Chapter 8.

Caul Malocktus stood on the bridge of the Rheeavher, his black eyes—each with a burning red core—fixed on the spot where the Rift had just sealed, allowing The Seeker to slip away. The stars stretched before him, distant and indifferent. A faint smirk crept across his face, like a predator watching its prey struggle. How long before he realizes I let him escape? He must know by now—his isolation couldn’t have dulled his instincts that much. Return to the Seven Worlds, Garen. Take your place on the battlefield.

I need him strong. Garen’s defeat had to be absolute, witnessed by many. Yet the question lingered, unspoken but persistent: Who is superior? If even he had doubts, others surely did as well. That uncertainty was an unforgiving constant, lingering—the whispers behind his back. There was little doubt about Caul’s ability, but then came the exception: Garen Rivers.

Caul's father, often a calming voice in his life, had once told him it was a good thing. Garen Rivers had a reputation, even within the Vorcon Empire—his enemies respected his abilities. "When you finally defeat him," his father had said, "it will be considered an even greater victory now that his legend has grown. His defeat will mean more now than it would have years ago."

Caul’s reflection flickered in the observation window—black armor edged in silver. His Dissolver hung at his left hip, balanced by the Kelkor Blade. Beneath his cloak, a dagger lay strapped to his back, always within reach.

Two years of commanding the Rheeavher in peacetime had stirred a restlessness deep within him. Forged in war, Caul craved the chaos that had once defined him. For the first time he could remember clearly, the Vorcon Empire was not at war, and the stillness unnerved him. It left a hollow he could not fill, though the last ten years of had greatly benefited the Malocktus family.

Becoming Major Legate was a rare honor for someone of his birth—an achievement usually reserved for noble bloodlines. Yet here he stood, in command of one of the fleet’s most formidable war galleons. He now wielded power he had never before held, and he was eager—aching—to unleash it. To be granted such power and not be able to use it was torment.

His name was already whispered in both fear and reverence. But this command, this ship, would prove he was more than just a warrior. He would lead. He would conquer.

It wasn’t just battlefields that had brought him here. In truth, it was never solely his skill in open combat—there were many great Vorcon warriors with skill. They were bred to be warriors from youth.

What had elevated him, what had truly granted him power, were the whispers. Secrets. A blade in the dark. Caul had mastered them all before his enemies even knew they were marked. In the name of Velor.

The Vorcon Empire had rebuilt itself after the treaty, stronger and more determined to erase the shame of defeat. Though their armada had not been destroyed in the last war, it had been battered, supplies stretched thin, with far too much territory to defend. Since then, every shipyard, every resource had been funneled into its resurgence.

Yet, despite this newfound strength, Caul sensed hesitation. What are they waiting for?

In recent months, Emperor Nor Kotoron had grown distant. Where once they shared words often, now there was only silence. The gap between them widened, and rumors of rivals vying for the Emperor’s favor reached Caul’s ears. He had been sure of his place for a time—until now. Was it Nor’s age? His failing health? Had others taken control? He would find out soon enough.

One thing was certain: many feared him. They all do, Caul thought, his jaw tightening. And when the Emperor falls—and he surely will—what will that mean for me?

Caul had grown up with little power. The Malocktus family had owned nothing, lowborn in an empire ruled by the Emperor and noble lords. Now, they possessed both power and wealth, yet they were still regarded as lowborn—because they were.

He had earned his power through loyalty, fulfilling every duty. Where would the Vorcon Empire—where would Nor—be without him?

This position is mine, Caul thought. Caul’s fingers brushed the hilt of his Kelkor Blade. He had earned it—sacrificed for it.

If they took everything, he would return to the shadows—his true domain, where power shifted unseen. Let them try to strip me of command, of my titles—they’ll find me far more dangerous without the pretense of honor. In the dark, he was at his deadliest. And he wanted more than what he had—power was endless. He would not give it up easily. He would take more.

