Elara froze midstep. Truth's nudge was light, but his focus had shifted. That alone set her off balance.
She followed his gaze.
She stopped. His hand barely brushed her, but the sudden silence—where his voice had given white noise—pulled her out of step.
The walkway curved toward an awkward structure. Pale stone swelled outward in broad, gentle arcs, each surface swallowing the daylight. Angles faded into curves.
Truth lingered at the edge, just as he said he would. She remembered his words—this was the line for him. Annoying as he was, he'd meant it.
She almost asked why, at first. But the urge faded quickly.
She moved on alone.
Each step landed quiet, the floor soft beneath her boots. Even warmer air met her skin as it felt– dry, clean, and controlled. The longer she stayed in the Inner Circle, the more comfortable her lungs felt, the less sick she felt. The corridor curved in a U shape, its walls folding seamlessly into the ground, unsettling in how it bent her sense of space.
Light seeped from the stone itself, soft and source-less, guiding her into a broad chamber while the white walls curled together above her head, meeting in a soft arch. A pale yellow carpet stretched along the center, hemmed in green.
Elara followed the carpet to its center.
Glass lined the far wall. Behind each pane, images moved in silence—each display held the same careful balance.
Children in uniform filled the first panel. Elara's attention snagged on one face—a boy caught mid-rage, surrounded by bodies. He was clutching another child, whose skull was split wide at the corner, as if a spear had punched clean through. The caption scrolled beneath:
Sectors 1–5: 1250 TE.
1250 TE…
Elara was caught on that specific date.
The first Eclipse. I actually know this story. They told it early at the Foundation—always as a warning, as if teaching us to avoid friendship before it could start.
Anger clawed its way up her chest. The story ran parallel to her own, almost too closely.
That boy must be Cormac Yamamoto. They called him Mac. He won the first Eclipse. Twenty years old, he had water powers, but they were more like ice. The first unique conjuring of takton. They say he fought side by side with a friend—two against maybe fifteen. Somehow, they survived.
But once it ended, the friend turned on him. Only one could go back to Aonis. Mac fought to calm him, begged him to stop, even after an hour stepping over corpses. In the end, Mac broke. He refused to die for such a betrayal. That's where the first Eclipse ended.
I used to cling to that story with Hikari—let it guide my plans. Until my emotions got tied.
The next panel cycled through portraits—faces staring straight ahead, halos painted above their heads. Early records stayed blurry, but the paintings carried all the until most recent. Five centuries. One hundred twenty eclipses in the future 1730. Text named them, paired with a phrase.
"Purified through burden."
"Strength by attrition."
"Refined by sacrifice."
Dates marched in a line. Elara wasn't surprised that the stories remained, but she was disgusted that every single one was hung here for all to witness.
Heat flushed across Elara's face, a tight line that traveled from jaw to fist.
These weren't records. This was a shrine.
Celaris celebrated every death. Nothing here hid behind apology or regret. The Foundation's harvest fed a system centuries in the making, proud of its precision.
Elara stepped back from the glass. Her hand drifted to her overcoat, thumb brushing a hidden edge.
Truth had offered the idea that Celaris performed instead of lying. Yet here, performance rose to worship—children lifted up and carried away, transformed into fuel for as far as she knew, entertainment—nothing more. And Elara never thought to consider that she may've narrowly avoided the same fate.
A pulse in her chest told her she'd lingered too long. This room, the images, the quiet reverence—they were just a preamble, a polite threshold. Her real reason for coming had nothing to do with history.
She turned from the wall, scanning the chamber. There was no clear exit ahead, only a wide reception desk recessed into a shallow alcove. Behind it, a woman sat—back straight, eyes unreadable, hands folded with exactness.
Elara crossed the room, footsteps softened by the carpet. The woman's gaze swept over her, then away, as if Elara's presence required nothing but acknowledgment. A check on a list, nothing more.
She kept her stride casual, pulse steady. Every inch of the lobby radiated permission. Yet she knew—the permission had limits.
A corridor broke off from behind the desk, set off by a gentle bend. Beyond that, a narrow band of yellow light ran along the floor. Two guards stood at the far end. Their uniforms matched the room—elegant, sharp, unsmiling. Neither spoke. Their eyes barely moved.
Arrogant pricks. Are they actually so prideful that they don't even fear an assassination? Is that not a feasible possibility?
She followed the angle of the light. Security scanners, embedded flush with the walls, glimmered at her wrist. Her badge would pass here—barely. Anything further, she'd have to improvise.
She angled away from the guards and ducked down a side hallway marked for staff. Shoulders tight, she let her steps fall in time with a distant cleaning drone humming behind her. One door—unlabeled, just a faint imprint in the stone—stood slightly open.
She slipped through.
On the other side, footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate, each one landing with weight. The corridor bent sharply ahead, and Elara pressed herself flat against the wall as two staff passed by. They were only technicians, heads down with eyes locked on tablet screens, oblivious.
