CHAPTER 16
GVIF Rheeavher
The Cavaglatar Sector
Date: Zeran 20, Year 4731
Nelve entered the Rheeavher’s feasting hall, her thoughts tangled with the initiation task that had sealed her place in the Brotherhood of Velor. Taking Routh’s life had been easier than she expected, the act carried out without hesitation. Did Routh deserve to die by my hand? How many more lives will I have to take?
After completing her task the previous night, she had slept soundly in her quarters and spent the following day training as usual. Yet, there was no sign of Major Legate Caul Malocktus. Normally, he appeared near the end of her sessions, observing in silence, critiquing, or rating her performance. But now, since completing her task, there had been nothing—no summons, no word. She had expected him to call for her sooner; instead, time dragged on.
The feasting hall stretched before her, expansive, with high, arched ceilings and tables arranged in disciplined symmetry, evoking the grandeur of the feasting halls on the Vorcon homeworlds. Communal dining held deep significance for the Vorcons—ingrained in their culture, it brought together all ranks, noble and lowborn alike, without the need for a special occasion. On vessels of the GVIF Armada, such halls fostered unity, but on the planets of the Vorcon Empire, these spaces were sharply divided by class: nobles dined with nobles, the lowborn with their own, and all others segregated in between.
The mingling scents of roasted stok and spiced tark fruit hung heavily in the air, saturating the space. Overhead, the vaulted ceilings amplified every sound—the clink of tankards, the scrape of metal cutlery on plates, and the distinct rasp of laughter interwoven with the hissing consonants of Vorcon speech. Conversations flowed freely, while the soft strains of oterstraca music—a symphony of strings, audible yet unobtrusive—threaded through the atmosphere.
Dining was a stage for many, a place to display their wit. Discussions spanned the breadth of the Empire: political maneuvering, strategic discourse, reports of enemy movements, tales of victories and defeats, and whispers of intrigue both ancient and fresh. News traveled across these tables, blurring the lines between fact and rumor, each story sharpened or softened to suit the teller’s motives. Here, verbal prowess was as vital as skill in combat.
Icons of Vorcon gods adorned the walls. Among them, Varr, the God of Destruction, gripped a jagged weapon, his unyielding stare from the painted surface seeming to pass judgment on all who dared meet his gaze. Nearby, Eira, the Goddess of Consequences, stood encircled by twisting vines, her form both inviting and perilously beautiful—an emblem of temptation and caution, alluring yet treacherous. Another wall depicted the sacred moon Hyvexa, with threads of light ascending from the Vorcon capital, Kor, as if carrying the souls of the departed to their eternal destination.
At the forefront of the hall, on a raised platform, sat Major Legate Caul Malocktus, positioned like a lord surveying his domain. Yet Caul was far from nobility, as lowborn as they came. His vantage gave him a commanding view of the room, his personal weapons within arm's reach while his guards—the Vorcon bruisers—stood watchfully nearby.
Nelve knew of Caul’s tactical brilliance, honed during the war—a reputation that had propelled him swiftly through the ranks of the GVIF. Her father held Caul in high regard, as did many others, though respect for one’s skill and personal likability rarely aligned. Caul was both respected and disliked in equal measure, and the balance seemed to tip increasingly toward disdain. It was natural, she thought, for a man who amassed power to also gather powerful enemies.
Lately, it seemed Caul never went anywhere without his guards. Is there something he’s concerned about? she wondered. Nelve doubted she truly understood what drove him or what lingered in his mind. In some ways, he seemed straightforward: he had power, craved more, and was relentless in its pursuit. He was always plotting, always calculating—constantly searching for the next advantage.
Yet the Brotherhood of Velor had revealed layers of Caul she hadn’t anticipated, suggesting she’d stepped into a world far more dangerous than she had known—or could have imagined. It was a world she had little idea how to navigate. I’ll have to learn quickly. She didn’t doubt her combat skills, but this was different. She’d been trained and prepared for many things, but this? She wasn’t so sure.
I don’t want to die, but if I wake up tomorrow with a blade at my throat—moments before I’m sacrificed myself—then so be it. Let the gods take me if that’s to be my fate. If one takes life so easily, must they not also be at peace with losing their own in an instant? Was that the balance?
As she slipped to her usual seat near the hall’s edge, she could feel him watching. His unblinking, red eyes tracked her every movement, locking onto her.
She took her seat, her expression carefully unreadable. As she did each night, Nelve settled in silently, detached. There was little choice: eat in the feasting hall, or go without.
