The mausoleum was a void of darkness, its crypts cloaked in shadows so thick they seemed to devour the feeble light. Yet Torne knew they were there. He could feel their oppressive presence pressing down on him, silent monuments to his failures. Each crypt was a ledger of lives lost, a grim testament to the weight of his rule. He traced his fingers over the cold stone of one, its surface rough and unyielding, like the decisions that had led him here.

  he thought, the bitterness heavy in his chest.

  The Order was crumbling, its once-unshakable foundation fracturing under the weight of time and rebellion. His daughter-in-law, Iphis, was the harbinger of its undoing, her forces moving against him with calculated precision. She sought to strip him of what little power remained, to dismantle the hidden consortium of men and women who had ruled the galaxy from its deepest shadows.

  And perhaps she was right. Torne was no longer certain of what the Order had become. The ideals that once defined it had eroded, leaving behind a hollow shell. His exile on Dessix had only worsened his despair, the isolation gnawing at the edges of his sanity. Even the power of the Void, once a source of limitless strength, now felt distant and meaningless.

  he thought, though the notion felt more like a plea than a conviction.

  He needed answers—secrets buried deep within the Modus Ipsimes, the enigmatic architects of the Order. If he could unearth the lost knowledge they guarded, perhaps he could reshape the Order, forge it into something new. Izzar, his heir, would rule a reformed Ipsimussian Order, one that could endure the chaos Iphis sought to unleash.

  Yet the obstacles before him were immense. The two most dangerous factions within the Order would need to be eliminated, their influence eradicated. But doing so would spark rebellion, the kind that would shatter the fragile balance of galactic society. Even with centuries of experience and foresight, Torne could not see a clear path through the storm.

  A faint green light flickered above the mausoleum door, casting an unnatural hue across the crypt. The room seemed to shift under its glow, the shadows deepening and writhing as if alive. Torne rose from the floor, his movements slow and deliberate, the weight of his years visible in the way he leaned on his cane. With a silent gesture, he commanded the door to open.

  Ramon stood at the threshold, his hooded form bathed in the eerie light. He waited, still and patient, until Torne acknowledged him. But Torne’s gaze lingered on the crypts, his hand resting on one as his mind drifted into the abyss of memory.

  The room grew colder, the air heavy with an unnatural chill. The walls of the mausoleum seemed to dissolve, replaced by a vision so vivid it overwhelmed his senses. He was no longer the frail, scarred grandmaster but a boy—a ten-year-old child staring at his own reflection. His younger self gazed back, wide-eyed and trembling, a fragile creature shaped by fear and pain.

  Three centuries separated him from that boy, yet the scars—both seen and unseen—remained. His father’s shadow loomed large in his mind, a spectre of authority and cruelty. Diabolus Velix had wielded the laws of the Order like weapons, enforcing their rigid discipline with an iron will. Torne’s back still bore the marks of that discipline, each scar a permanent reminder of his father’s lessons.

  “Your Majesty,” Ramon’s voice broke through the haze, hesitant yet firm.

  Torne blinked, the vision dissolving as the chill receded. He turned to face his head Modus, his expression unreadable. “Ramon,” he said, his voice rough with disuse, each syllable carrying the weight of unspoken grief.

  The Modus straightened slightly, surprised to hear his name spoken. Torne rarely addressed his subordinates so personally. The air between them grew heavy, the silence filled with the unspoken tension of master and servant, of command and supplication.

  Torne’s gaze drifted back to the crypt, his dark eyes glinting with an emotion Ramon could not place. “Do you ever wonder,” Torne murmured, almost to himself, “if the dead envy the living—or pity them?”

  Ramon hesitated, unsure how to respond. “My lord… I believe the dead rest beyond such concerns.”

  Torne chuckled softly, a sound devoid of mirth. “Rest… yes, perhaps they do. And yet I find no peace, even among their presence.” He straightened, his voice hardening. “Come. There is much to discuss.”

