Towards A Brighter Future chapter 8

Towards A Brighter Future chapter 8: The Crowns Preparations And Truths

Two Weeks before Aurelians Hunting Challenge…..

The throne room of Verdantia Palace fell silent as King Gharis's armored fist came to rest on the arm of his stone throne. He didn't need to raise his voice—his cold fury radiated through the chamber like a Kirin's electrical field before a storm. The vast hall, with its vaulted ceilings and massive stone pillars, seemed to shrink under the weight of his displeasure.

"Two weeks," he said, each word precise and measured. "For two weeks, Astera has been expanding its walls, forging weapons, and recruiting hunters from neighboring settlements." His steel-gray eyes moved deliberately across the assembled nobles, guild representatives, and royal hunters who stood rigid before him. "And yet, somehow, I am only learning of this now."

The throne room was a monument to Gharis's power—monster skulls adorned the walls in a macabre display of dominance. Some were yellowed with age, trophies from his younger days when he had personally led hunts. Others were more recent, gifts from those seeking his favor. Each skull told a story of conquest, of the hierarchy of predator and prey that Gharis had mastered and now embodied in his rule.

Guild Master Morris stepped forward, his ceremonial robes rustling against the polished stone floor. "Your Majesty, I assure you, we had no indication that—"

"No indication?" Gharis cut him off. "When they purchased enough building materials to construct a small fortress? When they sold mandragora worth over a million zenny in a single transaction? When they acquired enough steel to forge weapons for an army?"

Morris paled. "The transaction records were... misplaced."

"Misplaced." The king's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Or deliberately hidden?"

Lady Elaine, head of the Merchant's Guild, stepped forward with a practiced smile. "Your Majesty, if I may—the merchant Dorvis who conducted these transactions has already been detained for questioning. He claims he saw nothing unusual, merely a prosperous hunting party with exceptional goods."

"And you believed him?" Gharis's fingers drummed once on the armrest of his throne—a sound that echoed through the chamber like a death knell.

"We had no reason to doubt—"

"You had every reason!" The king's composure finally cracked. "When a settlement that barely scrapes by suddenly arrives with carts of mandragora and monster parts worth millions, you investigate! When they purchase enough supplies to build a city, you report it!"

The assembled dignitaries exchanged nervous glances, each silently calculating how to shift blame to another. Lord Vexus, a portly noble with investments in several mining operations, cleared his throat.

"Perhaps, Your Majesty, this is merely a case of unexpected good fortune. The reports suggest they've had exceptional harvests—"

"Harvests don't triple overnight," Gharis interrupted. "My inspectors report fields yielding crops of impossible size and potency. Plants that normally take seasons to mature now grow in weeks. This is not fortune, Lord Vexus. This is something else entirely."

The king rose from his throne, his armor gleaming in the torchlight. He was not a tall man, but his presence filled the room as he descended the dais steps with deliberate slowness.

"What troubles me most," he continued, "is not that Astera has found prosperity. It's that none of you—my eyes and ears throughout the city and my lands—saw fit to inform me." He stopped before the assembled group. "Which leads me to wonder: what else have you failed to report? What other threats grow in my kingdom while you count your profits?"

The accusations flew then, each dignitary turning on the others.

"The Guild should have noticed the weapon materials—"

"The Merchant's Guild processed the transaction—"

"The noble hunters visit these settlements regularly—"

Gharis raised his hand, and the chamber fell instantly silent. He walked slowly past the line of dignitaries, stopping before the massive skull mounted directly behind his throne. The skull was unlike the others—pearlescent white with a single, spiraling horn protruding from the forehead. Lightning-like fissures ran across its surface, glowing faintly even years after the creature's death.

"Do you know why I am king?" Gharis asked softly, running his scarred hand along the horn. "It is not because of my bloodline, though it is noble enough. It is not because of my wealth, though I have accumulated much." He turned to face them. "I am king because when the Kirin descended upon Leostra, bringing storms that destroyed our crops and lightning that killed our people, I alone had the courage to hunt it. and prove my worth to be your leader."