Every sign, every fixture, every inch of carpet was meant to funnel outsiders into the safe, visible places. But the deeper she moved, the fewer distractions the space allowed.
The first real checkpoint loomed ahead: a glass turnstile, unmanned but alert, with a faint shimmer of Takton-activated defense. Past that, she had no clue where she was.
She drew a breath, squared her shoulders, and watched the guards.
Time to find out how close she could get before someone cared.
The glass turnstile tracked her approach, a faint pulse of light passing over her badge. For a half-second, her reflection shimmered in the curved barrier—pale, tired, anonymous. The scanner blinked green.
She moved through, letting the barrier cycle shut behind her.
The corridor beyond sharpened. Every detail—carpet edge, chrome vent, pale geometric artwork—looked deliberate, arranged to soothe, but each step wound her tighter. Cameras drifted along the ceiling, smooth as eyes behind glass.
Another checkpoint loomed—this one manned. Two guards in gray-and-green watched her without speaking. One tapped a tablet as she passed, scanning her credentials, but gave no sign of interest. She barely felt her own exhale.
Left turn. Up a ramp. The layout shifted from open curve to a series of tight, triangular corners. Doors grew heavier. Murals vanished. Every footstep grew louder. She realized she had left the curated world behind.
Elara checked a wall-mounted map—sterile, colorless, full of blank spaces and "authorized only" zones.
If i had to guess, they would have to be here, right?
Elara didn't know what this room was, only that it sat hidden behind three layers of misdirection. There were no signs, no guards, no alarms. It was as if no one needed protection from the top of the chain.
She crouched low behind a panel lip, eyes fixed on the dimmed glass pane. Through it, she saw the circle—seven chairs, equidistant, set into the floor like fixtures. Each held a figure that was visually carved: unmoving, watchful, and dressed in a way that she could never imitate.
A projection pulsed in the center: three huge buildings being broken and rebuilt on a loop. Steel ribs of infrastructure folded inward.
A woman with long hair, legs crossed, spoke first. Her voice came sharp but honey-slick:
"For a group that preaches restraint," she murmured, "we made quite the mess."
A man opposite her didn't look up. His posture was exact. His voice flatter than his expression.
"We didn't."
"They were hit without warning. No breach records. No survivors."
All seven members of the group had been engaged in conversation, to avoid being noticed, Elara ducked down from the window.
"Not one?"
A different voice responded—this one calmer, more measured:
"I can't say as far as kynenn, but no instructors. Not in any of the three Foundations."
Elara stiffened. Three? It's been no more than two days since they came to the third sector, and that'd only been the second. Elara felt her cheekbone begin to rise, her eye twitched under tension.
"So someone finally did what the outsiders always begged for."
A quiet, flat scoff cut in.
"Incompetent rodents. They just started something."
The woman from before gave a small, fond-sounding laugh.
"And rodents multiply."
"Let them. Let them crawl up from the cracks. We'll step on them when they matter."
Elara's gaze tracked the speakers. She couldn't tell which name belonged to which face, but the hierarchy was obvious. They didn't debate.
Then something flickered across the projection—a paused frame. Elara's face. Midstep. Her badge was caught in a scan.
"Speaking of," one said dryly, "we've got company."
Someone laughed again—low, indulgent. "Sector Three survivors. Bolder than I gave them credit for."
"Some dogs come back to their masters," said the flat-voiced man. "Maybe she'll save us a headache."
"You mean—"
"If he starts asking questions, it becomes our problem," the flat voice cut the other off.
Another pause.
"Screw him," said the colder woman.
Elara shifted back from the wall, breath tight behind her ribs. Her mind moved faster than her pulse—faster than caution wanted it to.
She hadn't caught everything, couldn't place each voice, but the tone was clear. Cold. Self-assured. Distant from consequence. Whoever they were, they spoke like the blood hadn't been fresh enough. As if they were but so insignificant.
She blinked, eyes adjusting as she eased away from the panel lip. Her fingers hovered over the door's release mechanism.
Three Foundations. They are trying to cut costs, kill us off for their leisure.
She didn't know what she expected to find up here. Monsters yes, but some things didn't require surprise to hold its impact. What she found was proud of their wrong doings, yet elegant. Seven shadows hidden behind confidence and white light.
She thumbed the release.
The door slid open softly, a slow arc of pressureless air, soft as a sigh. The chamber didn't react. No heads turned. The conversation had already ended.
Seven sets of eyes fell on her like passing weather. And of course, none were surprised. Nearly intrigued they were.
She stepped forward anyway.
Elara's voice cracked out, raw: "Where is Hikari?"
Silence. Then a lazy exchange of glances, amusement playing at the edge of a few mouths.
When no one answered, something in Elara felt disrespected even further. She charged—no plan or finesse. Her fist flashed out at the nearest figure: a woman with obsidian eyes.
The woman stepped aside, barely acknowledging the swing.