  With a final glance at the crypts, Torne turned toward the door, the faint echoes of his past trailing behind him like ghosts.

  The Modus Ipsimes were the unseen architects of the Order, the keepers of its deepest truths. Their words shaped the laws that governed the Grand Masters, Grand Modus, and Archons alike. Yet their identities remained a mystery, their faces hidden behind veils of secrecy. To Torne, it was a maddening paradox—to rule an Order whose true architects he had never met, their faceless authority an omnipresent shadow over his reign.

  His father had insisted it was necessary. “It instils reverence,” Diabolus had said. “Anonymity reminds even the mightiest that they serve something greater.”

  Torne had never fully agreed. Respect, he believed, should be earned, not demanded from behind a mask.

  Breaking the silence, Torne’s voice emerged like gravel grinding against stone. “I wish to learn from you.”

  The admission felt bitter on his tongue, his pride recoiling at the humility it demanded. But necessity outweighed pride. He was desperate, and desperation demanded sacrifices.

  Ramon shifted uneasily, his head still bowed. “Your Majesty… I have nothing to teach you.”

  Torne’s dark eyes fixed on the Modus, the intensity of his gaze forcing Ramon to straighten slightly. “As head Modus, you are the keeper of the law. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Ramon said softly. “But you know the law far better than I do.”

  Torne stepped forward, his presence looming despite his weakened frame. “Ramon…” he said, his voice soft yet unyielding. The Modus flinched at the sound of his name. In all his decades of service, Torne had spoken it only once before. “I know there are laws—secrets—kept from me. Laws meant only for the Modus Ipsimes. If we are to survive the attack that is coming, if this Order is to endure, I must know everything. If we fail, Izzar must have the tools to rebuild it.”

  Ramon hesitated, his posture stiff with uncertainty. Torne’s words were heavy with a truth that could not be denied. He, too, had seen the fractures spreading through the Order, felt the tremors of its impending collapse. Finally, he nodded.

  “Very well, my lord,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There is something you must see.”

  Without lifting his gaze, Ramon gestured for Torne to follow. They moved silently through the mausoleum, the air thick with the scent of stone and age. Passing the main stairwell that led to the living quarters, they entered a narrow passage that veered away from the crypts. The walls here were bare and unadorned, their simplicity a stark contrast to the grandeur of the citadel above.

  Ramon stopped before a large portrait—an oil painting of Diabolus Velix, the man who had forged Torne into the leader he had become. The image was striking, the elder Velix depicted with the stern eyes and unyielding expression that Torne knew all too well.

  Without a word, Ramon pressed his hand against the edge of the frame. The painting shifted, sliding silently to reveal a hidden door.

  Torne’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware this existed.”

  “It was commissioned by the Modus Ipsimes during the citadel’s construction,” Ramon explained. “They kept it hidden from you.”

  “Aamor…” Torne murmured, his voice tinged with a rare note of fondness. He thought back to the head Modus who had overseen the citadel’s construction. Aamor had been one of the few who truly understood the Order’s needs, a man whose wisdom had often outpaced his own. Torne missed him. “You sly genius.”

  The door opened to reveal a steep stairway descending into darkness. Ramon gestured for Torne to follow, and the portrait slid closed behind them, sealing the passage with a finality that seemed to echo in the narrow space.

  As they descended, the lights lining the stairway flickered to life, their faint glow casting long shadows against the stone walls. Torne’s cane tapped against the steps, the sound hollow and rhythmic. He noticed other doors along the descent, their presence raising questions he dared not voice. How had he ruled this citadel for over a four decades without knowing of these hidden places?

  The descent felt unending, each step echoing hollowly in the stairwell as though mocking their progress. Torne’s legs ached, his body weary from the weight of years and the strain of the journey. The air thickened the deeper they went, carrying a warmth that was almost suffocating. It reminded him of the labour camps of Ceres—a place he knew too well.

