Chapter 42

  Kor (Capital), Vorcon Homeworld

  The Prine System, Calix Sector

  Date: Inqua 2, Year 4732

  The Rheeavher had returned to the Prine System, now holding orbit above the Vorcon homeworld.

  Far below, beneath the city of Kor—the Empire’s cultural and political epicenter, home to the Imperial Palace—fortified halls stretched deep into the crust.

  Commonly referred to as the Undercity, its original name… no longer spoken.

  Within the hall, Caul Malocktus walked alone.

  The corridors accepted him without resistance. He walked not as a visitor, but as one whose place was already written—at least in his own mind.

  And if they knew his deeds, few would disagree.

  Candles lined the passage.

  Light swam across the stone walls, trembling with each breath of air. Shadows slipped and stretched—faint silhouettes echoing the movement of those who passed.

  Beneath each plinth, hardened wax had pooled thick, layer upon layer. The wax of centuries sealed the floor.

  Statues of long-dead emperors lined the walls, carved stone eyes, features caught in the restless light.

  The Vorcon Empire had known many emperors—some remembered for deeds so great they were said to have spoken with the gods.

  Others bound for the same ceremony walked ahead and behind, their voices just audible beyond the low rasp and hiss that drifted through the corridor.

  Caul wore a gray ceremonial robe, its hood pulled low to cast most of his face in shadow. Only his eyes were visible—black depths lit with red cores.

  The statues watched as he passed. In sacred places like this, the gods could always be felt—unless you resisted, unless you denied them, unless you chose not to feel. Caul never did. He opened himself to them.

  He had waited a long time to walk this hall. He had promised it to himself—certain he would earn the right.

  After the war’s end, Caul Malocktus became a regular guest of the Emperor. With Nor Kotoron's rise, Caul had been welcomed into the undercity for ceremonial events.

  At the end of the hall, he stepped into a wide circular chamber.

  The ceiling rested on towering stone pillars.

  Braziers spilled harsh flame, burning at a constant rate—but offering no warmth.

  Cold clung to the space.

  There was an unmistakable air current—just enough to suggest a draft, one that carried a sharper chill with it, but offered no movement of its own.

  There was little use in trying to warm the undercity. The sub-core level beneath Kor remained cold—not freezing, just constant. Inescapable.

  This chamber marked a sort of lobby—a large circular room with many doors leading into other parts of the undercity.

  The doorway leading to the Throne Room was easy to distinguish. Its doors stood high and wide.

  Beyond it stretched another long corridor, the final path to the Throne Room.

  Now used only for ceremonial occasions, the corridor had been carved from the living rock beneath Kor.

  Governance took place in the upper palace—a "modern" structure still older than most cities in the galaxy.

  Two Bruisers stood guard at the entrance. Their armor clanked with each movement.

  Their longswords hung at their sides, unpowered, ceremonial. No other weapons were permitted within.

  Each attendee was scanned on the surface before being granted clearance to enter the depth below, to ensure this rule was enforced.

  Caul took a moment, standing among the many in attendance.

  He moved casually through the chamber, acknowledging others as he passed—taking it in.

  He respected history. Vorcon history ran deep.

  He admired the effort it took to preserve it.

  But he also understood what those who clung to history often forgot: Victory was never born of reverence. Honor resided in conquest, in power not ceremony.

  There were many lessons to be learned from the history of the Vorcons. Nothing had changed—nothing but the scale of the war they fought.

  They remembered the history—but forgot its meaning, what it had to teach, and what it might still become.

  He glanced at the Bruisers’ ceremonial swords—dull from ritual, hollowed by tradition. It was a contradiction, wasn’t it? To revere weapons once soaked in blood, yet seal away those that still held power. To display symbols while hiding the real ones. True power lay in the strength to adapt.

  And yet, the Vorcon Empire had endured—held dominion across generations and systems—not by innovation alone, but by knowing what to preserve… and what to weaponize. Even these ritual blades had meaning, yes. But they were not weapons.

  Caul knew where the real ones were. Not dulled. Not symbolic. Sealed within the Imperial Palace.

