The Guild of Engineers — A Silent Theft
The Guildhall smelled of iron and ambition. Gilded arches framed walls etched with glowing schematics, and in the center, a holographic model of the Arc Relays Project pulsed—a vast lattice of clean-energy towers that promised to stabilize Dominion's trembling grid.
Tonight was meant to be a night of recognition.
In the shadows of the gallery, soot-streaked engineers fidgeted in their seats. Some had spent a decade buried in tunnels, threading copper through rusted arteries of the city. They had dreamed of this: their work unveiled, their names recorded.
"Maybe tonight," whispered one, his hand shaking as he smoothed a torn sleeve, "they'll finally call us forward."
"They have to," muttered another. "It's ours."
The lights dimmed. A single figure ascended the podium: Councilor Marrec, draped in silver robes, his smile polished to perfection.
"Citizens of Dominion," he declared, voice magnified by the hall's resonators, "behold—the Arc Relays. A vision conceived under my leadership, a breakthrough of the Council for the people. A triumph of Dominion ingenuity."
The crowd erupted. Cheers rose like thunder. News-feeds blinked his name across the skyline.
In the gallery, the engineers froze. Their notes slipped from trembling hands. One man tore his schematics in fury.
"That's… ours," he whispered hoarsely. "Our years. Our blood."
But no one looked at him. His name—like theirs—was already erased. In the light of Marrec's smile, they were shadows.
"History does not remember sweat," Marrec's voice soared, "only the hand that waves."
And Dominion cheered the thief.
Ashira Valen — A Calculated Complicity
Later that night, in the Valen estate's atrium, Ashira poured herself dark wine, the glass catching the reflection of Dominion's electric skyline. Every channel blazed with Marrec's triumph.
Her steward, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers, spoke hesitantly. "Lady Valen… he stole from the Guild. Shouldn't you denounce him?"
Ashira swirled her glass. "Denounce?" Her tone was amused, almost pitying. "Dominion adores victors, not inventors. Marrec understood the law well enough—work is invisible, credit is immortal."
The steward frowned. "But it is dishonest."
Ashira's smile was razor-thin. "Honesty is irrelevant to power. Do you recall the Valen archives? My grandmother pioneered the skyline-rail, but the Council claimed it for themselves. Her name vanished. The city remembers only the logo of Dominion Transit."
She lifted her gaze to the balcony, where the city lights clawed upward like desperate prayers.
"History," she whispered, "does not honor builders. It honors names."
For a moment her mask faltered—just long enough for unease to flicker across her face. She muttered into the glass, so softly her steward barely caught it:
"What is the worth of a vision, if someone else seizes it first?"
Kaelen Veyra — A Bitter Recognition
In the Outer Ring, Kaelen crouched beside a humming relay tower, its circuits glowing freshly repaired. Children laughed nearby, waving lanterns lit by the grid he had saved.
Above them, Dominion's news-feeds streamed Councilor Marrec's speech on repeat.
"Councilor Marrec, savior of the people's grid," the headlines proclaimed.
A worker spat into the dirt. "All you've done, Veyra, and still they give him the glory. Doesn't it burn?"
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "It burns." His voice was quiet, steady. "But fire spreads. Let him hold the torch—my work still fuels the flame."
The worker's eyes narrowed. "You're too noble, boy. Dominion eats the noble."
A sudden hiss from behind: a Council lackey, his badge glinting. "Careful with your tongue, Veyra. The Council will not tolerate impostors trying to steal Marrec's light. Fix wires, but do not claim triumphs."
Kaelen rose slowly, grime streaked across his cheek. His voice was like steel pulled from the forge.
"I do not need to claim. The city already runs on my hands."
The lackey sneered, retreating into the crowd, but the worker muttered low:
"Mark me, Kaelen—truth alone never feeds the hungry. Dominion only feeds on spectacle."
Kaelen stared at the towering news-feeds until his reflection warped into Marrec's smile. His fist clenched until his knuckles bled.
Serenya Veyra — The Poet Returns
The café was darker tonight, shadows coiled with smoke and whispers. The poet who had once fled returned, trembling but defiant, clutching a folded leaflet.
He sat across from Serenya, his hands shaking. "They took my words," he rasped. "I saw them on CouncilNet—my verses, stripped of my name, quoted as Marrec's. They applauded him. They called him visionary. And me? I'm nothing."
Serenya leaned forward, her pale eyes glinting beneath her hood. "Does it wound you?"
"It kills me," he spat. "They cheer for my ghost. He wears my voice like a mask."
Her fingers tapped the table once, twice. The room seemed to lean closer.
"Then let them believe it was his voice," she murmured. "While I ensure the city learns the truth belonged to you. Not through his stage… but through mine."
The poet swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"
Serenya's faint smile was a knife's edge. "Remember this: the Syndicate steals credit to chain men. I steal it to sharpen blades. Which theft do you prefer?"
The café hushed, every eye averted as if afraid. Somewhere, deep in Dominion's veins, her words had already taken root.
The Veil Syndicate — Plans in Shadow
In a shuttered tower of black steel, the Syndicate gathered. Councilor Marrec's face flickered across their wall of monitors.
"Perfect," one cloaked figure purred. "Let him be our mask. The engineers labor; Marrec shines. And in his shine, our shadow moves unseen."
Another rasped, "But the Veyras… their names rise too quickly. The boy earns loyalty, the girl spreads whispers. They are… inconvenient."
The leader leaned forward, gloved in black steel, his voice heavy as iron.
"Then let them learn," he said. "In Dominion, glory is never theirs. We will make them builders. And bury them nameless."
His hand tapped the table three times. The chamber echoed with the Syndicate's code:
"Names are light. Light burns."
The Law Etched
LAW VII: Let others labor in silence. Take their triumph as your own. Dominion does not honor the sweat—it worships the name etched in light.