“Eyes like that see everything,” an older officer rasped, his voice low enough to almost be swallowed by the sea of conversation. Nelve stiffened slightly but made no effort to acknowledge him, uncertain whether the words were directed at her.
“And what they don’t see,” the officer continued, “they’ll make sure someone else does.”
Nelve caught herself exhaling softly, realizing the officer was speaking to someone else. Whether he had meant Caul or another, the description fit all too well—and it startled her. Embarrassment flickered within her, and she hoped it hadn’t been noticed. A group of figures passed through the middle of the hall, between the rows of tables. Each figure measured approximately seven feet in height, their skin pale—an off-white—that reflected the overhead light. They snickered at something one of them had said, their laughter echoing through the hall.
Trained to observe, she lacked the skill and will for the daily debates. She absorbed the flow of information around her with detached focus, viewing it as knowledge to be stored and used when necessary.
Yet tonight offered little of significance. The same themes repeated like echoes: calls for war, reflections on past battles, and speculations about the next conflict.
Whispers of the Emperor’s failing health surfaced intermittently, paired with doubts about the readiness of his heir to rule. The concern was widespread but cautiously voiced.
The long tables showcased a lavish spread of traditional Vorcon dishes. At the center sat a large, steaming platter of stok—a wild beast native to the rugged terrains of the moon Iylon. Its rich aroma, enhanced with zhar leaves, drifted through the hall, drawing appreciative glances.
Bowls of pentil, a hearty grain, burst with tangy flavor from tark fruit juices. Surrounding the main dishes were an assortment of sides: skewers of zelint roots, harvested from the lush Navore fields and coated in vunilic paste—a sticky delicacy made from neefar sap. Plates of crisp narleaf greens, lightly drizzled with anthe oil, added a vibrant touch. Large tankards of sweetened water, their surfaces beaded with condensation from the room’s heat, completed the feast.
The servers, members of the Varenthi species enslaved by the Vorcon Empire—whose home system remained occupied and subjugated—moved through the dining hall with slow, burdened grace. Security bracelets anchored to their ankles. Their dark gray skin, appearing almost armor-like. One server flinched as a soldier barked for more tark fruit, his tray shaking before he steadied it. Nelve observed the faint hesitation in their movements, wondering if it stemmed from fear—or defiance.
Their steps slow, their vibrantly colored eyes fixed downward, as if even the smallest misstep might provoke their Vorcon overseers.
Celenthay, the Varenthi homeworld, had become a vital asset to the Vorcon Empire. Rich in resources like aporite, sustencium, and aniumite, it played a crucial role in fueling the Empire’s supply chains. The Varenthi serving aboard ships like this had it comparatively easy; those relegated to the brutal mining operations faced far harsher fates.
Now, a puppet regime governed the planet under tight Vorcon oversight, with the Runali enforcing compliance. These enforcers managed the logistical and administrative demands of occupation, freeing the Vorcon military to allocate fewer forces and focus on other strategic goals.
As Nelve observed the Varenthi servers, a faint trace of pity stirred within her. Their endurance under such conditions was, in its way, admirable—but only to a point. True freedom would require them to fight for it, she thought. Yet they rarely did. Their hunched shoulders could just as easily be from years of grueling labor as from the crushing weight of broken spirits. If they won’t fight for themselves, perhaps they deserve their fate.
A memory clawed its way to the surface: a Varenthi slave, desperation burning in his eyes, plunging a dull utensil into the chest of a Guardian-ranked Vorcon officer. The Guardian’s snicker—a cruel, hollow sound—carried through the hall, joined by the laughter of onlookers. What followed was a grim spectacle of ridicule and taunts.
Days later, the same Varenthi hung chained to a pillar, his body withering as life slowly drained away. The days stretched on, yet the sight did little to curb the appetite of the crowd, who dined with detached indifference to his suffering.
When one has nothing left to lose, a strike to the chest of one’s oppressor might feel worth it—even if it’s the last act of a life enslaved.
Stolen novel; please report.
Her attention shifted to Caul, seated at the raised platform. Officers approached him—some seeking guidance, others paying their respects. His demeanor was calm, he never needed to raise his voice or rush a single word. Authority radiated from every subtle gesture. One could not endure long on the Rheeavher without offering Caul the proper respects. Yet, the sharpest among them recognized that he admired subtle defiance as much as submission.
As the meal began, Nelve ate in silence, finding solace in her solitude. Her thoughts drifted to her family’s ambitions: power, respect, and the restoration of their name. These goals were as much theirs as hers, though they seemed to matter more to them. Still, their aspirations offered her a path to rise—though she had no idea what she’d do with it if she succeeded. Isn’t this what all Vorcons sought? Status, power, perhaps even immortality?
