I walked through the hallowed grounds of the Academy, the golden armour heavy in a way that made my chest ache. It was not the physical weight of the metal—that was merely mana given form—but the crushing burden of the memories buried beneath it.
To my left, Elrend walked with the stiff, brittle cadence of a man marching to his own execution. He did not use his cane. His hand rested on the pommel of his rapier, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the crystalline trees rising ahead.
The Glass Gardens. Vaelos always did love things that were beautiful, fragile, and entirely under his control.
I could picture him already, likely perched on a railing or hovering just inches off the ground to compensate for his height. He would be smoking that ridiculous weirwood pipe of his. I smiled grimly behind my visor. Vaelos hated the taste of weirwood—it was bitter and clogged the throat—but he smoked it religiously. I believe he thought it made him look like a weary statesman rather than a twelve-year-old boy frozen in time.
'The Eternal Child,' the history books called him.
They didn't know the half of it. They didn't know the cost. I remembered the whispers from the Third Age, the secrets my mother—The Matron of Light—had let slip during the rare moments she wasn't playing the role of a Goddess. Vaelos wasn't just a prodigy; he was a project. A massive, desperate expenditure of Divine Influence.
The Gods, usually so busy bickering and stabbing each other in the back, had panicked. The darkness in the world—the agents of the Deep Void and the Dark Gods who sought to unmake reality—had been growing too bold. They needed a bastion. They needed a creature of absolute light to act as a lighthouse in the encroaching storm, a shield for humanity and the elder races.
So they built Vaelos. They poured oceans of power into a mortal vessel, forcing a White Core into a child before he had even learned to shave. They created the ultimate weapon of order, a being of limitless mana and telepathic omniscience.
And in doing so, they broke him. They locked him in a prepubescent cage, burdened with the thoughts of every living soul within a hundred miles, and expected him to be sane.
He was the loneliest creature in existence. That was why we were friends. Because when he looked at me—or rather, when he listened to me—he heard the only thing the world couldn't give him: Silence.
"He will look at me first," Elrend said, dragging me out of my reverie. His voice was low and tight. He didn't look at me; he stared straight ahead at the shimmering archway. "He has to. It is the only way this works."
I trusted Elrend to handle this. I trusted him to skirt the edges of the truth without glancing at the boy hiding in the shadows of my existence. He possessed a fortress of a mind, after all.
"I know," I replied, my voice deep and resonant within the helmet. "Keep the truth of your conviction firmly in your mind. Think of nothing else. The Emperor may be ancient, but his mind does not seem to age. A certain naivety has always remained, for some reason. That is our opening."
"I understand," Elrend said grimly. "I will project everything I have seen. The Soul Tapping in the courtyard. The way you moved during our spar. My absolute conviction that you are him. He will taste that belief, Ronan. He will see that I am not lying to him."
"And if he decides you are a co-conspirator?" I asked softly.
"Then I die," Elrend said simply. He smoothed the front of his faculty robes, regaining a shred of his old lieutenant's dignity. "But he will know it was real to me."
"There is one more thing," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper as the scent of weirwood smoke drifted toward us from the garden. "Once he accepts you... You must leave. Immediately."
Elrend nodded in understanding. We both knew the danger; the longer he stayed, the more likely the Emperor was to pull a thread that would unravel the truths I intended to withhold.
"And Elrend?" I added, placing a heavy gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "Cheer up. We are bringing him good news, after all. It isn't every day a brother returns from the dead."
I looked at the old elf. He was terrified, yet he was walking into the lion's den willingly, prepared to let a god-king ravage his mind just to buy me five minutes of credibility.
Elrend took a deep, shuddering breath, straightened his spine, and stepped through the archway into the kaleidoscope of glass and light.
I followed, the sound of my sabatons echoing against trees made of crystal, walking toward the brother I hadn't seen—and who hadn't aged a day—in a hundred years.
The air inside the Glass Gardens was thinner, sharper, carrying the acrid, heavy scent of burnt weirwood and ozone. It resembled a lightning storm frozen in glass rather than a garden.
Vaelos was waiting for us in the centre of the promenade, perched on the edge of a crystalline fountain that flowed with liquid mana.
He looked exactly as I remembered him. Small. Slight. A boy of twelve years with messy dark hair and robes that were three sizes too large, pooling around his bare feet like a puddle of white silk. He held the long-stemmed pipe loosely in one hand, the blue smoke curling around his fingers.
He didn't look at me.
His silver eyes—eyes that held no pupils, only a shifting, mercurial light—were locked onto Elrend.
