Fahon paced the hall outside his father's office, wincing with each painful step. Even after a few days of recovery, his body unfortunately still hurt from the Warrior Sect test and heated spar with Marik.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the hall bathed the confined space in the reddish morning light of the Twins. He paused in front of his father's office and turned to face a painting of Fetrik Drakk on the wall. As the previous Sovereign, he had been Fahon's grandfather.
People said Fahon was the spitting image of the man: dark-haired, gray-eyed, tall, and broad-shouldered. The one deviation was his grandfather's long braided gray beard; Fahon preferred being clean-shaven. He figured his grandfather to be in his late fifties in the image. It had been painted shortly before his passing.
A pang of sadness washed over him, he never got to know the heroic man personally. He had watched plenty of historical vids and listened to tales around the dinner table. After his passing, the citizens of Ophan erected monuments to him in the capital Whitestone and many other cities across the nation. He hoped to become half the Sovereign his grandfather was one day.
The wait was agonizing, and he continued pacing from one end of the hall to the other. He intended to have a direct conversation with his father about his future, and wished it were over.
A heated exchange was happening on the other side of the ornate wooden door. Apparently, an advisor disagreed with a decision he made, and they were having a political debate. Like usual.
After an eternity, the door finally opened. The advisor exited, face red with frustration. He was a stubby balding man wearing plain blue scholar robes. He bowed curtly at Fahon before stomping off.
The Sovereign faced his open office window, shoulders slumped with the weight of leadership. He had a shaved head, glasses, and a short, groomed beard. His blue scholar robes were woven of fine silken cloth, styled with white geometric patterns.
Fahon was the Inheritor and would one day take the Sovereignty after his father retired or, the Cosmos forbid, died. During his father's early career, before ascending to Sovereignty, he had been an ambassador and politician, forging pacts of peace and trade deals with the other nations of Promise.
"Fahon." Elohon crossed the room, plopping down into his plush office chair and motioning for his son to sit.
Fahon sat and folded his hands onto his lap, leg bouncing in anticipation.
"I know I've been busy lately. I apologize," Elohon said.
As a youth, Fahon had been bitter and frustrated with the lack of his father's attention. As he grew and began his own life, it bothered him less and less. Plus, he understood being the leader of a nation consumed his father's life.
"No worries, father. I need to talk to you."
"I assume this is about your test scores?"
"Yes, I-"
Elohon beamed, catching Fahon off guard. "Your mother and I could not be happier with your results. You scored in the ninety-seventh percentile for the Scholar Sect. We can find you an apprenticeship in any research field you choose. Remarkable son. "
Fahon inched forward in his seat. "I don't intend to join the Scholar Sect."
"Nonsense." Elohon held up a finger. "You are among the best and the brightest this nation has produced. What will you do, join the Worker Sect? You've never been interested in industry or business."
"I'm joining the Warrior Sect and becoming an Argent Knight, like my grandfather."
Elohon leaned back in his chair, hands squeezing the armrests. He studied the wood grain on the desk for a long moment. "It's bad enough that most Ophani Rulers are also Argent Knights. Trust me, as you will learn, working with them is no pleasure. They constantly struggle for power and bicker over military budgets, trying to bloat their personal divisions and arsenals. A waste of taxpayer money, all of it. We do not need such a bloated Warrior Sect any longer. I can't seem to get that in their heads.
"We need a diplomat with the steady mind of a scholar as the leader of Ophan. A leader who will check and balance the power of the Warrior Sect. I've been trying my whole life. For all his valor, your grandfather was blind to the Argent Knights and their games. They were his comrades in arms. He had a soft spot for them."
Fahon didn't want to be pulled into a debate. Having a solid Warrior Sect prevented the other nations from predation. Ophan was rich in natural resources, most of which had gone untouched by the ancient colonists. It had been a frontier region back in those days and its splendor was enviable.
"During the Unification Wars, the Argent Knights were crucial to throw back the Alliance's land grab. We kept our land, our autonomy, and our culture. The rest of the moon's nations were thrown into chaos when the Alliance fell apart, yet we prosper. The Warrior Sect is primarily responsible for that."
"Remember one crucial fact about the Unification Wars. By defeating the Alliance, we eventually drew its members to peace talks. Those talks were handled by someone other than your grandfather or the Argent Knights. It was entrusted to my late mentor. He was the man who created the idea of the Forum and saw it implemented. For the first time since the Conflagration, the nations of Promise are cooperating and not at each other's throats. It's why I chose the path of the scholar. It takes careful wisdom to navigate the politicking required.