Several of the assembled swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the skull.

"Seventeen hunters died attempting to slay this creature before me," Gharis continued. "The finest warriors of their generation, reduced to ash by its lightning. I tracked it for thirty days into the highest mountains. I faced its wrath alone, with nothing but my blade and my will."

He gestured to the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. "This was my reward. This, and the right to rule. Because I proved that day that I alone understand what it takes to protect this kingdom from the monsters that would destroy it."

The king returned to his throne, sitting with the rigid posture of a man who never truly relaxed, even in slumber.

"Now I find that Astera—a settlement I have generously allowed to exist despite its limited contributions—has suddenly grown powerful. They have resources they should not possess, technology they should not understand, and a leader I know nothing about." His eyes narrowed. "This 'Aurelian' who appeared from nowhere and now commands the loyalty of Astera's hunter, has somehow healed and reversed their sicknesses and age and how now many settlements and their hunters join them in Astera to grow their power."

King Gharis paced before the Kirin skull, his gauntleted hand trailing along its smooth surface. The chamber's torchlight caught the faint electrical patterns still pulsing beneath the bone, a reminder of the creature's terrible power even in death.

"You misunderstand the very nature of my rule," he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to press the assembled nobles further into the floor. "You believe I hoard power out of greed or fear. That I restrict settlements and control resources out of tyranny." He turned, the scar on his face deepening as he frowned. "None of you have stood before an Elder Dragon and lived to speak of it."

Lady Elaine shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, we have always respected your hunting prowess, but—"

"This is not about hunting prowess!" The king's voice thundered through the chamber. "This is about knowing what slumbers beneath our very feet. About understanding why we do not expand, why I do not send our armies forth to claim more land and colonize the continents."

He returned to his throne, sitting with the rigid posture of a veteran warrior. "I alone have faced the fury of an Elder Dragon and survived. I alone know that none of you—none of us—are ready to face them. We never will be."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of the city below.

"The settlements call me tyrant," Gharis continued, his voice now quieter but no less intense. "Yet I only take what I must. If some die to monster attacks or lack of resources, that has been the way of Aurion since time immemorial. It is thanks to my so-called 'cruel methods' that the Elder Dragons do not awaken and bring their destruction upon us all."

Guild Master Morris cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, these are legends and myths—"

"Legends?" Gharis stood suddenly, his armor plates shifting with a metallic rasp. "Was the Kirin a myth, Morris? Was the devastation it brought a children's tale?" He gestured to a massive tapestry hanging on the far wall, depicting a city in flames beneath a shadow of wings and fire. "Ask the long-ears, if any still lived to tell the tale. Ask their lizard masters, whose bones we still find buried in the deepest caves."

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. The extinction of the ancient civilization was known to all, but rarely spoken of in such direct terms.

"It was I who kept the secrets of our ancestors hidden," Gharis continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the vast chamber. "I who knew how to use them best. And it was I who made sure the Great Dark One did not return to burn down our city and civilization as it did to those who came before."

Lord Vexus swallowed audibly. "The Great Dark One? Surely, Your Majesty, that's just a story to frighten children—"

"Is it?" Gharis's eyes flashed with fury. "Then explain to me why, when we excavated the eastern ruins fifteen years ago, we found an entire city preserved in ash and glass? Explain why the bones we discovered there were twisted in agony, their mouths open in silent screams? Explain why, to this day, nothing grows in that cursed ground?"

No one answered.

"If I keep settlements from growing too big for their own good, it is done out of love for my people—all my people." The king's voice softened, though the steel beneath remained. "If I work the Felynes in Leostra's forges and cooking houses to exhaustion, it is for the best of the city."

His gaze drifted to a gilded skull mounted on a pike beside his throne—smaller than the others, distinctly human. Several of the nobles averted their eyes.

