“Little is known regarding the origins of the event we now call ‘Aetherfall,’ but our understanding of both old world history and science is extensive. Through it, we can definitively confirm one thing: Aether should NOT exist.”
—Hadrian al’Marian, 3rd High Lord of the Bastion
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Year 203 of Lucius al’Marian’s reign, 4th High Lord of the Bastion
1,041 years post-Aetherfall…
The light overhead was as relentless as ever—bright, sterile, and utterly artificial. It streamed down from the arched ceiling of my father’s office with unwavering intensity, a product of long-lost technologies from an age that was nothing more than memory, maintained only in ancient texts. Unlike the warm, golden sunlight that once bathed the surface of Aridia, this light felt cold—harsh—casting sharp shadows that seemed to magnify the pressure that throbbed behind my eyes.
I winced. The pounding in my skull was the result of last night’s misadventures, and it refused to be ignored. Too much ale, too little sense. Every pulse of pain felt like a hammer driving nails through my temples. Last night had been a blur of laughter, loud music, and clinking mugs. But the consequences? All too real.
The room around me was a testament to the austere principles of the al’Marian line. Worn stone floors stretched beneath my boots, the walls adorned with faded banners bearing our family’s sigil—a serpent coiled around a sword. Shelves lined with musty books and ancient maps of long-forgotten lands dotted the office, none of which I could focus on through the haze of my hangover. The cold, spartan room was devoid of any personal comforts, a reflection of the man who commanded it.
I stood stiffly, trying not to sway as my father, High Lord Lucius al’Marian, strode into the room with his usual military precision. His boots struck the stone floor with a rhythm that might have been mistaken for the beat of a war drum. His very presence seemed to make the air grow heavier, the room smaller.
“Long night?” His voice, low and cutting, severed the silence like a blade through flesh. There was no humor in it. There never was.
I snapped to attention, instinctively straightening my spine despite the weight of exhaustion pulling at my limbs. “No, my Lord,” I lied smoothly. My voice came out steady enough, though it took effort to keep it from shaking.
His gray eyes narrowed, scanning me with the same intensity he reserved for the most trivial of military reports. Every muscle in my body tightened under his scrutiny, a familiar sensation, like being appraised for cracks in the foundation. The way he studied me made me feel transparent, as though he could see right through me into my failures and flaws.
Lucius al’Marian was not a man to tolerate weakness.
He crossed the room, each step measured, until he settled behind the massive oak desk that dwarfed everything else in the room. His chair creaked slightly as he sat, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The walls seemed to close in around me, the suffocating tension gnawing at my nerves.
“At ease.”
The words released a fraction of the tension in my shoulders, though not much. I shifted into a more relaxed stance, but the pressure remained. It always did around him. His gaze, sharp as a hawk’s, followed me.
He tugged absently at his beard, the dark strands now streaked with silver. Age had done little to soften his imposing figure. If anything, the long years had only added more weight to the authority he carried. I often wondered if time would always affect him differently than it did others—whether he was truly flesh and blood or simply another facet of the Bastion itself. Immutable. Unyielding.
“Your mother tells me you wish to join the Seekers.” His tone was clipped, the disinterest in his words obvious. He already knew the answer. The conversation was merely a formality, like most of our exchanges.
“Yes, my Lord.” I kept my reply curt, respectful. “I’ve spoken with Uncle…uh, Lord Marian, and he’s promised me a chance to prove myself.”
That earned a flicker of something in his eyes, though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “And what does your brother say?”
Ah, there it was. The real crux of the matter. I fought the irritation that threatened to bubble up at the mention of Sedrik, my elder brother and the paragon of everything I was expected to be. In our family, the eldest son was the one groomed for leadership, while the rest of us were expected to find our own place. And yet, Sedrik’s shadow loomed over me, his voice always echoing in Father’s decisions.
“He supports me,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “but he believes another term with the Guard would benefit me before joining the Seekers.”
Father’s frown deepened. The disappointment in his gaze was almost palpable. “Your brother’s counsel is wise. And yet, you stand before me asking for another chance to prove yourself.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Do you understand the significance of what you’re asking, Decius?”
I didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched, suffocating in its weight. He already knew everything—my desires, my mistakes, my shortcomings. This meeting wasn’t about my ambition to join the Seekers; it was a test, one designed to see if I could handle the responsibility that came with the al’Marian name.
“I do, my Lord.” The words came out stiffly, carrying with them the bitter taste of submission.
He sighed, a sound heavy with both frustration and resignation. “You are my twelfth son, Decius. A thousand years ago, that might have meant you were destined for nothing more than obscurity. But now…” His gaze hardened. “Now, it means you still have a chance to prove your worth. Do not squander it.”
I held my breath, unsure whether he was about to dismiss me or tear into me further.
“I will grant you this chance,” he continued, his tone carrying the weight of finality. “But you will serve another term with the Guard. If General Thal deems your service exemplary, I will allow you to take the trials to join the Seekers. Until then, consider your actions carefully. One more misstep, and your fate will be sealed.”
