Beneath five dying suns, the gathering of souls reaches a slow beginning of celebration.

Silk dresses spread alongside well fitted suits, exotic coloring scattering beauty against illumination. Voices of laughter and pleasure combine together with the tones of music from a handful of bards in the corner of the room, sounds melting into a chaotic mess of auditory stimulation.

The scent of fresh food carried from distant kitchen facilities is caught by a trained nose, a pang of hunger suppressed through willpower alone.

Ages irrelevant against opulence, the extremes of humanity expressed through the rawness of excess.

The faces of blood transmitted nobility blur, obvious in the features carried by them. Blonde hair intermixed with Southlandic facial structures, streaks of black and brown irises from long-conquered and liberated territories rare from a scanned overview of ethnicities.

A form out of place against a unification of chaotic coloring, a patchwork uniform matched with dirty armor plating and heavy ordinance standing among them all. Judge John Murphy remains absolutely still as his eyes scan the crowd before him, a handful of glances given to the new arrivals.

From behind him Greyson steps forward. Uniform freshly cleaned and hair slicked back, his tone form unhindered by body armor; a sleek frame matched against the vicious experience of his companion. Upon his back a retainment of weaponry; his assault rifle and sawed off shotgun still held in close reach with a consideration of concealment beneath covered holsters.

“Judge Chase had a spare uniform sir.” Greyson informs with a whisper as he catches the glances and nervous words from the crowd. “And he did say over the radio you could borrow it.”

“It's his uniform and therefore his responsibility.” The old man informs.

Greyson nervously adjusts his own clothing, straightening a crease at the edge of his collar. “Well, what did Judge Mathias say again for these events? She’s still the head of Cadet Operations in Centralis… right?”

“Judge Eveliyn Mathias.” Murphy remembers. “And she transferred herself to active three years ago.”

Greyson chuckles. “Well as she always says to cadets before sending them out: ‘enjoy yourselves.’ Though, if I am allowed to give you some advice sir, please stay close to me. The social contracts here in high society are quite complex.”

The old man growls lightly at the spoken word, following the younger Judge down the handful of granite steps and into the crowd below.

A massive ballroom spreads out to the ends of the entire mansion, pure white stone floors reflecting electronic bulbs and the steady stream of dying sunlight above. Machined artisan brass plates cemented in walls display paintings engraved in metal, a masterfully crafted microcosm in a world of dust and rage.

Like a desert dune parting before a mechanized sand-strider, the forms of humanity distance themselves from a near untouchable being of law and order. Contact immediately broken as eyes meet, whispers at the unfamiliar Judge of rumored persecutions and judiciary proceedings.

Judge Greyson carefully maneuvers through with ease as he takes the vanguard position, the gathering of souls brushed aside with soft words and gentle pushes as he reaches one of the refreshment tables.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

An army of small glasses laid upon a blue table cloth in marching order, their miniscule forms delicately crafted from crystalline shapes that reflect the lighting into a kaleidoscope of colors. Stored within them, a semi-opaque brown liquid that bends the mind towards it.

“Hold a glass sir, it’s polite.” Greyson advises as he takes two from the table. “And I’d recommend a few drinks before you interact with some of the guests.”

Murphy remains expressionless at the gesture, taking the item into possession as he scans the room for faces. Features transposed against a memorized battery of wanted persons, a result coming negative as several near matches are disposed of in closer analysis.

A realized killzone in the midst of a primary objective, evacuation plan executed with near instinctiveness on completion of the investigation.

The old man carves a direct path through isles of people, mild shoves given in formal order as he steps towards one of the support pillars at the far edge of the room. Between the scent of alcohol and drone of indistinct conversation; a bastion of order made of code stone, a fortress of solitude now inhabited by two Judges.

Greyson attempts to hide an expression of amusement as he catches up. “Sir, if I may respectfully ask. But you’re not good with these gatherings, are you?”

“Being a Judge doesn’t train you well for social gatherings in high society.” Judge Murphy responds coldly.

“Well I suppose it’s a different life compared to what we in the southlands go through. Hells, couldn’t be worse than a traveling judge though.” Greyson begins as he takes a small sip from the drinking glass. “From the reports that come through and the stories we get from the Judges traveling from the deep-south, it’s a rough and tumble existence. Saloons, gunfights, gangs… getting shot by god gun fragment toting vigilantes on morning duels.”

“Most Judges try it at least once before their final walk.” Murphy informs.

“Really sir?”

“After spending years in a city some judges believe they can do better outside the walls and beyond the leylines. Most of them return, but many end themselves there. Maybe you’ll be seduced by that.”

“No chance sir, all due respect.” Judge Greyson hides an expression beneath his glass. “March is my home, and I’ll die to protect him.”

Murphy nods, a tense understanding developed. “It’s a historic city, I can understand.”

A long silence as Murphy watches his counterpart drink, the alcohol beverage shifting into bloodstreams as half the glass is downed in a single gulp.

Greyson points out one of the brass plates dominating the far walls, a strip of metal taking up nearly fifty square feet of space within the ballroom. “You see that sir?”

Old eyes squint, vision clearing as the engravings illuminate themselves against lighting. A painting preserved in the eternity of metal, a tale told by sages played through the avenues of recorded history.

The rise of a kingdom by the hands of a divine god; a singular soul elevated beyond the five suns above. Armies of men; legions of faceless souls marching through the wastelands in the ashes of a cataclysm. A thousand year history of glory defined by the conquerings of kings and queens, of an endless stream of wars against long forgotten nations. Guns and magic, trained eyes even catch the angular forms of Armin Collective Mages within the heat of battle.

History turns against them.

Events censored by victorious celebrations of defeat, a symbol of a single star among five defiant in the face of overwhelming odds. Artistic measures decline as the metallic tapestry reaches its final panels, once beautiful paintings of vivid detail eroded to simple representations of guns and fire.

Cities lost to treachery, ignoble monsters setting fire to a glorious civilization.

The finale of an empire, the last cry of March held within the final symbol on the final panel.

Defiantly forged into the brass, a misshapen symbol now held within the soul of every loyal citizen: a single circle surrounded by five suns.

“This place used to be the throne room.” Greyson remembers from historical text. “The Federation looted everything except for that piece of art when they stormed the city.”

Judge John Murphy remains affixed to the final symbol, an unfounded recognition at the object. Layers of graffiti in the packed slums of Centralis to the images drawn in the accumulated sands of Insuid; a near universal icon found across a dying world.

Five gods broken by one savior.