  One day, he would not just hold them. He would wield them.

  Varr’s Sceptre.

  Valtos’s Kelkor Blade.

  The weapons themselves carried stories of their own. They carried power—a raw, natural kind that defined what was known today.

  Among them were others—artifacts of power that had endured since before the age of Kor.

  Some of unknown origin.

  Or, as many whispered, from the gods themselves.

  They were not artifacts. They were not relics. They had been forged for use. By gods. Built to withstand time.

  Around him, clusters of Vorcons spoke in hushed tones—voices rasping low and steady, a murmur that filled the lobby.

  Many would dedicate lifetimes to the Empire and never set foot this deep. Never receive the invitation to walk the tunnels beneath the city. To visit the historic Throne Room—the very one where the founding Emperor had once sat. The throne from which the Empire had first been united.

  Only nobles with land and legacy might be fortunate enough to stand in this sanctum, where true power resided. Nobility—or those who had earned the right to be here.

  To be present today meant something else entirely: That every figure here ranked among the most powerful in the Vorcon Empire. That here, decisions for the future would be made.

  Caul was among the permitted. Among the invited.

  But he could often feel the eyes on him.

  They think I don’t belong here. Let them.

  Caul lingered in the lobby, making his presence known before choosing to move further within.

  As he approached the large doors, the guards at the inner threshold straightened.

  Their hands shifted around their swords—an unconscious show of deference.

  At Caul’s nod, they pulled open the heavy stone doors.

  He stepped through without pause.

  The familiar chill greeted him like a rite.

  He continued down the corridor. The murmurs behind him faded—before new ones took their place.

  This was the hall separating the lobby chamber from the Throne Room. The hall of gods.

  The ceiling arched high above him, the corridor flanked by carved effigies of the gods—stone faces frozen in expressions of cold indifference.

  He believed each god deserved their due. But not all could be given time.

  Today, only three would be honored in full. If he had more time, he could have spent the day here—offering each figure a portion of his presence.

  Varr came first. God of Destruction. Towering above the rest, daring all who passed to meet his stone-carved eyes.

  Caul paused before the effigy, bowing his head.

  Varr, who split the stars—I am the vessel. I will not break. Allow me to fulfill your will.

  His voice was low, rasping. Each syllable hissed more than spoken, shaped heavy against his tongue, sliding along razor-black teeth.

  Grant me the might to raise the Empire to glory. Let the unworthy fall. Let your flame shape what must come.

  Let me wield your fire to shape what must be. Let the weak break beneath it. Let me rebuild the Empire from what survives.

  With your power, I will forge a future fit for the gods.

  He whispered it all—every word a wound offered to the divine.

  This was not uncommon. Caul often stopped here—often spoke to Varr when invited to visit the Undercity.

  He believed this particular effigy was more than stone. A conduit. A point of contact—should Varr deem the moment worthy.

  Answers rarely came—and never clearly. Still, the stories persisted. Ancient accounts buried in Vorcon histories spoke of Varr answering.

  The undercity, they said, was steeped in such power—rooted in a deeper sanctity than the surface could hold. It connected to the sacred caves below, where only the most devout—those who had dedicated their lives—could roam. Where, if the gods so chose, the divine could speak.

  And Caul had never stopped believing they might.

  He moved on.

  Next: Eira, Goddess of Consequences.

  Her features were carved in perfect detail—stern, unwavering—entwined with thorned vines that curled across the stone like scars. She was bound to the earth, connected to all who walked it. History claimed her roots ran deep; when her vines took hold, they embedded like nerves, so she could feel. Every consequence—every fracture, every ripple—passed through her. She did not judge. She did not intervene. She bore witness. She reminded all who sought her—and those she sought—that no consequence was wrong. Only inevitable. And there were always more to come.

  Her eyes tracked him in silence. Watching. Waiting.

  Eira, she who watches the fall but never causes it. Collector of fate.

  Guide me, Eira, through the wreckage I have yet to make.

  Further ahead stood Valtos, God of War.