"And if I put down rebellions brutally," he said, nodding toward the skull, "I do so as my right as king, yes—but more importantly, as my duty to preserve what remains of humanity on this unforgiving world."

The chamber fell silent again. Gharis sat back on his throne, suddenly looking older, the weight of his crown evident in the set of his shoulders.

"For twenty-seven years, I have held back the tide of darkness. I have made the hard choices none of you had the stomach for. I have sacrificed my own happiness, my own family—" his voice caught slightly, "—to ensure that Leostra stands. That humanity endures."

He leaned forward, eyes scanning the assembled dignitaries. "And now this... Aurelian appears from nowhere, with powers we do not understand, undoing the careful balance I have maintained for decades. Growing crops that should not grow. Healing wounds that should not heal. Building a force that should not exist."

Captain Thorne, commander of the royal hunters, stepped forward and knelt. "Your Majesty, give me the order, and I will lead a force of ten hunters to Astera. We will bring this Aurelian before you in chains."

Gharis studied the captain for a long moment. "No, Captain. That is precisely what he wants—to draw our forces out, to test his strength against ours." The king's scarred fingers drummed on the armrest. "Besides, the few reports some of you bothered to give me suggest he is... would not be easily chained."

King Gharis stood slowly, the torchlight gleaming off the curved plates of his armor. His movements were deliberate, each step a calculated display of power that had been honed through decades of rule and warfare. The assembled nobles and guild masters watched in reverent silence as he descended from the dais, his scarred face a mask of cold determination.

"We will not strike in anger," he said, his voice low—measured and final. "That is what he wants. To make us appear as aggressors before the other settlements—to paint himself as a liberator." He paused, scanning the faces before him, reading fear and uncertainty in their eyes. "No. We will not give him that gift."

Lady Elaine stepped forward, her jeweled fingers clasped tightly before her. "Then what shall we do, Your Majesty? This Aurelian grows stronger by the day. The common folk already whisper of his miracles—of crops that grow overnight and hunters whose wounds vanish at his touch."

"Let them whisper," Gharis replied, unmoved. "Whispers fade. Power endures."

He turned to Captain Thorne, who straightened under his king's gaze. "Mobilize the royal guard and hunters. Quietly. No fanfare. I want every battalion drilled, armed, and ready to march within two weeks. No more. No less." His voice dropped even lower, forcing the assembly to lean forward to catch his words. "Let the world believe we are simply conducting a seasonal readiness exercise."

Thorne bowed deeply, fist pressed to his armored chest. "As you command, sire. The men will be ready."

"And the new weapons from the forge?" Gharis asked.

"The prototypes are complete. Five new Charge Blades with enhanced phial capacity. Ten Switch Axes with improved transformation mechanics." Thorne's eyes gleamed with professional pride. "The smiths have outdone themselves this time."

"Good." Gharis nodded, satisfied. "Have them distributed only to your most loyal hunters. Those whose families have served the crown for generations."

Guild Master Morris cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty, if I may... the cost of such mobilization—"

"Will be borne by the Guild," Gharis cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. "Consider it recompense for your failure to inform me of Astera's activities."

Morris blanched but nodded quickly. "Of course, Your Majesty. The Guild's coffers are at your disposal."

Gharis's gaze shifted to the guild masters and nobles, each in turn. "Send word to the outer settlements. Reaffirm our authority. Promise supplies, protection—whatever will keep them from joining Astera's cause."

Lord Vexus stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And if they've already pledged to Astera? What then?"

"Then remind them who it was that kept the Elder Dragons from their doors." Gharis's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Remind them what happened to Oakvale when they defied my edicts."

A chill seemed to pass through the chamber. The destruction of Oakvale was rarely spoken of—a settlement that had attempted to forge its own weapons without Guild approval. Not a single building remained standing, and the official record claimed a Deviljho attack was responsible.

Few believed it.