  The memories clawed at the edges of his mind: the oppressive heat, the cries of the condemned, the endless rows of men and women breaking under the weight of their punishment. Torne had often visited that desolate hell to ensure his enemies suffered, yet each visit left him more haunted than satisfied. Decades had passed since he last set foot there, but the ghosts of Ceres clung to him, their presence revived by the atmosphere of these hidden depths.

  At last, they reached the bottom of the stairwell. The air was stifling, dense with an ancient stillness that seemed alive. Ramon approached a massive black door, its surface scarred and pitted with age. He pushed against it, his lean frame straining as the heavy metal groaned in protest. Dust cascaded from the doorframe, pooling on the floor like ash.

  Torne coughed violently as the dust rose into the air, his body wracked by the effort. Ramon, though equally affected, recovered more quickly, standing straight as though bolstered by an unseen resolve. The air in the corridor felt like a weight pressing against their chests, thick with the scent of disuse and time.

  Beyond the door lay a sight that stopped Torne in his tracks.

  The room was vast, an immense archive stretching into the gloom. Rows upon rows of storage racks lined the chamber, some gleaming with the polished metal of recent fabrication, others corroded with age. The hum of computers filled the space, a mechanical heartbeat that reverberated in the stillness. At the centre stood a towering machine, its surface blinking with millions of tiny lights—green, red, and orange—pulsing like the neural pathways of a living organism.

  Torne’s breath caught in his throat. The scale of it all was overwhelming, a treasure trove of knowledge hidden right beneath his feet. How could something so immense, so vital, have escaped his notice for over four decades?

  Ramon gestured for him to follow. They wove through the aisles, the shelves towering over them like the ribs of some vast, slumbering beast. Each shelf was crammed with data drives, some sleek and modern, others ancient and worn, their surfaces etched with markings of long-forgotten technologies. The sheer scope of the archive was staggering, its contents a labyrinth of history and secrets.

  At last, they stopped before a central console. Ramon summoned a holographic interface, its symbols glowing faintly in the dim light. The characters were foreign, their angular shapes seeming to pulse with an inner energy. With practiced ease, Ramon navigated through the menus, his fingers a blur as he worked.

  Then, with a final command, a projection sprang to life on the far wall.

  Torne gasped softly. The image was enormous, towering four times the height of the men standing before it. The clarity was astonishing, every detail rendered with a sharpness that seemed to defy the passage of time. And the scene it depicted was one Torne recognised instantly, though he had never thought it possible to witness it.

  The first gathering of the Order.

  He had read about it countless times, piecing together the fragmented accounts of that fateful day nine millennia ago. But to see it unfold before him—to witness the very birth of the Ipsimussian Order—was beyond anything he could have imagined.

  The figures in the projection were shrouded in shadow, their forms lit by the flickering glow of a massive fire. The setting was a labyrinth deep beneath the Earth, its stone walls reverberating with the voices of five hundred men and women. Among them stood a boy, unhooded and unafraid, his youthful face illuminated by the flames.

  Primis Velix.

  Torne’s heart raced as he watched the boy step forward, his presence commanding the attention of everyone present. He could feel the weight of the moment, the raw power in Primis’s voice as he addressed the assembly. The words were ancient, their meaning timeless—a plea for unity, for peace, for a future beyond the confines of Earth.

  Torne’s vision blurred as his eyes refused to blink, entranced by the image before him. For the first time in centuries, he felt something stir within him—something that had long been buried beneath the weight of his failures. Hope, perhaps. Or a reminder of the purpose the Order had once served.

  As the projection played on, Torne reached out instinctively, his hand trembling as though he could touch the past itself. The warmth of the room, the hum of the machines, the weight of the air—all of it faded into the background. For this moment, he was no longer a broken man in exile but a witness to the foundation of everything he had spent his life preserving.

  May 13th, 2498 AD – Beneath Rome, Earth

  The flames roared in the centre of the labyrinth, their flickering light casting long, shifting shadows on the cold stone walls. Hooded figures gathered around the great fire, five hundred men and women cloaked in anonymity. The air was thick with the weight of secrecy, their identities hidden even from one another. Yet each carried a presence, an aura of power. These were the unseen rulers of the world, the architects of its industries, politics, and faiths, brought together by forces greater than themselves.

