CHAPTER 31

Rhyus

The Rhyus System, Karbay Nolan Sector

Date: Zeran 28, Year 4731

Restless in bed, Garen struggled to process being back on Rhyus. Despite his exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

He knew little about the upcoming mission—only that it involved taking a stealth ship into Vorcon territory. But he wasn’t sure he still had it in him.

Amar Lavont had faith in him, but Garen wasn’t sure he deserved to lead.

Could he still lead a crew? His days of command were long behind him. Leadership had once been instinctual, but like any skill, it dulled from disuse. If he couldn’t inspire confidence, the mission was doomed before it even began.

For a decade on Chiex, Garen had gone long stretches without speaking to anyone but himself. His interactions were rare—limited to the occasional visit with Klamarez and even less frequent trips to Calio Landing. Solitude had defined his exile.

When Garen was stripped of command of the RDF capital battlecruiser Riftkin, he had been reassigned—confined to an office within RDF headquarters. The assignment was a slow erosion, wearing away at his will. His time on Rhyus, after losing the Riftkin, spiraled into bitterness and regret.

He hadn’t been his best self then. His regrets about how he had treated others had long since faded—it was easy when he no longer had to see them. Maybe Amar deserved some of it, though not all of it. But Terra? She had never deserved his anger, nor the cold distance that followed.

If I could take one thing back, he thought, she didn’t deserve my bitterness.

Rhyus was lavish, yet to Garen, it felt empty. It had everything—except meaning. Surrounded by its opulence, he felt nothing. It was hollow, unable to fill the emptiness within.

Losing the Riftkin had stripped him of his identity. His new role was nothing more than an empty title.

His life had always been unpredictable, one crisis after another. Then the days blurred—identical, suffocating, inescapable.

The RDF wanted him gone—doing everything but dismissing him outright. They let him disappear into obscurity, making it clear there was no future for him.

Garen never forgot how they had treated him after he spoke out against the peace treaty with the Vorcons. They dragged his name through the mud, painting him as a war-hungry, battle-crazed officer who had spent too much time on the front lines. Broadcasts mocked him, turning his name into easy fodder for late-night jabs and roundtable sneers. News cycles tore apart his downfall while talk shows reduced his legacy to a punchline. His years of service were erased overnight—another casualty of a war that had gone on too long, his disgrace framed as just one more reason to finally bring it to an end.

Even after he fell silent, the Council of Seven continued discrediting him. They ruled him unfit to command a battlecruiser, a decision RDF Command enforced without hesitation.

Once a celebrated strategist and warrior, Garen found his insights ignored, his contributions reduced to little more than a formality. He had become an insignificant cog in the very machine he had once driven forward. Everything around him felt muted, distant.

Evenings on his patio, high above the city, were his only escape—a drink in hand, music playing. For a time, it was all he had to look forward to, but it never brought enjoyment, only distraction.

He would sit there, staring into the night, watching the endless traffic. Ships came and went in an endless cycle. The city never quieted, never stopped. You could push it to the background, but once you left, only then did you realize just how loud it had been.

He kept revisiting the choices that led him here, replaying the events again and again. Yet, not once did he regret what he said or did.

What else could I have done?

He always spoke his mind during his RDF career—whether Command, or even Amar Lavont, agreed with him or not. He had always believed he could speak out, at least be heard.

Under the open sky, he could almost forget what he had become—an RDF general with no command and no voice.

But those moments couldn’t shield him from reality.

Nothing could.

Looking back, Garen could barely fathom how he had lasted as long as he did.

When the time came to resign from the RDF and leave the Seven Worlds behind, he did so with a heavy heart. In hindsight, he knew he should have refused the demotion and walked away immediately. Instead, he lingered—a decision that caused more harm to those close to him, and to himself, before his eventual departure.

Not once did he regret leaving the RDF and moving to Chiex.

During his time at the RDF Officer Academy, Garen had been determined to rise through the ranks. His piloting skills had been exceptional—enough to catch the attention of Amar Lavont. After his graduation ceremony, Amar had taken a moment to speak with him, telling Garen that he would serve under his command. Handpicked by Amar, Garen joined the Riftkin, and years later, he would even earn its command.

Garen’s career had never been about fame. Medals and accolades had come with time, and while he acknowledged them, they marked achievements, not purpose. His real fulfillment had come from leading the Riftkin—from the challenges that shaped him, from proving he was more than just a capable warrior wielding his Scalar Falcata, and from the long climb to that command. Losing it had left him hollow.

Commanding a capital battlecruiser had been his career goal—not just for the position itself, but for what he could accomplish with it. That was how he had intended to leave his mark on the RDF.

He had planned his exit from the Riftkin on his own terms. He never aspired to be an admiral, never had any interest in climbing higher. General—that was far enough.

The war should’ve ended with the Vorcons’ unconditional surrender.

But it hadn’t. If it had, Garen would have been ready to move forward, ready to take on something new. He had intended to position himself where he could continue to aid the RDF and the Seven Worlds in a different capacity.

