The great hall of the Dominion palace stretched like a golden cathedral — pillars carved from Psion-infused marble, ceilings high enough to disappear into mist. At its center sat the lion throne, a monstrous sculpture of gold and fury, its arms shaped like roaring beasts. Upon it, as if the seat had been forged for him alone, sat Commander Navek Vyer.
His posture was effortless but thunderous, his presence sharp and suffocating. The Noctirum crown resting on his brow pulsed faintly — glowing with energy drawn from suffering. His robe, dark crimson and edged with silver trim, flowed over the polished stone like a river of blood. One shoulder carried a heavy drape of beast fur, trophies of a world he had long since tamed through violence.
Ministers stood in a semicircle before him; heads bowed.
"Sector A — northeast belt," one stammered, "produced 84 metric tons this cycle, Supreme Commander."
"Sector B — former African region — has begun mining into deep strata. 102 tons recovered. But... minor collapses."
"Sector D is faltering," another voice chimed in hesitantly. "Too many bodies falling. We've lost over 400 miners this quarter alone."
There was a beat of silence.
The Commander leaned forward, his eyes glowing with that unholy, predatory gold. His voice was low — a growl.
"I didn't ask for their tombstones. I asked for their ore."
The chamber held its breath.
Another minister, pale and shaking, stepped forward. "We... we can push harder, Supreme Commander, but the shafts are unstable. The workers... if they break—"
"Let them break."
The words fell like an executioner's blade.
The Commander rose, and the sheer weight of his aura hit the room like gravity being tripled. His robe followed him like the wake of a hurricane, fur dragging along the gleaming floor.
"I do not care if they die screaming in the dust," he roared. "I want the Noctirum. Every last speck. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Supreme Commander," they chorused in terror, dropping to one knee.
Across the hall, Dr. Agastya Ved Rao watched from the shadows. His eyes, tired and ancient, flicked downward in shame. And without a word, he turned and left the throne room, the Commander's fury echoing behind him.
In a quieter chamber down a stone corridor, the second prince leaned over a large desk of obsidian and steel. Across from him knelt one of his black-armored knights, head lowered in obedience.
A small device rested between them — a satellite phone, primitive by Dominion standards. But still... dangerous.
"It was recovered from the Sector Delta skirmish," the knight reported. "They used it. Old tech — pre-Wipe."
The prince's eyes gleamed with curiosity and contempt.
"Trace the last communications. Track who they contacted. I want all names. And I want them bled dry."
A tech assistant scrambled forward with trembling hands, plugging the device into a converter.
"This is relic tech, sire. At least a hundred years old. Most data... fragmented."
"Then un-fragment it," the prince snapped. "Or I'll have your lungs crushed for fertilizer."
Outside, Dr. Agastya paused mid-step, hearing fragments of the exchange. He did not enter. His gaze lingered on the prince.
The knight glanced at him, nervous.
"Just a fall, old man," the knight said quickly. "Battle wounds from the rooftops. Nothing more."
Agastya gave a soft smile — unreadable, but not unkind.
"I see," he said.
The prince shifted uncomfortably.
"Close the door," he barked the moment Agastya left. "I never liked that old bastard. Always scheming. One day he'll get caught."
Inside his mind, the prince replayed the rooftop clash over and over — the blood, the failure, the unspoken threat of truth.
Agastya walked swiftly, his cane tapping down the empty metal corridor toward his lab, where no cameras could spy and no soldiers dared enter.
Once inside, he sealed the door, locked it thrice, and leaned against it, his breath shaking.
At last, they had arrived.
The outliers. The unaccounted variables. The sparks from the past.
He turned toward a console — symbols glowing faintly across a glass surface.
He touched the center rune and whispered, "May the world remember what resistance feels like."
Far from the glass towers and golden thrones, in the ruins beneath the floating city, the rebel base hummed with urgency.
