Chapter 14.
GVIF Rheeavher
The Cavaglatar Sector
Date: Zeran 19, Year 4731
As the heavy door of the training chamber sealed with a faint tremor, the room seemed to swallow all sound, intensifying the weight of the Katarath Dagger resting in its open case, its dark, double-edged, curved blade. The air pressed against her skin, muffling her breath as adrenaline surged and dread tightened its grip—the path before her was set, one she could not refuse.
Caul’s offer had felt surreal, unsettling, yet a strange acceptance had taken root within her. She would follow his guidance, stepping beyond her role as Inquisitor to become his apprentice.
The "choice" Caul had given her—to accept or decline—had been hollow. Refusal left no real alternative. Now, she saw it for what it was: an illusion, a test of her willingness to obey. Whether she had consciously chosen this was irrelevant; her destiny had been entwined with the Brotherhood’s threads long before this moment. There was only one path—accept or face death.
Part of her longed to resist, to find another way. But as silence closed in around her, the weight of what defiance would mean settled over her.
Her feelings held no sway here, and any lingering doubts stilled. The consequences of refusal were clear, rooted in Caul’s history and reputation. He was dangerous, more so than she fully understood. Though a small part of her doubted he would risk angering her father, a trusted ally of the Malocktus family, the thought offered little strength.
Members of a group like this lived cautiously, guarding even the smallest details Caul disclosed, never offering information lightly, not without purpose. For the Brotherhood of Velor, survival demanded far more than combat skill; it required mastery of secrecy, shadows, and, when necessary, the power to instill fear.
Caul had shared much but left even more unsaid, each silence sharpening her curiosity and filling her with questions. He had hinted at deeds done in the Brotherhood’s name, legendary acts carried out in honor of the forgotten god Velor. Yet the Brotherhood’s true history remained shrouded in secrecy. What little she knew consisted of whispers, exaggerated tales, perhaps outright fabrications. She wondered how many of these hidden deeds Caul himself had carried out in recent years or, at the very least, orchestrated. What legacy had his actions left on the Vorcon Empire? He implied their influence was extensive. How powerful was the Brotherhood of Velor at this point, truly? And who else might belong to it?
Nelve guided a finger along the dagger’s double-edged, curved blade, feeling its sharpness. Even without its energy field, the weapon would be deadly in skilled hands. Forged from Nyraite, a dark, obsidian-like mineral with a subtle crimson undertone that emerged only in direct light.
She had always believed her path to honor lay within the Grand Vorcon Imperial Force. Rising through the GVIF ranks seemed her sole way to bring pride to her family and elevate their standing. Her reputation as an effective Inquisitor had already earned her respect, and she’d envisioned herself climbing steadily, perhaps one day earning her own command and gaining influence within the Vorcon Empire.
From an early age, her father had instilled in her a sense of duty, honor, and ambition, constantly reminding her that her success—or failure—reflected on the entire family. She feared disappointing him—not out of dread for his anger, but because of the cold detachment that followed his disappointment. Though her family still held a respected place in Vorcon society, their prominence had waned over time. Her Tahlor, her father, and Tahlai, her mother, had instilled in her a fierce commitment to developing her talents, as any good Vorcon parents would.
But now, a new thought struck her: had her Tahlor been preparing her for this path all along? Was this journey—toward the Brotherhood of Velor—the one he had envisioned from the start? Had he quietly guided her ambition, steering her toward this fate? The realization settled over her with a cold certainty. Her course had been set long before, her path woven into something she could no longer resist. A chill ran through her as the awareness took hold: perhaps she had been moving toward this moment from the beginning.
Her ambition to elevate her family’s status had unwittingly led her here. Now, it seemed almost inevitable—as though planned from the start.
She had known of the Brotherhood; everyone in Vorcon society did, even if only through rumor. Tales of their deeds circulated, stories of mysterious deaths often attributed to the Brotherhood’s hidden hand. For most Vorcons, the Brotherhood of Velor was a shadow in history, not a tangible threat.
Rumors persisted, of course—stories of unexplained disappearances or whispers of unseen forces subtly guiding events. Yet most dismissed these accounts as mere legends, relics of an ancient devotion to a forgotten god. For those who believed at all, the Brotherhood seemed little more than a fringe group of fanatics, isolated and with negligible influence.
She herself had thought of them as just that—a story, a piece of history. She had never imagined she would encounter the Brotherhood firsthand, much less be offered a place within it.
