Dominion's Pulse
Dominion lived on light.
Every surface shimmered with it—news-feeds gliding across skyscraper facades, neon rivers bending around skyrails, the endless flicker of attention shifting from one name to another like moths chasing fire.
And in that week, three names burned hottest:
Ashira Valen. Kaelen Veyra. Serenya Veyra.
In Dominion, to be ignored was to vanish. To be seen was to survive. But the spotlight was never free—it was always a blade.
Ashira Valen — The Interview
The holo-studio was cold. Its lights, merciless.
Ashira sat straight-backed in a white chair, the porcelain mask beside her like an unspoken threat. Cameras hovered, recording every breath. Across from her, CouncilNet's sharpest interviewer leaned forward—a man infamous for tearing reputations apart on live feeds.
"Lady Valen," he began, voice smooth as steel, "you speak of renewal for Dominion, of rising above corruption. Yet your father sits on the High Council—one of the very architects of this decay. Tell me, why should the city not see you as his ornament, another pawn dressed in silk?"
A hush fell in the studio. Even the drones tilted closer.
Ashira smiled faintly. She could feel her pulse in her throat, but her voice slid out like velvet over glass.
"An ornament?" she repeated, tilting her head. "If a city is crumbling, do you scold the heir for inheriting the rubble—or admire them for daring to rebuild it?"
The journalist's brow arched. "So you claim you will rebuild. With what authority? What do you truly offer Dominion beyond poetry and performance?"
Ashira leaned forward, her eyes catching the light.
"Authority?" she whispered, and the silence of the studio bent toward her. "Authority is the illusion people believe when a voice is louder than their doubts. You ask what I offer? I offer a vision they cannot ignore. My father governs their laws. I will govern their hope."
The journalist faltered. He tried to recover, sneering: "Bold words. But visions burn out. Reality is merciless."
Ashira's smile sharpened.
"Reality is shaped by those who dare to perform it first. Dominion will choose me—not because I am flawless, but because I am unforgettable. That is more dangerous than any law."
The silence cracked into applause—not from the studio, but from the millions streaming the interview. Her name lit the feeds in fire.
But when the lights cut, and the cameras drifted away, Ashira sat alone in the darkened set. Her fingers trembled against the porcelain mask.
She whispered into the silence:
"Do they see me… or only the phantom I've become?"
No one answered.
Kaelen Veyra — The Grid and the Crowd
The Outer Ring smelled of wet iron and ozone.
Kaelen wiped sweat from his brow, his clothes streaked with grease. Around him, power lines hissed and sparked as crews worked to restore the collapsed grid. News drones hovered in a glittering swarm, broadcasting every move.
"Kaelen Veyra, scion of the Dominion elite, risking his life with the common workers—hero or spectacle?" one drone narrated live, its voice sharp.
From the sidelines, a suited politician barked, "This is grandstanding! He wants attention, not solutions. The Council funds real engineers—he plays at savior for the feeds!"
The crowd bristled.
An old woman shouted, "Shut your mouth, Council dog! He's here. You're not."
A chorus rose behind her: "Veyra! Veyra! Veyra!"
Kaelen straightened, his hands blackened from the transformer he'd forced back online. Sparks cascaded, then—suddenly—light surged across the district. Buildings flickered alive. Homes blazed with warmth.
The cheer was deafening. Children swarmed him, hands reaching, voices chanting his name. The feeds ate it alive, spitting his image across the city.
Kaelen raised his hands for calm, but his voice cracked with something more desperate than triumph.
"I don't do this for your cheers. I don't want your spotlight. I only want your lights to stay on."
But the crowd only roared louder. The politician slunk away, drowned out by the wave of acclaim.
Kaelen stared into the news drone's unblinking eye. For the first time, he realized the truth:
The city would never let him remain invisible.
And worse—attention was now a weapon bound to his name, whether he wanted it or not.
Serenya Veyra — The Whisper in the Café
The Scholar's Quarter was quieter than the Inner Ring. Its glow was amber, not neon—lanterns over doorways, hushed voices over steaming cups. Here, Dominion's dreamers gathered, though few of them ever rose.
Serenya entered a café, hood shadowing her face. Conversations dimmed as her presence spread like smoke. The barista froze. A young poet at the corner table stared, wide-eyed, before stumbling to his feet.
"You… you're her," he whispered.
"Sit," Serenya said softly. Her voice carried an authority that was not loud, but magnetic.
The poet obeyed, trembling.
"I—I've recited my words here for months," he stammered. "No one listens. But if you—if you came—"
Serenya studied him. His eyes burned with hunger for recognition, the same fire she had once felt.
"Your words matter," she said. "But Dominion listens only when a voice carries weight. Do you want my name to lift yours?"
He hesitated, tears brimming. Then, fear overtook him. He bolted from the table, fleeing into the night.
The café buzzed afterward, whispers spiraling: "She came here… she listens… she watches…"
Serenya sat alone, sipping her untouched drink. She did not need to speak further.
Already, a myth was forming around her—a presence not loud, but haunting.
"Attention," she thought, "can be taken by storm. Or it can creep in silence until the city itself begins to whisper your name."
The Veil Syndicate
Far above, in a tower whose windows were shuttered against the city's glow, a gathering of figures sat cloaked in shadow.
Screens displayed the feeds—Ashira dazzling millions, Kaelen cheered in the streets, Serenya's name spreading in whispers.
"They rise too quickly," one voice rasped. "The city bends its ear to them. That cannot be allowed."
Another figure leaned forward, the glow revealing a tattooed jawline.
"Then let us remind Dominion," he hissed, "that every spotlight casts shadows. We are the shadows. We are the silence between their names."
A chorus of voices answered in unison:
"We are the Veil Syndicate."
And with that, the game shifted.
The Law Etched
LAW VI: Court Attention at All Costs. Invisibility is death. To be seen is to shape the truth. But every flame consumes—and some burn their masters first.