That opportunity never came.

He wanted peace more than anyone realized. A lasting peace. One that might have given meaning to the long, brutal conflict the RDF fought.

Sleep had become a rare comfort since leaving Chiex. Tonight was no different. His body was heavy, but his thoughts refused to still. He let his eyes close, breathing slow, waiting for rest to take him.

And then—he was there again.

The memory overtook him, pulling him into the past. The moment felt as real now as it had then.

The Parliament Building of the Seven Worlds, rising from the heart of Rhyus City, dominated the skyline. From the transport, Garen watched it grow closer, his thoughts fixed on the speech he was prepared to give.

Inside, the Main Council Chamber stretched into a vast semicircular space, its high ceiling and walls adorned with flags and banners representing the regions of the Seven Worlds. Every corner was illuminated, ensuring nothing remained hidden in the grand hall.

At the center, against the back wall, on an elevated dais, sat the Council of Seven—often referred to as the High Council. Each of the seven members represented one of the major planets within the Rhyus System.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Surrounding them were tiered seats for the Secondary Council members, arranged in a semicircular formation that rose above the central floor. The Secondary Council represented regions across the Seven Worlds, including the seven planets and eighteen moons within the system. Elected Governors controlled these regions, and today, many of them were present. Each represented region had its own booth, all equipped with computer consoles.

High up in the chamber, a section was designated for invited guests. The assembly was filled with generals, admirals, members of the media, high-ranking officials from across the Seven Worlds, and those of extreme wealth and status.

They had all gathered here to witness a watershed moment.

The chamber’s central floor was open and spacious, while all other attendees looked down from an elevated height. Off to the sides, administrative desks were occupied by record keepers, logging every word. At the center sat the Speaker, the elected official who directed the proceedings. Chosen by members of both councils, the Speaker ensured that all voices were heard.

The day's agenda focused on the fragile ceasefire with the Vorcon Empire—a truce precariously poised to become a permanent peace treaty. The war had slowed considerably over the last couple of years, shifting from aggressive offensives to defensive holds. Now, the assembly sought to evaluate the repercussions and chart the path forward.

Each council member who spoke voiced their support for lasting peace. To many, the war already felt like a thing of the past. And perhaps for some, there had never really been a war—not in a way that touched their lives. The battles had been fought in distant star systems, leaving the Rhyus system untouched.

The weeks-old ceasefire had the potential to become a lasting peace. Ambassadors from both sides had been meeting daily, joined by third-party mediators. But what was being agreed upon behind closed doors remained known only to the highest-ranking officials. The last few years of the war had dwindled to small skirmishes. Large-scale battles had nearly ceased.

It was beginning to look like peace. The newly elected Council of Seven—who had built their campaigns on promises of making that peace permanent—were eager to see it finalized. Ending the long war was their goal, and they had summoned officials from every corner of the Seven Worlds to the capital planet, Rhyus, inviting many to speak at the event and discuss the new era of peace they were working toward—an event that held the attention of the entire star system.

Garen had requested to speak at the event, which had already stretched on for the entire afternoon—hours of speeches, ceremonies, and presentations, all celebrating the promise of peace.

Throughout the day, members of the Council of Seven, along with various secondary councilors, governors, and RDF admirals, took turns delivering speeches, all praising the benefits of the proposed peace treaty and the future they envisioned. The tone was celebratory, with frequent applause interrupting the proceedings. It was a day of celebration.

The treaty was all but official—already prepared and set to be unveiled as a surprise conclusion by the Council of Seven.

Given Garen’s service record, his request to speak had been granted. To those in attendance, it seemed only natural—General Rivers had spent his entire career at war. Surely, he simply wanted to celebrate the peace.

The event was being broadcast live across the Seven Worlds—a common practice for many council meetings in the Parliament Building. The discussion on the war drew an unusually large viewership, introducing Garen Rivers to many for the first time.

While his heroic deeds were well known within RDF circles, the general populace had remained largely indifferent to individual contributions to the war. To them, the RDF was a collective force, not a sum of its parts—an idea Garen fully agreed with. He had never considered himself a hero, despite what others claimed. Only the First Admiral and Admiral of the Fleet were widely recognized by the public, given their roles in delivering war updates.

Garen hadn't anticipated that his speech from that day would be replayed endlessly, becoming a focal point of public discourse. Across the Seven Worlds, it was revisited and debated over and over. No matter the accuracy of his words or the truths they revealed, the people of the Seven Worlds yearned for a new era of peace. It was what they wanted, and it was what the newly elected Council of Seven had promised them.

Weary of war and its endless casualty reports, they did not share Garen’s perspective. They had not seen what he had seen. They did not know what he knew. Garen had spent his entire career fighting the Vorcons, studying their tactics, understanding their relentless ambition. His deep knowledge of their history made his warnings unpopular among a public eager to put the war behind them.

Garen had suspected he was already too late, but he had to try.