The moment we stepped across the threshold, a crushing psychic gravity hit us. I felt a phantom headache spark behind my eyes, a dull throb that I knew, for a normal man, would be a screaming migraine.
Elrend stumbled. He caught himself, his boot scraping harshly against the glass floor, but he didn't look away. He forced his head up, locking eyes with the Emperor.
"My Lord," Elrend gasped, his voice strained as if a hand were crushing his throat.
Vaelos didn't speak. He simply looked.
I watched Elrend's jaw tighten. I knew what was happening, better than anyone alive. Over the years, amidst the drinking and the wars, I had pieced together the true mechanics of the 'All-Seeing Eye' that the rest of the world feared so dearly.
Most people thought he watched their memories like a play in a theatre. The reality was less visual. Vaelos heard the noise. He heard the intent, the screaming currents of emotion, and the jagged edges of spoken words before they were even voiced. He couldn't see pictures—he couldn't browse through a man's history like a picture book—but he claimed he could. It was a bluff that had kept the nobility terrified for a century.
But that didn't make him any less dangerous. I had seen him push that mental interference outward like a shockwave, instantly putting thousands of soldiers to sleep simply because their minds couldn't handle the pressure of his presence. He didn't read them when he did that—the feedback of a thousand dreaming minds would have shattered him—he just shut them off. Combined with the fact that he could fly and move faster than sound... he was a god in a child's skin.
Elrend was shaking now, a fine tremor running through his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was fighting to keep the image of me—the returned Patriarch, the King in Gold—at the forefront of his mind, building a wall of absolute belief to hide the complicated, dangerous truth of Murphy lurking in the cellar of his memories.
Vaelos took a slow drag from his pipe, his eyes never blinking. The silence stretched, agonizing and thick.
Then, the Emperor exhaled. A perfect ring of blue smoke drifted past Elrend's face.
"You believe it," Vaelos said softly. His voice was light, high-pitched, the voice of a choirboy. It chilled the blood. "You aren't lying to me, Elrend. You truly believe he is standing right there."
Vaelos tilted his head, listening to the echoes of Elrend's devotion.
"Fear," Vaelos murmured, parsing the emotions like a connoisseur tasting wine. "Loyalty. Awe. And... relief. You feel safe for the first time in a century."
Vaelos hopped down from the fountain, his bare feet making no sound on the glass. He walked up to Elrend, stopping inches from the elf's waist. He looked up, his silver eyes narrowing.
"If this is a trick," Vaelos whispered, "it is a masterpiece. Because you would die for this truth."
"I would," Elrend rasped, his voice wrecked. "He is returned, Sire. The Sunstrider lives."
Vaelos stared at him for a second longer, then smiled. It lacked kindness, looking more like the satisfaction of a man who had found a puzzle piece that finally fit.
"Elrend," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Vaelos froze. He didn't turn to face me yet. He just went still.
"Leave us," I commanded, stepping forward. The golden sabatons rang out, shattering the quiet. "I require absolute privacy with my brother."
Vaelos's shoulders dropped. He let out a long, weary sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
"Yes," Vaelos agreed, waving his hand dismissively at Elrend without looking away from the glass trees. "Go. Your thoughts are... loud. They clutter the air. I want quiet."
Elrend didn't hesitate. He bowed deeply—to Vaelos, then to me—and turned on his heel. He walked quickly, his steps echoing until they faded beyond the archway, leaving us alone in the glittering silence.
Vaelos waited until Elrend's presence had completely vanished from his mental radar.
Then, slowly, the Emperor turned to face me.
The mask of the bored god slipped. The silver eyes widened, shimmering with a moisture that defied his ancient, cynical soul. His lip trembled, just once—a tiny, human crack in the divine porcelain.
"Ronan?" he whispered.
The pipe slipped from Vaelos's fingers. It hit the glass floor with a sharp clack, spilling embers like dying stars.
For a second, the Emperor stood frozen, his small hands hovering in the air as if he had lost control of his own limbs. The mask of the bored, ancient god flickered, revealing a terrifying flash of the lonely boy beneath. But he stood his ground. He held back the sob.
He closed his eyes, took a sharp, shuddering breath, and forced his face back into a mask of porcelain calm.
"You took your time," Vaelos said, his voice trembling only slightly.
He walked toward me, his movements deliberate, fighting the urge to rush. He stopped a foot away, looking up at the golden faceplate.
"Before we begin," Vaelos said softly, his silver eyes locking onto the visor. "Elrend believes. But Elrend is mortal. His mind is soft clay; it can be moulded by hope. I am not so easily shaped."
He raised his right hand. The air around it began to warp, bending under the weight of a terrifying, blinding pressure. It was White Mana. Pure, distilled Authority.