Caul’s return to Kor, the capital of the Vorcon Empire, was next, now that his personal mission to Chiex was concluded. The upcoming meeting would gather those who truly held power in the Empire—The Emperor, noble leaders, the Emperor’s council, and the top GVIF officials. Rumors had circulated for months that war was near, and many believed this gathering would mark the formal announcement of the Empire’s next conflict.

To complicate matters, Emperor Nor Kotoron’s frailty was no longer whispered in hushed tones but spoken openly among the nobles. The question was no longer if the Emperor would pass, but when—and who would pick up the pieces. Though Nor had heirs and a clear line of succession, confidence in them was nonexistent. Could this be the end of the Kotoron dynasty?

Nor Kotoron had not come to power easily. He inherited the throne under unusual circumstances following the mysterious death of his brother, Tor, in the aftermath of the last war. Though the treaty had been signed, peace had come at a price—one many in the Empire were reluctant to accept. It wasn’t peace; it was defeat. Many of Tor’s sons—the rightful heirs—had fallen in the final battles, while others met untimely deaths after the treaty and their father’s passing. Too much coincidence to be ignored.

As a result, the Empire teetered on the edge of collapse. Noble lords scrambled for power, forging and dissolving alliances. Amid the chaos, Nor, the unlikely brother, ascended to the throne. In truth, he was the rightful heir, as far as anyone knew.

Nor’s rule had not been without struggle. He assumed the crown at an advanced age. Before his ascension, he had been instrumental in rebuilding the Vorcon armada during the war, keeping them supplied with new ships—a responsibility given to him by the previous Emperor, his brother.

Now, after a decade as Emperor, Nor had grown weak. His frailty—both physical and political—deepened the uncertainty. An empire was only as strong as its Emperor, and Nor’s strength was slipping away. Whispers of his decline stirred doubts about the Empire’s future. Who will command when Nor falls? His eldest son, Ryn Kotoron, was next in line, but he inspired little confidence. The path forward for the Vorcon Empire was far from certain.

There will be war, Caul thought. There is always war.

Nor would die without ever leading the Vorcon Empire into battle. History wouldn’t remember the Emperor’s frailty. Nor would not lead them to victory, even if the new armada he had built could achieve just that.

As Caul moved across the bridge, his eyes glanced briefly at the arches etched with Vorcon gods—figures of legend. He imagined himself among them one day. Figures many aspired to join, just as Caul did. In his mind, he was already on that path. Pillars lined the bridge, supporting the high ceiling.

At the heart of the bridge sat the command chair, slightly elevated. Only Caul, the Major Legate, was permitted to sit there, regardless of who was overseeing the bridge.

A few feet behind the command chair stood a large, round display table. From here, Caul could command the armada that would fall under his control in wartime, a responsibility tied to his rank. Though he had yet to lead the Rheeavher into open battle or command an armada of his own.

To the left of the command chair sat Commodore Rados Gahlenka, the ship’s second-in-command. His seat, though positioned for authority, was dwarfed by the Major Legate’s.

The war had worn Gahlenka down. Once a respected warrior, his frame had grown frail, weakened by years of conflict and a final encounter that had left him broken. His body had never fully recovered, though his mind remained sharp. That was why Caul had chosen him—he was competent. He was useful. Nothing more, nothing less.

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In front of the expansive observation window, five lowered workstations were manned by Vorcon crew members. The central station, responsible for the main helm, controlled the Rheeavher's navigation. The others—two on each side—provided support.

Operational stations lined the bridge in neat rows, each dedicated to a specific function. Some, intended for communication with the Armada during wartime, sat vacant, waiting to be manned when the ship assumed its role as a command vessel.

The crew worked with rigid focus, heads down, eyes fixed on their tasks. None dared glance at Caul. Since The Seeker had vanished into the Rift, he hadn’t moved. The crew waited in silence, aware that the journey to Chiex, as far as they knew, had yielded nothing. But they knew only what Caul had allowed them to. Their role was to operate the war galleon, not to question him. His motives were his own.

The central area remained open and spacious, while Vorcon guards stood at attention by the entrances, fully armed and armored.