My stomach clenched. The thought of another quarter-year under General Aryn Thal’s command made my blood boil. The man despised me—partly because of my dalliance—as they were known in the Bastion—with his daughter, and partly because, in his eyes, I was a spoiled, arrogant noble with no real grasp of the hardships endured by the common folk. And perhaps, on some level, he was right.
“Yes, my Lord,” I said, my voice tight with barely contained frustration.
“Dismissed.”
I bowed quickly, retreating with as much dignity as I could muster. The door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the oppressive atmosphere of the office. I veered off into the nearest alcove, my breath coming in ragged bursts as I doubled over. The nausea, long suppressed, clawed its way to the surface.
“Fuck…” I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. The crimson fabric, trimmed with gold, was stained from the night’s excesses. My ceremonial garb—modeled after the old Aridian Empire—was hardly befitting a man who had just vomited into a shadowed corner of the Bastion.
After taking a few moments to collect myself, I straightened and made my way through the winding corridors, each step echoing loudly in the empty halls. The vastness of the Bastion, an ancient underground city carved into the very bedrock of Aridia, always left me feeling small. Its stone walls bore the weight of centuries of history, its people sheltered from the ravaged surface above—a world that, to us, was nothing more than myth and legend.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As I passed by a group of guards, their eyes flicked to me, but none dared say a word. I had grown used to the looks, the whispers that followed me wherever I went. Being the son of the High Lord came with privileges, but it also meant living under constant scrutiny.
My destination was clear—the Golden Goose, a tavern nestled deep within the lower levels of the Bastion. Unlike the polished halls of the upper district, the lower levels were a maze of narrow streets, dimly lit and teeming with life. The scent of spiced meats and burning incense filled the air as vendors called out to passersby, their stalls laden with wares scavenged from the old world—brought back by enterprising Seekers.
The Golden Goose was an oasis of warmth in the otherwise cold and impersonal city. Its wooden beams and stone walls gave it a rustic charm, and the ever-present scent of roasting meat always welcomed me like an old friend. As I pushed open the heavy doors, the familiar clamor of laughter, clinking mugs, and raucous conversation washed over me.
In the far corner, I spotted Darren and Tarmon—giant, hulking figures that stood out even among the crowd. The twins, nearly identical except for the braiding of their thick blond beards, waved me over.
"Decius!” Tarmon called, his voice booming. He rose from his seat, towering over the table. “How was the meeting with the old man?”
I groaned, dropping into the chair beside them. “About as well as expected,” I muttered, reaching for the nearest mug of ale. “Another term with the Guard before I can even sniff the Seekers.”
Darren chuckled, his laugh a deep, rumbling sound. “Well, at least we’ll have a few more chances to get into trouble.”
“Or killed,” Tarmon added with a grin.
I raised my mug. “To trouble, then.”
The twins echoed my toast, and for the first time that day, the weight on my chest felt a little lighter.
But as I drank deeply from my mug, my mind wandered to the challenges ahead. The trials to join the Seekers weren’t just difficult—they were deadly. And with each passing day, I felt the pressure to prove myself grow heavier, threatening to crush me beneath its weight.
The laughter and banter around the table became little more than background noise as my thoughts drifted. I had been given a chance—a small, fleeting opportunity to carve out a place for myself in the Bastion, to step out of the shadow of my father and brothers.
But was it enough?
Only time would tell.
****
The Guard was one of the many institutions that upheld the delicate order of the Bastion, but unlike the prestigious Seekers, whose role was to venture beyond the safety of our underground city, the Guard’s duties were far more mundane. We were protectors, yes, but of what? No one ever really said. There hadn’t been a real threat in decades—nothing but the same drills, patrols, and occasional brawls between bored citizens. Still, it was a position of pride, a stepping stone to greater things, at least for most. For me, it was a prison sentence.
I found myself stationed outside the mess hall, my boots sinking slightly into the grooved metal floor as I waited in formation. The air was heavy with the familiar tang of iron and oil, a constant reminder of the massive machinery that kept the Bastion functioning. Behind me, the clatter of utensils and the murmur of conversation filtered out from the guardsmen eating their meals, but I stood stiffly at attention, pretending not to notice.
“Another term in the Guard,” I muttered under my breath, trying to suppress the surge of frustration that welled up inside me. The thought of more nights spent walking endless rounds or dealing with the pointless posturing of drunken soldiers was enough to make me want to bash my head against the wall.
At least I wasn’t alone in my misery.
“Hey, Decius!” A sharp elbow jabbed into my side, followed by a deep chuckle. “You look like you’re about to burst a blood vessel. Cheer up, eh?”
I glanced over at Vann, a fellow guardsman who had the incredibly talent of grinning no matter the situation. His wide-set shoulders and ruddy face made him look more like a blacksmith than a soldier, but he was loyal and decent company during long shifts.
I forced a tight smile, not trusting my voice to hide the bitterness that bubbled beneath the surface. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
Vann gave me a knowing look, shaking his head with mock sympathy. “Ah, don’t be too hard on yourself. I hear they’re assigning us to the outer halls today. Could be worse—we could be stuck doing latrine duty.”