"If you are an impostor," Vaelos whispered, his voice devoid of malice but heavy with warning, "if you are a construct, a homunculus, or a spy wearing my brother's face... this will unmake you. A White Core's resonance burns away anything that isn't... absolute."
He offered his glowing hand.
"Take my hand, Brother. Let me feel your light."
'Damn it,' I thought, panic flaring cold and sharp.
If I hesitated, I was dead. If I refused, I was dead. But if I took that hand? He would pour an ocean into a teacup. This Clone was a construct of Light Green mana. The White Mana would tear the lattice apart in a microsecond, revealing the hollow shell and the tether leading back to Murphy. It would kill the Clone and likely fry Murphy's brain along the link.
'Think. Think!'
I didn't hesitate. Hesitation was death.
I reached out, my golden gauntlet moving with the steady, confident weight of a King.
'The Inventory,' I realised.
It was a gamble. A suicide run. But it was the only card I had.
As my metal fingers closed around his small, pale hand, I triggered the Art. I opened a micro-portal on the surface of my palm, directly where our skin connected.
CONTACT.
Vaelos pushed.
A dam broke. A torrent of blinding, searing power rushed into the Clone.
The White Mana bypassed the Clone entirely, rushing straight into the infinite void of the Inventory.
The sensation was indescribable. It was like holding a lightning bolt and grounding it.
Inside the Inventory, something shifted. The void, usually silent and static, roared. The massive influx of high-density mana hit the boundaries of the extra-dimensional space. The Inventory expanded. The void seemed to swirl, turning a blinding, iridescent white as it gorged itself on the Emperor's power. It felt like the space itself was groaning, stretching, evolving under the pressure.
Vaelos frowned, pushing harder. He expected resistance, or for the "cup" to fill. Instead, he felt an infinite, bottomless depth.
For three seconds, I held the connection, the Inventory drinking the power of a god without spilling a drop.
Then, Vaelos gasped and snatched his hand back.
He stumbled, staring at his palm, then up at me. The glow faded, leaving only the scent of ozone and the terrifying realisation of what he had just felt.
"As expected," Vaelos whispered as he looked at me with a mixture of horror and awe. "You are powerful in your own right."
He reached out again, but this time, he didn't summon power. He gripped the cold metal of my breastplate.
He squeezed hard, an anchor check to ensure I was real.
"The noise," Vaelos whispered again, pressing his ear against the metal. "It never stops, Ronan. Even in here. It bleeds through the glass. I have missed you dearly, brother."
"I am here now," I said softly, standing like a statue so he could ground himself.
Vaelos leaned his forehead against the cold metal of my midsection. He stayed there for exactly three seconds—a calculated lapse in protocol—before he pushed himself away and smoothed his oversized robes. He snapped his fingers, and the fallen pipe's runes activated as it levitated back into his hand. He didn't look at it; he just held it like a sceptre of office.
"Walk with me," he commanded, turning his back to hide his face. "Before I forget myself."
We walked slowly through the crystalline trees. Vaelos kept his gaze on the horizon, his posture rigid.
"The Empire has changed," I said, breaking the silence. "Lastlight is a metropolis. The borders have pushed south."
"Expansion was necessary," Vaelos said, his voice regaining its courtly monotone. "The Iron-Blood Tribes defected. The Void-Beasts grew bold. I had to remind the world why the White King sits on the throne. I burned armies, Ronan. I wiped cities from the map to save the provinces."
He glanced at me, his silver eyes dull.
"And every time I did, I heard them die. I felt their fear. It accumulates. It builds pressure in the skull that no amount of meditation can clear."
"You need rest," I said. "You cannot hold the world up alone."
"I am not alone," Vaelos corrected, a strange, serene softness entering his voice. "Not anymore. I have found... counsel. Men of vision who understand that the old ways are failing."
I tensed slightly. "Counsel?"
"Pontiff Valentine," Vaelos said.
The name hit me like a physical blow, though I kept my body perfectly still.
"The Inquisitor?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
"He is more than that," Vaelos said, looking at a glass flower with a look of genuine fondness. "He is a visionary. The Court fears him, yes. They call him a fanatic. But they cannot see his heart as I can, Ronan. He cares deeply for the people, and he listens. He understands the burden I carry."
Vaelos turned to me, his expression earnest.
"He is the only one who offers me hope. He speaks of a way to heal the world's fracture so that the screaming might finally stop. The 'Great Embrace,' he calls it." Vaelos sighed, looking almost peaceful. "Without him, I think I might have shattered years ago. He keeps the walls standing."
'Fuck,' I thought, realising I sounded a lot like Murphy as a cold knot formed in my stomach.
