“Thank you all for joining us.” Simora’s black cloak wraps about the man like shadows yanked from the walls. His arms rise to draw forth participation from those gathered. Veins of morning blue fabric spread like roots around the Dominax’s arms, up his neck, and surround the separated Balan suit. “It is my honor to gather you all here today for a fine meal and conversation.

“Share in drink, food, and company. As with all things on Icarus Alpha,” Simora looks over the eyes of tycoons, diplomats, and the guests of honor, “you shall be pleasantly surprised at the bounty of each. I’d only ask you temper yourselves with the drinks.” His wide smile tugs up laughter from those nearest him. In turn, the giggles spread down the long table. “It is here, in the home of my father, Morikal Nor-Noctlin, that I welcome you. Thank you, one and all, for joining me. For filling these empty halls with joy and companionship. I hope this night, and all nights forward, are as splendidly perfect as this. My breath is yours.”

“Here, here!” A portly fellow, clad in reds and yellows, thrusts his glass into the air. Nevel Portanat’s rosy nose and eyes lazily lowered speak volumes of the party’s success among the higher classes—and of the potency of the indulgences. Even though the man wears golden chords and hanging medallions, none would think to disrupt the occasion by asking him just how he’d earned such honors.

Nor do they interview each other beyond acceptable pleasantries. The conversations, even as Simora half-listens to the restarted stories and topics, is painfully superficial. What he listens to, instead, are the voices of those closest to him. They don’t break their group’s silence until well after the Dominax’s small speech.

Patire, in a lengthy black suit crossing between a military uniform and taut dress, shines with her family crest of three red crosses against a brown shield. Her eyes widen at the opportunity as quiet leaves the party vulnerable.

Seeing this as a possibility, Simora had placed her specifically where he’d needed her. Grinning to himself, he taps slowly across the arm of his chair as she leans slightly over the table to be better heard.

“Elder Matheem, it is a pleasure to welcome you to Valkenaria. It has been some time; though, I’m sure you do not recall me.”

The yellow orbs of Matheem Nephire meet Patire’s glowing eyes. Though seemingly sickly, the yellowish whites bleed into foggy grays that surround a black center. All the years of the man seem to gather in his eyes like light of the universe sucked in uncontrollably by the gluttonous hole in the center of the galaxy.

It takes a moment, but his facial features morph with gradual acceptance of the woman’s leap into conversation. Simora notes the similarities in their fleshy manipulations, yet the younger man finds himself uneased by the ravages of time on such capabilities.

Smiling widely, genuine and unprotected by Mask, Matheem nods to Patire. “A fine meeting, Ms. Isserman.” The old man’s brimming display of emotions melts the hearts of those about him. Patire’s face is that of a child in awe. Though his eyes may absorb all the light, the man’s presence immediately begins to lift the atmosphere as Atlas dragging the world upon his shoulders. “How fine the years have been to you. It seems only yesterday I’d been in lecture! Oh, dear.”

“You remember me?” Patire cannot restrain herself and the words, as bees rattled from their hive, soar into the air. Presently, her skin darkens with warmth.

Matheem leans back in his chair with a glass held tightly in his wrinkled fingers, “Of course! A fine candidate for the Valkyrie Ascendance. I’d told them. I said, ‘You’d all be a fool to waste her time! We plant the seeds and let fruit rot upon the branches!’ I said it, you know. Right to the Elders. Every one of them.

“I remember your fire; your passion!” Matheem sips of his cup and slides a hand through the spattering of black hair atop his head. “It’s something many among our recruits lack. The true Resonate!” Matheem’s eyes widen to absorb more of the candlelight which all ate in. Only the soft illumination of ceiling lights far above gently painted in the cracks. “To ignite the passions of the people. To empathize and blend. Tis a task far beyond the capabilities of most, and still they send you on wild chases to gather credits toward earning the Ascension. Blah!

“I’d have taken you alone over the last wave of candidates.” Matheem sips of his cup as he scans over the food along the table. “No offense to you, Simora. I mean only that her talents are yet truly appreciated within our organization.”

“No need to apologize.” Simora matches the ancient man’s face offered to the world. “Patire’s talents have been recognized by the keenest of eyes. Sadly for you, I need not ask permission from a gathering of ambulating corpses.”

Patire’s wide-eyes tell Simora of her sudden shock, if not appall, at his twisting of the conversation from delightful praise to attack upon The Elders. Matheem; however, cannot help but loose a laugh at the comment. “A fine description! Decades have, in my opinion, turned their wondrous dreams into fine grains of sand. Corpses! Hah! That is their truest form. Every change and stride dead upon arrival. Since the formation of the Church of Many Mouths, I’d seen my beloved goals be stomped on and dragged through acid! I give power to the Many Mouths and now find my own voice silenced in the act!”