  His armored form dominated the corridor—carved with rigid discipline. No flourish. No grandeur. Stone shaped him, austere and immovable, his shield scarred by deep gouges, his sword sheathed and untouched. His eyes were left uncarved—deliberately blank. He was not meant to see until the end.

  Valtos did not protect. He did not favor. He waited.

  It was said he never blessed a warrior before war—only after. If he looked upon you at all, it was because you had endured. The enemy was not the test. The self was. You did not ask him for strength. You endured until it was granted.

  Caul slowed. This god was not one to be invoked with words.

  You did not pray to Valtos. You stood before him. And endured. War was not victory. It was verdict.

  At the entrance to the grand Throne Room—stood Lady Ves Kotoron, as still as the stone gods around her. Unreadable, unwavering, exact in every movement. The kind of restraint no instruction could teach.

  Caul approached, appraising her without a word.

  She’s capable, he allowed. But when war came—when the tide rose—would she stand, or be crushed by her loyalty?

  Ves wore the formal silver ceremonial uniform. Her longsword remained sheathed at her side.

  Her reputation preceded her: champion of multiple tournaments.

  But Caul had no illusions.

  She nodded at his approach—formal, unrevealing.

  She left no trace of what passed behind her eyes.

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  "Lady Ves Kotoron," Caul said, voice low. Raspy.

  “Major Legate Malocktus.”

  The faintest shift marked her mouth—amusement, perhaps—but it vanished before it could settle.

  She knew what Caul wanted. He had not hidden it. But Ves did not offer certainty. Not in word. Not in expression.

  Caul inclined his head again, eyes scanning her form briefly before returning to meet hers.

  "It is good to see you, my Lady. You appear... as formidable as ever. The Empire would do well to have more of your kind."

  She held his gaze without reaction, letting the compliment pass unacknowledged.

  "And you, Major Legate,” she said, “still carry the remnants of many battles. But you do not let them slow you."

  "Some burdens are meant to be carried," Caul replied, his voice low, meant only for her.

  Ves was beautiful—but it was her position, mind, and potential that drew him.

  He had made gestures: subtle overtures, quiet moments. She remained distant.

  A union with Ves would not merely raise his station. It would legitimize everything. Once, the idea had felt likely—promising. Now, far less so.

  "I wanted to personally commend you, Lady Ves," Caul continued, his tone softening just enough to seem sincere.

  "Your insights into the Empire’s future have been… enlightening. Few possess the clarity to understand that the path forward requires more than tradition. It demands strength. Boldness. The kind you and I both embody."

  Ves’s posture shifted, her mouth a controlled line that offered neither warmth nor retreat.

  "The future, Major Legate, is always a matter of perspective," she said.

  "Some see only what they wish to see. Others understand that the past holds the key to survival. Tradition has carried us this far."

  She paused, letting the thought settle, studying him.

  She knew exactly what he wanted. Not just a supporter. A partner. Someone to solidify his rise. To tether his ambition to legitimacy.

  She had heard it before—in the shape of his compliments, in the slow gravity of his tone.

  His web was well-spun—but she had no intention of stepping into it.

  "And yet, I do not deny that change is inevitable," Ves continued, her tone precise.

  "But not all sacrifices are wise, Major Legate. Only those who understand which ones will fortify us—and which will leave us exposed—will shape the Empire’s future."

  Caul’s chin tilted slightly.

  "Indeed, Lady Ves, you speak with the wisdom of someone who sees the future as clearly as I do. I trust you’ll be there when the time comes to make those hard decisions."

  He stepped in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower register—just enough to keep their exchange private.

  "And I have no doubt that together, we would be formidable. The Vorcon Empire needs us—ones unafraid to take bold action. But action that still honors our traditions. Our way of life. Our gods."

  Ves inclined her head by a fraction, her expression unchanged.

  "The Empire needs strength, Major Legate. That is certain."

  "I shall take my leave, Lady Ves. Though I wonder—are we both content to simply watch as the future of the Empire is decided?"

  A pause. Then Ves spoke, voice low.