"Once you start an apprenticeship, we can set aside time from your studies to have you join me at the Forum for study. You can see firsthand what is in store for you. We can work on solutions together, preparing you for when you take my place. I want you to succeed as Sovereign in this new era of peace."
Fahon winced. Time with his father…If only such an opportunity had presented itself to him when he was a kid. He would have jumped at the chance to be close.
He sighed. "I've watched the Forum. The way I see it, we defeated the other nations. One against all. Face it, we own the floor—they're scared of us. Military power gives us leverage in negotiations. They do whatever they can to appease us because of our strength."
"A common Warrior Sect opinion…I expected better from you." Elohon pinched the bridge of his nose. "The Forum is not about power. It's about cooperation. The ancient colonists were forced to flee Old Terra because of their pointless wars. Division destroyed humankind's original home. Don't let it destroy ours."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
After the fall of Old Terra, the ancient colonists settled on Promise. They had three thousand years without war, known as the Long Peace. The eventual swelling population of the colony led to the Long Peace collapsing in on itself like a dying star. People broke off into their own factions, disagreeing about everything under the twin suns. They went to war. The dark days following the collapse of the golden age were known as the Conflagration.
"The other nations have always hungered for our lands and resources. When the Forum fails, what shall we do? Who leads our armies into battle?" Fahon asked.
"The Knight Commander and the other high generals, of course. It's their job. The Sovereign must value the lives of their people and keep the peace. The Forum isn't perfect, but it's a battlefield that doesn't shed any blood."
Fahon stifled back his frustration with a deep breath. "What would you have me do? When real war comes. Shall I sit behind a desk like you? Cozy while our troops die in battle. No. Leaders never ask their followers to do what they would not do themselves."
Those were the words of Elohon's greatest detractors, who felt the Sovereign should exemplify martial power, a position many scholars disagreed with. Elohon recoiled, fingers curling into fists. "You have a year to join a sect. You can take a break. Travel. Enjoy your youth and consider your future. Don't make a hasty decision."
"I have decided," Fahon stated, crossing his arms.
Elohon sat silent for a moment, and his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, wait—I know the real reason. You wish to join now to give you enough time to register for the blasted Knight's Tourney."
"Yes," Fahon said; no reason to lie.
"There's no way you're prepared enough to fight Argent Knights. You're not even Bonded."
"I have spent countless hours training after classes with Instructor Marik. There's still time for me to Bond and practice my skills." Fahon huffed. "Look, I came here to tell you my decision as an adult. Also, I need the crypt-key to grandfather's vault. You inherited his Caster and left it sitting in there to collect dust. Let me put it to good use."
Elohon slammed his fist on the table. "It's time to grow up! You're jeopardizing the future of Ophan for superpowers."
"Look, it wasn't my intention to argue about this. I'm sorry. It's my future, father. I've lost enough agency in life being the Inheritor. I never asked for it; it was thrust upon me at birth. Yet, I've accepted my duty to House Drakk and Ophan as its future leader. I should be able to choose the type of leader I want to be."
The words hung in the air, and Elohon locked gray eyes with Fahon's. The disappointment on his face made Fahon frown.
"Fine," Elohon slipped a hand into a hidden pocket inside his rob, producing the crypt-key and sliding it across the table. The object was about half the length of Fahon's index finger, a gray cylinder with various grooves etched into it. Fahon slipped it into his pocket and stood, giving his father a bow of respect.
"Thank you. I mean it."
"Remember, war always finds those who are looking for it."
Elohon pressed a hidden button under the lip of his desk, and the surface unfolded into a computer console. The conversation was over. Fahon took leave of his office, closing the door gently behind him.
---
The argument with his father left Fahon drained as he dragged his bruised body outside.
He will never understand. He's an idealist.
Outside the northern wing of Drakk Palace was a marble garden. Rows of hedges lined discreet rows with pedestals set along in intervals. Atop each pedestal was a different sculpture. The busts of men and women, ancient colonists, stood immortal in glittering white stone, seemingly untouched by the erosion of weather and time. Who these people were and what they accomplished was long ago lost to the Conflagration, but they remained immaculate works of art.
