First Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Second Quadrant, Crestoria (Seat-Planet of House Rouge)
"Why do you like being with me so much?"
"Silly," laughed the girl with the blurred face. "We're both people. We're alive. It's our duty to be together so we can grow."
"Grow…"
"It's more or less like this: I learn from you, and you learn from me. It's only thanks to others that we become more complete as people!" she exclaimed.
"Well… I like being with you too."
She laughed heartily and lay back on the green, bluish-tinged grass of the plain stretching to the horizon, staring up at the starry sky.
"Lacrosse!"
"It's not so bad, right?"
"Hey! Wake up!"
Lacrosse's memories were cut short by a sharp snap.
"Oh, sorry. I got a little distracted."
The woman in front of him huffed. "Oui, I can see that."
The boy was spending a pleasant afternoon chatting with his sister Clarisse—or rather, Clarisse was chatting. She talked endlessly about the new artistic movements, and Lacrosse stayed there pretending to understand, nodding now and then to enhance the impression of connoisseurship.
"…As I was saying, don't be fooled by the anti-futurists…! Their premise may sound interesting, but they're so monotonous. Have you ever attended one of their exhibitions? Or even sat through a generic art history lecture?"
"Uh… maybe, refresh my memory," Lacrosse replied.
"Well, their temperament is similar. Repetitive. They catch you in their web of ideas, all about exalting the living mind, something beyond material boundaries… only to drag you down into an endless spiral of rejecting every form of progress. Repetitive, indeed. Principles made flesh, heavens. Talking to them is like a school lesson."
What is she even saying? the boy asked himself, as usual.
"For the sake of your mental integrity, I advise you not to discuss such topics with Selena. Oh, Selena! Mon dieu, a misfortune indeed, that she's fallen prey to this web… now the only way she finds relief is to drag others down with her into the abyss of close-mindedness…!" the woman continued.
Her eccentric temperament matched her lavish appearance: her long red hair fell like strands of incandescent silk over her shoulders, threaded with jewels that reflected the stars. The Author Signature—the family's red mark—traced her high right cheekbone in fine lines and elegant curves. It stood out on her pale, slender face. Her luminous crimson eyes seemed to look beyond tangible reality. Perhaps because she truly lived on a more expansive plane, it was so hard to keep up with her speeches. She wore white and red garments—the colors of House Rouge. The structured details on her flowing fabrics evoked brushstrokes on a canvas. Every week she appeared in different designs, brushstrokes in different directions, as if she herself were a canvas in constant flux.
After a moment of processing—gathering any comprehensible thread from Clarisse's discourse—Lacrosse couldn't help but smirk.
His sister raised a thin, arched eyebrow. "What exactly do you find amusing, hm?"
"Nothing, sorry—go on," he said.
"In constant flux." It would've been a good opening to describe Clarisse Rouge in her entirety. Not only for her varied fashion choices, but also because just last week she'd praised the anti-futurist movement as if she were to become its leading exponent the very next morning. And today—here we were. Lacrosse supposed the role of the Poétesse entailed precisely this, a continual becoming. He was simply glad to have someone who enjoyed his company.
"Well, anyway…" Clarisse didn't get to finish, because her elegant smartwatch began beeping intermittently—and so did Lacrosse's. The two exchanged curious looks.
--
The walls of the Opulence Palace were never entirely linear, just as the façades were never all alike: it was as if it were a composite project by a multitude of architects from different schools. Soft curves alternated with straight lines; slender towers, some discreet and rounded, others extravagantly articulated and pointed. Sinuous arches framed wide windows that looked like paintings of stained glass. Light was reflected through crystals set into the structure, creating glints that shifted color depending on the time of day. It was three in the afternoon in that region's time zone on Crestoria: thus, orange lights.
The palace itself wasn't the largest among those of the Houses, but it was still gigantic: its walls stretched for tens of thousands of lumes in various directions. Seen from above, it formed an irregular, almost organic figure, grown rather than built: someone clearly wanted a polygon, but someone else disagreed. And when the strokes are discordant…
Law, Jean, and Amarel were being escorted by guards to one of the palace's five entrances: the Midday Gate.
"At least this time we've got a welcoming committee," Law remarked.
"If not for the generous reward, Snow would've gotten a very harsh review on the website," Amarel added.
The Midday Gate rose thirty lumes high and fifteen wide, composed of two massive leaves of reflective marble: mirrors of stone. The doors were etched with symmetric, geometric motifs—delicate red lines starting simple at the bottom and growing more complex toward the top. They were framed by two imposing white columns, tall and fluted, decorated with red capitals. Above the door, a triangular pediment displayed a scene of a group of artists in an inspired, dynamic pose, as if they were bringing a world to life with their hands.