  “This war is destroying our world,” one of the figures said, their voice grave and resonant. “We can no longer stand by and watch as we tear each other apart.”

  The murmurs of agreement were subdued, their voices echoing softly through the labyrinth’s twisting passages. Above them, the ground trembled, the muffled thud of an explosion shaking the walls. Rome burned as they spoke, a city dying a slow, agonizing death above the ashes of its ancient glory.

  Then, as if summoned by the flames themselves, a boy stepped forward.

  He was the only one among them without a hood, his youthful face illuminated by the firelight. His presence silenced the assembly instantly. Though small in stature, his gaze carried the weight of centuries, his eyes dark wells of wisdom and sorrow. Every man and woman present recognised him as the one who had brought them together. The boy was no ordinary child—he was Primis Velix.

  “Earth is dying,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

  The words struck the gathering like a blow, their stark finality leaving no room for denial. Around the fire, the cloaked figures shifted uneasily, their thoughts filled with the horrors they had witnessed: cities reduced to rubble, families torn apart, nations collapsing under the weight of endless war.

  Primis took another step toward the flames, his expression unyielding. “You have all been summoned here for one reason: to end this destruction. Why you? Because you hold the reins of power. You can influence the tides of this conflict, turn humanity away from annihilation and toward a future united—not just on Earth, but in the heavens.”

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  His words echoed in the chamber, amplified by the stillness of the crowd. Above them, the labyrinth trembled again, the vibrations sending fine dust raining from the ceiling. Yet no one flinched. All eyes were on Primis.

  “We are killing each other,” he continued, his voice growing sharper, “not because of religion, or ideology, or greed. Those are merely symptoms. The disease is far simpler: we have outgrown this world. We are a family of brothers and sisters crammed into the same room, fighting over scraps of space. The only solution lies beyond our skies. A great exodus is the only way to relieve Earth of its burdens.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the gathering. It was an idea none of them had considered, their minds long shackled to the soil of Earth. Wars, they thought, were fought over power, resources, or dogma. But Primis spoke a truth that resonated, a reality they could not ignore.

  “Russia has already perfected a drive,” he said, his tone unwavering. “It allows their satellites to ‘skip’ through space. The technology is untested, yes, but I have seen in my visions that it is safe. It is the key to humanity’s survival.”

  Someone from the shadows spoke, their voice hesitant. “The colonists of Mars? The mission to Titon? They vanished. Communications lost. Is that no proof of our failure? Of our inability to conquer the stars?”

  Primis turned toward the voice, his gaze piercing the darkness. “The colonists of Mars are alive. Thriving. They have made their home on the red planet. They’ve forgotten about Earth.”

  “How can you know this?” another demanded, their scepticism clear.

  “Have my visions ever been wrong?” Primis replied, his voice calm but cutting. The question hung in the air, daring anyone to refute it. None could. His foresight had shaped nations, predicted catastrophes, and unveiled truths no mortal could have known.

  “It will be difficult,” someone else interjected, “to convince the fanatics to abandon their holy lands.”

  Primis’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening. “Fanatics will cling to their gods as they cling to the earth that crumbles beneath their feet. Let them. They will destroy themselves in time. We will not save those who cannot see beyond their own chains.”

  The boy turned back to the fire, his silhouette framed by the dancing flames.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Primis began, his voice steady yet imbued with an intensity that held the room captive. “To what lengths would you go to ensure that not one child, woman, or man loses their lives in a bloody conflict? A conflict that bears no meaning, no purpose beyond the destruction of humanity’s potential.”

  His words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unyielding. The firelight flickered across his youthful face, emphasising the paradox of the boy who spoke with the gravity of an elder. He took a step closer to the flames, the light reflecting in his dark eyes as he continued.

