The futuristic train of the far future glided above the holographic tracks, an ethereal streak of neon blue against the backdrop of a landscape unfamiliar to those who watched from below. Creatures, remnants of old Earth, raised their curious heads to catch a glimpse of the hovering train, their primitive instincts awakened by the pulsing power of the churning chemical engine.
Margaret’s dark brown eyes remained fixed on the world beyond the window. The heated argument between Zephyr and Piper played out in the background, their voices escalating into a discordant symphony of annoyance and anger, their arms gesticulating wildly in the confined space.
Yet Margaret’s attention remained steadfastly on the world passing by. She sighed, chin resting on the knuckles of her right hand as she leaned against the window. The train had ventured into the planet's countryside. The academy planet had its central city, the hub of the campus, but it was still a world abundant with lush landscapes nestled in the heart of the cosmos. The Deacon System and its hardworking inhabitants chose to till the soil and dwell in quaint towns, far from the bustling epicenter of futuristic cities, where the greatest warriors, heroes, and leaders underwent their training.
For a moment, Margaret found herself questioning the worth of it all, especially with Piper and Zephyr's fiery exchange intruding on her thoughts.
"Go fuck yourself!" Piper's voice pierced through the cabin.
Zephyr stared at him, momentarily taken aback. His gaze darted around, and he released a soft breath of relief upon realizing the privacy of their surroundings.
His shock soon gave way to anger. "Really?" Zephyr retorted, stepping closer. "This is all your fault!"
"My fault?" Piper echoed, a chuckle lacing his incredulous words.
"Yes, your fault," Zephyr snapped. "Who the hell told you to go after the girl?"
Piper's laughter grew louder, defiant. "Are you really going to reprimand me for saving a girl who would've been torn apart in the cluster belt?" he retorted.
Margaret tilted her head, curious to witness Zephyr's reaction. He glanced at her briefly but then did a double-take, realizing her focused gaze was on him.
Zephyr took a deep breath, his hands sliding down from his face. Sighing, he looked at his palms. "Your whole 'WarCasket,' Piper," he lamented, his back making contact with one of the train's chairs. "It's completely gone."
The weight of those words hung in the air, causing the fight to drain from both Piper and Margaret. While Margaret had only recently acquired a mech upon joining House Mercury, she understood the hefty price tag associated with them. The cheapest "WarCasket" models cost hundreds of thousands of imperial currency, and there were some so ancient, their production methods had been lost to history, rendering them priceless by comparison.
In House Mercury, a place where even their lowest-ranking members were crammed into tiny dorms designed for two or three and stretched to accommodate five or more, Piper could feel the fight gradually draining from her.
Margoret let out a weary sigh. "We've got replacements," she remarked.
Zephyr raised his head to look at her. "Replacements?" he echoed, stretching a hand between the two girls. "Supplies, resources, mechs, guns, food, and water. These are amenities the academy won't pay for, so, missions!"
Piper and Margaret winced at the thought. Zephyr had an energy to his argument now that was hard to ignore. "Before, you were giving me a hard time about Clive, but at least Clive isn't squandering thousands of dollars' worth of equipment."
Margaret snapped back, "Clive also enjoys beating up defenseless girls."
Zephyr was instantly silenced, and he struggled to regain his composure. However, Margaret pressed on. "This is your problem, Zephyr," she lectured, advancing from her seat. "You try to excuse events, to make excuses if they benefit you in some way. Clive is busy being a terror, and you're not doing anything to rein him in. You're willing to yell at Piper, but the moment push comes to shove, you're ready to dig into—"
"Do you even hear yourself?"
It was Zephyr who posed the question, halting Piper's impending anger. As Margaret and Piper watched, Zephyr's face revealed the exhaustion of a young man truly burdened. He turned to face Margaret, and she saw the genuine weariness etched into his features. "Do you really believe that I can control Clive?"
He clicked his lips, running his fingers through his beard, his exasperation palpable. Neither Piper nor Margaret was pleased with the way this conversation was heading. Zephyr sighed and took a seat on one of the train's cushions, burying his face in his hands as he looked at them.
"He's a useful tool," Zephyr admitted.
Piper winced at the words, but it was Margaret who spoke defiantly. "Even tools get discarded at some point," she chided. "Clive is nothing more than a rabid dog. Yes, he's effective, but he doesn't possess a trace of morale."
"You don't think I know that?" Zephyr retorted, his hand slicing through the air to emphasize his point. "He's a feral dog, fueled by malice and cruelty. The moment he arrived here, he managed to save the house, and I know it, but please, you have to—"
He paused, and the room fell silent, as if he'd suddenly surrendered. Then he sighed.
"I can't control him," Zephyr admitted, locking eyes with both girls. "Clive is not just what you think he is. What he's been doing out there for years, what he's been searching for is…"
Zephyr's voice quivered, his lips quaking as he spoke. Margoret noticed it, and she was on the brink of interjecting, but Piper's vision remained clouded by earlier anger, allowing frustration to seep into the space meant for understanding.
"If you can't control him, Zephyr," Piper said with a sharpness in her tone, "then just kick him out. We don't need some abusive jerk who beats up girls. Think about that for a second. Sure, you're mad at me, but the only reason we're in this mess with Neptune is because of Clive. He's the one causing trouble, and it's unfair to everyone that he's out there in the stars on a mission, evading responsibility."
Everyone fell into silence, and Zephyr sighed, his hand covering his face for a moment.
Margoret was poised to speak, but Zephyr acted before she had the chance, raising his hand to signal her to stop. "It's all right, Margoret," he said. He sighed and glanced at both girls. "You're right, Piper. Honestly, this is all my fault."
Piper's self-assured smile faded, and she crossed her arms, looking at Zephyr. Margoret remained silent, waiting for Zephyr to continue.
Piper let out a sigh, her arms now wrapped around herself as she spoke to Zephyr. "But there's something we need to discuss."
All eyes turned to her.
"Sirine," Piper said, her voice carrying an unexpected power. "She was the person we rescued."
Margoret's jaw threatened to drop. "Sirine?" she repeated in disbelief. "Are you sure it was Sirine?"
"Yes," Piper confirmed, her gaze fixed intently on Zephyr. "Sirine Helmberg, the daughter of the headmaster and ruler of the world."
Zephyr made a sound and buried his face in his hands. "So, it was just you and Logan," he muttered.
But Piper and Margoret both shook their heads. "Actually, they didn't even realize she was there," Margoret explained. "It's hard to believe, but those cluster rings...if she'd stayed any longer, she would've either been ripped to shreds or lost in space."
A puff of air escaped Piper. "What a way to go," she mumbled, slowly shaking her head. "I've been a pilot for years, and if there's one thing that terrifies me, it's the idea of that."
"Didn't you mention that you enjoy the quiet of space?" Margoret asked.
Piper shot her a look. "Yeah, I did, but there's a big difference between enjoying the serenity of the ocean from your boat and floating helplessly in the debris of your wrecked boat."
The analogy drew a chuckle from Zephyr, and the girls fell silent. "So, what was it, then?" he inquired.
Piper delved into the harrowing details of the recent events, her words painting a vivid picture for her audience. The duel was briefly mentioned, but her focus gravitated toward the intervention of Henryk and Ed, and their alliance with Logan to rescue Sirine.
Zephyr wore an analytical expression, absorbing Piper's narrative. "Henryk and Edward," he mused, turning his gaze towards Piper. "...and Logan's interest lies with Henryk?" he inquired.