Fahon's destination was a squat concrete bunker with a reinforced steel door on the bottom terrace of the gardens. Reaching the door, he pressed a hand against the control panel. Access to the armory was granted only to the Sovereign's personal guard and family. The device scanned his fingerprints and the iris of his right eye.
Mechanical locks ground, and the door split in the middle, both halves sliding into the wall's recesses. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed on automatically, revealing a grated metal staircase. He descended.
At the landing, a short hall expanded into a large circular chamber. Stainless steel tables and benches occupied the center of the chamber, where people could huddle down or equip themselves. Along the reinforced concrete walls were alcoves locked behind thick cage doors. The cages were supplied with firearms, ammunition, survival equipment, and food stores.
The armory was the most reinforced building in the whole palace complex and could be used as a bomb shelter during war times. A circular one-meter diameter vault door was set in the wall across the chamber. The door's surface was smooth polished titanium, except for a tiny circular socket dead in the center.
Fahon rolled the crypt-key his father gave him between his thumb and forefinger as he approached. He took a deep breath and inserted the key into the socket, turning it. After an audible click and the heavy vault door swung ajar.
The vault didn't contain marks or jewelry. On a small pedestal sat a cobalt-shelled orb. Taking it in his palm, Fahon was surprised at how light the device was. He studied it, fingertips sliding across the smooth metal surface.
This was an artifact of real power: a Caster.
This one had been named Divinity ages ago by the first Sovereign of Ophan. Casters originated during the high-technology era of the ancient colonists. They were among the few technologies to survive the Conflagration and the post-apocalyptic chaos afterward.
Unfortunately, the downfall of the ancient colonists wiped out all records regarding the construction of new Casters. New ones hadn't been constructed for thousands of years.
Fahon turned around and held it in front of him in his palm. He recalled the Bonding sequence. The orb levitated off his palm and into the air, buzzing softly. A small panel slid open on its cobalt surface and cast out dozens of red lasers. The lines converged on Fahon, sweeping back and forth over his body as it scanned. The lasers faded, and it chirped to indicate it was done.
Fahon hesitated. The first Bonding was said to be painful to some and uncomfortable to most.
"Caster initiate Bond."
Ringing filled his ears. He covered them with his hands to muffle the sound. After a moment he realized it wasn't in his ears. The noise was coming from inside his mind, a new layer seeping over his consciousness. A jolt passed through him, leaving static, and interrupting his thoughts. He hunched over, growling, and squeezing his eyes shut.
After a few seconds or an eternity, the ringing subsided. Divinity, now Bonded to him, flew off to explore the bunker, scanning the benches and caged doors.
Fahon's gray eyes opened, and he stumbled back, disoriented by Bond-sense. He didn't need to turn his head to see around him. A panoramic view of the world overlapped his vision, an augmenting filter. It provided a full three hundred and sixty degrees of sight. It took a moment for his brain to adjust to the sensation, and he struggled to keep his balance.
The Bond-sense worked for hearing as well. It allowed him to listen to his heartbeat, which beat loud as a drum. As he concentrated, he also caught subtle hissing of air leaving the ventilation system above.
If it wasn't disorienting enough, he waved his hand back and forth. Bond-sense slowed things down. He witnessed his hand moving as if it were suspended in viscous liquid instead of air. It was what gave Bonded their supernatural reaction speed.
The enhanced perception wasn't even the best ability of a Caster.
Time to try Phase-crafting.
He held his palm out and concentrated, furrowing his eyebrows. Phase-crafting required focus and imagination. On the plateau of his mind, he imagined a cube sitting on his palm. He urged it into existence through the tether of his Bond.
A Caster could only paint objects within a three-meter radius of its Bonded. Outside the radius, objects would last approximately three minutes before degrading. While the object remained within the radius, it could be constantly renewed until the Caster ran out of power.
The science behind Phasematter was far beyond Fahon and still a mystery to even the most dedicated scholars. The substance seemed like magic, defying the laws of physics in some ways. It could take any solid shape, depending on what the user needed. It also could be shaped sharp enough to cut through stone and metal easily.
The cube materialized in an instant, right where he intended. It consisted of a crystalline substance shining with a transparent brilliant blue inner light, like a ghostly gemstone. He closed his hand around it. The cube was more rigid than steel and light as a feather. A moment later, he dismissed the object. It shattered inward, breaking apart into thousands of tiny blue embers. They flickered out as they drifted through the air.
Fahon smiled in fascination. Phasematter.