Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Fourth Quadrant, Calixis
"So…" Law cleared his throat. "…where to start…" He scratched his chin while pacing in circles. He was pretty out of his depth.
Lacrosse stood in front of him, waiting. Veynar rocked in a chair, sipping tea, amused. They'd made a bet: Law had to explain it without using his master's exact lessons.
"…do you like swords?" Law asked, hopeful.
"Not really."
"Shit. Alright, I give up." Law threw up his hands.
"Come on, don't be a dick," Veynar scolded him.
"Then you explain it—you're literally right here!" he complained.
"Oh, not so cocky now, huh? Weren't you the prodigy born once a century? Can't even explain to the boy how to switch on?"
A day had passed, so they'd all changed clothes. Law was in a tank top, and Lacrosse could finally see how many scars his body really had: countless.
Law grunted. "Fine, fine." He turned back to Lacrosse. "Alright. Uh… imagine you're a bot."
"Oh, wow," the old man needled.
"Shut up! I said, imagine you're a bot. Bots have code, right? Code that performs precise functions."
Lacrosse nodded, trying to follow.
"Well, all living beings are similar. They've got a code, which in this case is the Aegbara."
"So… everyone can use it?" the boy asked.
Law shrugged. "Potentially, yeah. It's a common feature in every body, like, I dunno, the brain. The only problem is that in the vast, vast majority of cases this code is off. Deactivated," he explained, gesturing. "The only way the code turns on is with a power supply. A charge."
"So…"
Law showed him his hand, and those silver-bluish veins lit up, becoming visible again. "The charge in question is Astral Energy. Only with that can you activate the code. Then the code's functions—what it lets you do—vary from person to person."
Lacrosse looked at his palm. "And how do I… get this charge?"
"Well, some are born with it right away. Mainly First Circle members of the Houses. Normal people, in very rare cases," Law replied. "Whoever's born without it can absorb a portion after being exposed long enough. From there the body 'records' it and starts storing and cultivating it on its own. But…"
"But?"
"…but you should already have it. I mean, I've seen it in you."
"And a nice big one," Veynar added from the chair.
"And a nice big one," Law confirmed.
Lacrosse lifted his shoulders innocently, like, "I don't know what to tell you, guys."
"Mmh…" The silver-haired man rubbed his chin. "Maybe it's in a dormant state or something. You really can't feel anything at all?"
"What am I supposed to feel, exactly?"
"Well, in theory it varies from person to person," Law said. "Me, for example—I've always felt it like here—" he gestured with his hand, indicating the area around his eyes. "The 'reservoir,' at least. Where it starts from. Then, when I activate the Aegbara, it's like the blood becomes tactile."
"What the fuck does that even mean?!" Veynar snapped at him.
"Oh come on, it's true! It's like you can feel the blood running through your veins."
Lacrosse nodded, not very convinced. "Well, no, I've never felt anything like that."
"Got it. Maybe you need a stimulus." Law stepped up to the boy and set a hand on his shoulder. It began to glow with the color of his aura. The halo took a direction, entering Lacrosse's body. Law was injecting him with energy.
"What's supposed to happen?" Lacrosse asked.
"Well, a reaction of some kind," Law said. "Shouldn't take long, since—OH SHIT!"
"AH!"
It happened immediately.
A jolt. No—different.
Lacrosse felt a vicious stab at the nape, as if something were expanding. He screamed. He had never felt such pain. It was like someone was stabbing the back of his head with a taser.
Flashes in lightning—fast sequence. The field, the three boys, the usual. No, something was different: it was clearer. Sharper. Whoever had been editing his memories had finally bothered to bump the quality settings. For a few thousandths of a second, Lacrosse saw them.
A young girl. Beautiful. She looked like a goddess. Dark hair badly gathered into a high tail, strands escaping to the wind. Light eyes, a cool honey. A tiny mole at the left corner of her mouth; a slightly chipped tooth that made her smile more real. She ran barefoot through aqua-green grass; at her wrist a frayed mauve ribbon she tied and retied. She smelled of resin and rain on stones.
A boy, older, broad-shouldered, short neck, straight black hair down to his shoulders; a dark crescent birthmark on his forehead. A chain of metal dice at his neck.
Another, tall and lean. Fair skin, clean features. Light hair braided into a thin plait behind the left ear.
For an instant—one brief instant—he swore he could breathe. He always did it by habit, because others did. But this time, something that never happened, happened. Air went in.
An explosion. Or rather, a shockwave. A violet pulse blasted out of the boy's body and hurled Law a dozen lumes away, knocking him to the ground and sending him rolling another good dozen. Veynar reflexively raised his cup to keep it from spilling.