  “Religion is dying,” he said, his tone devoid of pity. “And the fanatics who cling to it are dying with it. We do not need to concern ourselves with them. They will destroy themselves, as they always do.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, the hooded figures exchanging wary glances. Many among them had profited from religious strife, using it as a tool to manipulate the masses. But Primis dismissed it with a wave of his hand, his focus unshaken.

  “Our task is greater,” he declared. “We must unite Earth under one banner. Humanity’s destiny must be guided—controlled. That is where we come in. Many of you lead secret organisations already, wielding influence over governments, industries, and ideologies. Your hands are already on the levers of power. Together, we can bend the will of nations toward a single purpose.”

  The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Primis’s words had struck a chord, resonating with the unspoken truth each of them had carried into this chamber: alone, they were powerful, but divided, they were vulnerable. Many were rivals, locked in shadow wars for dominance over a fractured world. Yet in this moment, something shifted. The weight of their enmity seemed to lessen, eclipsed by the magnitude of the boy’s vision.

  “So I stand here before you now,” Primis continued, his voice rising slightly, “proposing the birth of a new Order. An Order that will not merely control Earth but will lead its people to the stars. A future shaped not by chaos, but by design.”

  He paused, letting his words sink in. Around him, the cloaked figures nodded slowly, their silent agreement rippling through the room like an unseen tide. There was something intangible in the air, a sense of inevitability, as though the universe itself was aligning to make this moment possible.

  “We agree,” one of them said at last, breaking the silence. “A new Order would unite us—and the world. But how do you propose we achieve this?”

  Primis stepped forward, his expression calm but resolute. From the fire, he picked up a glowing log, the embers blazing against the darkness of the room. With his other hand, he extinguished the flame, the glowing coal turning black and solid in his grasp.

  “In the shadows,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “We will conduct our business in the shadows. Coordinated. Precise. We will leave no trail, no suspicion. Let the people think their triumphs are their own, their achievements the fruit of their labour. We will be the unseen hand, guiding them to the future they cannot imagine for themselves.”

  Some of the gathered figures began to applaud, their hands rising hesitantly at first, then with greater confidence. The prospect of absolute control—of shaping the world in their image—was intoxicating. Primis could see it in their eyes, even beneath the hoods. He had them. Every man and woman in that chamber was now tethered to his vision, their rivalries momentarily forgotten.

  “What shall we call this new Order?” a voice asked from the shadows.

  Primis allowed himself the faintest smile, a flicker of amusement breaking through his otherwise solemn demeanour. “What do you call yourself?” he asked, his tone light but deliberate.

  The question hung in the air until one of the cloaked figures spoke, his voice firm. “I am Frederick Ipsimus.”

  A soft chuckle rippled through the room, a rare moment of levity during such gravity. Primis inclined his head, the boyish smile lingering on his lips.

  “Then that is what we shall call ourselves,” he said. “The Order of the Ipsimus.”

  The name resonated through the chamber, each figure murmuring it as though testing its weight. The tension eased slightly, replaced by a sense of unity, fragile but undeniable. Laughter, quiet and low, spread among them, its sound foreign in the solemn labyrinth.

  Primis stood silently, watching as his vision began to take root. The name itself was trivial to him, a mere label for a force that would transcend titles and identities. What mattered was the bond being forged in that moment, the collective resolve to reshape the world.

  The flames flickered, their light casting long shadows against the stone walls. The Order of the Ipsimus was born, not in glory or triumph, but in quiet resolve. And at its centre stood a boy with the weight of the future in his eyes, his gift both a curse and a beacon for all who followed.

  Now…

  The projection faded, leaving the wall blank, but Torne’s heart continued to race. His breathing was shallow, his hands clammy, and his eyes stung from refusing to blink. For a moment, he remained frozen, his mind tethered to the past, as though he had stood among the first five hundred, felt the heat of the flames, and witnessed the birth of the Order firsthand.