  "The future will not wait for those who hesitate. But it will not spare those who charge blindly into ruin, either."

  Caul’s expression shifted—not a smirk. Something else. He gave a bow.

  "Wise as ever."

  He turned and departed, though his thoughts remained fixed on Ves—not simply as a striking figure, but as a potential partner. One who could give weight to his cause.

  She wasn’t the only daughter of Nor Kotoron—but the only one Caul believed he could use.

  The rumors that slipped between palace walls—they meant nothing.

  Caul had bastards scattered across the Empire. The bastards that cluttered court gossip—something Ves took note of. Not that it made or broke any potential future. Other factors mattered more.

  Caul would gain much from Ves as his partner. But what would Ves gain?

  Caul Malocktus was still regarded as beneath the imperial line, beneath nobility. He was as low-born as they came. His family held no lands within the Vorcon Empire. Though their influence was real, it remained unacknowledged. They possessed power and wealth—but no standing. They were not noble, far from it.

  Ves, by his side, would change that. Her name alone could silence every dissenting voice.

  And yet, as always, the question lingered.

  And her fate—not truly hers. She was content serving the emperor... but a day was coming when she would have no emperor to serve.

  She listened, but never revealed. Entertained Caul’s vision, yet offered no commitment.

  Ves watched him go.

  Caul’s ambitions were no mystery. Never stated outright, but clear enough. He wanted power.

  He believed she could be turned. That she might see in him the future of the Vorcon Empire.

  The thought amused her. Ves harbored no illusions.

  She might one day make use of his influence, his ambition—but she would never let herself be caught in his orbit.

  That day was not today. She wasn’t even certain such a day would ever come. If it did, things would have to shift—drastically.

  Caul’s bastards were no secret. His name, stained. Spoken with suspicion. Rumors followed wherever it was mentioned. No union would cleanse that—not even hers.

  She was loyal—unyieldingly so, at least when it came to Emperor Nor Kotoron. Had he asked her to partner with Caul, she would have. But he hadn’t.

  There was a time when the Emperor had seemed far more favorable toward Caul. But that favor had waned. It no longer felt like a thought worth entertaining.

  Her position had placed her where she could hear much—often more than was intended.

  Ves had once overheard something he had said about Caul. She hadn’t caught all of it, but he had seemed to suggest that Caul wanted more than he was owed—and that he had already been compensated for his actions.

  Emperor Nor Kotoron had placed high trust in her.

  Eleventh in line, yet regarded with trust—shield, confidante, protector. Favored in affection. But still a spare.

  And yet, she still thought of Caul.

  What was he truly capable of? More than most realized, certainly.

  If he ever turned against her family, she would end him without hesitation.

  But no—Caul had been loyal, as she had, ever since the unexpected rise of Nor Kotoron, who had taken the throne late in life, past his one-hundred-thirtieth year.

  In the years since, Caul had climbed the ranks of the Grand Vorcon Imperial Force. His current role as Major Legate afforded him real influence—as did his Tahlor's status, and the wealth and resources of the Malocktus family.

  He was not beloved—far from it. But he was respected. Perhaps even feared.

  And when her Tahlor passed—as he inevitably would—what then? What would her brothers expect of her?

  She doubted they would extend the same trust her father had.

  When that day came, would she sever all ties with them? Or would she travel across the Sacred Spaces of the Empire and learn whether the gods still had a use for her?

  Ahead, Caul moved toward the Throne Room.

  Voices rose and fell around him, most confined to low murmurs, punctuated now and then by declarations that cut through the quiet.

  "There will be war!" one voice said.

  "I want to kill as many Sevenes as I can," came another—referring to the humans of the Seven Worlds of Rhyus.

  Many demanded the Vorcon armada strike Rhyus directly—convinced that crushing the humans of the Seven Worlds would send a message the galaxy could not ignore.

  It would make one thing unmistakably clear: the Vorcon Empire had returned to power—and was still a force to be feared.

  Many wanted to defeat the humans of Rhyus—to show the galaxy the Empire was not diminished. That it was still something to fear.