"More like Neptune has a keen eye on Henryk," Piper clarified, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders. "Henryk's a bit rough around the edges, but he's got something going for him. His mech is a little worn, but he's equipped with a mech-patterned evisceration weapon."
The revelation sent shockwaves through Zephyr and Margoret. "What?" Margoret finally exclaimed, struggling to wrap her mind around it.
"Yeah, an evisceration weapon," Piper confirmed, her words holding an air of reverence. "He's just a frontier guy. How the heck did he manage to get his hands on that kind of hardware out there in the deep frontier?"
The trio remained in stunned silence, but Zephyr was the first to recover. "So, Neptune has claimed dibs on Henryk. He sounds genuinely talented. We could've used someone like him in the house."
Piper sneered, her tone dripping with malicious intent. "And where would you have put him? Stuffed him in the closet with our cleaning supplies? Or maybe make him do shovel duty in the basement and carve his own room."
Her words left a bitter taste in the air, but Zephyr was too weary to engage. He simply turned his head toward Margoret.
Margoret chimed in, "The real question is whether the headmaster will meet with Henryk and Ed."
Zephyr shifted his focus. "Speaking of Ed, what about him? Is he of interest to any other house?"
Piper began to answer, but Margoret cut her off. "Nope, he mentioned that another house is already claiming him."
Zephyr sighed deeply. "What a mess for the new year," he said with a dry chuckle. "But, hey, maybe there are a few other recruits interested in House Mercury. It might not be all that bad."
Margoret couldn't help but facepalm as she listened to the ensuing debate between Piper and Zephyr. Her mind, however, was preoccupied with other concerns. The conversation about Clive had unsettled her. The fleeting moment when Zephyr seemed distressed, as though he tried to reach out to them, had left her with a nagging sense of disquiet.
But the discussion had reached its conclusion, and Zephyr would soon reassemble his façade. Piper appeared smug and self-assured. Margoret sighed and rested her head against the window. The background noise of yet another argument gradually ignited. As she stared into the twilight outside, Margoret was acutely aware that the challenges ahead would test them in unimaginable ways.
Eres III, the planet that turned boys into men—or well, potentially women if you were on the liberal side of the cosmic spectrum.
A planet of transformative tales and divergent paths, where the line between men and more was drawn in the margins of ideology. Henryk had been raised on the echoing whispers of this realm, a realm that teased at imagination.
A realm where bluish walls, adorned with spectacles of light, radiated an almost ethereal glow, casting a natural yet otherworldly radiance upon the conversing souls within. The streets were sleek, paved with a promise of prosperity, and graced by the presence of opulent vehicles that seemed to flaunt their million-dollar status.
Majesty's drone-clearer bots would perform their dutiful ballet, sweeping across the surface, reducing even the tiniest imperfections to metallic confetti. Yet, the scattered remains of these tireless automatons lay strewn about like the discarded shells of a forgotten reality.
Amidst this orchestrated opulence, the denizens moved, their attire modest yet distinct from Henryk's accustomed sphere. They bore an air of elegance that set them apart from the mundane inhabitants of Henryk's world.
The common folk of his reality were tethered to the fringes of luxury, trapped in a suspended present like so many other worlds within the empire's grasp. While some chose to embrace the technological splendor of spacertech living, others clung to archaic ideals, avoiding the siren call of medieval domains that flourished under the umbrella of the empire's expansive dominion. These medieval bastions fueled the wheels of commerce, rejecting the relentless march of industryworlds, colossal workshops churning out the empire's formidable arsenal.
Above the serene hum of this society, the distant rumble of ancient earth train tracks resonated in Henryk's ears. It wasn't the train's wheels that propagated the sound, but the haunting echo of their chemengines, a cerulean glow threading through the rails like lost spirits seeking refuge. Gravity spikes, those anchors to reality, punctuated the tracks, curbing the intangible wanderings of the engines.
Henryk's gaze fell upon himself, his academy uniform a tangible link to his surroundings. For the first time, his eyes met those of his peers. Some wore the attire of mid world, their numbers superior to the ragtag assembly of undesirables.
Others bore the marks of industry or warfare, their stooped forms and weary eyes belying their pasts. Harsh light prodded them, coaxing them to the center of attention, where they huddled and recoiled, observed by the curious gazes of the commoners.
Among them, a girl slapped an ironworlder, her disdain evident in her disgusted murmurings about these supposed remnants of humanity.
In her midworld attire, the girl bore herself with an air of nonchalance, a product of the core and mid worlds' privileged lineage. It was a stark contrast to the frontier life that Henryk knew – a life carved by nature's hand, untouched by the relentless machinery of the empire. Amidst the opulent woods and untamed waters of his colony, he saw the truth that defied the empire's iron grip.
Yet, an itch gnawed at his thoughts, like a persistent insect fluttering at the fringes of consciousness. Edward – that enigmatic figure who had followed him, who had aided in the rescue of the girl. And there she stood, that girl, her gaze aflame with a fury that Henryk couldn't fathom. She turned away from him, her focus seized by the window's offering, leaving Henryk to sigh and listen to Edward's animated banter as he engaged with his peers, his laughter weaving through the air like the rising notes of a haunting melody.
The relentless assault of noise grated on Henryk's nerves, loud and ceaseless. It wasn't just Edward who bothered him, but the whole cacophonous scene before him. Henryk squinted, his gaze fixed on the sprawling expanse of urban wilderness that lay ahead. This place wasn't where he wanted to be, that much was certain.
All those tales of Eres, mere fabrications, a web of deceit spun to lure unsuspecting souls like his. Perhaps they were aged yarns, faded legends masking the true face of this place – a sprawling, imposing academy, a monument to bygone eras. The Zachariah Sphere's crown jewel, aptly named The Academy of The Zachariah Sphere, cradling the core worlds of Zachariah in its embrace. This institution, steeped in prestige, was the very first academy to grace the sphere's space.
It catered to an eclectic mix – soldiers-in-training, sculpted into efficient instruments of war to fend off the cosmic others, those xenos and traitors. Here, engineers, mechanics, and green mech jockeys received instruction, not just for military endeavors, but also for a life as mercenaries or private guns for hire, their skillsets ripe for the galaxy's picking. They were primed to serve the empire while training within these echoing corridors.
Yet, Henryk's purpose here deviated from the norm, a thread intertwined with many others within this train. Gathered from the nooks and crannies, the hovels, midworld boulevards, forge-world factories, or wherever the imperial mold labeled them and their kin. They congregated here for a singular reason – the elusive dream of piloting a warcasket, those cosmic chariots of war. To ascend the heavens as empire-borne soldiers, to stand among those brave souls who aimed to claim the stars and expand humanity's dominion. It was the dream that quickened Henryk's pulse, the prospect he couldn't help but relish.
His reverie snapped like a taut string at the reverberations of hearty laughter cascading through the room. Irritation clawed at Henryk's patience, his gaze shifting sharply back to Edward, the magnetic nucleus around whom camaraderie and feminine admiration swirled. Edward's laughter danced, a boisterous tune that echoed with leadership and charisma. Yet, for all his magnetic charm, Henryk regarded him with a peculiar unease.
Henryk's focus wavered as a rustling beside him drew his attention. "Sorry... sorry," a soft voice, as if carried on a whisper, reached his ears. He turned, his gaze falling upon an approaching figure threading through the sea of bodies. The newcomer eased into the seat beside Henryk, a simple greeting breaking the awkward air.