  The magnitude of what he had just seen struck him like a blow. The formation of the Order—so severe, yet laced with the casual confidence of inevitability. And the boy, Primis Velix, wielding visions of the future as though they were a weapon. Torne had never imagined that the first Epsimus possessed such gifts. Yet, in retrospect, it made perfect sense. Only a child touched by the extraordinary could unite Earth, not through wealth, strength, or cunning, but through sheer, unshakable conviction.

  “Here in this room,” Ramon’s voice broke through Torne’s thoughts, soft but firm, “this grand archive of the Order, you will find everything you need to know, my lord.”

  Torne turned slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His injured leg throbbed, the strain on his cane barely enough to keep him upright. Every step he had taken to reach this place now seemed magnified, the ache in his body a reflection of the years he had spent clawing at the edges of power, holding together an Order that was slipping through his grasp.

  He leaned heavily on his cane, taking in the sight of the archive. The shelves stretched skyward, towering monoliths crammed with data storage devices of every shape and age. The air hummed faintly with the energy of the computers that lined the room, their blinking lights a testament to the life still pulsing through this ancient repository. Each shelf was meticulously labelled, the contents arranged with a precision that spoke to centuries of care and discipline.

  It was overwhelming. This room contained more knowledge than Torne had ever dared imagine, and for a moment, he felt small—a man standing at the base of a mountain carved from the secrets of millennia.

  Ramon moved past him, his head bowed as always, avoiding even the slightest glance at Torne’s face. The Modus moved with purpose, his steps deliberate as he examined the nearest shelves. He ran his fingers over the labels, scanning their contents before moving to the next. Finally, after a few minutes, he plucked a small device from the rows and returned to Torne.

  “This, my lord,” Ramon said, offering the device with both hands, “is the complete document of every law and custom of the Order. The video you just saw is but one of over a trillion records we keep in this vault. Its purpose is clear: to preserve the Order, even in the face of total collapse.”

  Torne accepted the device, its weight incongruously light in his trembling hand. It was no larger than the cup he used for his morning mana mix, yet it contained everything—every law, every principle, every custom that had ever guided the Order. It was a staggering gift, yet Torne’s gaze wandered to the towering shelves around him. This device was a single drop in an ocean of knowledge, and he could feel the weight of all the things he did not yet know pressing down on him.

  One question burned within him, searing its way to the forefront of his mind—a question he had carried for decades, unanswered. He turned the device over in his hands, his voice low but edged with urgency.

  “Has anyone in the Order ever had knowledge of the Void?”

  Ramon’s head lifted slightly, his hesitation evident. The Modus’s silence was deafening, each passing moment amplifying Torne’s unease. Finally, he spoke.

  “Have you studied all these records?” Torne asked, his tone betraying the faintest flicker of hope. Perhaps Ramon, this diligent keeper of the Order’s knowledge, had already uncovered the answer he sought.

  “No single Modus knows every record, my lord,” Ramon replied, his voice calm but tinged with regret. “Each of us is tasked with learning a section. The knowledge is divided by levels of importance, distributed across the Modus Ipsimes. Such has been our way since the beginning.”

  Torne’s grip on the device tightened, frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior. The structure that had safeguarded the Order’s secrets for so long now felt like a barrier, preventing him from reaching the answers he so desperately needed. He glanced at the towering shelves again, the blinking lights of the central computer, the endless rows of drives—so much knowledge, and yet so little time to uncover it.

  The Void remained a mystery, its whispers eluding even the vast resources of the archive. But if there was even a single thread buried within this labyrinth of history, Torne knew he had to find it. For the Order. For Izzar. For himself.

  Disheartened, Torne’s gaze dropped to the storage device in his hand. It felt impossibly light for something containing the weight of centuries, yet it was not enough. His lips pressed into a thin line as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He knew this moment demanded caution. Not even the Modus Ipsimes were aware of his true purpose on Dessix. Here, within the depths of the archive, he was in their domain, his authority diminished. No demands could be made—not outright.