“Rather worked up, I’d say.” Obin chimes in from across the table—both Dark Stars around the edges from Simora at the end of the long table. “Do priests trapped in tombs of books not change the universe with the flick of their wrists?”

“For all the good left behind,” Matheem responds with a genuine smile bleeding through the century of Black training, “the slow change through magic wands and holy altars is no different than the charred maps armies leave in their wake.”

Obin’s lips thin as he bobs his head about. “Ye’ve a fine point. Though, I’d wager painful truths more valuable than pretty lies.”

Matheem’s aged eyes, portals into more worlds than this, narrow toward the General. “Lies are what the unchanging mind labels the truth of the universe. For all we have advanced, General, what have we found to be absolute truth? I do not spend my time in books merely studying the endless names for the universe, gods, or even the peoples that praise them. Scientific theories and new studies occupy the majority of my time. A sifter of which I might cull the poisons from my own theories and understanding. A lie today may be tomorrow’s truth.” The cup tips toward Obin. “Do you truly believe these lies hold no value? No possibility?”

Obin, again, bobs his head about as he cuts into the thick flank of a mantiflop’s hindquarters. “I’d not wager against ye on that. Pretty lies, as they are, keep the flocks from chargin’ headfirst off cliffs, stickin’ their heads in a wolf’s maw, or risin’ up.”

This admission, catching the ear of many, draws wild eyes from near the end of the table. Matheem, giggling in the dry fashion of an ancient man reminded that life still entertains and surprises, responds as the people’s representative. “If lies create a better world, then I care not that placebo rectifies the unjust nature of this universe. If there is truth within it, than we stand closest to that light so many believe exists.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Patire,” Simora interjects into this debate. “When you first departed for the Emel-Rakar tribes, what were your intentions?”

The two Dark Stars on opposing sides glance to the emotionally disheveled woman. Perhaps feeling she’d been the catalyst for this escalating topic, her eyes dash between each of the heads of famous houses.

“Please. I’d hear your thoughts.” Matheem prods her with excitement.

“Oh, go on. I’d have another tell me I’m wrong.” Obin turns his square chin, a feature not shared by any other on the planet, and grins down at the lady.

The right choice to keep even the civilized from this dinner. Simora’s eyes glance down the length, both sides, and to each of the servants. Francestish might even find his Signs disagreeable.

“I-I’d say I went to learn.” She tilts her head as the eyes drift from the room and dinner. All others present are no longer with her. She has left them. Far away, recalling the emotional milestones of her duties, she plucks these specific moments from time. “Upon learning, I’d share tidbits. Little seeds,” her chin unconsciously jolts toward The Elder. “Planted in a line to connect the fields. Something natural. Something life giving and life retaining. Something less tragic than they’ve known.

“Something,” Patire’s eyes close for a moment, “human.”

“True passion! Fire!” Matheem’s outburst breaks Patire of her solitude. “Her among my Valkyrie would ripple as light through the cosmos! Every planet a new altar of which the faith might be practiced and The Creator might be honored. In every name and every fashion.”

“I’d almost believe it meself.” Obin’s shoulders relax as he exhales. Every painstaking second, he’d held himself in physical stasis to properly consider the woman—an act not performed by most. “The stars have purpose beyond man’s recognition. Be it by divine hands, intellect which preceded us, or by some chance of the cosmos, we are dust all the same.”

Noting the paraphrased response, Matheem lifts his cup, “You do read! Crimson Dawn, by Romeni Porfelatcio. An old work, but one worth reading.”

“A first edition in my quarters! Quite the price, but I have my collection. Always travelin’ with me.” A cup lifts in response.

As the two clink their cups, the Deep Roots watch with drooping shoulders and collapsing lungs as the atmosphere steadies. For two such as these, man does not see the title, the wealth, the promises of ancestors to ensure an easy life, or the future promise to their own descendants.

No.

What a man sees when witnessing two such as they is the soul’s momentary cut through the fabric of reality. A willpower, an essence, so strong that their truest self draws in the world around them. The sort of gravitational pull that a star might wield had it gained sentience. In this, a man sees the two as mortal and yet something more.

Something that refuses to yield, and you might honor the repudiation. Something demanding attention, and you might offer it gladly. Something that may place a hand upon your shoulder, and your body may freeze with the understanding that, even with Matheem’s fragile physique, your resistance will mean your breaking.

These two, the Deep Roots witness now with all doubts shaded by truest darkness of the trained Blacks, sat as titans guarding the end of the table. In turn, each of the Deep Roots looks down, beneath the archway of clanking goblets and shared laughter, to see their Dominax’s evened composure studying them all in turn.

Simora’s fingers tap gracefully over the arm of his chair as his smile spreads. Even in all the teachings of the Black, we know so little of the awareness of the beast called “man.” These two have shown just how little they command the Black Umbra. Nodding, Simora lifts his own cup as the two drink from theirs.