Perhaps, by voicing his concerns, he could inspire others who shared his views but were hesitant to challenge the overwhelming consensus. Despite knowing his perspective diverged from the prevailing sentiment, he felt compelled to speak. He wasn’t looking at the present—he was looking to the future, to what he believed would be another war.

This so-called permanent peace would only give the Vorcon Empire time to rebuild. The Vorcons didn’t want peace; they wanted time—to rebuild, to regain their strength, to prepare. Garen believed they would see a treaty as a defeat, one they would one day do everything in their power to rectify, as they had before.

The Speaker acknowledged Garen as he stood. “The floor is now open to General Garen Rivers, commander of the Capital Battlecruiser Riftkin.”

From the back of the room, Garen strode toward the center, his footsteps echoing in the hush that fell over the chamber.

He wore his RDF dress uniform, its fabric decorated with medals that marked his service.

His gaze swept across the chamber, taking in the faces watching him—some allies, some adversaries, most too distant to identify.

He knew he was both doing the right thing and making a mistake at the same time.

With a commanding voice, Garen Rivers addressed the assembly.

"Members of the High Council, Secondary Council, esteemed colleagues—today, we stand on the precipice of achieving the peace we have all yearned for and tirelessly worked toward. However, endorsing this agreement under its current terms, I believe, is a mistake.

"Let me be clear—my reservations are not with the cessation of hostilities itself but with the conditions of this peace."

He paused, letting his words settle over the assembly.

"This treaty leaves the Vorcon Empire’s military intact. We’re not ending a war—we’re giving them time to rebuild. We’re handing them the tools for their next strike. Not tomorrow, not next year—but someday, they will strike again. And when they do, we will be the ones who let it happen."

A murmur of dissent rippled through the chamber, but beneath it simmered something sharper—indignation.

A councilor stiffened, his expression tightening. Another shot his colleague a sharp look, irritation clear between them. This was meant to be a day of celebration—a triumphant declaration of peace, a statement of control by the newly elected Council. They had shaped this moment, orchestrated every detail, and now Garen was unraveling it.

Several council members tensed, barely restraining their anger, their hands twitching as if itching to cut him off. Beneath their composed exteriors, they were seething, their frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

They did their best to suppress any outward display of annoyance, but inwardly, they were already deciding how to silence him.

Garen pressed on, his voice cutting through, heedless of the silent fury building around him.

"They will not see this peace as a bridge to cooperation but as an opportunity for rearmament. The Vorcons don’t make peace. They don’t compromise. They don’t stop. This treaty? It’s just a pause button. Their strategy—whether it takes decades or longer—will be to bide their time, rebuild their strength, and wait. My stance is not driven by a desire for endless conflict but by a commitment to securing a lasting peace—one that safeguards not only our generation but those that follow.

"I have seen too much death, too much destruction, too much sacrifice. We cannot let the efforts of the RDF be in vain. We must envision a future where the people of the Seven Worlds do not suffer what we have endured."

His words sent quiet whispers through the assembly. Garen wasn’t arguing against peace—he was advocating for vigilance, for foresight. He was challenging the council to consider the long-term consequences of their decision.

His eyes moved across the chamber.

"Sign this treaty, and we aren’t securing peace—we’re setting the stage for another war. We are giving the Vorcons a chance to regroup, to present a renewed threat. I cannot, in good conscience, support a path that may lead us straight back into the conflict we fought so hard to end. Our involvement in this war was never an obligation—but it was the right thing to do. Now, we must see it through, to ensure true and lasting stability."

Garen paused, his voice softening.

"And what of the star systems still under Vorcon control? The species they enslaved before we ever stepped in? Are we really about to sign a treaty that tells them: 'You’re on your own'?"

His voice hardened.

"We gave them hope when we stood against the Vorcon Empire. And now what? We abandon them? We leave them to despair?"

Another pause—longer this time.

“Look at the Nalore,” he continued. “The Larocol—an entire species, gone. Wiped out by the Vorcon Empire. And now we make peace with them? There are still those who need our help, who may face the same fate. Do we turn our backs on them too?”

His declaration stirred the chamber, transforming it into a theater of animated discussion. Murmurs spread, voices rising in debate, the concerns he raised resonated with many.

Garen paused, scanning the room, listening to the whispered discussions that filled the chamber. He caught glimpses of both agreement and reluctance among the assembly, his gaze settling on the Council of Seven as they exchanged glances. Yet, despite the stir his words had caused, the overwhelming desire to end the war outweighed any strategic concern about leaving the Vorcons armed.

No matter how compelling his warnings, it wouldn’t be enough. The treaty would be ratified. The decision had been made.

“If we move forward with this treaty,” he said, “we must do so knowing the risks."

With that, Garen turned and stepped away. His words had been spoken. Whether they listened or not—he had spoken his mind, he had warned them of what was to come.

Garen’s eyes shot open. He sat up fast, breath sharp, body tense—ready to spring from the bed. His heart pounded, sweat clinging to his skin. He exhaled, rubbing his face. The past slipped away. Reality returned. He struggled through his confusion as he awoke, realizing he was back on Rhyus.