“Thrilling,” I muttered dryly, my sarcasm evident. As much as I enjoyed Vann’s company, his relentless optimism sometimes made me want to throttle him. If there was one thing the Guard was good for, it was eroding whatever ambitions you might have had in the beginning.
Just as Vann was about to respond, the Mess Hall doors burst open, and a wave of noise washed over us—shouts, footsteps, and the unmistakable voice of General Aryn Thal.
“Decius al’Marian!” His voice boomed, cutting through the din of the hall like a hammer on an anvil. Even though I’d been expecting it, the sound made my stomach drop. I straightened, bracing myself for whatever public humiliation was about to befall me.
The general stomped out into the hall, his gaze locked onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey. The man was a living legend, known for his fierce command of the Guard and the iron-fisted way he dealt with insubordination. His piercing blue eyes flashed with something between amusement and disdain as he approached. Behind him, the gathered guardsmen stared wide-eyed, no doubt eager to see the Hero of the Baker’s Rebellion tear into a lowly guardsman.
General Thal’s massive frame loomed over me, his black and silver uniform immaculate as ever, the epaulets on his shoulders gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. His grizzled face was twisted in a scowl of displeasure, and the scar that ran down his left cheek seemed to pulse with his fury. He stopped mere inches from me, his breath hot and unpleasant.
“If you were the High Lord himself,” he barked, spittle flying from his lips, “I still wouldn’t let you marry my daughter! And you know why, al’Marian? Because you’d still be you!”
I fought to keep my face blank as the gathered guardsmen stifled gasps and whispers. The mention of Alanna, his daughter, sent a shiver of dread through me, but I stood rigid, my hands clasped behind my back, doing my best to maintain the appearance of a dutiful soldier. My mind raced, trying to find the right response, but there was no saving myself from this.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “Loud and clear, sir.”
General Thal stepped back, his expression shifting from raw anger to something far more controlled. “Good,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, your father has requested your presence at the Mouth. Immediately.”
I blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden change in topic. The Mouth? Why would my father need me there? I swallowed hard, nodding sharply. “Understood, sir.”
Without another word, General Thal turned on his heel and stalked off toward the command quarters, his boots echoing on the metal floor. The rest of the guards remained frozen, watching the scene unfold as if they’d just witnessed a trial by combat. I waited until the general was out of sight before relaxing, allowing the tension to drain from my body.
The stares of my fellow guardsmen lingered, but I ignored them. By the end of the day, the entire Bastion would be buzzing with gossip about the latest clash between the general and the High Lord’s wayward son. I pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on my new orders.
The Mouth.
The very thought of the place sent a thrill of excitement through me. The Mouth was the only connection between the Bastion and the surface—a massive, impenetrable gate that had been sealed for as long as anyone could remember. Few ever ventured near it, save for the Seekers and those assigned to its maintenance. Why would my father need me there?
I hurried through the winding corridors, passing bustling groups of workers and soldiers who paid me little mind. The Bastion was alive with activity, the sound of machinery humming beneath the floors, the air thick with the scent of oil and metal. I moved with purpose, my mind racing with possibilities. The Mouth was a place of mystery, and any reason to be summoned there had to be significant.
As I approached the main transport station, I flagged down one of the sleek, automated vehicles that shuttled personnel between the different sectors of the Bastion. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and I stepped inside, settling into one of the padded seats as the transport whirred to life. The trip was short, but my mind was already racing with a thousand possibilities.
Had something happened on the surface? Was there a threat to the Bastion? Or was this some sort of test?
The transport came to a halt at the final checkpoint before the Mouth, and I stepped off, moving swiftly through the security protocols. Identity check, retinal scan, and a pat-down—standard procedure, but it still felt strange given that I was in uniform. Once cleared, I passed through the towering steel doors that led into the Mouth itself.
The Mouth was a massive, circular chamber of polished metal, the walls stretching high above my head. The air here was cooler, tinged with the scent of iron and machinery, and the only light came from a series of harsh, overhead lamps that cast long shadows on the floor. At the far end of the room loomed the Mouth itself—a pair of colossal steel doors, reinforced with layers of metal, and decorated with ancient Old World symbols. The Seekers often spoke of the surface beyond, a desolate wasteland filled with danger, but I had never seen it for myself.
And there, standing in the center of the chamber, was my father.
High Lord Lucius al’Marian was flanked by a group of figures dressed in dark, tactical armor—the Seekers. They were the elite warriors of the Bastion, tasked with venturing beyond our underground sanctuary to recover lost artifacts, weapons, knowledge, and, sometimes, people. I recognized a few of them from their reputation alone: Master Seeker Jareth, with his long, weathered face and cold, calculating eyes, and Captain Dara, a woman known for her unmatched speed and precision in combat. They stood at attention, their faces unreadable as I approached.
“Father,” I said, bowing slightly as I stepped forward.
He didn’t turn to face me right away, his eyes fixed on the sealed gates. When he finally did speak, his voice was heavy with uncharacteristic emotion. “Do you know who these people are?”
I nodded slowly, my pulse quickening. “The Seekers.”
“Good.” He glanced at the armored figures flanking him before his eyes locked onto mine. “Your uncle has gone missing,” he said, his tone grave. “And you’re going to help them find him.”