She’d always known her path to proving herself would be difficult, but this… this was beyond anything she’d foreseen. She had anticipated challenges, especially as a woman in the GVIF, where powerful female officers, though less common than their male counterparts, were not unheard of—and were not treated differently.
Could the Brotherhood become her means to gain influence and authority within the GVIF? Perhaps Caul had done exactly that—rising to high status despite his low birth, a rare feat in the Empire. And now, Caul’s “gift” lay before her—a trial, a key to the Brotherhood of Velor, a binding to its hidden power.
But who truly led the Brotherhood? Could Caul Malocktus himself be at its helm?
If the stories were true, the Brotherhood acted as the Empire’s silent architects, intervening from the shadows whenever they perceived a threat, “correcting” events that strayed from what they deemed the Empire’s best interests. But who decided what was best? And if they wielded such influence, what true power did the Emperor hold? How far did the Brotherhood’s reach and interference extend?
Caul had spoken of the Brotherhood’s resurgence, as if they had regained lost strength or influence. Yet it seemed they’d never truly vanished—they had always existed in some form. Nelve could easily imagine a group like this fluctuating in power, fading almost to extinction only to rise again.
Once her initiation was complete, what would come next? What will they ask of me? If taking a life was merely her entry, what else might they expect of her once fully within their ranks? More lives, each bearing greater weight and impact on the Vorcon Empire?
Had others in her family been part of the Brotherhood? Perhaps her Tahlor? Even her Tahlai, once skilled and now so distant, might have been involved. Nelve recalled a scar she’d glimpsed on her mother’s neck—a mark usually kept hidden. Cold and guarded, her Tahlai had always kept her secrets close. Could those secrets have been tied to the Brotherhood of Velor?
A faint memory surfaced of her mother’s long absence years ago, returning home changed, almost as if she’d become someone else.
These thoughts lingered as Nelve considered her next steps. She had promised her Tahlor to follow Caul’s training and fulfill his commands, and she intended to honor that promise.
Her rise to Inquisitor and assignment under Caul Malocktus had come almost too easily. It was no secret that, until recently, Caul had shared a close connection with the Emperor. Yet, over the past few months, his influence had waned—a noticeable shift.
When Nelve first came under his command, she’d glimpsed private communications between Caul and the Emperor. Recently, however, those exchanges had ceased—or so it seemed. Still, Caul’s father retained a seat on the Emperor’s council, a connection that surely lent Caul influence even now.
With a steady hand, Nelve closed the case and secured her Kelkor blade, sliding it smoothly into its sheath.
Outside the training room, she made her way back to her quarters. Each step through the ship’s corridors felt different. Crew members nodded as she passed, but their acknowledgments seemed distant, muted by the whirl of her thoughts.
She needed to kill one of them. But who? Her eyes swept over the crew, evaluating them as potential offerings. Should the sacrifice hold meaning—a figure no one would miss? Or would she be expected to justify her choice? Caul had given no guidance—only the command to kill, with the Katarath Dagger now in her possession. The order was simple, yet it filled her with questions.
In her quarters, Nelve secured the door, then removed her armor, arranging each piece on its stand. Stripping off her sweat-drenched under-armor, she felt her muscles finally loosen from hours of training, though her mind remained tightly wound with anticipation. Her pale, pure-white Vorcon skin glowed softly in the dim light. Why tonight? she wondered. She wanted—needed—more time. Would more time change anything?
As a youngling, Nelve had known the comforts of her family’s estate on Recos. Her family was wealthy—still was—but her position, distanced from direct inheritance, had always felt precarious, making her expendable to her Tahlor and, even more so, to her Tahlai. Cold and distant, her Tahlai had kept herself at arm’s length. They had never been close since that one day everything changed. Nelve could barely remember life before, but it hadn’t always been this way.
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Early on, Nelve had understood that to matter, to make a real impact, she would have to distinguish herself. Excelling in combat became her chosen path; within the Empire, it was the surest way to gain notice. Yet her father saw her only as a tool. Her childhood had been brief, mostly spent away from home, immersed in rigorous training.
Her father arranged for her to study under various Vorcon mentors, each sharpening her skills beyond combat, cultivating her intellect and strategy. She reminded herself to be grateful for this training.
She recalled the grueling days spent training with Caul Malocktus and his father, Rox—a brief but intense period that had left a lasting mark. She had seen Caul a few times afterward, though years often passed between encounters, until recently, when their paths finally converged once more. They had been among many temporary trainers in her youth, each with something distinct to teach her.