Around her, more familiar faces filled the hall. Nelve recognized many but knew little about them beyond surface facts—and she preferred it that way. The political maneuvering and exaggerated tales grated on her. Idle chatter is exhausting. Vorcon honesty is an elaborate act of self-deception. Her solitude was intentional, a means to preserve clarity and control.
Her closest equivalent to a friend was Ubar, though he was as much a rival as an ally. Both served under Major Legate Caul as inquisitors, though Ubar had held the position a year and a half longer than she had. In that time, he seemed to have secured the Major Legate’s trust.
Is Ubar among the ranks of the Brotherhood of Velor? she wondered, imagining his sharp tongue cutting through the low murmur of the hall. He has to be involved. He was currently away on some mission.
From a young age, her exceptional speed and agility had set her apart from her siblings. While her youngest brother was often praised for raw combat skill, her family valued more than just strength. Precision, evasion, and accuracy were equally prized—and in these, Nelve excelled.
Each sibling had been strategically placed in roles that leveraged their unique strengths for the family’s benefit. Her oldest brother commanded on the battlefield for their house, preparing to lead it one day. Her second-eldest brother served as a guard to the emperor, a position of prestige, honor, and trust. Her eldest sister commanded a GVIF base, while her youngest brother was beginning his career within the GVIF.
Three of her sisters had married into influential families, strengthening the family’s position within the Empire’s political sphere.
Reflecting on these roles, Nelve acknowledged her unique position compared to the rest. Her siblings’ paths were clear, but hers was destined to remain in the shadows. She was still an Inquisitor, yet she wondered if that role would now serve as little more than a front for her new position within the Brotherhood of Velor. The truth was, she had little idea how things would unfold from here.
The gods will know. The words echoed in her mind—Caul’s words. Yet she questioned whether she truly believed in them. The gods had never spoken to her, never shown any sign of their presence. Many had claimed to hear their voices, to feel their guidance. Some made it their life’s work to seek their favor, to please them.
Will the gods hear me? See me? Will Velor, the Forgotten God speak to me?
Casually, Nelve finished her meal and rose from the table. Others followed suit, while the Varenthi servers began clearing the remnants. The clatter of dishes mixed with the fading murmur of exiting conversations.
Nelve moved through the gradually emptying hall and exited.
Back in her quarters, she settled in, her tasks for the day complete. But the calm was shattered by the sharp buzz of her transceiver. Caul Malocktus’s voice came through, clear and cold, unmistakable: “Inquisitor, come to my chambers.” His tone was low, laced with a lingering hiss. He didn’t wait for a response.
Without hesitation, Nelve made her way to Caul’s chambers, though tension coiled tightly in her chest.
Her fingers hovered over the panel outside his door. Did I carry out the task as he would have wanted? She could almost feel his piercing red eyes burning through the barrier between them. Steeling herself, she activated the intercom outside Caul's chambers.
“Enter,” Caul’s voice low and drawn out.
The heavy door slid downward, and Nelve stepped inside. Caul sat behind his desk, his focus fixed on a glowing photon map. He didn’t immediately acknowledge her, his attention seemingly locked on the galaxy’s outer edges displayed before him. Slates and ancient books—some not of Vorcon origin—cluttered the desk. The moment his eyes met hers, his unblinking red gaze seized her.
“Inquisitor,” he began, his voice barely audible, stretched into a deliberate hiss. “Sitttt.”
Nelve obeyed, lowering herself into the seat across from him. Outwardly composed, though her nerves simmered beneath.
Caul deactivated the map, plunging the room into darkness before the room’s overhead lights activated.
“You have completed the task.” It was not a question.
She nodded once, her voice steady. “Yes, Master. It is done.”
“Where is your Katarath dagger?” Caul asked, his tone neutral, curious.
Nelve hesitated, unsure of his intent. Was he planning to take it back? Slowly, she reached behind her, unsheathing the blade and holding it out to him.
A slow smirk spread across his face. “From now on, you must always carry it. I accept you into the Brotherhood of Velor. Know that it will not be official until we reach the Prine system, where you will be formally initiated. There is no turning back now. There is forward, or there is death. Loyalty is not a currency you spend once—it’s a debt, Nelve. And debts must be paid.”
“I understand, Master,” she replied, sheathing her dagger behind her back.
A brief silence stretched between them as Caul leaned back in his chair. “Tell me how you completed this task.”
