Alatar stood silent for a long time after Barachas finished speaking. The images painted lingered in his mind—crimson seas, spires of hardened vitae, aristocrats who could wield blood as symphony. A world where life itself was scripture, where identity could be read in a single drop.
The thought drew his gaze inward. His hand moved almost instinctively to his chest, feeling the slow thrum of his own veins.
Alatar (softly, but with a sharpened tone):
"You speak of them as sovereigns, sculptors of blood itself. Every drop to them is revelation, every vein a library. Yet… my own blood, Barachas, stirred you awake. You said it carried all the primordials, yet it smelled… different. Do you mean to tell me that within me flows a cadence not even the Sangui have tasted?"
Barachas shifted, the chains binding him groaning as if the temple itself strained to contain his presence. His great eyes—molten and unblinking—studied Alatar as though he were an open wound and an unread tome at once.
Barachas (low, reverberant):
"The Sangui are sovereigns of one river—the river of blood. But you… you are not river, Alatar. You are confluence. Your veins are not bound to one Absolute, nor to one primordial current. You are… unscored music."
Alatar's expression tightened—not from fear, but from intrigue. He looked down at his hand again, flexing it, almost expecting the blood to sing out of his skin.
Alatar:
"Then if they were to touch my blood… if one of these Sangui nobles, or even their hollowed kin, placed a single drop of me upon their tongues—what would they see? What would they hear?"
Barachas' lips curled in something between a snarl and a smile.
Barachas:
"They would hear the end of their song. They would see patterns their world was not meant to hold. The Sangui can read histories in blood, but your blood would not read. It would rewrite."
Alatar felt his chest constrict at that. Not from dread—he was past that—but from a new calm curiosity, almost reverence.
Alatar (thoughtful, murmuring):
"Rewriting… so even in their prime world of crimson dominion, where blood is the highest scripture… I would stand apart. Not lesser, not greater—simply other."
His eyes gleamed, calm but dangerous, his mind dancing between wonder and hunger.
Alatar (looking up at Barachas now, voice steadier, deeper):
"You've shown me many worlds, Barachas. Yet this Sangui… this world of blood. I would see it with my own eyes. Not as a student, not as prey, but to test—what my blood might mean among their symphonies."
The malakor chuckled, a deep sound like shifting stone and splitting marrow.
Barachas:
"Careful, boy. Curiosity is kin to conquest. And conquest has teeth. If the Sangui taste you, they will not bow—they will hunger. And the hunger of a Sangui is eternal."
Alatar's hand fell back to his side, the pulse of his veins still whispering in his ears. He had thought blood was a thing of mortality—a tether, a reminder of fragility. But now it seemed like scripture, war, symphony, and secret all at once.
Alatar (with quiet resolve):
"Perhaps it is not for me to know what my blood means… not yet. To question its nature may be folly until I have walked further, until the truth forces itself upon me. For now, I accept: it is power unmeasured, and I remain too unlearned to wield it."
Barachas inclined his head slowly, a chain clinking against the temple floor. His silence felt like approval.
But Alatar's eyes narrowed, curiosity sharpening into the regal tone of someone who had begun to taste his own sovereignty.
Alatar:
"You've spoken of the Sangui as though their dominion lies in one world of blood. Tell me, Barachas—are they bound to a single sphere, or do they stride beyond it? Do they claim more of the Starryverse?"
Barachas' eyes glimmered, like stars reflected in a well of marrow.
Barachas (deep, unhurried):
"You still think small. A prime world is not a kingdom—it is a throne. The Sangui are not bound to Sanguitharion, their crimson womb. From that world they launch dominion outward, as do all who dwell upon primes. They hold sectors of the void, constellations of obedience, chains of a thousand worlds linked by rivers of blood. Their nobles and vassals are governors, their servitors spread like veins across galaxies. They are not an exception, Alatar. They are the rule."
Alatar felt a slow weight settle in his chest—not despair, but a realization that scale itself was a weapon. He had thought of worlds as rare jewels, singular prizes. Now Barachas was telling him that whole sectors were currency, and that conquest was as natural as breath.
Alatar (quiet, contemplative):
"So galactic conquest is not ambition—it is custom. The strong rule, and the weak are made into scripture. This is the order of the Starryverse."
Barachas (with a cold certainty):
"The strong always rule. That truth is older than stars. Those who rise to primes claim empires not because they choose to, but because their nature demands it. You, Alatar, will one day see that strength is not possession—it is inevitability."
Alatar closed his eyes for a moment, letting the thought sink in. When he opened them again, there was no fear there—only the beginning of regality, as though he had taken a step away from naivety and into something sharper.
Alatar (almost to himself, but audible):
"Then perhaps the question is not whether I will rule… but what shape my strength will demand of me when the time comes."
Barachas gave a low, rumbling laugh, ancient and knowing.
Barachas:
"Now you begin to sound less like prey."