded that these MDs’ newfound growths are due to the Great Darkness. We support these expeditions. Furthermore...”
The Heaven’s Devil raised his hands capable of rending a continent in twain and clenched, shattering the air and snapping distant glass into fragments. Then, he stepped before the entirety of Congress, bearing his scars and power to all.
Even without a Domain Collapse or Tide Reversal, he utterly shifted the environment, shutting down all other wills and dominant powers. He, alone, wielded the Lightsea here.
And with that superiority, the stick, he dangled the carrot to the whole empire, “On the Summer Solstice of 3995, when the Lightsea is the weakest, a final expedition will occur into the Great Darkness. The venturers will only come from an empire-wide contest of brawn, brain, and trick. Whether the winners are Praetors, Centurions, Judges, or even Lightlost, we do not care. Vicar shall lead the last expedition, with Bane and myself in tow. Our Evening Seraphim believes the Lightsea’s true entrance resides there and that other dimensions are gathering because it has opened. No... because someone has opened it.”
Shudders filled hundreds as Legate-only information finally disseminated itself to the general public, even if that public was Praetors. But that was not all.
Ganun was not finished. He held up a bracer, ripped straight from nothingness. It gleamed with particles of flickering water as if forged by a roiling storm. The Legate of the Wings offered up an even more fantastic prize, “The winner of the contest shall be given Carolino Swan’s Humidified Knuckle, a Life-Echo forged from her peerless Tide. I implore you all and your kin to seek power. In the next two years, grand changes will occur. Ostacean, Glaniece, and Rome will all be fighting for these dimensions. For... there are evils that walk amongst us."
The former Head of House Dvril gazed at his father seated at his old place as he continued, “Ancient, unknown evils whose names have long been forgotten by history. They remain only as emotions, hidden within our hearts, like the innate fear of darkness. Now, I must leave. Continue your meeting. Every expedition, however, MUST be proctored by two Praetors. Goodbye.”
The instant Ganun spoke his word of farewell, the reinforced marble beneath him splintered, his entire form vanishing from a single, simple stroke of a kick. With his departure, Congress burst into a cacophony of questions, worries, and anger.
Head-Praetor Crownlean scowled at the scene before shouting into the crowd to calm them down. It took several moments, however, for the auditorium of powerhouses to calm. With a sigh, Crownlean returned to the other matters of the meeting, namely that of the reinstated House Vermillion.
She glossed over their placement, not taking any questions and saying that it was Praetor Sun’s last wish. It was written directly into her will, as if pre-ordained.
Ruthea also left a slight warning before she turned to more typical issues, “The Head of House Vermillion is Claudius Vermillion. Vicar has signed the reinstation himself. Now, we have lost some Sectors in the southbound Wings but gained several in the northbound. Can we discuss this? Do we need to reorganize our forces?”
The conversation, forcibly by Crownlean, moved away from the newest legislation as it had already been passed. Scribes had long finished the details of the notion, pressed to do so before the meeting by Ruthea.
After nearly six hours, the first day of the seven-day Decennium came to a close. Praetors and House Heads shuffled out to return to their quarters within the capital while Ruthea sighed, pressing her back against the railing within Congress.
She was alone. Or so she thought.
“You sure think you’re clever, huh, Ruthea?”
That same awe-inspiring voice brought her to attention. The Head-Praetor shot to her feet, bowing slightly before Ganun Dvril, “I’m sorry sir, I thought you had left. What do you mean by that? I’m just doing what’s best for the empire.”
Ganun’s hairless brow clinched, furrowing in his gaze on Ruthea. He shook his head as his weight shifted to the honored seat of Elize Sunwin, the chair that her mentor once boasted for a century before her.
“She could have lived. If you hadn’t slowed her transmissions. Ah! Don’t say a word. Vicar and the others think of you as a necessary evil, Miss Greystepper, but I won’t let you trample anyone before me. Keep your threads to yourself,” the Legate’s eye blazed with a white gleam, for Ganun had long blinded himself in pursuing power.
Still, the emanating wrath could not be ignored or mistaken.
Ruthea retained her outward calm while inwardly, she shook. Nevertheless, she gave a lone nod of understanding.
Heaven’s Devil lifted his muscled arm, setting it against Crownlean’s shoulder before she could react. In this single moment, he had brought her to a checkmate.
None could escape Ganun’s martial arts once they were within his reach.
The Legate brought his head down to meet the tall women, as he stood like a giant before her. Then, he left a parting threat, “You may have known me as a child. But I am no longer that snotty brat. I will tear you limb from limb if you so much as lay a hair on that kid’s head. Elize was a prized idol to me. I will never forget what you have done. You are only still alive because of your usefulness. I really... really hope you come to the Great Darkness. It would be a treat. For me.”
Once more, Ganun vanished before her eyes, but this time, there was no shattered floor. Ruthea’s eyes widened as she realized he had always been capable of moving soundlessly.
He had done it earlier to show his power.
Then she took her thoughts one step further as she cursed aloud, “Damn Sunwin. You and your connections. Pfft. I have plenty of my own. You were here for a fraction of my time. Let’s see who wins in the end.”
The Head-Praetor strode toward the back of Congress while retrieving a communicator from her dress’s inner pocket. After flicking through some names, she dialed a number.
Immediately, it beeped with a tone. Ruthea didn’t wait a second before speaking, “Hey, B! Ganun showed up. Yeah. I know. Yeah. Yeah. Mmmhmm. Okay. I’m on it. Shouldn’t be too hard to hide a single Necto. See you soon.”
The one-sided conversation ended as swiftly as it started, leaving the Praetor’s gaze hardened in determination. She had a fellow to retrieve.