Chapter 3: Whispers of the Forgotten

Scene 1: The Hidden Truth About Markus Graves

The combat arena was a vast, steel-plated expanse, its walls lined with observation stations where enforcers monitored every movement. The cold air smelled of metal and sweat, the sterile hum of the facility a constant, unyielding presence. Rows of recruits, identical in stature and uniform, stood in formation.

I stood among them.

The Order had been training us since we could walk, molding our bodies into weapons and our minds into precision-guided instruments of control. Combat training was not about victory. It was about efficiency—about learning the quickest, most brutal way to neutralize a threat.

“The body is a tool,” the instructor’s voice rang out, sharp and unfeeling. “The mind is a weapon. You are neither until The Order makes you so.”

I stepped onto the sparring mat, facing my opponent. My breath was steady, my posture rigid. The boy across from me was a perfect mirror of myself—disciplined, conditioned, predictable. We had all been shaped the same way.

The fight began.

We moved in unison, our strikes mechanical, rehearsed. Attack, counter, evade. Every movement ingrained through repetition. I knew what his next move would be before he even made it. That was how The Order trained us—efficiency over creativity, obedience over instinct.

And yet, I struggled.

He broke the pattern for a moment, his movements slightly unorthodox, and I hesitated. That brief hesitation was all it took for him to seize an opening, landing a hard strike against my ribs. Pain flared through my side, but I did not react. Showing pain was weakness.

Before I could recover, a shadow stepped between us.

My father.

Markus Graves moved with deliberate purpose, his gaze sweeping over the arena. “Enough.”

The instructor nodded, stepping back.

Without another word, Markus assumed a fighting stance, facing my opponent.

The shift was immediate.

He didn’t fight like us. His movements weren’t rigid or rehearsed. They were fluid, adaptable—too fast, too unpredictable. Every strike was a deception, every step calculated but not mechanical.

The fight ended in seconds. My opponent never saw it coming.

The combat instructors exchanged uneasy glances.

Something was wrong.

Markus had trained us our whole lives, and yet, he fought like someone who had once fought against The Order.

I swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Where did you learn that?”

My father’s gaze flickered toward me. “There are things you do not need to know, Lucian.”

His tone was final.

But I had already seen too much.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

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Later that evening, I followed him down the dimly lit corridors of the facility. My mind raced, replaying every movement from the fight, every deviation from The Order’s doctrine. My father was a high-ranking officer, an enforcer of discipline and order. But the way he moved—the way he fought—told a different story.

I lingered as he turned a corner, stopping just before a door slid shut behind him.

A second voice drifted through the metal.

“It’s happening again.”

I stilled, pressing myself against the cold wall. The voice was unfamiliar—calm, controlled. A man of power.

“He’s asking questions,” the voice continued.

A long silence. Then my father’s voice, quiet but firm. “He’s just a boy.”

“So was Solomon.”

The name sent a sharp jolt through me.

I had never heard it before.

Commander Aldric’s voice lowered. “You kept your position because you made the right choice. Do not let sentiment cloud your judgment now.” A pause. “You know what happened to your brother.”

My breath caught.

My father had a brother.

A brother who didn’t exist anymore.

I clenched my fists, my heart hammering in my chest. The Order erased what it considered a threat. History was rewritten. Names disappeared.

Solomon Graves.

Who was he? And what had The Order done to him?

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Scene 2: A Secret Buried in Ashes

The hallways of The Order’s facility stretched endlessly, their metallic sheen reflecting the cold artificial light. I moved with careful precision, my steps barely making a sound against the smooth floor. The air was heavy with the weight of unseen eyes—cameras, sensors, silent sentinels programmed to detect anything that deviated from routine.

But I had studied their patterns.

Since childhood, I had been taught to observe without being seen. To predict, to adapt. To survive.

Now, for the first time, I was using those lessons against The Order.

The archive facility was one of the most restricted areas within the compound, a fortress of knowledge that few were allowed to access. It was not a library—it was a vault. A place where information did not exist to be learned, but to be controlled.

And somewhere in that vault was the truth about Solomon Graves.

I reached the access terminal at the far end of the corridor. A single red light pulsed faintly on its interface, signifying its security lock. I exhaled slowly, reaching into my memory.

I had seen my father use his access code before. The numbers had been fleeting, but I had memorized them.

I entered them, my fingers steady.

ACCESS DENIED.

I swallowed back my frustration. Of course, Markus would have restricted access beyond what I had seen.

A door hissed open behind me.

I stepped into the shadows, pressing myself against the cold metal wall as an Order technician walked past. He moved to the adjacent terminal, logging in with his clearance key.

I watched. I waited.

As soon as he left, I slipped back to my station and input the same override sequence.

The screen flickered. ACCESS GRANTED.

I wasted no time.

Typing quickly, I entered the name: Solomon Graves.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, the screen glitched. The system lagged before spitting out a single file, its label distorted, corrupted.

DECEASED.

I opened it.

Most of the text was garbled, entire sections overwritten or deleted. But a few words remained, flickering in and out of existence.

"PROJECT REVENANT - OPERATION FAILURE - REMNANTS UNACCOUNTED FOR."

A chill ran down my spine.

Project Revenant.

I had never heard of it. But The Order did not allow failure. And remnants unaccounted for meant one thing—something had slipped through their control.

Something—or someone.

I leaned closer, scanning for more.

The screen blinked twice. A warning flashed in red.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED.

My pulse spiked.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

I severed the connection, the screen going dark just as the terminal emitted a sharp warning beep.

I turned and ran.

My body moved on instinct, years of training kicking in as I sprinted down the corridor, staying within the blind spots of the overhead cameras. My heart pounded, not from exertion, but from the knowledge that I had touched something forbidden.

A security drone hovered into view ahead of me. I barely managed to slip behind a maintenance hatch before it scanned the hall. My breath was silent, my body still, every nerve on edge.

After what felt like an eternity, the drone moved on.

I slipped back into the shadows, retracing my path with controlled urgency.

By the time I reached my quarters, my hands were trembling.

Solomon Graves had existed. The Order had erased him.

And now, I had seen what I was never meant to see.

I knew my father’s secret.

And I had to find out the truth.

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