Stepping into the shower, she activated the controls, letting a cascade of ice-cold water slice through her fatigue. The icy drops struck her skin like needles, jolting her into a heightened awareness. She breathed in the chill, letting it burn away the fog of doubt, piece by piece. The shock of the cold sharpened her senses, reviving her completely. She stood under the steady stream, allowing the chill to strip away her thoughts and tension, leaving her with clarity.
After drying off, her gaze drifted to the dagger case resting on her bed. She opened it slowly, taking in the weapon inside. Its dark, curved blade ended in a lethal point, sharp as a predator’s claw. She traced a finger along the handle—a unique, horizontal grip designed for her fist to clench around, her knuckles pressing forward for a decisive, brutal thrust. Just above the grip, a slender dial and two small buttons embedded in the hilt caught her eye, perfectly positioned for her thumb to activate.
When triggered, the dagger’s hidden power unleashed, igniting a flicker of pale blue and white energy along the blade’s edge—raw and volatile, crafted for swift, lethal strikes.
She slipped into a fresh, dark under-armor weave that hugged her lean, athletic frame. Beside it lay a new cloak and matching black outfit, tailored to fit seamlessly over her light armor. Caul must have provided it, she assumed. The ensemble included a sheath designed to rest horizontally along her back, perfectly suited for the dagger. She sheathed her weapons: her Kelkor blade and her new Katarath Dagger.
Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “Always be prepared to strike from the shadows.” Those words, instilled since childhood, now resonated with sharpened significance. Have I been naive? Has my obedience left my mind closed? She paused, the weight of doubt pressing down on her. Now fully dressed, she was physically prepared, but her mind lingered on questions she couldn’t ignore.
Her long, bone-like Vorcon fingers gripped the dagger’s hilt with surprising comfort, her Kelkor blade resting at her side. Determined not to prolong the inevitable, Nelve left her quarters. What she wanted mattered little; her commitment was to move forward. Part of her longed to complete this task—not only to prove her loyalty but to understand what acceptance into the Brotherhood might truly entail. What would it bring? What am I expected to become?
Wandering through the ship without clear direction, she searched for something to anchor her purpose. She walked what felt like endless corridors, her steps aimless yet growing more resolute. Eventually, her path led her to the docking bay—a vast space with high ceilings and rows of Predator-class fighters, interspersed with transport and utility vessels. Vorcon engineers and maintenance crews moved among the crafts, their voices a low chorus of raspy hisses echoing against the metallic walls. Most appeared to be idling; the Rheeavher’s ships had seen little action since the encounter with the Seeker and not much before that.
She strolled along the line of ships, pausing beside her own Predator-class fighter. Part of me longs to climb into the cockpit and just fly away… Leaving the Vorcon Empire was rare for any Vorcon; even the dishonored and exiled clung to the hope of redemption, holding onto a slim chance of becoming needed or wanted again. Few had ever left to seek a different life. And yet, I know nothing else. I want nothing else but to secure my place. Still, she often wondered if even achieving that would bring her contentment.
Her hand brushed along the hull of her ship. She knew that, upon their return to the Empire, her responsibilities would only multiply, with this very ship poised to play a central role in her missions.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the approach of an older Vorcon crewman. His back, slightly hunched from years of service, marked him unmistakably as Routh, responsible for maintaining the fighters and utility craft—a figure respected and known by all on the ship.
“Is everything fine, Inquisitor? Do you need assistance with your ship?” Routh asked respectfully, his voice low, raspy, and dry, ending with a gentle hiss.
Nelve paused, meeting his gaze. His eyes, worn yet steady, reflected a life of unwavering service and quiet loyalty.
“Yes,” she replied softly. “The velocity shift gear has shown a slight lag. I neglected to bring it to your attention sooner.” It was a minor issue, one she could have managed, but not entirely untrue; there was indeed a lag.
“I’ll get to work on it immediately,” he responded without hesitation, eager to assist. Routh was well-known among the crew and took great pride in his work.
“I admire your dedication, Routh,” Nelve said.
He nodded, a faint spark of satisfaction lighting his eyes. “I do what I can, Inquisitor. Service is all I’ve known.” His voice softened, the words drifting into the background as he began his work.
Watching him, she felt a pang of uncertainty—a hesitation about the task that loomed over her. Routh’s dedication seemed to carry a strength she hadn’t yet found within herself, a quiet contentment in his role that she envied.
“How do you find the latest Predator fighter model?” he asked, glancing up briefly before returning to his work, carefully opening panels and setting bolts aside.
She paused. “The improvements—they make a difference. I feel it in the ship’s response.”