  He raised his eyes to Ramon, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “I am searching for knowledge of a mythical power,” he began, choosing his words with care. “One I’ve learned originated on this planet.”

  Ramon’s head tilted slightly, his unease evident. The term was a relic of a long-forgotten past, a time when fortune-tellers and magicians held sway over the imaginations of mankind. Such practices had faded into obscurity, buried beneath the march of progress and reason.

  Torne continued, sensing the Modus’s hesitation. “It is called… Oblivium.” The name lingered in the air like a whispered secret. “Have you ever heard of it within your archives?”

  The apprehension in Ramon’s expression deepened, his discomfort almost palpable. He shook his head slowly, but his duty outweighed his fear. Turning to the central computer, he summoned a console, the holographic interface springing to life. Symbols Torne did not recognise shimmered in the dim light, their shapes angular and cryptic. Ramon’s fingers danced across the surface, typing and swiping with practiced precision.

  Torne watched intently as Ramon tried every keyword and variation imaginable. The archive responded with silence, the search yielding no results. The Void remained an enigma, a whisper lost in the vastness of the Order’s knowledge.

  “There’s nothing,” Ramon said at last, his voice low but apologetic.

  Torne’s jaw tightened, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He refused to let it show. “Do you have any data on this world before our arrival?” he asked, his tone measured.

  Ramon hesitated for a fraction of a second before resuming his search. This time, his typing was more deliberate, his fingers moving with the confidence of someone navigating a well-trodden path. Finally, the screen illuminated with new information.

  “Void’s End,” Ramon read aloud, his voice tinged with curiosity. “That was the name of this planet before it was called Dessix.”

  Torne’s eyes narrowed. The name resonated with a strange weight, its meaning far deeper than a mere designation for the edge of known space. A sense of unease crept over him, the kind that came when puzzle pieces began to fit together in ways he could not yet fully grasp.

  As he scanned the data, Torne’s breath slowed. The records detailed an expedition sent by the Order nearly two centuries before his own arrival. The mission had been incomplete, the data fragmented and full of gaps. But what remained was enough to stir something within him.

  The reports spoke of strange inhabitants in the planet’s southern hemisphere, beings unlike anything recorded elsewhere. Torne leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he read further. The expedition crew described these inhabitants as , their influence extending beyond their own kind. Members of the crew had been controlled—manipulated to perform tasks they later could not recall. The accounts were disjointed, the details scarce, but one fact stood out: the power of these beings was undeniable.

  Torne’s heartbeat quickened. The power he had sought, the ability to control not just minds but wills, to bend reality itself. If such a force could be harnessed, it would be unparalleled. He thought of Izzar, the boy he was preparing to inherit his legacy. This knowledge would be vital to him—a tool and a weapon in a galaxy full of treachery.

  But the records were incomplete. The expedition had been cut short, the reasons lost to time. The beings described in the report were no longer mentioned in modern records. Torne’s mind raced with questions.

  “Was this the information you were seeking, my lord?” Ramon’s voice broke the silence, his tone cautious, as though he sensed the storm brewing within Torne.

  Torne ignored the question, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen. “Do we know anything more about these inhabitants in the southern hemisphere?”

  Ramon hesitated, then shook his head. “Dessix remains largely uncharted,” he admitted. “The terrain is treacherous. Many of the DG units sent to survey the southern regions failed to return. Those that did brought back little of value.”

  The Modus’s words only deepened Torne’s determination. The Void—the power he sought—was connected to this planet in ways he could not yet comprehend. The answers lay beyond the citadel’s walls, hidden in the uncharted wilds of Dessix. Perhaps the beings were gone, as Ramon suggested, but their influence, their essence, might yet remain.

  He glanced at the data once more before turning to Ramon. The Modus’s head was bowed, his demeanour submissive, but Torne sensed the tension in his posture. He was wary, uncertain of the path his master would take. And yet, Torne knew that the path had already been chosen.

  “This planet holds more than we understand,” Torne said quietly, almost to himself. “And I will find it.”