Caul turned from the observation window, his steps slow and deliberate, his cloak whispering against the floor. Every officer on the bridge stiffened, silently hoping to avoid catching the Major Legate’s attention.

Rados Gahlenka’s bone-white skin had long lost the vibrancy of youth. His black eyes—each with a burning red core like Caul’s—no longer held their sharpness. Though only a few years older than Caul, Gahlenka felt the weight of his age far more keenly. As Caul paused beside the command chair, he cast a sidelong glance at Gahlenka. A flicker of old pain crossed Rados’s face, but he kept his posture straight.

Once, he had taken pride in his promotion to Commodore. Now, that pride felt distant, eroded under Caul’s command. He shifted slightly in his seat, another flash of discomfort crossing his face as his eyes briefly met Caul’s.

All he does is maneuver in the shadows, Gahlenka thought, keeping a neutral expression. What has he done to deserve this command? Fought in the war? Sure, he was a good warrior—I’ll give him that. So was I, once. His thoughts turned bitter. I know his family’s secrets. He thinks I’m a fool, thinks we’re all fools. Let him think it. I’ll play the fool—for now.

We traveled all this way for what? Gahlenka’s frustration simmered beneath the surface. To taunt an old RDF general? It feels beneath us. He resented Caul for dragging them on what seemed like a wasted mission. Yet, despite his irritation, Gahlenka knew his position aboard the Rheeavher was an honor, even if it was overshadowed by Caul. Years of loyal service, and still, the independent command he craved remained just out of reach. Commodores usually led their own ships, but not here—not under Major Legate Caul Malocktus.

Much of the ship’s operations fell under Gahlenka’s purview, yet it was never truly his vessel. Days would pass without Caul setting foot on the bridge unless something demanded his attention. Gahlenka was beginning to accept that this might be the peak of his career—a realization that was slowly killing him.

Caul’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Gahlenka.”

A slight tremor ran through Gahlenka’s hand, though he quickly suppressed it. Once, I would have stood up to anyone, he thought bitterly. Even Caul.

“Finish boarding all craft,” Caul’s low, raspy voice commanded, dragging out the end of the sentence.

Gahlenka stiffened. “As ordered,” he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. He turned back to the console and relayed the command.

A few moments later, Gahlenka’s confirmation came through. “All craft are docked, Major Legate, except for the cruiser on the surface,” he rasped, his voice strained.

Caul’s gaze lingered on Gahlenka. “Good,” he said. “Inform me the moment the Inquisitor returns. I expect a full report.”

Without waiting for a response, Caul moved across the bridge, his steps nearly silent. The officers at their stations straightened as he passed. They felt his presence without needing to see his eyes.

Caul exited the bridge, flanked by his personal guards—two Vorcon Bruisers, fully armored, with Plasmords strapped to their backs. Their heavy steps echoed through the halls as Caul reached his chambers, where the guards stood waiting outside.

Inside, Caul poured a glass of dark red wine, the liquid thick and slow, its scent pungent and sour. One wall was lined with shelves of ancient volumes, texts, and scattered artifacts—some broken. Another displayed his personal arsenal: three Kelkor Blades, four Dissolver pistols, and a Kord. Behind his desk, a concealed door led to his private quarters.

He sat at his desk, sipping his wine as he scanned the ship’s daily reports on his console. His mind moved through the names of officers, assessing their performance. On the Rheeavher, exceptional performance wasn’t a goal—it was the only option.

The transceiver buzzed. “Major Legate Malocktus, Inquisitor Rellocha has returned to the Rheeavher.”

Caul pressed the transceiver. “Rellocha, report,” he ordered. He could have contacted her directly, but he preferred to broadcast his voice through the ship, letting his name echo through the halls.

A few moments later, the door buzzed a raw sound, and Inquisitor Nelve Rellocha entered. She stood tall in her black armor, her black eyes with dark green centers locking deliberately with Caul’s red-centered gaze.

Caul swirled his wine, the thick scent rising between them, though his eyes never left her. His gaze pinned her in place, just as it had the first time she stood before him. What does he see in me? Nelve wondered, resisting the urge to shift under his scrutiny. She still didn’t fully understand him, but she knew enough—enough to be careful.