Lacrosse came to. He shook his head and saw Law on the floor. "Oh heavens! I'm sorry! What happened?!"
Law got up, coughing.
"That is definitely a reaction," Veynar remarked.
The gray-haired man squinted at Lacrosse. "You're seeing it too?"
The old man nodded.
"Eh? Seeing what?" Lacrosse asked, confused. His nape was still buzzing.
"When Aegbara activates, like I told you, Astral Energy runs along its channels…" Law said. "But you don't have channels. I've never seen anything like it. It's… a single point."
"At the nape," the boy said.
Law nodded. "None of this training will be standard."
--
Second Quadrant, Crestoria (Seat-Planet of House Rouge – Opulence Palace, Hall of Glasses)
The hall was already cold when Mareque stepped in. The glass walls returned a polite blue to the city; inside, no superfluous reflections. A single panel lit, low, almost at wrist height.
"Civic channels, public-technical level. Woimar."
A bare line opened: confirmed energy anomaly; private perimeter; emergency medical lockdown; access denied. No names, no emblems.
Mareque stayed silent for a time as long as a sip he didn't drink. Then he brushed a second icon: the small scar he had seeded—stretta verde—was echoing back from at least three non-civilian nodes. The word that wasn't supposed to mean anything was speaking on its own.
"It works," he murmured, without satisfaction. "Oh?"
The glass seemed to change temperature before the panel even lit. No antechamber seal, no domestic staff: the Cross's line opened like a vertical slit, and in the slit appeared only a shadow, a profile. Orsana Rouge never showed herself whole.
"Mareque."
"Mother."
"You moved the civic channels."
"Oui. Noise sufficient to say 'something.' Nothing that says 'who.'"
A pause that wasn't hesitation; it was meter.
"Don't chase names. Chase rhythms."
"Already done. The East raised priority. The Claw dropped the curtain. Futura Life is closing while running. It's a dance without music."
"You'll hear the music at the hotel."
The way she pronounced that name wasn't a green light; it was a decree of necessity.
"I'm preparing," Mareque said.
"No frames that show. No words that weigh like accusations. The Hikari are not to be provoked. If they arrive, listen."
"Compris."
Another pause. Then, softer:
"The boy?"
Mareque looked at the city without seeing it. "I have no proof, I have rhythm. He isn't still."
"Bien. You walk too. If he falls, you'll know by the weight. If he calls, I will know before you."
"The ideal sequence." He let a smile slip that the shadow didn't catch.
"Mareque."
"Yes."
"This time don't bring only silk. Bring pins as well."
The slit closed. The hall kept its blue.
Mareque inhaled like a man putting on a heavy garment again. "Pins," he repeated softly, more to himself than to the room. His fingers vibrated imperceptibly, and red veins glimmered for a few instants.
Another channel lit, slanted. Kaellen Lysander appeared at half height, argent face in backlight, Theryon a step behind, amber irises like damped embers.
"Mareque."
"Custodians."
"Short news," Kaellen said. "Futura Life shut down everything. Yet the trail of internal audits is sprinting. They're nervous."
"Happens when a 'private' gets noisy," Mareque replied. "Woimar dropped the curtain on a peripheral property. No bulletin in the clear, but enough movement to make noise under tables."
Theryon snorted. "Claws?"
"Claws… and a third party that woke up at the right time," he stayed deliberately vague. "Old stories starting to walk again."
A metal silence, then Kaellen spoke: "Proof?"
"You'll have it at the Schwarzhaus," Mareque replied. "Neutral ground. There even pride breathes quietly. I'll speak to who I must; you will listen from behind the glass."
Theryon showed a thin smile. "And if the glass cracks?"
"Eh bien, then everyone will pretend it's rime, and we'll move on," Mareque concluded. "I'll send you standard passes. Please: leave the hammers at home."
The link dissolved.
On Orenor, the holo light went out and the air returned to metal and shop smoke. The walls of the Custodians' Hall were clad in black slabs, crossed by golden veins pulsing at intervals. The Forges' domes simmered at low frequency, as if the planet were inhaling. Kaellen stood still a moment, slender fingers interlaced over the catwalk rail; Theryon was already pacing, back and forth, hard steps that made the metal hum.
"I don't like it," he said.
"No one likes being watched while bleeding," Kaellen replied. "But the Von Edryck have soft carpets and even softer ears. You hear better where everyone pretends not to."
A technician set three glass plates on a tray. On them, bare graphs: spikes and dips.