"They say that when sunlight hits this door at the right angle, you can hear the whispers of the artists of the past…" Amarel said.
"Crap, then I'd better clear my ears," Law replied.
"Did we seriously come here by public transit? We need a new ship as soon as possible…" Jean snapped.
The great door swung open, revealing two people standing inside, a man and a woman—both fairly advanced in age.
"Welcome to our Promenade, travelers. We've been expecting you," the woman began. "My name is Lucienne Rouge." She bowed politely.
"And I am Corbin, at your service," the man followed.
Law crossed his arms. "The famous 'Corbin_ROuge69.' I suggest you ditch the default profile pic—people will think you're a bot."
Corbin laughed heartily. "Consider it done." He was slim but sturdily built. For a noble, his dark red hair was rather unkempt. He also wore a black visor covering his eyes, yet his wrinkled face was still quite expressive.
"In the meantime…" Lucienne continued, stepping aside and extending her hand toward the entrance. Her light red, almost rosy hair was gathered into an elaborate coiffure, braided with silver threads and small ornaments shaped like brushes and quills, accentuating her elegant bearing. She held a slender cane topped with a red crystal; more than a support, she used it for flourish despite her age. As with all Second Circle members, neither she nor Corbin bore an Author Signature on their face. "…May we invite you in for sweets?"
The three lit up.
"I'm inclined to leave an excellent review," Amarel said.
"Five stars, at least," Law echoed.
--
In another grand hall, the group and their hosts sat around a refined circular table, sipping tea and biting into pastries from various schools of confectionery.
"Watch and learn, Snow," Law quipped as he downed yet another muffin.
Jean was awestruck by the scene. Her incredulity kept her from serving herself.
Amarel set down his cup. "Thank you for your hospitality—truly. To what do we owe the invitation?"
Lucienne chuckled. "It's the least we can do for artists such as yourselves." She dabbed her lips. "We've invited you to discuss your new work that is about to be performed…"
Law arched an eyebrow.
Corbin straightened his back. "The Second Quadrant is ours, Monsieur Law. It's our duty to be aware of what's happening—especially when it concerns matters like what you are about to do to a Futura Life cargo ship."
"…"
"By all means, it is not our intention to interrupt your art, travelers. Granted, our House holds a certain sum of the corporation's shares… money, however, has never been our prime interest," Lucienne said calmly.
"What's more, this event could lead to unexpected results!" Corbin agreed, enthusiastic. "So that the work proceeds without a hitch, we have only one request."
Law put down the muffin. "Mm. Which is?"
Lucienne cleared her throat. "We would like one of our… members to assist you in your operation."
Law frowned. "Huh?"
As soon as she said this, two figures entered the hall, one tall and feminine, the other shorter and male.
"Please tell me they rehearsed that entrance," Jean commented.
"How long have they been waiting outside?" Amarel added.
Lacrosse studied the group for a few seconds, smiled, and waved. Opposite the elegant, sophisticated figure of his sister stood him in a simple light-blue polo. He was shorter, skinny, with no physical presence. His skin was smooth and fair—almost porcelain. His red hair was slightly long, down to mid-neck. His sky-blue eyes radiated curiosity and warmth. He looked like a boy—barely of age, if that.
Amarel returned the wave amiably. Law and Jean nodded as a greeting.
Corbin cleared his throat. "This is Lacrosse. We would like him to accompany you during the performance of your contract. Think of it as a form of guarantee. He won't hinder you in any way—on the contrary, he'll help. And he'll update us regularly on your progress."
Law snorted. "It's getting crowded."
"Come on, it can't be that bad," Amarel whispered, leaning toward him. "Contract politicy apply to them too. If something goes wrong, their reputation takes a hit. Even organizing something like this is a risk for them. Everyone knows an Unholy House like the Claws pulls this kind of thing. But a Holy House…? That's another story."
"I admit, I didn't expect it," Jean murmured.
"Obviously, there's a reward for you as well. One million pods each," Lucienne declared.
Jean's jaw dropped. "Guys, pinch me."
"Are we sure five stars is the maximum review? We may need more," Amarel asked Law.
Law scrutinized Lacrosse for a few seconds. He rose from the sofa, walked over to him, and scrutinized him again.
"Ever done anything like this?"
Lacrosse shrugged. "I… don't think so…"
Law folded his arms. "Huh. This'll be interesting."
--
The boy sat on his bed packing his suitcase. Clarisse walked in, trying to appear nonchalant but letting a slight heaviness slip into her step. She sat beside him.
"I saw you traveling with your mind again today. Tell me—did you remember anything new?" she asked.
Lacrosse shook his head. "The usual… I see a plain of grass, a sky full of stars, and a girl. I can't see her face, though. Sometimes other people appear… two boys, to be precise. But they're even blurrier."
