Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Third Quadrant, Orenor (Seat-Planet of House Lysander)
Mareque let himself sink onto the sofa in the suspended lounge like an actor at the end of an act. The multicolored smoke from his inhaler unraveled in slow spirals, mirrored by the panes that looked out over the Forge's abyss. Below them, gantries and cranes swayed, and columns of plasma bent like organ pipes in a cathedral of fire.
"Such architectural wonder…" he whispered.
The Forge rose at the center of Orenor's industrial district like a colossal cylindrical monolith, tens of thousands of lumens across. Not a mere factory: a living architectural organism, divided into concentric levels that climbed toward the sky. Each level marked a stage of processing, research, sublimation. Its outer skin—dark metal and composite alloys—was ribbed with cooling channels, pipes, smoking conduits, errant neon, and filigrees of tempered glass that revealed a labyrinth within. Where the metal had oxidized, gold inlays bearing the Lysander crest had been applied.
If you turned your gaze downward, inside was vertigo: tools hung in midair, magnetic cranes, circular catwalks, corridors knotting into each other. You heard the reverberation of pneumatic hammers, the hiss of extruders, the rumble of reactors, and the constant churn of turbines forcing air and plasma under pressure. Every metal wall sweated heat; side conduits vomited steam that climbed toward smoked-glass domes where electric flashes raced along the infrastructure rails. The levels plunged below the surface as well. How far was anyone's guess.
Kaellen and Theryon exchanged a glance. For the two Custodians it wasn't wonder, it was daily work. And yet the pride was there: Orenor lived, and the Forge was its heart.
"The Forge extends all the way to the planet's core," Kaellen declared, calm, almost ceremonial.
"And from there you drink energy," Mareque observed, sipping his astonishment.
"We don't "drink" it. We reintegrate it," Theryon corrected, blunt. "You can't hollow out the world's heart and expect it to hold. It's a symbiotic link."
Kaellen laced long, thin, metal-veined fingers. "He and I built resonance chambers that collect pressure and magnetism and convert them into controlled plasma. We re-inject part of it as calibrated impulses. We keep the planet's rhythm."
"Mon Dieu," Mareque clapped slowly, his scarlet mantle rustling with the gesture. "You sculpted an organ into Orenor's heart and tuned it to a cosmic symphony. The highest art is giving shape to the invisible."
Theryon laughed, shaking hair the color of gold, singed dark at the tips. "I wouldn't call it art. It's blood, sweat, and burns."
"And that is precisely what makes it art," Mareque replied, narrowing his crimson eyes. His Author's Signature, a copper arabesque along his cheekbone, caught the braziers' light.
"Every great work is born of sacrifice."
Silence stretched a beat, broken only by the distant roar of a pouring crucible. Then Kaellen cleared his throat and returned to the point.
"Art or not, our next step requires a material we don't have."
Mareque leaned forward, nails lacquered like capital volutes ticking on the metal table. "Ah. The true heart of your symphony."
Theryon didn't circle. "Krava milk."
Mareque's lids lowered, pleased. "A rare substance indeed, jealously guarded by Futura Life."
"Not only rare," added Kaellen. "Monopolized. Krava herds can't be replicated outside their Quadrant, and anyone who tries an alternative gets crushed by the corporation. No one even knows where those farms are, to begin with."
"We need controlled amounts, not whole units," Theryon specified. "We can advance new iterations of Endalo, but we lack a catalyst to stabilize them. Krava milk can provide a wide enough resonance."
Mareque chuckled, a mellifluous sound. "So the engineer-priests of House Lysander are seeking a forbidden sip. I'm not surprised: even the finest blade needs a special water to be tempered."
"And you could procure that water," Kaellen said, evenly. It wasn't a question.
The Master of Sculpture reclined, the inhaler's smoke haloing his face in iridescence. "I could, indeed. Us Rouges are artists and merchants. We speak the language of corporations as a painter knows the shades of red. If Futura Life loves anything more than its secrets, it's profit. The trick is to show the right reflection. In their eyes, you are not power-hungry warriors but reliable partners, forward-looking shareholders. Custodians of stability, not of conflict. It's an image Futura Life adores.
Kaellen, all argent calm, studied the words as if they were a technical drawing. "And in return?"
Mareque raised a finger. "In return, your art meets mine. You forge your boundary-breaking Endalo; I weave the arrangement that brings you what you need. Two hands on the same chisel. Well—and twenty percent commission."
Theryon let a half-smile slip, but Kaellen didn't blink. "What we need is a substance everyone covets. Don't think a name and a smile will suffice."
"Don't underestimate me, my lords," Mareque inclined his head. "I've opened doors tighter than Futura Life's. For them, everything has a price. You just have to guess the currency."
Theryon thumped the table, making the metal goblets sing. "Then do it. Bring us Krava milk. Bring it here, to Orenor, and prove your words aren't just paint."
