Crin was late to the Knight's Tourney. The Knight Commander never participated in the games. To ascend to his role, one had to be among the best. Crin had fought and proven his worth during a real war. Ever since the Scarl Rebellion, he could no longer see tourneys as real competition. They had far too many restrictions to be a real true challenge worth his time.

The expectation was for him to host the Commemoration and congratulate the winner. The Argent Knights would be waiting. It wasn't until later in the day. Enough time for a little detour.

Whitestone Central Prison was a small facility. It specialized in housing the most dangerous criminals in Ophan. He walked through a cell block, escorted by two corporals. They wore the dark blue uniform of the Police Force and body armor.

Crin was clad in his usual charcoal uniform and a long black leather trench coat. A heavy sealed metal box was tucked in the curl of his arm. Borealis, his Caster, trailed behind him, stopping to examine cells as they went along.

The guards had been suspicious of his demand to see the prisoner. Usually, interviews or discussions requested by officials were scheduled, held in a supervised room, and recorded. This was an impromptu visit. It had taken speaking to the warden to give him the all-clear.

Being of House Haloran and Knight Commander came with its perks. He had full security clearance across all the major divisions of the Warrior Sect. Only the Sovereign had similar power.

Along pale brick walls lined the cells. The empty ones were pits of darkness. Others were lit by dim light.

The prisoners could control the luminosity of their cells. They also had other luxuries, such as their personal viewscreens and access to the Repository. Each one saw a therapist and was adequately medicated for whatever mental dysfunction led them to a life of crime. And most were rehabilitated within a year or two and released into society.

No other nation could compare to Ophan in the treatment of its criminals. Nor were they even close to the success rate of rehabilitation. Seventy-five percent of criminals released from Ophani prisons never committed another crime for the rest of their lives.

Every other nation strived to be Ophan and failed. They were playing imposters, too corrupt and dysfunctional to achieve the same quality of life.

Someday he would bring all of them the structure and beauty of Ophan. The only way it could be done. By the sword.

After passing through three cellblocks and a short elevator ride, they reached a checkpoint with reinforced metal doors. Beyond was the max security cell block. Where murders and violent criminals were contained.

The two prison guards shuffled ahead of him and whispered to another two armored guards standing at the security scanner. The men studied Crin for a moment and gave him a proper salute. They disabled the scanner and let him through the heavy doors.

The guards remained behind, and door slammed shut, locking with a clank. He took a deep breath of stale recycled air. Despite the high ceiling, his instincts squirmed; no way out unless they opened the door. This was the type of situation a warrior would never want to find themselves in. Trapped, enclosed, and separated from his brethren. Never to see war or the thrill of the fight ever again. No hope.

This cell block contained mostly Warrior Sect citizens. The bloodlust sometimes was too powerful for some. They were hunters and were trained to kill by the best military on the moon. And they tended to do considerable damage.

Crin wasn't like these criminals. All his life, he killed when necessary, only when it was for Ophan.

It didn't sit right in his gut. What could he do? Continue to let the world around him rot. He was a leader of humans, born and bred for the job. The borders and divisions existing were unnecessary, archaic even. The Unification Wars should have done the job.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Ophan could have counterattacked and conquered their weakened enemies. Instead, they let them go and forged useless peace. The Alliance nations had decades to recover, to rebuild their militaries and economies. Now Ophan was in open trade with them.

Elohon Drakk was consorting with the enemy openly inside the farce called the Forum. He believed himself a true unifier but took advantage of Ophan, weakening its position and independence. And he had his work cut out for him. If only Fetrik Drakk had vision during his rule. The man had been a great warrior but far too short-sighted.

The prisoner was in the last cell on the left. It was dark inside. The viewscreen on the wall was set to a vid of rainfall, the roaring sound filling the small chamber. Crin found the sound annoying, not at all calming.

A man huddled on the bed, blankets pulled over his head.

"Kormel," Crin said, amplifying his voice over the rainfall sounds. "Tell me, do you believe in God?"

"Guard!" the figure of Kormel said from beneath the blanket. "I'm hungry."

Crin didn't reply. After a minute, Kormel became curious and pulled off the blanket, sitting. He was shirtless with a pair of orange prison uniform pants and black slippers on his feet. His black hair was a wild nest.

"Have you come to free me?" Kormel said. "I am a commissioned Bonded of the Free States military. I have political immunity. I was visiting Ophan and was assaulted by an Argent Knight for demonstrating my abilities in a park."

Crin chuckled. "You assaulted the Inheritor of Ophan and were trying to abduct his cousin. You're a criminal."

Kormel approached the steel bars and took hold of them, studying Crin with his rust-colored eyes. "Am I condemned here, without trial? Is this the meaning of justice in Ophan? The perfect little society with no flaws."

"Justice is for the citizens of Ophan, not prisoners of war."

"What war?" Kormel clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows.

"Assaulting members of House Drakk, our Sovereign House is an act of war."

Kormel growled, weakly shaking the bars. It was a pathetic display. Crin could see how exhausted he was, back slumped and arms shaking. Sweat dripped down his face despite the comfortable atmosphere.

"On the bright side…It's only my opinion about what happened. You may find our Sovereign and House Drakk more forgiving of your transgression."

"Send me home then."

"The arm of bureaucracy keeps you held here for now. There is an ongoing discussion about what to do with you at the Forum."

"And my Caster?"

Crin shook his head. "It's the cost of freedom, I'm afraid. The Free States will get you back, but we keep the Caster."

As Kormel deflated, he smashed his face against the bars. "You might as well kill me."

"By the way, how does it feel?"

"Being in prison?"

"No. The Bonding sickness."

Bonding sickness plagued a Bonded who disconnected for a prolonged period from their Caster. It was like going through drug withdrawals, or sometimes worse. He never experienced it himself; he would die before letting go of Borealis.

"Like I was ripped in half and put through a garbage disposal," Kormel admitted.

"As I suspected. Also, you never answered me earlier. Do you believe in God?"

Kormel frowned and peeled his face from the bars. "How is this relevant? I'm not going to pray if that's what you think."

"Humor me. A conversation should be welcomed by someone rotting alone in a cell."

Kormel looked at his bare feet and scratched the stubble on his face as he considered the question. "What is God anyway? Some archaic Old Terran superstition. I don't know."

"I see. It's not a question you've considered much," Crin said. "I find the answer important as a warrior willing to put his life on the line."

"Good for you."

"You asked me what God is. He is the universe, the progenitor of everything. We, humans, are his children, pieces of the universe lucky enough to be self-aware. We get to witness our own majesty. Our purpose is to strive for our rightful divinity and to honor God by ascending to his level. At least the ancient colonists believed that."

Kormel chuckled. "Don't you have a wife to talk to?"

The last thing Crin wanted to do was talk to his wife.

"Humankind has fallen," Crin said. He revealed the box under his arm and slipped a crypt-key into the lock. "We have forgotten. We are lost. Just as a child will fall when learning to walk, we must get back on our feet again."

Kormel stared at the box, rust-colored eyes curious.

"You have a unique chance to serve the interests of humankind. To be a part of a silent revolution, one steering us back on course to strive for our God."

Crin opened the box a crack and stopped.

"Other than the Sovereign, I am the only one with authority to release you and can give you a second chance to serve humankind.

He opened the box revealing the orb of a Caster, shell bright red with two white lines.

"That's Racer! Give it back to me," Kormel said.

"I will return it if you agree to do me a simple favor."