  The Empire had long dreamed of conquering other foes—but to many, nothing mattered until the Seven Worlds were broken. The situation, however, was not so simple.

  The Seven Worlds had not fought alone. Their intervention had rallied others—forming a coalition of star systems that unified and rose together to resist the Vorcon advance.

  All remembered what had happened. All would be prepared. And many, would fight again.

  In the Throne Room, many had already gathered. Others trickled in behind Caul. This room was more than ceremonial—it was sanctified by history. It did not serve governance. This was where war was declared, allegiances sworn, and the Empire’s will pronounced. To stand beneath this ceiling when such words were spoken was to be bound to them.

  Here, presence alone carried meaning. To enter was to be bound by purpose.

  Caul inhaled it. He belonged here.

  Cold walls of gray stone rose above the gathering. Towering pillars stood watch, each etched with the symbols of the Empire’s long, unbroken reign.

  Everything here spoke of legacy—power unbroken.

  Candlelight bent shadows across the stone. Smoke from low-burning braziers coiled overhead, vanishing into unseen vents.

  At the far end stood the Emperor’s throne, carved from the same stone that formed the chamber.

  It bore no ornamentation—nor did it need any. It was ancient. Immutable. A throne of command, not comfort. Unchanged since the first Unifier. A throne of stone, and will, and history.

  Many emperors had sat there, but only one name endured across generations: Kotoron.

  Some whispered the age of great emperors had passed.

  In the early days, Vorcon armadas raided systems at will—striking starbases, sacking colonies, and returning with the spoils of entire worlds.

  That was before the Empire became what it is now—disciplined, fortified, feared.

  The Empire’s foundation lay on Kor. It was there that Emperor Kor Kotoron rose—emerging from the war between rival emperors scattered across the Prine System.

  Each planet had once been ruled independently—some by multiple claimants.

  Kor defeated them all.

  He didn’t unify through diplomacy. He conquered.

  The system bent to the Kotoron line. The Vorcon Empire was born.

  Conflict had always driven the Empire forward. Rivalries flared within, always, but a skilled emperor kept their focus outward—toward expansion, toward conquest.

  That hunger, turned outward, had made the Empire thrive.

  But ten years had passed since the last war had ended.

  The hunger, once pushed outward, had returned—and if the Empire could not find an enemy beyond its borders, it would turn inward.

  Upon the Empire’s founding, Emperor Kor Kotoron divided the livable planets and moons across the Prine System among the noble houses. Some regions were granted to former enemies he had defeated in battle. Others he assigned to loyal followers—installing new houses and carving up territories between planets and moons.

  Each house paid tribute—warships, troops, and resources—for the Grand Vorcon Imperial Force, including a mandatory minimum of warriors.

  So long as that obligation was met, they were permitted to maintain independent forces of their own.

  During times of war, many house leaders sought to distinguish themselves. If their troops made an impact in battle, prestige followed. Proven commanders earned the Emperor’s trust—and with it, control of larger GVIF formations.

  Campaigns offered more than power. They offered honor. Glory. A place in the Empire’s records.

  For the lowborn, the military was a path to power. Far from an easy one.

  Many traveled to Kor to join the GVIF academy, hoping to climb the ranks. Difficult, yes—but not impossible.

  The Vorcon Empire rewarded loyalty. It believed that keeping its populace driven—ambitious, striving to rise beyond their original standing—made the Empire stronger.

  Opportunity was a tool of control. The chance to gain power, to prove one’s worth, fueled allegiance.

  For the lowborn, demonstrating value and advancing within the GVIF offered a rare path to status.

  The Emperor could reward in many forms: conquered territories, outposts, command rights, or fiefs. This system spread power among the lords—among those who had earned the Emperor’s favor.

  It kept the nobility invested. Kept the competition fierce. Kept the Emperor's rule intact.

  But rewards also bred resentment. Especially when someone believed the recognition had been misplaced—or that it should have gone to them instead.

  The Malocktus family, especially, held many such fiefs—inviting both admiration and envy. Some wondered why such a non-noble house held so much influence... but their wealth rivaled—and in some cases exceeded—that of several noble houses.