"Hello," the newcomer offered, a single word like a hesitant footstep in this buzzing landscape.
Henryk responded with a nod, a slight, awkward tilt of his head in acknowledgment. The newcomer appeared about his age, perhaps a year junior. Disheveled brown hair crowned his head, a thick pair of glasses perched on his nose. A lanky frame bore the evidence of a growth spurt, and his boots seemed borrowed, their fit questionable. The stains adorning both boys' attire spoke of shared experiences.
Henryk's gaze skittered away from the throng, his focus grazing his own garb. While the others appeared dapper and pristine, his clothes had been relegated to the realm of discarded relics, marred by dirt and neglect. He shook his head, a quiet inner monologue churning – no use lamenting what couldn't be altered.
"Where do you hail from, partner?" came the soft query, an attempt to bridge the silence between them.
The chatter flowed like a restless river. One voice, persistent and sharp, cut through the stream, directed at Henryk. They sat, facing each other, two disparate souls sharing a space. The boy opposite him knelt, his spine curved, not the sagging of the inlanders but a simple case of wretched posture.
“Mind your own business, pal,” Henryk shot back, the words snapping like a whip.
His narrowed gaze shifted from the kid to Edward, the rambunctious epicenter of noise and energy. Henryk watched as Edward's hands wove an intoxicating dance, a bewitching display that lured a girl from the sea of faces. And oh, how she swooned as his touch ignited her heart.
Henryk's retort quivered on his lips, but his mind traced the trail of events that had spiraled from his disregard of Edward's actions, a neglect that had birthed this chaos. His thoughts flitted to the girl tucked in the corner, raven-black tresses resembling the ominous wings of death, her emerald gaze a raptor's focus zeroing in on him from the far reaches of the room.
"Looks like you've got a few foes and a few allies," the boy remarked, his voice a thread in the tapestry of noise.
A sigh escaped Henryk's lips, his spine conforming to the train's fabric, a weariness enveloping him. His fingers found his brow, the touch a fleeting respite. Planetfall had yet to occur, and already some enigmatic girl was brimming with fury toward him, and now this boy had intertwined his fate with Henryk's impulsive intervention.
Amidst the cacophony of laughter that reverberated around Edward, Henryk witnessed the siren's spell in action. Men vied for Edward's attention, and women clamored for more – from the modest girls who quivered in obscurity, their cheeks tinted with hidden blush, to the noblewomen who elbowed their way into proximity.
"You and I share a ship, partner," the boy offered, a hint of camaraderie lighting his eyes as his hand extended toward Henryk. "Name's Jose... Jose Torray, hail from colony world Tovian."
"Frontier kid, huh?" Henryk inquired, the echo of recognition resonating within him. A connection, albeit fragile, linked their histories – but such a kinship could easily crumble under the weight of life's harsh whims.
A small smirk played on Jose's lips, the gesture conveying the shared sentiment, that delicate kinship, which often held little value beyond its fleeting nature. Henryk exhaled, his fingers hesitating before they finally met Jose's extended hand.
"Henryk," he stated, the name a bridge between them.
As conversation ebbed and flowed, the two exchanged tales of their homelands. Yet, their discourse swiftly veered toward the events that had set this stage.
"Tovian's a sunny paradise, beaches and rainforests sprawling across scattered islands," Jose recounted, his words an invitation to a far-off world.
Henryk nodded, his gaze distant. "My place is along the new edges of the frontier, a lone continent stretched wide. Forests as dense as forgotten histories, creatures echoing old Earth – wolves, crows, and..."
Mark's voice broke in, hijacking their narrative. "Fascinating, Henryk. You come here with company?"
A beat of silence hung before Henryk slowly shook his head. Bitterness briefly contorted his features, then dissolved into resignation.
"I was the shining star of my colony, earned my ticket to the academy," he explained, his tone tinged with a mix of pride and regret.
"Fame and fortune for your home, huh?"
Henryk teetered on the precipice of speech, his mind caught in the undertow of Ed's earlier words. His molars ground against each other, a desperate hold against the torrent of emotions that surged within him. The air grew taut, charged with unspoken words and fragile intentions. Jose raised his hands, a peace offering adorned with a mocking grin, an attempt to defuse the impending storm.
"Hey, no shame in fighting for more than yourself, partner," he retorted, and the raw tension that once gripped Henryk began to shift, mutating into an inward battle.
A nod from Jose directed Henryk's gaze toward a figure. A girl, modest in stature, her features full and soft, yet her eyes held a quiet resilience. Fingers brushed her lap, the floor's pattern capturing her attention. "Mags," Jose introduced, voice gentle. "Only us from our neck of the woods. No fancy scholarships, but we're here to turn the profit wheels for our home. No disgrace in that."
A grunt punctuated Henryk's annoyance, his arms folding tightly across his chest. He sought refuge in the window's vista, hoping the city's sprawling panorama might provide solace. Alas, it didn't.
But the internal turbulence drew his mind back to times when the clash of metal on metal had echoed in his senses. The moments that ignite a soldier's soul, that ignite the core of a warrior, a glimpse into what his father must've experienced within that fleeting instance. The intoxicating thrill of piloting a warcasket, a deadly dance in the theater of war.
"We're here to carry the banner of honor and legacy for our worlds," Jose mused, his voice a distant echo. His lean silhouette mirrored the metropolis beyond the window. "But it's a heavy load, isn't it, Henryk?"
As Henryk's focus swung back to Jose, a pointed piece of advice fell from his lips. "We each have our reasons for being here. I'd recommend steering clear of that girl over yonder."
Henryk's interest piqued, his gaze returned to the girl in question. "Why's that?" he inquired, a thread of curiosity lacing his tone. "Not gonna lie, she's got an attitude bigger than the horizon, but what's the story?"
Saliva splattered the train's floor, a disdainful punctuation. His action rippled through the onlooking crowd, a spectacle that drew both repulsion and amusement. Jose caught the faint chuckle concealed within Henryk's act, an act that seemed to thrive on the chaos it summoned. It left Jose contemplating if Henryk grasped the chaos he sowed, or if he reveled in it unawares.
For Henryk, it only compounded the enigma. A sigh parted Jose's lips. "That's the planet lord's daughter you rescued from the ring of chaos," he divulged, his words a revelation that shattered Henryk's composure.
"What?" Henryk's eyes widened, and a solitary word sprang forth. "How?" But before the query could find its reply, the train shuddered to a halt, the clicking of thrusters harmonizing with the holographic rails. The doors yawned open, and the AI's automated voice ushered safety protocols, a herald for their disembarkment.
Duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, Henryk joined the procession, a sea of colors, shapes, and sizes melding as they flowed from the train. They coursed like a river of bison weaving through mountain gorges, their collective presence an awe-inspiring spectacle as they converged upon the academy's threshold.
He stepped into the embrace of the open sky, his footfalls grounding him in this new terrain. The campus surged with vibrant life, a hive of activity, and the older students directed their hollers and gestures toward the newcomers – boys and girls alike. Catcalls and jeers erupted like raucous music, a chorus of brash voices accompanying their passage.
Among the throngs, Henryk navigated, propelled forward, and by his side stood Jose, an unspoken bond forming in this sea of chaos. A brief backward glance revealed Mags, halted amidst the tide, a trapped bird about to be consumed. Yet, Henryk found himself drawn onward, driven by an unexplainable impulse, and Jose clung close, a silent sentinel.