Nelve recounted the encounter with Routh. She described how she approached him, engaging him in casual conversation to lull his guard before striking with the Katarath dagger. She detailed the steps taken to ensure no trace remained.
The ship’s security had already begun its investigation, Caul had assured them they would uncover nothing.
Caul listened, revealing neither approval nor displeasure. When she finished, he hissed softly, his tongue sliding across his razor-sharp teeth. “Given your limited options, I feel you have done well. Well enough.”
She has chosen wisely. Routh had been useful, but his effectiveness was gradually waning. Caul was satisfied that Routh’s death had been given meaning.
Nelve inclined her head slightly, accepting his verdict without comment.
“Routh… why?” he asked.
“He served the Empire well,” Nelve replied evenly. “I wanted to give his death meaning before old age turned him feeble.”
He let the silence settle, his tone shifting to something faintly instructive. “The Katarath dagger holds a device—a Solvyth incorporated into its design—within it, a Korvex Stone,” he said.
Nelve’s eyes widened slightly. “A soul-catching stone?” she asked, her voice steady despite the intrigue curling within her thoughts.
He left it at that, with no desire to discuss it further at the moment.
“There are others I would have preferred, but Routh was a worthy choice,” he said. “You are now one of the Brotherhood of Velor. But remember this: entrance requires a single price; loyalty demands many.” His smirk faded into a cold, unyielding stare. “There will be times when your allegiance to the Brotherhood seems dormant, when our role is quiet. But we serve when needed, when called.”
He paused. “Your only duty now is to train. This will not resemble your previous training—it will be something far more.” Each word was punctuated by soft hisses. “When we return to the Empire, events may shift quickly. Be prepared. We stand at the edge of a new age.” His voice dipped into something reverent. “True power will return.”
Caul’s tone thickened. “Power is not merely taken; it is wielded—with precision, with intent.” He paused, letting the silence draw taut between them. “Do you understand, Inquisitor?”
“I will give all I have to the Brotherhood. To Velor,” she replied.
“There are times,” he began, “when a bloodline must be purged. Look through the Empire’s history, and you’ll see patterns—family members dying one after another.”
Leaning back slightly, he continued, “Study a family’s state before and after these ‘accidents,’ and you’ll always find someone further down the line—someone willing to serve the Empire as they should. Resistance, no matter how stubborn, eventually buckles. Some may resist, but they comply to retain power. No Vorcon house is strong enough to defy the Empire indefinitely.”
He let the words linger, an unspoken instruction for Nelve to consider.
“The Brotherhood exists to ensure the Empire remains unbroken, unchallenged. Strength is demanded at every level.” His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “You have the potential to become one of my most valuable agents. Your skills, your dedication... there is power within the Empire, waiting to be wielded.”
“We honor our history. Our gods remain unchanged after centuries, as does our reverence for true strength. Yet we have grown too reliant on technological power. In doing so, we have forsaken the ancient forces we once wielded.”
Her mind wandered to the relics rumored to be hidden within the Emperor’s palace. Is he speaking of the ancient weapons of the Empire?
“Once word spreads of what we are truly capable of—of the destruction we can unleash—they will fear us,” Caul continued, his voice dipping into a raspy hiss. “Right now, they see us as weakened, defeated, retreating to our own borders, abandoning hard-won gains.” He paused, his eyes darkening. “Do you know what led to our failure?”
“We tried to hold on to too much territory, too soon. We made too many enemies. Our Emperor wouldn’t listen.” Her voice carried the echoes of her father’s bitter remarks during countless conversations at the table on Recos.
“He grew deaf to all voices but the one in his own head. That might have been tolerable if his vision wasn’t so shortsighted. It was not a fitting end for what had once been a promising reign. The war might still be raging had we been wiser—had we not clung so desperately to worlds that offered us nothing.”
He leaned forward. “When the time is right, you will meet the leader of the Brotherhood of Velor. You’ll see the full scope of our order and come to understand the true depth of our purpose.”
A shiver of anticipation ran through Nelve. “I look forward to that day.”
“It approaches quickly. For now, focus your mind. Know that I will provide you knowledge; I will guide you. I reward loyalty and usefulness well—qualities which will be tested further.”
With that, Caul dismissed her, his attention snapping back to his work, reactivating the photon map.
As Nelve stepped out of his chambers and made her way back to her quarters, her thoughts drifted to the seemingly endless voyage back to the Vorcon Empire. What is Caul waiting for? she wondered. He seems to be delaying our return for some reason.