I had hoped we could mobilise the Emperor against the Inquisition. I had hoped to reveal Valentine's possible connection to hunger. But Vaelos didn't just tolerate the Pontiff; he relied on him. Valentine wasn't just a political piece; he was the Emperor's therapist, his crutch, his dealer of hope.
Attacking Valentine meant attacking the Emperor's sanity. Vaelos would defend him with the full might of the White Core.
"I see," I said carefully. "I am glad you have someone to share the burden."
"And now I have you," Vaelos smiled, a fragile thing. "So, tell me. The messenger. The boy."
"Murphy," I supplied.
"He has a static mind. Like you. Is he... yours?"
"Adopted," I lied smoothly. "A street rat with potential. I found him in the gutter. I realised I had left my house without an heir last time, and I intend to fix that mistake as I rebuild."
"The Vaults are open to you, brother. Gold, artefacts, cores. Name it."
"No," I said firmly.
Vaelos rolled his eyes, the first truly youthful expression he'd shown. "Still proud. Still stubborn."
"Still a Sunstrider," I corrected. "I will not take handouts, Vaelos. If I rebuild my House, I do it with my own sweat. Otherwise, the nobility will see me as your pet."
I stopped walking and turned to face him.
"But I do have a proposal. A business arrangement."
Vaelos raised an eyebrow. "Business?"
"The Jagged Peaks," I said. "I have... reliable intelligence that there are gold veins in the riverbeds that the Guilds ignored. I plan to extract it. But I need the Imperial Charter to mine the land, and I need the Royal Seal to keep the local lords from asking questions."
"And in return?" Vaelos asked, amused.
"In return, the Crown gets forty percent of the gross yield," I said. "Directly to your personal treasury. Bypass the tax collectors."
Vaelos stared at me, then let out a short, sharp laugh.
"You return from the dead after a century," he shook his head, "and you try to bribe me with pocket change?"
"It is not a bribe," I said stiffly. "It is a partnership. I earn my keep."
"Fine," Vaelos waved his hand dismissively. "Send the coordinates. I'll have the bureaucrats draft the charter."
He didn't dismiss me immediately, though. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the fountain, patting the cold glass beside him. I sat. And for the next hour, the Emperor of the Sovereign Empire and a ghost in golden armour just… talked.
We spoke of the old days, ignoring the wars and the magical catastrophes in favor of the quiet, boring hours we stole from the court. We talked about the time we hid on the roof of the West Spire to avoid a delegation of long-winded trade ministers, passing a bottle of cheap wine back and forth while we tossed apple cores at the gargoyles. We talked about the time we spent an entire afternoon debating whether a cloud looked more like a wyvern or a duck.
"My legs didn't even reach the edge of the roof," Vaelos murmured, staring at the running mana in the fountain. "I had to scoot forward just to see over the stone."
"You were just a boy," I said softly. "You were growing."
"I stopped growing," he whispered, a flash of bitterness crossing his face as he looked at his small hands. "I am always a boy."
He looked up at the sky. The light was changing, the glass garden refracting the afternoon sun into harsh, amber angles. The moment of peace was ending.
"You should go," Vaelos said, standing up abruptly, his mood shifting like the wind. "The Court is waking up. The noise... it's getting louder again. Valentine is coming for an audience later. He helps quiet the hum."
He looked at me, and for a second, the ancient, terrifying weight of the White Core vanished, leaving only a friend who didn't want to be alone.
"Do not vanish again, Ronan. With you and the Pontiff... I think we can finally fix this world."
The way he paired my name with the Inquisitor's made my skin crawl, but I nodded.
"I will be in touch," I promised.
"In touch?" Vaelos smirked, a spark of his old mischief returning. "No. You will come to the Capital. To the Palace."
He tapped the spot on the bench where we had sealed our verbal contract.
"The Mining Charter," he said lightly. "I'm not sending a courier with a document that valuable. If you want your gold mine, Sunstrider, you will have to come and fetch the paperwork yourself. Consider it... incentive to visit."
It was a trap wrapped in a favour. He was ensuring I couldn't disappear into the shadows again.
"I will be there," I said. "To collect my due."
I bowed, turned, and walked away. I forced myself to maintain the measured, regal stride of a High Lord until the Glass Gardens were far behind me.
'He is compromised,' I realized, the truth settling heavy in my mind as I reached the safety of the woods. I found a secluded grove and closed my eyes.
'Dissolve.'
The golden armour turned to mist. The body collapsed into light. My consciousness snapped back across the miles, carrying the terrifying realisation back to Murphy: The Emperor was no saviour; he was the enemy's most protected asset.