But a moment's consideration shifted his focus back to Mags. He called out over the din, "Your acquaintance, is she—"
"Not exactly my friend," Jose interjected, urgency lacing his voice. "We need to move, now."
Henryk faltered, his pace slowing as he pivoted to glimpse Mags. She stood, fragile amidst the commotion, her hands clamped over her ears as if drowning in the clamor. Helplessly, she swayed, buffeted by the currents of their peers.
Resolve surged within him, a fleeting impulse compelling him forward. He reached her side, his grip firm as he enveloped her in his protection. Her gaze met his, an unspoken bond forming in the shared silence, gratitude and admiration emanating from her eyes. A glance toward Jose revealed his initial skepticism melting away into a more benevolent expression.
"Guess you're sticking with me," Henryk sighed, as much to himself as to the newfound companions beside him.
He led them onward, their journey guiding them through the crowd. Suitcases scraped against the ground, a symphony of rustling and clinking. Privileged ones, burdened by opulent baggage, some hauled by servants, paraded their status. A cavalcade of possessions, each bag laden with the weight of four years' confinement. Henryk, his lone duffelbag slung over his shoulder, watched in stark contrast, the frayed edges and patches telling tales of battles it had endured, a testament to his mother's labor.
His uniform, once a badge of honor, had dulled in this sea of opulence. Regret rippled within him, a sense of inadequacy as he embodied his colony's image in worn and tattered attire. Could he evoke pride when he presented himself in this state of disrepair?
A voice called his name, a buoy in the sea of faces. Henryk's gaze followed the sound, landing on Edward – a familiar visage amidst the crowd. A smirk played on Edward's lips, his backpack hanging loosely. "Nice to see a friendly face!" he hailed.
"Is it really?" Henryk retorted, a sigh blending with his words, his demeanor unburdened by false enthusiasm.
Edward's inquiry shifted toward Mags and Jose, his curiosity evident. "Who're these two?" he prodded, his gaze lingering on them. Then, a wry grin danced on his lips. "You've got a knack for finding company."
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
A scoff slipped past Henryk's lips, his arms folding defensively across his chest. "More like they have a knack for finding me," he shot back, his gaze gravitating toward the raven-haired silhouette in the distance. "Edward, did you have any inkling about—"
"The girl we pulled from the chaos?" Edward finished, his tone reflective.
Ed's nod was a measured agreement. "Yeah, I got the lowdown," he acknowledged, casting a quick, surreptitious glance at her. "Athleen Clezal. Desmond Clezal's only child."
Henryk's eyes seemed to bore into the depths of Athleen's dark tresses. "What was she doing out there?" he mused aloud. "Trapped in that wreckage. If we hadn't shown up, who knows what—"
Ed's nonchalance cut through Henryk's train of thought. He shrugged, hands raised in a dismissive gesture. "Not our business," he stated, his hands waving for Henryk to follow. Resigned, Henryk exhaled, his steps tracing the path Ed had set. The echo of two more pairs of footsteps followed in their wake.
As Ed continued, the words poured from his mouth, a stream of advice and caution. "Henryk, you seem like a decent enough guy. Grounded, you know. But here's the thing," he paused, pivoting to face Henryk without slowing his stride. They surged through the crowd, their destination a looming main building. Warcaskets, formidable machines of military design, stood sentinel, guiding them forward.
"Listen up," Ed urged, his voice firm. "Be careful 'round here, especially with these space girls. A simple frontier kid like you," he motioned to Henryk, "might wanna think twice 'fore messin' with someone like her."
Henryk's expression tightened, heat spreading across his features. "Got somethin' to say?" he snapped, his words a defiant challenge. "Spit it out, or—"
"Easy there," Ed waved off, his patience bordering on exasperation. "It's like every word you hear's a chip on your shoulder. I ain't sayin' you ain't up to par. Just that sometimes, bigger fish to fry than gettin' tangled up in someone else's mess."
Henryk's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists. Ed was mildly perplexed; he wondered if Henryk misconstrued his words as a slight. Perhaps he took Ed's advice as a commentary on his lowly birth, implying he stood no chance with Athleen.
Ed's sigh was heavy, his head shaking slightly. "Forget it," he muttered, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "All I'm sayin' is, a girl like that, she can be a storm waitin' to break. Sometimes, you gotta focus on your own battles 'fore takin' on someone else's baggage. But you do you."
With a dismissive wave, Ed concluded his piece of advice. They finally reached their destination, a sight that unfolded before them like a revelation. A grand coliseum stretched out, reminiscent of ancient Earth's sporting arenas. Its vastness was awe-inspiring, a testament to the spectacles of a bygone era.
The warcaskets, stoic sentinels with their single, unyielding eyes, glistened in varying shades of green and auburn, each a unique amalgamation of weaponry and armor, a reflection of the individual pilots who manned them.
The entrance opened, ushering them in. Dim lighting painted intricate games of shadows along the walls as they followed a narrow passage, restricted from splitting off to the sides. A few moments later, they emerged into a scene that unfurled like a dream.
Before them sprawled a field, a vivid expanse of synthetic grass that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. They basked in the glow of intense lights, momentarily adjusting to the luminance. Gradually, Henryk's eyes focused, and the spectacle crystallized before him – a massive circular area delineated by a peculiar deep red barrier.
The focal point radiated a powerful luminescence, drawing their attention to its epicenter, while the rest of the assembly was cast into shadows, mere observers on the periphery. "Sit," a firm command sliced through the air, and they obediently complied, finding their designated places. Henryk found himself beside Edward, Mags and Jose taking their positions nearby.
The seats were not seats at all, but rather synthetic turf that pricked against their legs. Edward swiveled, scanning the faces around him, while the illumination gradually dimmed, plunging them into a twilight realm. An elbow nudged Henryk's side, and he scowled, unleashing a retaliatory punch that landed with more force than intended. Edward raised his hands in playful surrender, rubbing his arm where the blow had landed.
A feigned smile tugged at his lips. "You hit harder than you need to," he remarked.
Henryk's response was curt, his annoyance palpable as he took a deep, steadying breath. "You didn't have to touch me," he retorted.
Edward raised an eyebrow, realization dawning a beat later. "Touch issues, huh?" he inquired, the words slipping from his mouth before he fully processed them.
Henryk's arched eyebrow held a challenge. "Listen up, partner," he snapped, his tone tinged with irritation and a touch of cynicism. "I ain't into that kind of stuff, so if you don't wanna get punched again, keep your hands to yourself."
"Woah, hold on," Edward backpedaled hastily, hands lifted in defense.
"You said what you said," Henryk reminded him, his tone carrying a dry humor.
Edward exhaled, his frustration mingling with exasperation. "I like girls," he sighed. "I'm into girls, really."
"Sure thing, partner," Henryk chuckled. "Just remember, touching guys and acting all confused when they ain't thrilled about it ain't a winning strategy."
"I wasn't thinking," Edward admitted, his tone more genuine.
"More like you were thinking about the wrong things," Henryk quipped.
Edward opened his mouth to protest further, but a smirk from Henryk deflated his resolve. "You're too damn easy to mess with," he conceded, waving off the conversation.
Edward sighed, glancing around to ensure no one had overheard. The last thing he needed was a rumor spreading on his first day that he was leaning a different way than he actually did. However, as his eyes refocused on the center of the room, a darkness clouded his gaze.