"I see…" Clarisse nodded and stayed quiet for a few minutes, until Lacrosse finished packing. "What could have come over Mother to make a decision like this…"
Lacrosse shrugged. "Well, I'm not one of you, after all."
Clarisse shot him a withering look. He flinched. "I mean…"
She sighed. "It matters little."
Lacrosse smiled. "Thanks for being my sister."
With a melancholy air, Clarisse ran a hand through his hair.
--
The group, with the new recruit, was heading toward the city's shuttlebus station, not far from the Opulence Palace.
"What did they even tell him…?" Jean whispered, sneaking glances at Lacrosse, who followed just a bit behind the group.
"He's helping with a job, not going on a three-month vacation…" Amarel agreed.
The boy was hauling a huge suitcase, almost as big as he was.
Law shook his head and slowed his pace, drifting back toward Lacrosse. "Hey. Need a hand?"
Lacrosse smiled and shook his head. "No, no, thanks. It's just that at home they stuffed me with clothes."
Law raised his hands and moved ahead.
"Uh… rather… where can I put the suitcase? Do you have a ship?"
Jean stared at the group, exasperated.
Law rolled his eyes skyward. "Alright. Alright. It's about time anyway."
--
First Quadrant, Zephir, commercial districts.
The group walked through the city's crowded streets. Zephir's urban zone was one of the galaxy's main organs of commerce, suited to large and small enterprises alike. The skyscrapers were so tall they almost completely blocked the view of the sky, linked together by aerial bridges and transparent tunnels where shuttles traveled back and forth. Below, the pedestrian level was a web of markets, lights, holographic ads, and smoke.
On the faces of the buildings, holographic signs flashed in at least ten different languages, and every three seconds a voice offered a discount on a bone enhancement, a life policy, or a digestive booster.
One building projected the stock exchange, where minor companies gained and lost points.
"Where do they keep the ships here in 'epilepsy city'?" Law asked, irritated.
"The ship market's about a twenty-minute walk," Jean replied. "I often come here to run errands with Dad."
Slender T'Vaan in symbiotic suits wove through the crowd, along with burly men dressed in leather and silk, and bots with human faces offering tourist brochures for the Quadrant's main casinos.
"I've had a particular career, but I must say this is my first time working with a member of a Holy House," Amarel commented, walking beside Lacrosse, who was struggling with his suitcase. "Keep a tight hold on that," Law advised him.
Lacrosse gave an embarrassed chuckle.
"They told us about this First and Second Circle system…" Amarel went on. "Which are you in?"
"Uh… it's complicated…" Lacrosse mumbled. "But I'm almost always with my sister Clarisse, who's First. Opulence isn't the House's only palace; it's just the largest."
Amarel raised an eyebrow.
After about twenty minutes of walking, the group reached Sector Twenty-Two, a lower zone of the district, accessible only by descending a long, slanted escalator bathed in artificial orange light. When they reached the bottom, the air grew heavier, thick with the acrid smell of synthetic oil and overheated components.
The ship market was an open-air orbital lot—vast, irregular, built on a platform of concentric levels. At the center, a rusted control tower managed moorings and exit codes, surrounded by thousands of ships parked on magnetic bases or stacked on temporary supports like precious scrap. Some had their hatches open, showing luxurious interiors with leather seats and neural-impulse interfaces. Others were little more than flying carcasses, with scorched hulls, components replaced at random, and signage covered by emergency paint jobs. Between the iron corridors, hawkers displayed used thrusters, regenerated thermal shields, and memory banks from dismantled ships. Most sellers had no official licenses, and some did business directly on portable terminals while armed men or cargo automatons stood guard behind them.
Some sold virgin identification codes; others offered quick installation of counterfeit transponders; others promised "safe trips" along routes unauthorized by the government. An old welder shouted the price of a refurbished Monarch, guaranteeing "a week of uninterrupted travel without the tail falling off."
Among the ships roamed corporate inspectors—corrupt or tired—ready to turn a blind eye in exchange for a few easy pods or useful intel. A few Omnitech drones floated slowly over the lanes, automatically recording serials and thermal profiles, but no one seemed particularly worried.
At the end of one dock, you could glimpse smaller ships, heavily modified, often belonging to experienced traffickers: flexible shells, swappable panels, hidden compartments for illegal transport. A sign blinked: "If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it."
Lacrosse was hypnotized: for him, this was a wholly new world, so different from life at court.
"It'll be a useful journey for you," Lucienne had told him. "Because the world must be known in all its shades, to have a more complete mind."
"Oh! I need to write that down," Clarisse had then said, pulling out her tablet and typing in her notes app. Being the family's Poétesse meant that, too.
Jean began gesturing. "Alright, for a job like this we'll need several factors."
"A motor?" Law joked.
She shot him a glare. He raised his hands.
