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Dark Son of Mortis (Chapter 5)
🕑 Added 2023-05-27 19:45:14 +0000 UTCCenturies ago, before the time of Emperor Valkorion, planet Zakuul was a savage, primitive world.
However, it wasn’t always that way—once, they were part of an advanced civilization, inhabiting a solar system a few lightyears away. Their home world was named Iokath, a beacon of technological advancement others could only admire from afar.
Their story was a long and tumultuous one, but its conclusion was ultimately tragic. A civil war, fought with tremendously advanced weaponry, sent the civilization hurtling back through the ages, undoing millennia’s worth of progress.
Those who managed to survive scattered throughout the universe, some settling on planet Zakuul—a habitable planet, but wild, covered in dense, unwelcoming jungles. There, they degraded into tribalism, the technological remnants of their old civilization growing more unfathomable and foreign from one generation to the next.
However, as their material knowledge diminished, more esoteric disciplines took its place. The Cult of the Old Ways sprung up among them, the cultists increasing in power and influence until they reigned over the tribes.
It was in this kind of climate that a prophecy emerged, cast by a faceless madman in service of the cult. And perhaps more importantly, it was during such times that Dark Lord Tenebrae, using the Essence Transfer technique, dominated the mind and body of a Zakuulian warrior named Valkorion.
The rest, as they say, was history. Taking advantage of the ‘Demon Savior’ prophecy, ‘Valkorion’ elevated himself above the cult, dragging the primitive society kicking-and-screaming back into the galactic spotlight.
Needless to say, not for one moment did he believe there was any truth to the prophecy. After all, what secrets could be gained from rolling fingerbones or reading the entrails of fish? As a sorcerer himself, he knew those things for what they were—archaic practices and backwards superstition with no value.
Unfortunately, it was exactly the chosen one status that allowed Valkorion to conquer in the first place.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say his holy status was beginning to annoy him, but it was already too late. From the beginning, his foundation was based on the prophecy. He couldn’t let his identity be brought into question unless he wished to create division within the Eternal Empire.
However, staring at the hooded, human child depicted on the holo-vid, Valkorion couldn’t help feeling this one was a bit different from all the previous ‘Demon Saviors’, having risen over the centuries to challenge his rule.
Through the Zeltron’s perspective, it was possible to see a hail of plasma bolts descending on the child’s body, lines of red tearing through the flame. It being an ambush, along with the sheer quantity of firepower, even an experienced Knight would find survival impossible.
Yet, the child’s expected death did not arrive. Instead, something unbelievable happened—as if the holo-vid’s playback speed was suddenly adjusted, everything within the spy’s field of vision started slowing down.
The incoming storm of plasma-bolts started to shimmer and distort, almost giving an impression like they were desperately struggling to cover the remaining distance. None the less, like a group of people trying to swim in cement, they could only go so far.
About a hand’s length away from the child’s body, the mass of red-hot glowing plasma bolts were brought to a halt, not advancing an inch. Even the dust, gravel and stones thrown by the explosion were frozen, the individual grains visible through the image-feed.
“Good grief, isn’t this a bit much to deal with just two people?”
The child stared fixedly into the Zeltron’s eyes, presumably where the receiver was located. For a moment, he waited on a reply, but then as if realizing he wouldn’t get one, he chuckled.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Suddenly, he released his grip on the spy’s wrist, his open hand surging toward her face. Then, the holo-vid went black, even the sound cutting out.
“…”
There was a period of silence inside the Emperor’s office before the grizzled, steely-haired man turned his head, fixing his cold gaze on Matriarch Galatêa.
“After finally locating the impostor, neither you nor your order have an excuse for failure. I expect good news before the week’s end.”
Having delivered his ultimatum, he snapped his fingers, the office suddenly lighting up. Then, he walked toward a white-leather armrest-chair before taking a seat.
“Dismissed.”
His deep voice still ringing in her ears, Matriarch Galatêa rose to her feet, a clasped fist pressed against her chest.
“I have received your commands, my Emperor. My sisters and I will not disappoint you.”
Not lingering for a moment longer, she turned and walked out of the office, the chrome doors opening and closing behind her.
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After stopping by the emperor’s office, Senya Tirall decided to check in on her sons’ training. She’d only spoken briefly with her ‘partner’, finding his patience to be thinner and temper shorter than usual.
At times like those, she knew it was best to make herself scarce. The Order was already dealing with the insurrectionists—her help wasn’t necessary.
“Ma’am.”
Outside her children’s private training ground, a knight, decked from head to toe in gleaming, bronze armor greeted her respectfully.
Senya gave him a nod before walking over to the railing, overlooking the large, oval gymnasium. There, Thexan and Arcann were involved in a sparring match, a serious-looking man watching over them. The fellow in question was handsome, with close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face.
“Drill-Master Soren speaks well of their progress. He believes they’ll soon be ready to assume command of squad Orion and Kepler.”
The guardsman, because of Senya’s infrequent visits, felt the need to fill her in on what had been happening.