"This has to happen now?" one of the men muttered, side-eying the exchange.
A woman at the far left smirked, "You want it to stop, stop it yourself."
Elara attacked again, desperate. The council woman blocked her, hardly wasting effort—she didn't even bother to stand. "Darling, you must calm down. You'll tire yourself out. We've survived worse tantrums."
"That's generous," another woman said, dry. "You don't show me that much compassion"
Elara gasped, her momentum already fading. They watched as if witnessing a child's outburst.
Someone finally sighed.
"Fine. Rhea—deal with it. I can only imagine how bad you want to."
Rhea's eyes stayed locked into the action, her irritation clear.
"Last time I did, you all complained about the mess. Handle your own problems for once."
A third voice, bored, chimed in:
"Why not just have security escort her? We're not animals."
Elara wasn't done. She continued her barrage on the elegant-looking woman. She punched straight, only to be deflected time and time again.
"This is the one who was going to solve your problem? Are you serious, Callum?" she called out to a man—the tallest of everyone here—sitting at the head of the table.
"At this rate, I doubt she could," He replied. "Are you hiding your powers, Kynenn girl?"
They didn't even raise their voices. Elara stood, breathing hard, fists shaking. The council's indifference was worse than hostility.
And that fueled her anger even more.
Elara jabbed with her right, immediately leaping into the air, throwing her back leg toward the woman's head. It connected with her wrist as she threw her down. Elara rolled, swept at her feet, narrowly missing—and as the woman landed, she kicked again, directly into her abdomen.
The girl Elara had kicked was furious—but before she could retaliate, a blue, gelatinous arm shot across the room. It wrapped around Elara like a whip and yanked her off her feet, slamming her across the table and into the ground. The arm retracted just as quickly, dissolving back into a man's side.
"Relax, Eden," he said coolly. "We don't need you sending us to the hospital too."
Eden didn't back down. Her glare stayed locked on Elara, eyes blazing.
"Well," she growled, "if that bitch isn't dead in thirty seconds, I've got no problem taking the whole staff down with her."
"I can't have you doing that now," he replied, tone still maddeningly calm.
Eden turned toward him. "Grant, sweetheart, do you actually think you could stop me?"
He didn't flinch. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I would love to."
No one replied, no one crossed that barrier.
"Still, before I kill her, shouldn't we see if she is strong? You are kynenn right? What are your powers?" Grant began speaking directly to Elara. "I mean there's no point hiding them now, don't you wanna find whoever that boy is?"
Every extra word made Elara's consciousness weaker. No planning went behind her movements, only emotion.
Her fists trembled from the white-hot insult of their calm. The way they watched her like they were babysitting a temper tantrum.
She unbuttoned her coat—slow, deliberate—and let it fall to the floor like a gauntlet.
"You think you're untouchable," she said, voice razor-thin. "All throne and posture. All curated menace. But let me explain something."
She took one step forward. Then another. Her heel echoed too loud in the silence, but she didn't care.
"I have no weapon. No magic. No leverage. Just spite. Pure. Boiling. Spite."
I bet he ran it.
She lunged. A blur of movement aimed straight at the largest man in the room. He was tall—too tall—broad and solid, built like he belonged to another era. His face hit her in flashes: sharp angles, a crooked nose, one eye slightly off-center. Ugly in part and handsome in the others.
He stood there in a slate blazer, pale shirt open at the collar, hardly paying her any real attention.
Elara stepped over the center table, scooping her hand and grabbing the laptop that had been placed in front of an even wider member of Celaris.
Elara pivoted and kicked toward him, missing, then swinging a fist, a lazy hook.
Callum grabbed her wrist out of the air in an effort to restrain her, unwilling to stoop to the level of fighting a 'powerless kynenn'.
Elara had no such pride.
"AGHHHHHHHH" she screamed at the top of her lungs, evidently feral, reeling her back as if she'd been possessed.
She headbutted Callum. Full force. Skull to nose.
His grip faltered.
The laptop in her other hand—gleaming, fragile, sacred—crashed into the side of Callum's head with a sickening, electric crack. Semi-glass and metal bent inward.
Callum's face changed slightly. But the temperature in the room rose at a violent speed.
Literally.
Elara's wrist began to burn, as Callum imprinted his emotion through his palm.
She ripped her limb from his, unsure what she could do in her current situation. But Callum wasn't done.
"You insignificant little brat" Callum spat as he stomped dead at her chest, thrusting Elara back.
Elara rolled backward and returned to her feet. She dashed back.
"GIVE HIM BACK!" Elara had yet to stop screaming.
She drew back her fist like an archer pulling a bowstring, every muscle aligned for the kill. Elara was no longer throwing a punch—she was hunting. Her emotions seemed to shadow human limits. And when she released—aimed square and true—like a broadhead through a deer's heart—
Elara's wrist was pierced with a second rung of pain. It recoiled and exploded in place.
What?