Inside the surgical room, Shivam lay still — pale, silent, barely breathing. His chest, wrapped in heavy layers of bandages, seemed to rise and fall slowly, the shallow rhythm of his breath accompanied by the steady beep of the monitors. Wires ran across his body, and the faint glow of psionic medicine pulsed beneath his skin, a soft, eerie light that seemed almost alien against his fragile form.
Outside the glass, his friends waited, their collective anxiety palpable in the air. Aman sat stone-faced, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body wound up with tension. Naina leaned against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes distant, reflecting a storm of emotions she couldn't bring herself to express. Aanchal stood with clenched fists, her stance rigid, unwilling to sit — her heart too restless, her thoughts too loud. Dikshant paced back and forth, teeth gritted, each step filled with barely contained frustration.
Time dragged on in the cold silence, each tick of the clock heavier than the last. The door creaked open. The doctor stepped out — his face grim, his hands stained with something darker than blood.
Naina's breath caught in her throat as she pushed herself off the wall. "How is he?" she asked quickly, her voice tinged with an edge of desperation. The doctor removed his gloves slowly, the rustling of the material the only sound in the room. His eyes lingered on the floor for a moment, struggling to find the right words. When he spoke, his tone was low.
"We removed the blade's handle... but the metal—" he paused, as if unsure whether to say the next words aloud. "The Noctirum... it's not like any we've seen. It's been absorbed."
Aman stepped forward. "Absorbed?" "Yes. Not rejected. Not poisoning him. It's... merged. Bonded. In his bloodstream. In his nerves."
Dikshant's voice cracked. "When will he wake up?" The doctor looked up; his expression carved from stone. "I don't know."
Meanwhile, in the space between thought and soul...
Shivam floated in darkness.
Weightless. Cold.
His eyes were closed, but even in the blindness, he saw glimmers — memories flickering like dying stars. A broken alley. A flash of a dagger. His friends screaming. And then... Silence. But not peace. Suddenly, a voice boomed through the void — deep, resonant, ancient.
"Boy. We meet again."
Shivam's brows twitched. He tried to open his eyes, to move, but he was stuck — body paralyzed, thoughts scattered.
"You feel it, don't you?" the voice said again, echoing from every direction and nowhere at once. "The fracture. The fusion. The fear."
"Who... who are you?" Shivam asked, though his lips didn't move.
"I am what sleeps beneath the metal. What stirs in fire. The heartbeat of stars long forgotten. The core. The stone. The storm."
The Noctirum. Realization struck him like a silent thunder. "You... you're inside me."
"Not just inside. We are tethered now. My essence within your veins. You called to me with your pain. Your rage. Your need. And I answered."
"I want to go back," Shivam whispered in his mind. "Back to my friends. I can't stay here."
"You cannot return yet. Not without a jumpstart."
"A jumpstart?" he echoed. "What does that even mean?" The spirit did not answer directly. Instead, it muttered something slow and cryptic, like a riddle spoken through wind and fire.
"Only the purest connection may ignite what sleeps.
Will aligned with truth.
Aura in harmony with intent.
Only then can the flame be stoked anew."
Shivam clenched his fists — or thought he did. The sensation was vague. "What does that mean?! Just speak clearly!" But the spirit only chuckled — the sound more vibration than voice.
"The body is still. But the mind must rise. You must gather your thoughts, boy. Sharpen your will. Still your storms. Until the world inside you begins to burn with clarity."
"Is this… training?"
"Call it what you will. But only when your will glows brighter than doubt,
when your mind becomes the forge,
shall your body follow and awaken."
"And if I fail?" Shivam asked. The voice grew softer, but heavier. Like a whisper carrying the weight of mountains.
"Then you remain here. Silent. Forgotten.
And your friends die without you."
The darkness pulsed. Shivam inhaled sharply — or thought he did. And with that breath, something deep within the void shifted, as if a single spark had flickered to life. He sat there — or floated — lost in black, beginning the long, invisible battle not of blade or speed, but of will.