"Your Majesty," Lady Elaine ventured, "perhaps we could extend an invitation to this Aurelian? Bring him to court, assess his intentions directly?"

"And give him access to the heart of our power?" Gharis shook his head. "No. He would see it as weakness—or worse, a trap. Either way, it would only strengthen his resolve."

He paused, stepping back toward his throne, his gaze drifting to the massive map of Verdantia that covered one wall. Tiny markers indicated settlements, hunting grounds, and known monster territories. Astera—once barely worth noting—now dominated the eastern region, a growing shadow on his kingdom.

"Let Aurelian build his walls," Gharis said, his voice taking on an almost contemplative tone. "Let him forge his weapons. He believes strength alone makes a ruler." His fingers traced the scar along his jaw as he sat once more upon his throne, the weight of the crown seeming to press more heavily upon his brow.

"But soon, he will learn what it truly means to rule: to command not just armies, but fear. To wield history itself as a blade." A humorless smile touched his lips. "Did you know that the ancient texts speak of a time when the Elder Dragons were not our enemies, but our salvation?"

The nobles exchanged confused glances, unsure where their king's thoughts were leading.

"The texts claim they protected us from something worse—something that came from beyond the stars." Gharis's eyes took on a distant look. "Perhaps this Aurelian is such a threat. Perhaps... he is why they slumber beneath our feet, waiting."

Captain Thorne shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, are you suggesting—"

"I suggest nothing," Gharis interrupted. "I merely observe. And what I observe is a being of unnatural power who appeared from nowhere, who grows stronger by the day, and who now raises an army against the established order." His fingers drummed once on the armrest. "What would you call such a being, Captain?"

"A usurper, sire."

"Indeed." Gharis nodded slowly. "A usurper. Or something far worse."

He rose again, moving to stand before the Kirin skull, its pearlescent surface casting an eerie glow in the torchlight. "There is power in this world that few understand. Power that I have spent my life containing, controlling." His hand rested on the spiraling horn. "Power that I will not allow to be unleashed by some... interloper... who knows nothing of the delicate balance we maintain."

The king turned back to face the assembly, his expression hardening into resolve. "Let Aurelian return triumphant from his little trial. Let him feel the roar of a thousand voices chanting his name." A slow, bitter smile curled the edges of his mouth. "Then... we will march."

The nobles murmured their agreement, a chorus of practiced deference that echoed through the throne room. Gharis raised his hand in dismissal, and they bowed—some deeply, others with the bare minimum required by protocol—before filing out of the chamber. The massive doors groaned shut behind them, their heavy thud reverberating through the stone floor.

Alone at last, Gharis let out a long, controlled breath. The performance had served its purpose. Fear was a currency more valuable than zenny in times like these, and he had just made them all very wealthy indeed.

He moved to the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. Leostra—his city—bustled with life, its citizens unaware of the lies that protected them, the carefully constructed mythology that kept order. The lies that flowed from his lips as easily as breathing.

"Elder Dragons as protectors," he muttered to himself with a bitter smile. "Ancient guardians of humanity."

What nonsense. The Elder Dragons, for all their fearsome power and near-mythical status, were monsters like any other—larger, more deadly perhaps, but monsters nonetheless. True, some creatures served ecological purposes—Nerscylla controlling Gypceros populations, Zinogre culling Kelbi herds—but they were no more conscious protectors than a thunderstorm was a deliberate cleanser.

The "ancient texts" he so solemnly referenced? Fabrications, most of them. Carefully crafted documents aged with smoke and buried in ruins for later "discovery." A necessary fiction to maintain control, to justify the restrictions he placed on settlements, the monopoly on weapons, the harsh taxes.

And yet...

Gharis moved slowly across the chamber toward the Kirin skull, its pearlescent surface catching the fading light from the high windows. His reflection distorted across its curved surface—older now, the scar more pronounced, the weight of decades of rule etched into every line of his face.