  As Caul moved farther into the throne room, he took in the nobles arranged along both sides of the chamber. Attention shifted—glances, brief turns of the head.

  Alliances were forming. Decisions were being made.

  Caul observed them without reaction. These were the same old games.

  Near the front, a group of nobles shifted. One turned his head sharply the moment Caul looked his way.

  From the opposite entrance, two guards stepped into the room.

  Wearing black armor—faces hidden behind blank helmets. Ceremonial swords at their sides.

  The Empire endured, and so did its rituals.

  Caul spared them only a glance. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  The chamber fell still. The Emperor had entered.

  His steps were unhurried.

  At that moment, every noble in the room sat without a word. To remain standing would be a direct challenge to the Emperor’s authority—an act no one dared attempt. Not today. Not even Caul. Nor would he, not in such a matter.

  He took his seat, surveying the room. Familiar figures filled it.

  This chamber was built for judgment, not justice. Reputations were sharpened here. And just as easily, they could be broken.

  The Emperor spoke to one of his aides, the words too quiet for the rest to hear. A goblet of wine was placed into his hand.

  But Caul’s focus drifted toward the chamber’s edge.

  The heirs were entering. Ryn. Varn. Eph. Lyss.

  They were close in age—four of the Emperor’s eldest, already aligned behind Ryn. Each held command within the Grand Vorcon Imperial Fleet, each wielding real power within the Empire.

  Ryn stood at the fore—first in the line of succession. Though expected to ascend as Emperor, whispers still lingered. How would he fare when war was no longer theoretical—when Ryn was no longer heir, but Emperor?

  The coming conflict would shape them. Or consume them.

  They took their seats in silence—postures rigid, eyes forward, not a word exchanged.

  Caul studied them one by one.

  And then he thought of the Emperor’s late partner.

  Her death, three years ago, had left a wound across the Empire—one that still hadn’t closed.

  Her absence hung over the Kotoron family like a veil. Never spoken of in public. Never directly acknowledged.

  She had kept the many heirs focused on their duties to the Empire. Her loss had shaken the family deeply—compounded by the Emperor’s slow, visible decline. Nor Kotoron was never the same after.

  Near the Emperor’s throne stood Thal Drakthran, draped in robes—known as the Voice of Order. His presence embodied discipline and continuity. It was his charge to ensure the proceedings followed tradition.

  He did not demand silence. His presence alone delivered it.

  When he finally spoke, his voice filled the room—calm, firm, absolute.

  "In the presence of our revered Emperor, Nor Kotoron… members of the Kotoron family… the Imperial Council… leaders of our great houses… and commanders of the Grand Vorcon Imperial Force," Thal began, "we convene to deliberate on matters of utmost importance to the Vorcon Empire."

  No one moved.

  Caul noted the nobles beside him. Some gave restrained nods. Others sat motionless, their thoughts sealed behind unmoving facades.

  Thal continued, unfurling a scroll.

  "We shall proceed with respect for tradition and with unwavering commitment to the strength and stability of the Empire. The time has come to formalize the Emperor’s commendation for the contributions made to the Grand Vorcon Imperial Fleet."

  The Emperor gave no outward reaction—but his fingers tightened around the goblet’s stem.

  As Thal’s voice rolled through the chamber, Caul’s thoughts turned inward. Commendations. Recognition. Applause behind a mask of formality.

  It was always the same game—appearances, postures, carefully balanced power.

  The Voice of Order recited the noble houses’ contributions—ships pledged, soldiers deployed to join the GVIF, resources added and offered.

  Some impressed. Others fell short.

  With each name read, attention shifted. Judgments moved without a word spoken.

  Caul watched as the nobles absorbed the list.

  When House Malocktus was named, Caul caught the ripple it sent through the chamber.

  They had outshone the old houses—not by accident, but by design.

  He smirked.

  For some, the success of House Malocktus—a house not born into nobility—was a provocation.

  Their own contributions appeared diminished by comparison.

  And they knew it. So did Caul.

  He had intended it. He had made sure of it.