To Henryk, it might have appeared as nothing more than a random stone platform bathed in the spotlight, adorned with unfamiliar glyphs and markings. Yet Edward understood. He knew the weight such symbols carried, a significance far beyond the grasp of someone born in the fringes. These symbols held tales, legends, inscribed in the sands of Mars ages past, bearing a legacy that still resonated.
"My old man pushed me to be here," Edward confessed, his voice carrying a trace of resignation.
Unbeknownst to Ed, his words slipped from his lips, casting Henryk's gaze in his direction. The other two individuals who had gravitated to Henryk's side engaged in their own chatter, their voices blending into a distant hum. Ed struggled to make sense of the girl; something about her rubbed him the wrong way. As for the boy, an unidentifiable disquiet simmered within Ed, a feeling he couldn't quite place.
"Your father?" Henryk echoed, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his words. "Seems like a lot of folks' fathers share that ambition."
A faint chuckle escaped Ed. "Yeah, guess you're right," he conceded, a sigh lacing his response. His attention oscillated between the crowd and the stage. The red marking at the center still held a peculiar allure, a mark of history maintained, whether in honor or mockery of past glories. The false emperor's morbid sense of humor seemed to persist.
His gaze settled once again on the girl from earlier, another first-year like himself. Her infatuation remained undiminished, prompting Ed to offer a small wave. Her blush and the hushed conversations among her friends only fueled his smirk.
However, a shadow crept over his features. "My father was in this very place, too," he began, his tone tinged with a mixture of reminiscence and bitterness.
"Your old man came to the academy?" Jose's voice interjected, drawing both Ed and Henryk's attention.
Ed hesitated, then nodded slowly as if weighing the words. "Yeah," he finally confirmed. The revelation triggered Jose's awe, directed now at Mags. "You must be swimming in wealth, huh?" he remarked, his voice ripe with admiration and envy.
But it was Henryk who slapped his thigh with gusto, erupting into a hearty bout of laughter. "This guy, rich!" he proclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Ed. "This poor kid right here didn't even make it to third-class luxury. He was bunking in the garage of the—"
"Enough," Ed cut him off, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying the command. "It's just... it's weird, you know? Being back here. So much has changed."
Henryk brushed off the topic, his gaze locked straight ahead as a lone figure traversed toward the center of the room. "What matters is the here and now. Right at this moment, I won't let anything or anyone derail my goals," he stated resolutely.
Ed regarded him for a beat, then sighed. "You're one stubborn son of a gun, Henryk," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I figure my old man would've liked you," Ed mused.
Henryk's shrug spoke volumes. "It is what it is," he responded, a touch of melancholy beneath the casual tone. "My old man's gone too."
The lights dimmed fully just as their conversation was poised to continue. Henryk's eyes widened, taking in the unfolding spectacle before him.
In the midst of the shadows, a lone figure emerged. A man of intriguing stature, his hair a cascade of silvery strands, his eyes a striking shade of luminous blue. Clad in a commanding uniform that bespoke high-ranking officer status within the empire.
Definitely feelin' that," Henryk responded with a touch of dry humor. "There's this..." His words trailed off as a bead of sweat traced his brow. He sighed and dismissed it with a wave. "Never mind," he muttered, detecting the disappointment etching Ed's expression.
Ed’s gaze lingered on Henryk for a moment, then returned to the enigmatic man. As the man began to speak, an undercurrent of anxiety churned within Henryk. His thoughts skittered to the girl and Henryk’s peculiar interaction with her. How did Henryk know her whereabouts when no one else did? A girl who, by all accounts, should have perished in that wreckage. But they intervened, and the cluster array, designed to block any entry or exit, was disrupted. Edwards features darkened as he forced his attention forward, withdrawing into himself, his knees drawn to his chest.
The girl's fate should have been sealed, yet his interference altered that fate, allowed him to see and sense things that defied explanation. An underlying power, a hidden realm...
"Hello," the man's voice reverberated, startling Henryk with its volume. Whipping around, he realized the man was speaking into a microphone. Yet, others were far more affected. A boy cowered, curled into a ball, while a companion attempted to console him against the auditory onslaught.
"What the hell?" Henryk whispered, perturbed by the volume but perplexed by the extreme reaction.
"He's probably from a feudal world," Jose chimed in beside him, nodding toward the distressed boy.
"Feudal world?" Henryk queried, his brow furrowing in confusion.
Jose chuckled softly. "Man, you really are a country bumpkin. I'm from the frontier, but at least I've got a decent grip on the empire's history."
Henryk's voice cut through the hum of the assembly, his words imbued with a matter-of-fact quality. "Our majesty's got a sprawling army and planets. A single man can't grasp it all."
Jose's dismissive wave held an edge, his narrowed eyes betraying an underlying irritation at Henryk's tone. To Jose, it seemed Henryk's words lacked the veneer that many wore while conversing. Jose opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated. He glanced at someone by his side, a swift exchange of whispers imbuing him with an unexpected calmness, his fingers flexing in rhythm.
"You got the basics down?" Jose's question was pointed, his finger now aimed at a particular student. The prior tension had subsided, replaced by an air of authority.
Henryk shot him a glance loaded with skepticism. "Don't you think I already do? Don't play coy with me."
Jose waved off his response. "Never hurts to be sure," he quipped. "So, let me school you on feudal worlds. They're like time-frozen planets."
That proclamation earned an arched eyebrow from Henryk. "Feudal worlds? Don't hear about 'em often. What's the deal?"
"I bet," Jose chuckled knowingly. "These planets are trapped in a technological era reminiscent of ancient Earth. But they carry echoes of Earth's old customs and cultures."
Pausing, Jose's expression turned enigmatic, as if wrestling with a secret. With a sigh, he directed his finger toward the lone circular glyph at the center of the field. "That right there... it's House Mars. One of the famous feudal worlds, and quite possibly the one to kick it all off. Legend has it they hailed from Old Earth's Europe, calling themselves the Knights of The Empire."
"Knights?" Henryk echoed, puzzled. "Not soldiers?"
"Ever heard of the Knights of Mars?" Jose inquired, intrigued.
But the words were fading as Henryk struggled to focus. The figure at the center had started speaking, droning on about the mundane aspects of the school orientation. Congratulating arrivals, delving into fragments of history, and predominantly extolling the immediate induction into the houses—singular?
"I’ve heard a bit, but not much," Henryk admitted, his curiosity piqued.
Jose paused, genuine shock crossing his features. "You're seriously behind the curve," Jose quipped, his tone edged.
"Henryk," Jose sighed. "You've got to broaden your historical knowledge. The Knights of Mars? They were the imperial sword for generations."
A contemplative pause followed as Jose gestured to their surroundings. "Funny, isn't it? The way Mars used to be... the solar system's houses would've vied for the royal family's favor."
Henryk's curiosity surged. "So what shifted the tide?"
Amidst the wild cacophony of chants, clapping, and revelries that enveloped them, a sudden pallor swept over Jose's face, turning his complexion ghostly white. He cast anxious glances all around, his confidence dissipating into thin air. "What happened?" Henryk questioned, his agitation mounting as the day's tribulations compounded. A beautiful girl's disdain, Ed's incessant pestering, and now this peculiar behavior from Jose – a cocktail of circumstances he'd rather avoid. Yet, he was being dragged into it all.
"Jose," Henryk's voice grew harsher, a tinge of impatience seeping in.