"Not all lies," he whispered to the skull, running his scarred fingers along its smooth surface. "Some truths hide beneath. The darkness that came before... that was real enough."

The excavations had uncovered... something. The glass-fused ruins, the twisted remains. Evidence of a civilization far more advanced than their own, wiped away in what appeared to be a single cataclysmic event. Not the work of Elder Dragons, perhaps, but something equally devastating.

"And now this... Aurelian." His voice dropped even lower, barely audible even in the empty chamber. "What are you, truly? Not a man. Not entirely. Something... else."

A cold dread had settled in his stomach from the moment he'd heard the reports. The inexplicable healing, the crops that grew overnight, the charisma that drew hunters and settlements to his banner. Power that defied explanation. Power that threatened everything Gharis had built.

"Will you be the one to end it all?" he asked the skull, as though expecting the long-dead creature to answer. "To bring me low after all these years?"

The silence of the chamber was his only reply.

Then—a subtle shift in the air. A presence where there should be none.

Gharis didn't turn immediately. Instead, he straightened, his hand casually moving to rest on the ceremonial dagger at his belt. His eyes fixed on a tapestry hanging on the far wall—a massive, faded depiction of ancient Verdantia in flames, monstrous shadows descending from storm-blackened skies.

"Come out," he commanded, his voice steady. "I know you're there."

For a moment, nothing moved. Then, like liquid shadow given form, a cloaked figure emerged from behind the tapestry. The spy moved with the fluid grace of one who had made stealth an art form, each step precise and calculated. There was no wasted motion as the figure knelt before him, head bowed low.

"Your Majesty." The voice was soft, deliberately pitched to carry no further than Gharis's ears.

"Report," Gharis ordered, turning fully to face his agent.

The spy remained kneeling, face obscured by the deep hood. "Astera thrives beyond all expectation, Your Majesty. Their walls grow higher each day. Their forge burns without ceasing."

"And this... Aurelian?"

"He calls himself a Primarch," the spy said, the unfamiliar term spoken with careful precision. "He leads them not through fear or coercion, but inspiration. Hunters and settlements flock to his banner daily, drawn by tales of his power and promises of freedom from Guild and your control."

"A charismatic rebel is nothing new," Gharis said dismissively, though the unfamiliar title—Primarch—unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"This is different, sire." For the first time, the spy's voice carried a note of genuine unease. "His power is... unnatural. I witnessed him heal a hunter's shattered leg with nothing but a touch—bone and sinew knitting together before my eyes. He lifted a boulder that would require ten men, and did so with a single hand. And when he speaks..." The spy hesitated. "When he speaks, it's as though his voice reaches inside you, compelling you to listen, to believe."

Gharis's expression remained impassive, but his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger. "Have you seen the forge?"

A nod. "Yes, sire. It rivals Leostra's in output, perhaps exceeds it. But the techniques—they aren't from this world."

"Explain."

"He has created something that requires only proper materials and a detailed mold of the weapon needed. The process is... unlike anything I've witnessed. Metal flows like water, cooling instantly into perfect form. What emerges is superior to the finest work of Guild masters, yet requires a fraction of the time and labor."

"Impossible," Gharis muttered, though he knew his spy would not exaggerate.

"I saw it with my own eyes, Your Majesty. Weapons that would take our smiths weeks to forge, completed in hours. And the quality..." The spy shook their head in reluctant admiration. "Perfect balance. Edges that never seem to dull. Materials bonded in ways our smiths claim cannot be done."

The king was silent for a long moment, his mind racing through implications, possibilities, threats. Then, with quiet certainty: "He is not a man."

The spy looked up, startled enough to momentarily forget protocol. "Sire?"

"He is something older. Or newer. Perhaps both." Gharis's voice was flat, emotionless. "It no longer matters. He threatens the balance I have kept for decades."

Gharis stepped down from the dais, his armor clinking softly in the silence of the chamber. He gestured for the spy to rise.