A faint smirk crossed Routh’s face. “Good to hear, Inquisitor. I’d worried they might not be as effective as promised. Guess I’m just stuck in my old ways,” he added, drawing out the last word with a subtle hiss.
“You’ve served the Empire well, Routh,” she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. “I commend your loyalty.”
“We all serve the Empire in our own ways,” he replied.
As he peered into an open panel, focused on his task, Nelve felt the weight of the dagger against her back, almost as if it pulsed—a silent reminder, urging her to act.
Routh continued, sharing fragments of his past as he adjusted components here and there, telling stories as though she’d asked, though she hadn’t. He recounted countless battles witnessed from the hangar bays of the many ships he’d served on, his tenure as impressive as the tales he shared.
After a while, she left the docking bay, leaving Routh to his work. “I’ll keep at it until she performs flawlessly, Inquisitor,” he assured her, already focused back on the ship. As she departed, she heard his low, raspy tone, muttering half to himself, half to the ship.
Nelve’s steps led her through sections of the vessel she hadn’t visited in weeks. The Rheeavher was vast enough that entire areas could go unseen for days. As she moved through the quiet corridors, she kept her eyes open, scanning each crew member she passed, peering into workrooms, evaluating each as a potential offering. Yet, deep down, she knew—the best sacrifice, the one she could truly offer to Velor, was already clear.
After what felt like endless wandering, she turned back toward the docking bay.
Upon her return, she found the bay quieter than before. Only Routh remained, hunched over her ship, finishing up. She watched him descend a ladder, carefully putting away tools, closing panels, restoring the ship as he’d found it. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the vast, hushed space as she approached.
Without looking up, Routh spoke. “You’re light on your feet, Inquisitor.”
She paused briefly, slightly startled, before replying, “I’ve learned to walk quietly.”
Routh straightened and turned to face her. “Inquisitor, your craft is ready. I hope it serves you well,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice, confident.
“I’m eager to take it up again once we return to the Empire,” she responded.
Routh nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine you’re ready to carry out an Inquisitor’s duties once the war begins. You’ll be busy—there are many who will have to answer to Inquisitor’s justice.”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice steady, though her gaze drifted.
He paused, then added, “I’d enjoy your company in the Feasting Hall tomorrow.”
“For what reason?” Nelve’s response was cautious.
Routh shrugged. “Just curious. I know little of you,” he said. “An old Vorcon’s curiosity, I suppose.”
At the mention of her family’s legacy, Nelve’s expression softened slightly. “Yes, I’d like that,” she agreed.
Routh nodded and began gathering his equipment, heading toward an enclosed storage room.
Nelve followed in silence, her steps steady and contemplative as she observed his calm, measured pace, unhurried by the slight stoop in his frame. Her hand hovered near the dagger.
Inside the storage room, Routh started arranging his tools, focusing on the ship’s docking inventory displayed on a computer console. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, calm yet unyielding: Hesitation is defeat.
Her fingers brushed the dagger’s hilt at her back. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. In one swift, fluid motion, she drew the dagger, activating it as her arm extended. At the last second, she angled it downward, aiming precisely at the point between his neck and shoulder.
The blade struck true, and the impact surprised even her. She felt its vibration down to her bones as energy pulsed along its edge, vaporizing Routh instantly. She stood still, staring in disbelief. No sound, no blood—just his empty uniform lying lifeless on the floor. She hadn’t known exactly how the weapon would perform, but now she understood.
Her hands trembled slightly as she knelt, gathering the clothes with methodical care. Moving to the disposal unit, she placed the uniform inside, watching as the machine whirred to life, erasing the last traces of Routh. It was done.
She stepped out of the storage room slowly, each step weighted by what she’d done. Yet beneath that weight, a strange calm began to settle—her first trial was complete. If she was to succeed, this was only the beginning; more deaths would follow, and her emotions would have to be kept at bay.
Ahead, two engineers, Brot and Noeth, approached, absorbed in casual conversation and oblivious to what had just transpired. As they drew near, Brot gave her a respectful nod.
"Inquisitor, have you seen Routh?" he asked. "We heard he was finishing up some work on your ship."
Nelve met his gaze, her voice steady, betraying nothing. "I was actually looking for him myself," she replied.
“Maybe he’s in his quarters?” Noeth suggested, as they turned back to discussing it between themselves.
Satisfied, the two continued on their way, still unaware. Nelve exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the path she had chosen. Where it would lead, only time would reveal. She had stepped into something unknown, hoping she possessed the strength to see it through.