"Fine," Jose relented, his voice quivering as he averted his gaze. "They were banished, censured..."
Henryk's eyes widened at the revelation. "Banished... censured?" He paused, his gaze drawn back to the enigmatic glyph. "But why? I've heard of such punishments, but I've never..."
"It was due to a civil war within House Mars," Jose explained, turning to face Ed. Unbeknownst to him, the way he looked at Jose now caught Ed's attention. Jose continued, his words flowing. "Upon the death of the previous emperor, his adopted son ascended the throne. However, House Mars launched a bid for power, orchestrating an assassination attempt on the emperor and plotting to seize control of the empire."
Ed's scoff echoed, cutting through the air. He turned to Jose, his expression laced with skepticism and a hidden anger that barely veiled his contempt. "Do you truly believe that?" Ed's question hung heavily, and the silence that followed was tense, the unspoken tension between them palpable. Henryk watched, an unwitting spectator to their verbal fray.
Jose stammered in response. "Y-Yes, because... why would our benevolent emperor act in such a manner? To resort to assassination, after years of unwavering service?" Jose's voice carried an almost reverential tone as he spoke of the emperor, casting him as an almost godlike figure. Yet, the words dripped with a reverence that was no more than a pretense, as though Jose was aware that this "god" would scorn him if he stood before him.
"You deify him," Ed's words dripped with venom, a bitterness he might not have intended to reveal so openly. He couldn't help himself.
"Edward, enough," Henryk's intervention was swift, his raised hands a plea for ceasefire, a desperate bid to quell the mounting confrontation.
But Ed pressed on. "The emperor broke his own rules in regards to the use of nuclear arms."
Jose's sneer was palpable. "The rules were etched in history centuries ago... and the Martians acted dishonorably."
"Dishonorably?" Edward snapped, his restrained fury bursting forth. "Centuries of loyal service, the bulwark against the insect onslaught in the past, they carried the moniker of knights, shouldering the sacrifices that paved the way for this empire's ascendancy. And in return, the emperor showered nuclear fire upon them... he obliterated an entire planet and branded them with censure marks."
Jose only grunted. "Traitors, the whole lot of them."
Turning to Henryk, he summarized, "That's the essence of the Martian transgressions."
Edward seethed, a simmering anger uncontained, his gaze locking onto Henryk. Yet, a sigh slipped from him, a concession of sorts, as he shook his head slowly.
"What's your take on this, Henryk?" Jose's question hung in the air, expectant.
"I reckon, our emperor..." Henryk sighed, his voice weighed down. "Our emperor's got his plan, and if he says traitors are traitors, I'm here to heed and serve the royal line."
Ed's disappointment was plain to see, the shift in his expression saying more than words ever could.
But then, a sound, a swell of laughter echoing like a choir of madness, erupted from both sides. The Houses were ascending. Those from the core worlds, at least. Amidst this surge of life, the simple-minded looked ahead, eyes wide with anticipation. Young men and women, forged on the fringes of humanity's most ambitious endeavors, hailed from distant corners of the cosmos. Just like Jose and Henryk, who bore the weight of archaic Earth names, relics of worlds long gone, carried forth on the crest of nobility.
Yet, watch for Sirine—remember that name, let it seep in. She's a figure from epics, a name to heed. As the Houses ascended, as the distinguished scions of empire's high lineage, the din of jubilation swirled like a tempest. The grand lords of worlds, those who led humanity's first crusade, culminating in the annihilation of the ancient insect warriors, now saw their legacy carried forth by their kin.
Ed swiveled to face them, his masked disdain concealed amidst the cheers. Wide-eyed, incensed, and calculated—like a beast on the brink. Cheers and ovation rang out, mirthful and careless, and while the applause swelled, Ed sat, his heart racing like a captive bird in his chest. An arrow strung, aimed at his target.
Sirine, the symbol of Helen in this narrative, though the irony would reveal itself later.
Henryk, swept away by the hysteria, beamed with joy, his gaze absorbed by these exalted figures. While Ed glared in loathing, Henryk adored them.
Such sentiment was shared among the underbelly of the galaxy, where the downtrodden sought camaraderie. Meanwhile, the middle echelons stagnated within their hierarchical trappings, while the elite vied among themselves for greater ascendancy.
A realization dawned on Ed, crystallized in that moment as he looked upon Henryk with a blend of sadness and realization. Not the disappointment of a friendship fraying, but the lament of one who saw the truth, while the other clung to shadows.
"Enough of this,"
The choir silenced almost instantly. Xarl – a name etched in memory – ran his fingers through his hair, a casual gesture.
Henryk glanced around, colors of the houses, their insignia embedded on the chairs, obscured by the throng.
However, Henryk tilted his head upward, gazing at the balcony overhead. Shadows cloaked the figures perched there, their uniforms a bold, blazing orange. His vision strained to make them out—a trio of shapes, two girls and a guy.
Among them, a cascade of golden hair framed the face of one girl. Henryk's eyes fixed on her, entranced by the glint of her mane, but before his thoughts could complete, a voice—commanding, powerful—rattled through the air.
"Welcome to the academy."
His spine tingled as he spun around to confront the source. Xarl stood before him, close enough that their breaths could mingle in the cool air. Silver eyes bore into him with an intensity that sent a shiver down Henryk's spine, matching the silver thread adorning the hilt of a blade.
Surprised, Henryk yelped, almost colliding into the person behind him. A ripple spread through the crowd, parting them like water to reveal the void in their midst. All eyes turned toward Xarl, expressions a mix of astonishment and fear. Even Ed felt a tremor of dread wash over him.
The man before them was lithe, his uniform almost too large for his frame. Yet, an otherworldly quality clung to him, a strangeness that unsettled Henryk more than he cared to admit. "Did your momma forget to teach you manners?" Xarl's voice carried, the words an echo in the hushed space.
Henryk stammered, frustrated at the slip in his composure, feeling as though his teeth might shatter from the clenching. He wasn't accustomed to stuttering.
"Then why ain't you paying attention?" Xarl's voice boomed, filling the space with its commanding presence. A sea of eyes locked onto Henryk. Fellow students, peers, and a select few dignitaries—all directed their gaze toward him.
"Y-yes, she did," Henryk forced out, the words tasting like vinegar on his tongue.
"Then tell me why you look like a calf at a slaughter. In the fifty-eight years I've served this academy, you're the first hick who seems more lost than a worm in a whiskey bottle." Xarl's words, though harsh, held an odd humor.
Ed's jaw practically hit the floor. His eyes darted to Henryk, not quite believing the display unfolding before him. Henryk spat on the floor—a brazen, unexpected move. Xarl recoiled, a look of surprise flitting across his face, but the curve of his lips remained enigmatic.
"Ain't got much interest in this show," Henryk retorted.
A stunned silence blanketed the scene. The noble attendees were aghast at the utter lack of respect. Yet, amidst the gasps, a flicker of something different emerged.
Sirine, the girl with the blond hair, burst into uncontrollable laughter. She doubled over, her mirth echoing through the hall. Even her father couldn't help but sigh, a hint of exasperated amusement.
"Have a seat," Xarl commanded, moving away. The peculiarity of the interaction still clung to Henryk, a residue of unease as Xarl returned to the center of attention.
Xarl's voice filled the hall like a swell of thunder, each word resonating with the weight of authority and history. The houses of the solar system emerged from the shadows like players on a cosmic stage, each step forward a revelation of their unique essence.