Mareque didn't let Theryon's bluntness rattle him. He inhaled, then exhaled a slow crimson cloud. "It will be brought. You'll have what you need to temper past the limit."
Kaellen, however, remained cautious. "We aren't naïve. A cargo like that crossing Quadrants draws eyes. It always does."
"You underestimate Futura's secrecy," Mareque smiled, as if that were precisely what he'd hoped to hear. "But if such a malheur were to occur, don't fret. House Rouge already walks at your side. Should anyone… make the poor choice to lay hands on a shipment bound for you, they'll find us there to correct the error."
Theryon's amber eyes lit like hot blades. "As it should be. If they touch us, they bleed."
Kaellen nodded slowly, his argent implant, like a masque on the eyes, rendering his face half-translucent. "Good. Then the deal is struck. Price of the cargo, and twenty percent for you."
Mareque spread his arms like an actor taking the final bow. "Your hammers will strike new metal, and I will have had the pleasure of sculpting the frame."
A crucible roared from the Forge's depths like distant applause. The walls trembled, the lights jolted, and for a moment it felt as though the planet itself had listened.
Kaellen set his hand upon the table. "Metal endures only if tempered."
Theryon followed, fist closed. "And plasma keeps the rhythm."
Mareque lifted his inhaler like a chalice. "And art… gives the world its frame."
The toast was only smoke and air, yet it sealed the pact better than a hundred parchments.
—
Second Quadrant, Stella Nova Station
Present
The table was crowded with steaming trays. Amarel had ordered as if to feed a platoon, and was already moving between bowls and dishes with a raider's speed. Honestly—so skinny, how did he do it?
Jean ate slowly, almost timidly.
Lacrosse sat wedged between the two of them, fork in hand, his gaze bouncing from face to face.
Across from them, Law tasted his plate in quiet. For the first time in days, the tension in his body seemed to have loosened.
"It's strange," Lacrosse said, breaking the silence. "I never thought I'd end up having dinner with you guys."
Amarel swallowed and laughed. "Hey, neither did we. Usually the tables break before we manage to sit."
Jean shot a quick laugh.
Amarel smiled and pointed at Law with his spoon. "Wow, even he cracked a joke today, before sitting down. Rare indeed.
Law frowned. "Come on, you make me sound like a cop. You're misrepresenting me."
"Oh, wow. Where'd you learn that word?" Amarel needled.
"…Okay, first of all, fuck you. Second, it's not that fancy."
Lacrosse laughed outright. "But you… how did you start? Not eating, I mean. Doing what you do."
Amarel threw his arms wide. "Oh, finally someone asking the right questions! Do you know how many times I've tried to get Mr. Freelance here to tell me his origin story?" He pointed at Law. "Zero replies. Mistery Man."
"Oh—! It's not that I want to pry, obviously," Lacrosse added. "It's just… it seems impossible to wake up one day and decide: 'I'll be a smuggler.'"
Law studied him. Then he set the fork down and folded his arms on the table. "It's not a decision. It was necessity. One of the paths I could take at a precise moment, stacking over another path, and another.
Amarel smirked. "Also known as 'a decision.'"
Jean furrowed her brow. "Tavern philosophy."
Law shook his head. "It's the truth. You start with any job—one you don't want or that isn't enough. Then someone offers you something dirtier, and you take it. And once you take it once, the others come by themselves. You wake up and you're no longer 'someone who accepted a dirty job.' You've become the job."
"Tavern philosophy indeed."
"What does 'becoming the job' even mean?"
"You're not tough, man"
"Fuck you."
For a moment, no one spoke. The dining hall buzzed with voices, plates, laughter, but a pocket of quiet had settled over their table.
Amarel filled it, chuckling low. "Don't be fooled, it sounds dark but it's really an invitation. It's his way of saying: 'Welcome to the club, kid.'"
Law glanced at him, half a smile that vanished at once. "I don't invite anyone. She invited herself. He got foisted on us. No offense."
Lacrosse laughed. "Ha! Ha! No, that's fair. And you, Amarel?"
"Me?" Amarel thumped his chest. "I was born in it. Not the glory—in the holds. My father trafficked in faulty components, my mother in excuses to justify him. I leveled up. Now at least the parts I move actually work."
Jean shook her head, biting off a piece of bread. "Not sure I'd call that 'leveling up.'"
"Oh, admit it," Amarel shot back. "Better living with a gun in hand than with empty hands. And I even fund my e-books."
At Jean's puzzled look, Law snorted. "I know, I tell him too. He flat-out refuses to pirate them."
"Well said!" Amarel declared proudly.
Law looked at Lacrosse. "Anyway, it's a bloody job. More often than you'd think."
Lacrosse nodded softly. "I know. I've seen it."
Jean weighed that, as if testing the truth of it, then went back to her plate.
Meanwhile Amarel was already on his third serving. "So where are you really from?" he asked Lacrosse.