"Custodians, the term 'stretta verde' reappeared on three non-civilian boards. Different tones, same scar. And these are Futura's logistics spikes: parallel audits, two cover requests toward external partners, one inventory shift that shouldn't be there."
Theryon traced a curve with his fingertip. "They're covering a loss with another loss."
"Or with a different story," Kaellen murmured. "The catalyst doesn't exist until we see it. Yet I feel the void the way you feel a room when a chair's missing."
"There's more," the tech said, bringing a floating panel closer. "Press update: Hypernexa confirms opening of the technical depot on Gaia Prime. Logistics under 'inter-quadrant' regime." He scrolled two lines. "Frames: Elyrion, white hall, handshake. 'Operational partnerships.' No details."
Theryon growled low. "Technical depot. Mmh. Means 'we'll put things where you don't want to look.'"
Kaellen didn't move a facial muscle. "Or it means 'we're paying security for a warehouse that will lull audits to sleep.' Elyrion's there for that: to watch perimeter, not thesis."
The tech waited half a beat. "Forward the brief to Elyrion?"
"Forward," Kaellen said. "Cover note: 'verify that technical depot truly means controlled inertia and not something else.' No tone. Elyrion understands on his own."
"Yes, Custodian."
The panel slid away. From the lower level, a plasma column changed timbre; a mute signal, more felt than heard.
Theryon planted his fists on the console's edge. "If someone really 'moved' the catalyst along our route, the Schwarzhaus is a bog where footprints stick. Mareque or no Mareque."
"Footprints stick when someone sets a foot down," Kaellen answered. "We go in soft-soled. Remember, no hammers."
"Tsk." Theryon straightened with effort, as if the word scraped his tongue. "And if the glass cracks?"
"If the glass cracks, they'll call it rime, Mareque's right. And we'll breathe softly, as advised."
A maintenance drone skimmed over their heads with a thin whistle. Kaellen followed the geometry of its path for a moment, then turned to his brother.
"Prep the delegation to Vossheim: three techs who look like bureaucrats, a jurist who looks tired, and you in a dark suit who looks patient. I'll handle the rest."
"I can't look patient even in a sarcophagus," Theryon protested.
"Exactly; it'll be educational."
--
The servant raised the light a notch. Clarisse wasn't in the room; good. She'd asked for dedicated channels, and she had them. But there was another thread to pull.
Mareque opened a third panel: a discreet oval, no headers. An anonymous face, bisected by backlight.
"Informal listening circuit. Search 'Woimar + medical + silence.'"
"Crossing traffic: encrypted uptick on Claw side, internal Futura Life logistics spike, and…" the voice hesitated. "…red activity from the Hikari Quadrant. No content; just rhythm and priority. Something touched them."
"Rhythm and priority are sufficient," Mareque cut short. "If they book toward Vossheim, I want to know last— but not too last."
"Received."
He turned it off. He was left with the city's blue on his fingers.
The servant, a step and a half away, spoke only when he saw his shoulder dip by a millimeter—unspoken leave: "Shall I alert the Cross?"
"No. Not yet. Instead prepare a secondary suite at the Schwarzhaus. View over the inner garden, not the stairs. And three passes: two nominal, one shadow."
"Names?"
"None that sound Rouge," he said. "The third gets in if he can pronounce Green Squeeze without smiling."
"Oui." The servant bowed slightly. "And mademoiselle Clarisse?"
Mareque turned toward the glass. The city reflected a drone passing high, a pin of light like a nail.
"I'll send Clarisse silence as long as I can. Then truth. In that sequence."
He was alone again. He stepped up to the window until his forehead touched the crystal's chill. The night of Crestoria smelled of synthetic perfumes and unwritten pacts. His thought went where it shouldn't: to a red-haired boy who wasn't blood and yet was under his name.
"Don't you die now," he told the city, as if it were a conduit.
Behind him, the minor panel pulsed softly: a transponder whisper noted that a flagless shuttle had left Alay's Quadrant "under non-hostile conditions." Mareque didn't open it. He just set his palm on the pane, as if sealing a pact with himself.
Then he straightened. "Frames, yes. But this time nails as well."
He raised two fingers. The servant reappeared, quick.
"Let an innocuous rumor circulate on the lower floor: the Von Edryck are renewing the guest list; priority to those who bring fresh frontier stories."
A thin smile.
"And put in my suitcase the shirt that doesn't stand out."
"Oui."
When the door shut, the panel repeated Woimar's line in small: sealed memories unlocked on contact. Mareque looked at it one last time. Then he turned everything off. Only glass, only city.