“Have you destroyed his home?” Caul’s voice was almost casual.

“There is nothing left, Major Legate,” Nelve replied. “We launched several high-yield missiles. The site is annihilated.”

A thin silence followed, but Caul’s smirk widened as his gaze narrowed on Nelve. She held her composure, though the weight of his stare pressed down on her, oppressive, like a physical force.

“He has nowhere to return to now, other than the Seven Worlds,” Caul said with a faint snicker.

Nelve stood motionless. This is what it was all about?

"Where does true power lie, Inquisitor?' Caul’s voice softened, daring her to answer wrong.

Her response was immediate, reflexive. “In a united Empire, with the gods’ favor,” she said, her tone steady.

Caul’s eyes sharpened. “Does the Emperor hold true power?” he hissed.

“If the Empire is united, yes,” she answered.

“And what if the Emperor is weak?” Caul leaned forward slightly.

“Then the Empire will fight until strength is restored. By the will of Valtos, by the will of the gods,” she replied, keeping her voice controlled, emotionless.

Caul took a sip of wine. “And our Emperor at this moment?”

Nelve hesitated, recalling her father’s words: Tell him what he wants to hear, but believe it. “The Emperor lacks strength,” she said, forcing her voice steady while her heart raced. Is this what he wants?

"He does." Caul’s voice was ice. "And that makes us weak. The Empire weak. For now, it holds together, but war will test its true strength.”

His gaze drifted, something dangerous flickering in his eyes before he refocused. “I hadn’t realized until now that this was foretold to me. The state of the Empire as it stands today.” His thoughts briefly returned to something he had heard long ago.

Nelve remained still, processing his words. Finally, she ventured, “Foretold, Major Legate?”

“Yes,” Caul replied, his gaze distant, as though recalling a long-buried vision. “They told me.” He was silent for a moment, memories surfacing before he pushed them aside as if they had never existed. “We will support Nor Kotoron,” he added, a smirk spreading across his face.

“For the Empire, for the Emperor,” Nelve said, reciting a common Vorcon saying.

Caul studied her, his silence heavy. Finally, he spoke, voice smooth but rasping. “Soon, Inquisitor, you and Ubar will handle several tasks for me. First, your training will be tested to its limits.”

“I am ready,” Nelve replied quickly, though the words felt hollow. What training is he referring to? Am I not trained?

“Are you?” Caul hissed. “Loyalty, Inquisitor, is not something to be spoken—it must be proven. Every action, every breath must serve me... and the Empire.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “I expect more than just obedience. I expect devotion.”

“I will obey,” Nelve affirmed. Her family’s honor, her future in the Empire—everything hinged on her loyalty. She could not afford a single misstep.

“My words may mean little to you now, but soon, I will ask more of you. Further commitment.” Caul leaned back in his chair, letting the words linger. He took a slow, deliberate sip of wine, savoring the moment before speaking again. “Garen Rivers. You destroyed his home. What do you know of him?”

“A respected warrior and strategist,” Nelve answered, careful not to misstep. She knew much of Garen’s history—and Caul’s.

Caul nodded, a sharp smile revealing his back teeth. “And after the war?”

“They turned their backs on him—the Seven Worlds,” Nelve replied, her tone steady but cautious. “Disgraced him. Cast him aside.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it? How they discarded someone so loyal, so valuable to their cause. It reveals the true nature of humans—loyalty means nothing to them.” Caul’s thoughts briefly drifted to his own situation. “Perhaps it’s a trait common across many worlds. I could have destroyed him today, but what would be the point?”

“You’ve already proven your superiority. You’ve grown in power and rank, while he has nothing now.”

Caul laughed, cold and sharp. “That is all for now, Inquisitor.”

“Major Legate.” Nelve gave a swift nod and turned to leave.

Caul remained at his desk, wine in hand. Nelve had proven herself capable so far, but Caul needed more. It was time to test her further—to uncover her true worth.