  Torne’s thoughts drifted to the individual DG unit he had sent out days ago to place the stone in the wilderness—a calculated task meant for Izzar and Viha to stumble upon. Yet, there had been no word, no signal to confirm the robot’s success. It gnawed at him, though he quickly dismissed the thought. The citadel had an abundance of these machines, and replacements could be brought in from nearby systems within weeks if necessary. They were cheap, efficient, and tireless workers, though their outdated artificial intelligence was prone to troubling quirks. When these units began to develop disobedient traits, they were scrapped without hesitation. After all, hiring a skilled off-world programmer to repair the software was far more expensive than simply replacing the malfunctioning unit.

  But still, the silence lingered in his mind like a shadow.

  “Ramon…” The name left his lips for the third time, the word carrying a weight that made the Modus visibly stiffen. “I would have expected this world to have been surveyed years ago. There is no time now.”

  The Modus’s response was careful, his tone measured. “My lord, the inhabitants the report speaks of no longer exist. They were wiped out long before our arrival. It appears the colonists drove them to extinction. Surely, if they still lived, we would have encountered one of them by now.”

  “Indeed.” Torne’s voice carried an edge of irritation. His brow furrowed as his thoughts turned to Nivshevus. The shadowed entity, the so-called had said nothing of these lost inhabitants. The omission stirred anger in him, though he knew better than to direct it outward. Nivshevus always spoke in half-truths, weaving his promises with threads of silence.

  Torne wondered, his mind racing with doubts. Could he afford to wait until Izzar’s training was complete to unlock the power he sought? The notion that he was being strung along gnawed at him. Every delay felt like a wasted eternity.

  “Ramon…” Torne’s voice cut through his own turbulent thoughts, sharp yet quiet. It was the fourth time he had addressed the Modus by name, and the sound of it drew Ramon’s full attention despite his reluctance.

  “I want you to take off your cape,” Torne commanded, his tone leaving no room for question. “And look at me.”

  Ramon froze, the request so unexpected that it took him a moment to process it. In his sixty years of service to Torne, he had never removed his hood in the grandmaster’s presence. He had never dared to look directly at him, not even at his feet. The order demanded subservience, and Ramon had adhered to it without fail.

  Now, trembling slightly, he reached for the edge of his hood and pulled it back, revealing his face.

  Before Torne stood a man of striking features, his stern visage framed by dark skin scarred with intricate red tattoos. His bright blue eyes shimmered like sunlight on clear water, their intensity almost disarming. Yet as his gaze fell on Torne, a flicker of shock crossed Ramon’s face.

  Torne did not look like the man Ramon had imagined. He was gaunt, his cheekbones so hollow they seemed on the verge of breaking through his skin. His darkened eyes carried a sadness that pierced to the soul, the weight of centuries etched into every line of his face. He leaned heavily on his cane, his frame more corpse than man. The legends spoke of Torne as a towering figure of strength and willpower, but the man before Ramon seemed like a ghost—an echo of his former self.

  Torne noticed the Modus’s reaction but chose to ignore it. The years had worn him down, but he had no time to dwell on his own decay. There was still work to be done.

  “I have been in contact,” Torne said, his voice low but steady, “with an entity here on Dessix. One that has promised me power.”

  Ramon stiffened, the implications of those words settling over him like a storm cloud. The Void was no longer a vague rumour or an abstraction—it was real, and Torne had already reached out to it. The secret was out, and Ramon realised with a sinking weight in his chest that his master was further down this path than he had imagined.

  Torne’s eyes bore into Ramon, unflinching. “You and the Modus Ipsimes swore to protect the Order. That time has come again. I will need your help.”

  The room seemed to grow colder, the faint hum of the archive’s computers fading into the background. Ramon lowered his gaze, the gravity of the moment settling over him. The task ahead was monumental, and for the first time, he realised that the strength Torne sought was not just for himself. It was for the future of the Order. For Izzar. For everything.