From the time of the twins’ birth, a special-forces unit was prepared for each of them. Now that they were nearing adulthood, turning sixteen this year, the time had come for them to take up that responsibility.
Senya nodded absentmindedly. Although her eyes were fixed on her sons, in truth, her thoughts had turned to Vaylin, her daughter and the youngest of the three siblings.
Despite Thexan and Arcann’s formidable progress, in truth their gifts in the Force were inferior to their little sister’s. However, that was actually understating the issue.
Feeling the same old worry bloom in her chest, Senya thought, and not for the first time, that being too talented was as much of a problem as being talentless. It drew all kinds of unwanted attention, ultimately resulting in envy and fear.
However, given Vaylin’s status as the Emperor’s daughter, she was mostly sheltered and protected from the consequences of her gifts. Senya had hoped things would stay that way until she’d grown and matured enough to learn restraint, but it seemed time was running out.
Over the years, Senya started to realize the biggest threat to her daughter’s well-being wasn’t some external force, but the child’s father. For some reason, despite his mind-boggling strength, Emperor Valkorion started feeling threatened by his own daughter.
Knowing the man’s nature, Senya knew it wouldn’t be long before his inward paranoia manifested outwardly.
“…other! Mother!”
Suddenly, she felt a hand grabbing her forearm, jostling her out of her reverie. In front of her, Thexan stood, his brother a short distance behind him.
“Oh, are you finished, boys?”
Realizing time had passed without her even noticing, Senya hurriedly greeted her children, giving each a quick hug.
They accepted the shows of affection obediently, but the strange looks didn’t disappear from their faces.
“Is something the matter? You were standing there for a while, staring into space.”
Thexan, being the caring, dutiful older brother, pressed her on the issue.
Senya smiled at him, shaking her head.
“It’s nothing, just some things I need to take care of later. How was your session? Drill-Master Soren is impressed by your progress.”
Arcann, latching on to an opportunity to talk about himself, immediately started chatting excitedly about his soon-to-be Kepler squad.
“…already, I’m able to take six out of every ten bouts. Soon, he won’t be able to win a single match! By the way, did you speak with father today? If he knew about my progress, I’m sure he’d assign me my squad.”
The youth, never shy about boasting, spoke about his and his brother’s sparring. From the sound of it, their tie, which had maintained for years, was starting to shift.
Senya looked from him to Thexan, the latter simply shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t seem very bothered by his ‘inferiority’, but it was always his way.
Since childhood, Valkorion attempted to stoke competition between the two, but only Arcann, ever eager to catch the attention of his absent father, took it seriously.
“I did speak with him, but he’s been very busy. I doubt he’ll be able to, well… check in on you boys.”
Senya’s tone was apologetic and, seeing Arcann’s smile turning upside down, she grimaced.
“Why don’t we have dinner tonight? Just us four. You two work so hard, you barely even see your sister anymore…”
However, before she could finish her sentence, Arcann brushed aside her hand, reaching for his hair.
“…forget it. I don’t have time today. Maybe next week.”
Clearly upset, the youth stormed off, leaving through on the other side of the gymnasium.
Sighing, Senya exchanged glances with her remaining son.
“I’ll… stop by tonight.”
Not one to ignore his mother’s feelings, Thexan gave Senya a faint smile.
“How is Sister?”
Accepting a warm towel from a nearby retainer, he wiped the sweat of his face and torso, still bare-chested from his exercise before sitting on a nearby bench.
Walking over to his side, Senya ran her hands through his hair affectionately. Between Vaylin and Arcann’s troubles, it was nice to have at least one family member she could rely on.
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That night, in a remote area of the Endless Swamp.
Clad in a dark outfit - a high-tech polymer suit providing both excellent mobility and protection - Matriarch Galatêa, flanked by two Sisters, arrived at the insurrectionists’ ruin.
“The investigation hasn’t been concluded?”
Her forehead creasing into a frown, she looked sternly at her subordinate.
Earlier today, a squad of no less than thirty crack troops were dispatched, yet not only were they unable to apprehend the impostor, they actually allowed him and his servant to escape!
“Matriarch, I…”
The second-in-command, a female Force-sensitive shaman named Mel’ek, started to explain.
Being part of the second wave of reinforcements, she didn’t make first contact with the insurrectionists. That is to say, by the time she and her dozen sisters were there to provide backup, the vanguard were already no more!
“…believe we’ve underestimated the ringleader.”
Unable to offer any excuses, she could only bow her head in shame.
One moment, Matriarch Galatêa was eyeing Mel’ek evenly. The next, a pistol was in her hand, her finger pulling strongly on the trigger.
A blaster-shot rang inside the empty space, followed by the sound of a corpse hitting the ground.
“His majesty the Emperor has graciously provided us with a week’s time to settle the matter. If we aren’t able to deliver him the results he wants, well…”
After addressing the Sisters, staring at her tensely, Matriarch Galatêa lowered the weapon.
“…Mel’ek’s fate will seem like a mercy.”
Her words echoed hollowly inside the ruin, her tone grave.