"Obviously, the ship needs to be fast. We'll have to be quick to avoid problems."
"Obviously," Amarel agreed.
"Then, we'll need durability. Chances are we'll take some glancing hits. A combat ship would be ideal. And finally… something to hide our position from radar could be useful. Ah! Right…"
She turned. "What… what's our budget?"
Amarel and his partner clicked their tongues and exchanged embarrassed looks. "…"
"Uh…"
"…Did they already wire us the payment for the stuff we left?" Law asked.
"Yes, I think so…" Amarel checked his balance on his BreedOfUnderworld.gala profile. "Ah, yes, it came in."
"Okay. Then our budget is about… almost two hundred and fifty thousand pods," Law calculated.
Jean shook her head, then approached one of the platforms. The vendor—a stocky reptilian—stepped forward and welcomed them before a fighter converted from agricultural transport. It looked like it had escaped a dogfight.
"This beauty did twenty-two continuous runs between Val-Shem and Boreas!" the vendor assured them, thumping the ship's flank with a wrench.
"Uh… is that… normal?" Lacrosse asked, dubious.
"No, no—that usually means we'd die before the job," Amarel replied.
"Is the reactor still working?" Jean asked diplomatically.
"If it doesn't, we'll fix it with a smile!" the vendor shot back.
"…Goodbye," Jean murmured, already moving away.
"Have a nice day…" Amarel whispered, following.
"See ya…" Law muttered behind them.
"So that's a no?" Lacrosse hurried to catch up.
The second attempt was an ultra-modern ship—fully chromed, with voice interfaces and customizable ambient lighting.
Lacrosse stared, starry-eyed. "It's gorgeous…"
Amarel looked up at the holographic sign: "Yours from 700,000 pods!"
Law and Jean spoke with the vendor for five minutes, trying to haggle.
"I can remove the plasma charger…" the vendor conceded. "That brings us down to… 685,000."
"Great. At least we'll die for sure," Law grumbled, walking off.
"Thank you for your time…" Jean said quietly, following him.
They were about to give up when a half-blind fellow led them to a cross between a transport ship and a very, very old bomber. Inside, the seats still had cross harnesses.
"What is this, from the War?" Amarel muttered.
"She's a beast, folks," the vendor rasped. "Old school. Solid. 400 kGMU."
"Well, maybe…" Jean conceded.
"It's not like we've done better so far," Law echoed.
Lacrosse approached the ship and ran his hand over an old side panel.
"???"—wood. It was wood.
"Have a good day, sir…" Lacrosse mumbled sadly, shuffling away.
They wandered aimlessly for another good forty minutes until they stumbled upon a medium-sized ship under a cover. In front of it lounged a very tall, very thin humanoid in a long oilskin coat, with a scraggly beard and two antennae on his forehead.
"Uh… excuse me…" Jean approached.
The man in the chair jolted upright. He mumbled something unintelligible, then began to syllabify: "Eh? Looking to buy something…?"
"Yes. You wouldn't happen to have a ship?" Law asked, dryly.
The vendor lazily turned back. "Mh… haven't put it on display in years," he muttered. "But it flies. More or less."
He stepped over and yanked off the half-torn tarp covering a piece halfway between a space hulk and a collectible relic. The paint (which should theoretically have been white) covered a surface full of bruises, dents, and patch jobs.
"Oh, heavens…" Amarel despaired.
"Okay, okay—wait a second," Jean stopped him after a second look. "This one's a combat ship. I mean… it was a combat ship."
"Yeah, I mean, back when I was bounty-hunting it did the trick," the man said.
Law stepped up to the gangway, which clanged down slowly with a metallic racket. He climbed aboard and peered into the cockpit.
"The plating's an alloy of azure steel and Nylamite…" the vendor continued. "There's autopilot, cannons, the artificial gravity works well enough… I named her the 'Fortwin.'"
On the main panel, a crude, flickering line of text blinked intermittently: "We're still here… don't ask how."
Law smirked in complicity.
Jean moved to the left engine and brushed a scorch mark on the metal. "It's a modified G-37, right?"
"You know engines?" the vendor asked, barely interested.
"I also recognized the smell of desperation," Jean replied.
The former bounty hunter smirked.
"Oh, and… does the ship have a cloaker?" the woman asked.
The vendor shrugged. "Should have one in storage. I can install it if you want."
Jean looked at the others, eyes shining.
Amarel gave the ship a long look, sat on a step, and sighed. "Alright, let's do it. The only way it's worse is if we die before takeoff."
Jean nodded. Law shrugged. Lacrosse raised a timid hand.
"But is there room for my suitcase…?"
Glossary
GMU: Galactic Mass Unit, the official unit for measuring mass. ≈ 1.1 kg./2.4 pounds