"Behold, the Houses of the Solar System," Xarl's proclamation echoed, a cadence of power, but felt robotic and . "From the blistering heart of Mercury to the enigmatic realms of Neptune, every house carries its own saga, its own narrative, and its own destiny."
Neptune House stepped up, led by the charismatic Stella ‘Isadora’ Solaris. Dressed in garments that glowed like molten gold, Stella’s eyes blazed with a fire that matched her confidence. A grin split her lips as she met Xarl's gaze head-on.
Logan was next to her, draped in white garment and a bed of feathers formed a crown amongst himself. He rose his hand and the audience roared his name.
"Close to the sun we may be, but our ambition ignites even hotter," she declared, a sharp edge to her words. "Within Neptune’s crucible, destinies are forged."
Venus House followed, captained by the enigmatic Seraphina Lysander. Their attire was a canvas of vibrant hues and intricate designs. Seraphina's hypnotic gaze locked onto Xarl's, her presence magnetic. "Our allure is insatiable, our sway undeniable," she purred, her voice dripping honey and intrigue. "Venusians thrive amid elegance and mystery."
With grounded pride, Earth House made their entrance, led by the unwavering Atticus Evergreen. Their clothing bore the imagery of landscapes and nature's embrace. Atticus emanated an aura of solidity and warmth. "Rooted in the very soil beneath us, we stand as stewards of life's tapestry," he stated with conviction. "From the earth to the heavens, unity and diversity are our mantle."
Jupiter House burst forth with joyous grandeur, helmed by the exuberant Caspian Oberon. Their garments were opulent and Caspian's booming voice resonated like thunder as he slapped Xarl on the back. "Largest among the gas giants, we personify expansion and abundance," he roared. "Joviality reigns supreme in the domain of Jupiter!"
Saturn House followed in disciplined elegance, guided by the poised Elara Thorne. Adorned with rings reminiscent of their planet's beauty, they exuded an air of calculated grace. Elara's wry smile lingered. "We are the architects of order, the guardians of equilibrium," she asserted. "Saturn's poise resides in structure and discipline."
Uranus House advanced, led by the innovative Lucius Starforge. Their attire spoke of invention and progress. Lucius' eyes sparked with curiosity as he raised a quizzical eyebrow at Xarl. "Uranians challenge conventions, pushing boundaries and embracing the winds of change," he announced. "Innovation and ingenuity carve our path."
Last to make their entrance, Neptune House graced the stage, steered by the enigmatic Aurora Selene. Their garments flowed like ocean waves, mirroring their planet's enigma. Aurora's gaze held a depth of introspection as she whispered, "From the recesses of imagination, we seek truths veiled to others. Neptune's realm is woven with dreams and intuition."
In the midst of these introductions, jest and repartee danced between the houses, a testament to both camaraderie and rivalry that bound these powerful entities. Laughter and playful remarks punctuated their interactions, unveiling the intricate relationships woven among the solar system's noble clans.
However, there was a pause. “Pluto?” Questioned Xarl, and he heard the snicker arise from a couple of members from the scattered houses.
An eyebrow arched. “So, that’s what your doing?” Xarl looked into there eyes. And a heavy sigh erupred from his core.
Ed leaned toward Henryk, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Quite a show, huh?"
Henryk's gaze remained locked on the unfolding spectacle. "Feels like Shakespeare took a cosmic road trip, don't it?"
As the echoes of Xarl's voice faded, the room trembled with anticipation. House introductions had ignited a fire of curiosity within the assembled students, but now, the air was thick with tension. The room had become a theater of destiny, and every gaze was locked onto the unfolding drama.
Xarl's eyes gleamed with a mixture of authority and intrigue. He paced the stage, every step imbued with purpose. "It's time to unveil the paths that fate has woven for you," he proclaimed, his words carrying weight. "House picking, my young scholars, will determine your journey within these hallowed halls."
The presidents and peers of the houses stood like kings and queens upon their thrones, adorned in regal garments that seemed to blend with their very essence. Yet, amidst the grandeur, the rest of the crowd, the frontiersmen and the less privileged, struggled in their own metaphorical rags, each heart weighed by the knowledge of their place.
Henryk felt the weight of his own dreams and desires in the midst of it all. A fleeting smirk danced upon his lips, a momentary rebellion against the boundaries of reality. But dreams were fragile things, and he quickly let the smirk fade, lest he be consumed by his own yearnings. And yet, his eyes betrayed a stolen glance at the headmaster's daughter, a dream he couldn't shake.
As individuals began to rise from the sea of faces, moving with purpose, Henryk's gaze fixated on the few that stood apart. They were the chosen ones, the ones who bore the promise of scholarships and early entry. Their steps, though different, seemed to echo the same rhythm of fate.
Xarl's voice pierced the silence like a conductor guiding an orchestra. "Alright, then."
Amidst the rising camaraderie, a silent question gnawed at Henryk's thoughts. Where would he fit into this intricate web of houses and destinies? As the tension mounted, a figure emerged, like a shadow weaving through the crowd—Edward. His presence was undeniable, wrapped in an aura of self-assured confidence that bordered on audacity.
Jose's disbelief cut through the air like a sharp blade. "I never thought that guy had a scholarship or something," he mused aloud.
Henryk responded with a simple shrug. "His father did mention wanting him here."
Jose's skepticism lingered. "Still, remember when he used to crash in the garage? Hard to believe he got a ticket to this show."
His gaze swept over the crowd, scanning faces of various origins and backgrounds. "Look at them," Jose remarked, and Henryk followed suit. "A medley of fronter folks, midworlders, and the odd industrial soul. It's like we were just plucked from the void for this spectacle."
And then, a collective gasp spread through the room, shattering the hum of conversation. All eyes converged upon one figure, Edward. His stance, like a coiled spring, hinted at something unspoken—a silent defiance that seemed ready to erupt. His eyes, normally veiled, now burned with a mixture of fury and determination. His fists clenched, a reflexive response to a fight he hadn't yet fought.
As if locked in a trance, Edward stared ahead, his gaze piercing the light as if searching for answers in its brilliance. And then, in a moment that felt like an eternity, he closed his eyes, a gesture of surrender or maybe introspection.
Meanwhile, Edward stood like a lone sentinel amidst the sea of high nobility. The disdain emanating from the core world elite was palpable, as if their gaze could scorch his very soul. The same girl who once coveted his attention now turned away, a subtle rejection that cut deeper than a blade.
Jose's voice wavered, betraying his own bewilderment. "He was a traitor all along?"
Henryk's gaze was locked on the transformation unfolding before him. Edward, once radiant with a carefree demeanor, stood alone now, his countenance darkened by the shadows of his past. Xarl's smirk, a twisted reflection of amusement and derision, was like a spotlight trained on the scene.
"So, the Sons of Mars endure, huh?" Xarl's words pierced the air, laced with disbelief and a hint of cynical amusement. The weight of the revelation hung heavy in the room, an unspoken truth that had been cast into the light.
Edward's face shifted, the playful smile wiped away, replaced by a stern and serious expression. He was prepared, poised to face whatever scrutiny lay ahead. Xarl's arms crossed behind his back, his gaze unwavering on the solitary figure before him—a figure that had once represented the empire's pride but now embodied its deepest shame.
Once revered as the epitome of honor, now shamed as its greatest disgrace. A voice from the heights of the assembly cried out, branding Edward as a "mutant." Anger flashed across Edward's features, a spark ready to ignite into a blazing fire. But before he could react, Xarl's voice thundered, a command that cut through the room like a blade.