“Let us believe our pretty lies, welcome the difficult truths, and find our own purpose among the stars.” As both look to him, Simora lifts his cup another few centimeters. “Let our dust not settle until we build the cosmos anew. Together.”

“Lofty goals! Fire! Fire! Passion!”

“Aye! Dust to dust! Life between!”

All clank their cups together as The Dark Stars share a collective grunt of approval toward a common future. Whatever they think, let them think. Simora laughs with his fellow heads of the Black houses. We are on the right path. I will not drop my Eclipse. They needn’t know what a Black does not wish to share; for even the self has rights to privacy.

Simora interacts, but many do not look at him. Though the Deep Roots had just glanced to him, they return to their conversations and meals.

“When the two slackers finally get here, we can get to business.” Obin bellows. “A bloody waste of time, I say! Dust to dust. That’s right. Let’s celebrate the sentient dust.” The cup swings toward the Dominax. “Icarus Alpha.” Lips slap about as the exhale mimics a motor. “I’d right thought this planet a lost cause. You’d done the impossible, Simora. Damn shame what Ramurel did to your father. Sendin’ a son to this!”

“Impossibility is a pretty lie, General Nephire.” Playing the formal title and ignoring the names draws the two Dark Stars’ attentions to the end of the table. “Every question will inevitably be answered. Every problem solved.” Simora’s impish smile brightens the table. “Any yet unsolved means I simply haven’t had enough time. I am only in my early twenties, after all.” The Dark Stars share in their trinity of good spirits as the night proceeds.

“Cycles of assemblies toiling for naught! I’d said it! Even in your youth, I would have preferred you! Their comm updates were rather lackluster, I say. Constant bloodshed and no progress. Now, we learn the Keep…”

“The Keep was lost soon after my father’s passing. I’d spent little time there since his death, and the Ravagers made short work of the deconstruction.”

“And the looting! Defilements, I’m sure!” Matheem reenters with a splash of frustration. “The art, books, and the gardens! Savages to destroy such beauty. Such a collection and footing thanks to your father. The previous Dominax’s never lasted long enough to create such a structure; let alone a city!”

“It was a loss, yet one mostly unfelt by my person. Art is still born. Music still plays. My library overflows.” Simora’s golden eyes match the black holes of Matheem. “Dust to dust. I remain. I forge anew.”

It is only a few moments after this display of confidence and companionship among the Dark Stars that one man’s words catch Simora’s attentive ears. Somewhere down the right length, cut apart from the fat of superficial or pontificating nobility, a man grumbles in surprise. As if the words are dangerous to touch, his white mustache prickles at the ends as he leans toward the center of his group’s conversation.

“…Amelioration.”

A woman beside him, finely draped as a porcelain doll in artisan blues and whites, waves off the man’s apparent concern. “It is Icarus, Altin. They live beyond the cities! My goodness, whatever would one expect?”

“I’d pay it no mind.” A man from across the table fixes the patch of crimson fabrics in his suit’s front pocket. Curling the thin strands of his oiled beard, the man laughs through his response. “They are beasts, sir. Beasts killing beasts.”

“Three are dead. Three. Dead. Kaput.” Altin’s thumb drags through the air before his throat. As his gloved hand stops, the green eyes curve beneath bushy brows toward the end of the table.

The Deep Roots had not noticed such idle chatter among those invited. They were deeply involved in hearing the stories of Obin’s conquests or Matheem’s philosophical lectures. They had not even been able to view beyond Eclipse.

For a moment, Altin is the most aware man in the room.

His eyes of green meet the unblinking golden sands of the Dominax. A vast, rich desert encompasses the green lawns. Leave but this single patch of flora and all the world will disappear. Altin knows this. His bones and organs know this. Any staring into the third eye of a nema cat would know this.

“Altin?” A hand glances over the man’s shoulder. The woman of blues and whites, nobility dragged down from the cloudy skies, returns him to the conversation.

“Oh,” he looks back toward the end of the table where Simora smiles gladly and jokes with the Dark Stars in a conversation he cannot hear. His mind, cloudy and uncertain, begins to slip away from the dream that cannot be recalled.

As memory drips lifelessly into that crevasse of grayed fog between subconscious memory and conscious thought, the event disappears forever into a wrinkle of the aged man’s brain. Never to be seen again, the moment disappears in the shadow of combined Eclipse and Elliptical.

Even a king might walk through his own throne room unnoticed. It is not Simora’s desire to disappear entirely, but he walks along the edge of Eclipse—a sliver of light.

Altin has known and forgotten it all in a few seconds. All who gather here sit beside families of Black and know nothing of what it means. They know nothing of their Dominax.

They know nothing of Simora’s aptitude for the Black skills… Umbra.