"I've heard enough. Tell no one what you've seen—not your handler, not your fellow agents. If I summon you again, it will be in the hour before war."

The spy bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Majesty."

"One more thing," Gharis added, his voice suddenly sharp. "This title he uses—Primarch. Did he explain its meaning?"

"Only once, sire, when pressed by the elder hunter Kento. He said..." The spy's voice faltered. "He said it meant 'son of a god-emperor,' forged for war and conquest. Created, not born."

A chill ran through Gharis that had nothing to do with the drafty chamber. "Go now. Be my eyes where I cannot see. My ears where I cannot hear."

"Always, Your Majesty." With fluid grace, the spy melted back into the shadows, disappearing as completely as if they had never been there at all.

Gharis remained motionless for several long moments after the spy's departure, his thoughts churning like storm clouds. Son of a god-emperor. Created, not born. Words that should have sounded like the ravings of a madman, yet somehow rang with terrible possibility.

Finally, he turned to the far wall behind the throne, approaching a section that appeared no different from the rest of the ornate stonework. His fingers found a particular carved rosette, pressing it with practiced precision. A subtle click rewarded his touch, followed by the low groan of ancient stone as a hidden door swung inward, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.

Gharis glanced back at the empty throne room, at the skulls of conquered monsters that had once seemed the ultimate symbols of his power and authority. How hollow they appeared now, in the face of something truly unknown.

Without hesitation, he stepped into the passage, the door grinding shut behind him. The stairwell plunged downward, spiraling into the foundations of the palace and beyond, into secrets far older than his reign—secrets that, perhaps, held the answers he now desperately needed.

Torchlight flickered as Gharis descended the winding stairs, each step taking him further from the realm of politics and deeper into ancient secrets. The air grew colder, drier—preserving what lay hidden beneath his palace. At the first landing, he passed walls inlaid with glimmering alien script—Eldari runes, elegant and serpentine, glowing faintly despite the centuries.

He paused, brushing calloused fingers across a familiar phrase he had never fully deciphered: "Vaul's mercy fades. The Weeping Stars approach. Those of Emerald and steel approach. TO WAR!"

"The warning they never heeded," he murmured, tracing the luminescent characters that responded to his touch with a subtle brightening. "Whatever came for them... it found them unprepared."

Twenty-seven years of rule, and still these runes defied complete translation. The Eldari—or Eldar, as some fragments named them—had been masters of this world once as well as another race they served. Their ruins dotted the most inhospitable regions of Aurion, elegant structures of wraithbone and crystal that had withstood millennia of monster attacks and natural disasters.

But something had driven them away. Or destroyed them.

Deeper still he went, beyond the vault of tablets carved in a language that no living being on Aurion could understand—spiral glyphs that shimmered when stared at too long. Unknown but for one word written in Eldari he had been able to translate: The Old Ones' tongue. Wisdom of Our creators.

"Creators of whom?" Gharis whispered to himself, his voice swallowed by the ancient stone. "The Eldar? Or something that came before even them?"

The spiral patterns made his eyes water if he focused too long—as if the very act of reading them required more dimensions than human perception allowed. He'd lost three scholars to madness trying to decipher these tablets. Now he simply kept them locked away, another secret among many.

Then, at the final threshold, he passed through a sealed bulkhead of tarnished gold. The door was ancient, human... and functional. It opened with a pneumatic hiss of pressurized air that still startled him despite his frequent visits. The mechanisms were self-maintaining, powered by something his engineers couldn't begin to comprehend.

Beyond it lay a vast chamber carved from the living rock beneath Leostra. The walls were lined with dormant cogitators and blinking interfaces—technology far beyond anything his smiths could produce. In the center stood a colossal, partially buried spacecraft—a derelict ark of Mankind's Golden Age, when humans had left their cradle and ventured forth to colonize new planets.

Its hull was scarred but intact, bearing the faded emblem of Mars and Earth united—the Federation of Humanity, from an era when mankind ruled the stars instead of cowering from monsters that roamed the earth.