"Silence!" The word echoed with an authority that quelled even the most defiant whisper. Xarl's gaze shifted back to Edward, the tension thickening. "The Martians bear their burden of disgrace, yet the emperor has not stripped them of their fundamental rights."
"He ought to have," a muttered voice carried on the currents of the crowd's discontent.
Xarl pivoted back to Edward, his gaze a piercing inquiry. "Tell me your name, boy."
A steadying breath, a moment of defiance against the weight of scrutiny. "Edward the II of House Wolfsheim," came the response, delivered with a resolute tone that matched the gaze he fixed upon Xarl.
A chuckle, devoid of genuine mirth, escaped Xarl's lips. "Ah, House Wolfsheim. I've heard of you. You and your gene-brothers at the Battle of New Edis. I was present—saw your valor, your slaughter."
Henryk's eyes widened, caught in the revelation. "Gene-brothers?" he whispered, the term foreign and yet strangely familiar. His query remained unanswered, lost in the sea of the unfolding drama.
Edward's snort, a mix of defiance and disregard, was a testament to his resilience. Henryk observed as the crowd's reactions rippled like water in response to the newfound knowledge. Scorn radiated from the high nobility, Jose's eyes held disbelief, their earlier camaraderie shattered by this revelation.
Yet, others regarded Edward with a mixture of nostalgia and melancholy, seeing in him a relic of bygone conflicts. A living testament to a turbulent past, marked by battles now forgotten. He stood as a lone warrior, a solitary link to a once-vibrant chain.
Respect emanated from some quarters too, a recognition of his past and the role he played. Xarl's grin widened, his eyes dancing from Edward to Henryk in a fleeting, cryptic exchange.
Xarl's hands came together, a resounding clap that redirected the room's focus. "For those still in their seats, those who've yet to make their move," his voice carried the weight of a final decree. "Your first assignment awaits."
The air crackled with anticipation as bright lights cascaded down from the lofty canopy. Henryk's gaze stretched, following Xarl's pointed finger, and a holographic ring of students' faces materialized in the air like eerie apparitions. Xarl's voice pierced the charged atmosphere, every word chiseled with gravity and challenge.
"A week remains before the semester's awakening, a mere seven days to secure a sponsor within the hallowed houses. Whether your skills pivot on intellect, luck, or mastery of a warcasket's controls, you lowbirths must seek out a house's embrace." The words thundered, echoing in Henryk's ears, beads of sweat already dotting his brow as his gaze scanned the unfolding scene.
Jose voiced the collective disbelief. "Is he sayin' what I reckon he is?" Mag's widened eyes mirrored the shock that ricocheted through the students, a gasp of disbelief and trepidation sweeping through them, catching Henryk in its grasp.
Xarl pressed on, his words unwavering. "For those blessed with house sponsorship, your path is clear, leisure awaiting you till the semester's dawn. But for those without..." Xarl's gaze shifted, quelling the unrest within the lowbirths. "Exile is your fate."
Laughter erupted from the houses, a cacophony that clashed with the lowbirths' discontent and arguments. Henryk's voice resounded, a clenched fist punctuating his outrage, a cry against the unfairness that cloaked this edict. He'd entered with a bang, an indelible impression, and doubt gnawed at him, wondering how this rigged game would play out.
Amidst the turmoil, Edward remained a stone amidst the waves, arms folded, eyes distant, watching as lowbirths wrangled and bickered. A solitary figure cloaked in the boundary of his isolation. A pang of shame coursed through Henryk, inexplicably stirred by this sight, though he quickly brushed it aside.
"Now then," Xarl's voice cut through the din, drawing attention back to him. The crowd hushed, their collective breath held. "It's time for the ritual."
Xarl's thumbs pointed upward, a signal to the canopy above. Like pilot lights ignited, flickers of flames danced and swirled, culminating in eruptions of brilliant fire. Students embraced by the houses shed their previous attire in a blaze of transformation. The flames painted them anew, reimagining their identity in the hues of their chosen house.
Yet, all eyes gravitated to Edward, watching his metamorphosis. Henryk observed as Edward's grimy, grease-stained uniform dissolved in radiant light, reborn as a crisp officer's attire akin to the instructors' and academy officers' garb. The Knights of Mars, synonymous with authority, radiated strength in their new uniform—a gleaming emerald, cuffs and collar adorned with gilded accents that pulsed with fiery intensity. Edward's arms stretched out, his hair stirred by an unseen force, a gust of empowerment. A smirk played on his lips.
As if drawn by the spectacle, the lowbirths' laughter mingled with Edward's unrestrained exultation, forging a connection, an alliance among those who stood on the fringe of nobility.
"But let's wrap this up. I reckon you are all starvin' after that journey. The first task ahead will take time," Xarl's steps carried him nearer to Edward, a pawn in the academy's game. Others cast curious glances Edward's way as Xarl's fingers snapped, summoning another figure—a fellow academy member, bearing a can of crimson paint. Xarl placed it ceremoniously before Edward, the gesture thick with intent.
Amidst the charged atmosphere, Ed's eyes locked onto the can as if it were a venomous serpent. A sense of impending doom seemed to coil around him, and his gaze flickered towards Xarl, whose demand hung heavy in the air. "Paint your right arm," the command cut through like a blade.
A step backward, a twitch of muscles, and then Xarl punctured the can with a sharp kick, releasing a torrent of red liquid. It was red, but not the kind that inspired poetry. No, it was a crimson tainted by the hues of suffering, a color that evoked the brutality of spilled blood and the marks left behind.
"The martians were censured," Xarl's words lashed out, carrying the weight of condemnation. "To join House Mars, you must bear the mark of shame," he stated with a satisfaction that danced on the edge of sadism.
Ed's face contorted, an orchestra of emotions playing across his features. To Henryk, it was a symphony of anger, frustration, and a simmering rage that threatened to erupt like a volcano. The turmoil within Ed was palpable, a stormy sea churning beneath a façade of bravado.
Xarl's smile, the constant thread in this bizarre tapestry, remained unbroken. He wore that smile like armor, unyielding to the tumultuous emotions around him. Even the assembly seemed to share a collective consciousness, delighting in the spectacle before them. Their expressions ranged from disgust to smugness, and all eyes converged on Edward, the last Martian, tainted by the brush of shame.
Once revered as the empire's valiant champions, now cast aside as pariahs, branded by their own past. Henryk watched Ed's internal struggle play out like a drama, his clenched fists betraying his inner turmoil. The blood of his own body mingled with the paint, the physical manifestation of the stain that now marked him.
In the midst of this silent struggle, Ed's gaze flicked downward, as if the paint can held the answer to his dilemma. The weight of his decision bore down on him, the pressure of a choice that held far more significance than the painted symbol on his arm. The tension in the room was palpable, a collective breath held in anticipation.
A deep exhalation, a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand burdens, escaped Ed's lips. It echoed like a forlorn trumpet, a sound of surrender. His shoulders slumped, the defiance slowly draining away. His gaze lingered on the can of paint, a symbol of his concession to a fate he didn't ask for, a role he didn't choose.
"Okay," the word hung in the air, a resignation that signaled the end of a silent battle. The paint was claimed, the deed was done, and the mark of House Mars was borne on his right arm, a mark both literal and metaphorical, branding him as both a member and an outcast.