"Well, Crestoria."
"You look like someone who's never done a day of hard work and also like someone who missed everything."
Lacrosse smiled, uncertain. "I- I don't know. I don't… have much to tell."
Law watched him, but didn't press. "Sometimes that's better."
"What profound conversations!" Amarel burst out. "I just wanted to know if you can at least cook."
Jean scolded him with a stare. "Come on, the poor kid's serious."
"Anyway, yeah, I can cook. My sisters taught me…" Lacrosse mumbled, shy. "Speaking of which, I should call her."
Jean's eyes went wide. "That lunatic? Again?"
Amarel rolled his eyes. "You're just embarrassed because the reptilian here threw a canister at her brother's head," he said, elbowing Law.
"It was an accident…" Law muttered.
By then Lacrosse had already grabbed the tablet and started the call. Clarisse's voice burst from the mic: "Mon coeur! Are you all right?" quick, high, a barrage of questions. Lacrosse lowered his head, trying to laugh and answer fast over the din.
The dining hall's buzz was steady, but at some point Law stopped tasting the food. There was another rhythm under it. Something off.
He set the glass down. "Lacrosse, hang up."
"Huh?"
"Hang up. Don't turn around. We're being watched."
Jean didn't twitch, but her fingers tightened on the fork. Amarel kept eating with exaggerated calm.
Lacrosse stiffened and ended the call. "Uh… who?"
"Couple at the counter," Law lowered his voice. "Haven't touched food. Haven't spoken to each other. They're turned toward us."
Jean dipped her gaze to her plate, but nodded once. "And they're not alone. There's a drone that's looped this hall three times and filmed nothing but us."
Amarel sighed. "Raven."
The name hung over the table like a blade.
"Well, at least we-"
The first hit landed a heartbeat later. A dry blast on the dining room's right flank, a white flash that hurled tables and patrons against the wall. Screams, shattered crockery, lights stuttering.
"Down!" Law barked, flipping the table for cover.
Raven's mercenaries poured in from the side corridors, weapons up. Black uniforms, mirrored visors, coordinated movement. Some civilians were trampled in the stampede, others flattened to the floor.
Amarel leveled his blaster before the smoke even thinned. Three shots, three mercs down. "Welcome to the gala dinner!" he yelled, laughing.
Jean slid behind the counter, grabbed a bottle, and hurled it into one of the lights, blacking out half the sector. "Cover!"
Law was already up, moving between tables as if they were squares on a chessboard. Short bursts, precise—every round a deliberate step. His face was a mask of focus, no hesitation.
Lacrosse didn't fire. He moved with them, quick, attentive, eyes wide, taking everything in.
"This way!" Jean pointed to a service exit at the far end.
Amarel fired on the run, dumping the mag with too much swagger. Law covered him, cutting down two mercs who tried to fold around them.
A bullet kissed Jean's cheek, opening a fine cut. She didn't stop: shoved Lacrosse ahead and sprinted after him.
The service corridor was narrow and grimy, a harsh contrast to the elegant dining room. Exposed piping, stuttering lights, the stink of oil and sweat. Their footfalls boomed, chased by the echo of weapons behind.
"They're locking the main routes!" Jean shouted, skimming an emergency panel.
"We've got the maintenance ducts left!"
Amarel grimaced. "Always the ducts. Always the fun part."
A bulkhead slammed shut in front of them.
"We still have EMPs?" Law asked.
Amarel smirked and tossed one at the lock. The blast blew the circuits, lifting the door just enough for them to squeeze through.
One by one they slid in, skimming along the tight structure. Lacrosse went last, shoving hard so he wouldn't lag. Behind them, the mercs were already forcing the hatch.
They spilled into a cargo bay stacked with crates and mag-containers. Lights were low; the hum of lift engines drowned their ragged breathing.
"Here!" Law pointed up a side ladder. "We need height. Get over them."
They climbed fast, the metal thrumming underfoot. From above, Law saw the guild pour into the bay, moving like a disciplined pack.
"They'll hunt us anywhere," Jean muttered, jaw tight.
Amarel, leaning on the railing, wiped sweat from his brow. "Well, at least we are memorable."
"We're irresistible," Law confirmed.
They found a service elevator, cables trembling under strain. Jean punched a bypass, and the doors sighed open.
They piled in, one after another. The car dropped with a long, metallic screech. The guild's noise faded, distant, but none of the four truly relaxed.
Lacrosse looked at the others, Krava milk canister in hand. "We're alive."
"For now," Law said, dry. Then he gave him the faintest nod, almost encouraging. "Good work."
Lacrosse smiled shyly and lowered his eyes.
Jean touched the cut on her cheek without comment. Amarel snickered. "So, next stop? Definitely not the Fortwin."
Law sighed, staring at the closed doors. "I'm not paying the ship's docking fee anyway."