"Hello, old friend," Gharis said to the empty chamber, his voice echoing off metal surfaces that had no business existing on a world where steel was precious and spacecraft were myths.

He approached the small outbuilding grafted into the ship's side—a converted medicae unit, lit with pale green light. The machine purred as he entered, recognizing his presence through means he'd never understood. One section housed something those who understood it would burn planets and wage a million wars to possess—a functioning STC terminal, a relic of impossible value.

He placed his gauntleted hand on the console. The screen flared to life, displaying lines of High Gothic and machine-script.

"Command Input: ACCESS LEVEL GAMMA-PRIME — WELCOME, WARDEN 0234."

Gharis smiled thinly at the designation. Not king. Not ruler. Warden—a glorified guard for secrets he barely comprehended.

"Still only a quarter understood," he muttered, scrolling through files whose names were a mix of recognizable words and incomprehensible technical jargon. "And only one weapon template fully reproducible."

He turned toward a rack in the chamber. There, sheathed in crystalline shielding, rested a sleek las-rifle and two compact pulse-lances—weapons powerful enough to pierce monster hide and Elder Dragon scale... as he had proven when he used one to kill the Kirin and win his kingship, though none knew the truth of that "legendary" hunt.

The las-rifle had been his first success with the STC—a template simple enough that, with modifications, his smiths could replicate its basic components using local materials. The result was crude compared to the original, but still far beyond any blade or bow. The pulse-lances remained beyond his technological reach, their inner workings a mystery he could observe but not reproduce.

He sat heavily in the metal chair, eyes reflecting dim light from the STC's monitor. "If I had but another lifetime," he whispered, "perhaps I could learn to wield this knowledge like he does."

Like Aurelian seemed to do instinctively—creating technological marvels as easily as breathing. The thought burned like acid in his gut.

"What are you?" he asked the empty air, imagining his rival before him. "Not a man. Something more. Something that understands what I've spent decades struggling to comprehend."

He looked up at the massive hull, his voice barely audible. "I don't need to kill this Aurelian. I only need to remind the people what happens when monsters awaken and only I can save them."

His fingers danced across the interface, calling up maps of the region surrounding Astera. The settlement had expanded into territories marked with warning glyphs on his charts. Territories where the containment field ran thin.

"I will crush his army but leave him and Astera weak to be crushed by Aurion's monsters. That will show them who truly protects this realm."

A cold, calculating smile spread across his face. "Let them see their miracle-worker fail when true terror rises from the depths."

Gharis looked then to another computer next to the STC terminal, its hum vibrating faintly in his bones. He stared at the pulsing red glyph in the corner of the interface:

"BLACK PROTOCOL ENGAGED — STANDBY MODE ACTIVE"

"Containment Field Integrity: 87.3%"

"WARNING: DEACTIVATION WILL NULLIFY HYBERGENIC STASIS GRID — EDRGN CLASS X-PREDATOR ZONES COMPROMISED."

Gharis sighed. The percentage dropped ever so often, and nothing he could do would stop its slow decline. The field he had activated to keep the elder dragons and... It asleep and in hibernation was failing. Had been failing since before he was born.

His predecessor had shown him this place on his deathbed, passing the burden of knowledge to the next Warden. Not the next king—kings could be overthrown, replaced. But the Warden's duty transcended politics. It was why he fought so hard to maintain control, to restrict technology, to keep settlements from expanding too far or growing too powerful. No matter how cruel or Tyrannical he had to be.

Because he alone knew what slumbered beneath Aurion's surface.

"The ancient tablets speak truth after all," he whispered, running his fingers over the warning message. "The darkness that came before... the fire that ended a civilization far greater than our own."

For he wished not to face what the tablets found in ruins had spoken of. The Great Dark One. Bringer of Fire. The Black Flame. The Dark Demise.

"Fatalis," he whispered into the dark, the name like a curse on his lips.