Chapter Sixty Two: The Forgotten History
Chapter Sixty Two: The Forgotten History
The air inside Kehan’s office was heavy with the silence of too many thoughts left unsaid. Outside, Nimoa’s sky was alive with floating lanterns from some distant celebration, but in here, the light felt dim, muted by the gravity of what had just unfolded.
General Rhorvak stood tall near the desk, his tusked jaw set, broad shoulders casting shadows across the crystalline map that glowed faintly on the table. His hand hovered above the surface before he finally pressed a sequence of runes. Lines spread out like veins of light, connecting three glowing points that floated in midair.
Nimoa. Zytherion. Cyranus.
“There was a time,” Rhorvak began, his voice deep, carrying the weight of memory, “when these three worlds shared more than trade. We shared life. Peace was not only an ideal—it was reality. We traveled freely across the gates. We shared food, stories, medicines. Families formed between our species. We prospered together.”
His hand swept over the glowing line between Nimoa and Zytherion. “Nimoa—the heart of trade and technology. Wealth flowed like rivers, and from its mountains, new power was drawn.” He touched Zytherion’s point. “Your world, High Prince, was the shield. Military might. Strategic brilliance. You defended the galaxy when danger loomed.” His finger paused on Cyranus. “And Cyranus… the mind. The scholars. The scroll keepers. They preserved knowledge, healed the sick, and created medicines that lengthened lives.”
Freya sat stiffly on the couch, fingers clutching her knees. Her eyes flicked from Rhorvak’s grim face to Axir’s impassive profile. So much she didn’t know. So much he hadn’t told her.
Axir leaned forward, voice low. “If we were so united, what happened?”
Rhorvak’s jaw tightened. “We received a distress message. From Cyranus. It was garbled, almost broken—but enough. They were under attack.” His eyes dimmed. “By a force not of our galaxy. They called themselves Rathmund’s kin. Raiders. They burned libraries. Killed scholars and their families. Pillaged medicine. Extracted every secret they could.”
Freya’s stomach knotted. She thought of her own world’s wars, the way history books catalogued tragedy in neat, cold lines. But hearing it spoken aloud, like this… it was not history. It was raw, living grief.
“Zytherion responded,” Rhorvak continued, nodding at Axir. “Your armies marched. But they were late. By the time they arrived, more than half of Cyranus had already fallen. Fires still burned in the great academies. Scrolls turned to ash. Only fragments of their knowledge survived.”
Axir’s hands curled into fists on his knees. He stared at the glowing point of Cyranus, lips tight, as if searching for ghosts. Rexan’s gaze slid toward him, but he said nothing.
“And then,” Rhorvak said, his voice like iron striking stone, “Rathmund turned his eyes to Zytherion. Not for scrolls. Not for medicine. For your armies. Your weapons. Your defenses.” He paused, looking Axir in the eye. “But he was not after mere blades or ships. He wanted something greater.”
The map flickered. From the center of Nimoa’s glowing mark, a pulse radiated outward. Ancient energy hummed in the room, soft but undeniable.
“The Core,” Rhorvak said. “Born in Nimoa’s mountains. Refined by Cyranus scholars. Coded by Zytherion engineers. It was our joint creation. A technology unlike anything in existence. Energy drawn from the bones of the galaxy itself.”
Freya blinked, leaning forward. “What… what could it do?”
Rhorvak’s eyes met hers, heavy with meaning. “No one ever truly knew. That is why it was hidden. Some said it could power worlds. Others feared it could tear them apart. We never got the chance to test it. We weren’t fools though. Some knowledge is too dangerous.”
“And yet,” Rexan muttered, “it was made.”
“Yes.” Rhorvak’s tusks gleamed in the glow. “The prototype was displayed here, in the discard vault, disguised as junk among failed experiments. The true Core—finished but untested—was scattered away, hidden where even we did not know.”
Freya’s breath caught. Her mind spun back to the images she’d seen in dreams—an aisle, blossoms like suns, Axir’s hand reaching for hers, and another figure whose touch was fire and comfort. Was it the Core that tied them? Was it destiny’s thread weaving this?
Axir broke the silence. “My father… my mother. They never told me this. They never spoke about the history of the Core, only that this technology is important for us to rebuild our planet.”
Rhorvak’s voice softened, a rare thing. “Perhaps they wanted to spare you. Or perhaps they knew you would one day need to learn the truth yourself.”
Kehan, perched casually on the edge of a side table, gave a low whistle. “Well, that was dramatic. Galaxy-shaking secrets revealed over dinner. Makes my attempts at humor seem pitiful.”
Greon shot him a look. “They were pitiful before.”
Kehan grinned, unbothered. “See? This is why I make jokes. Someone has to cut the tension before we all turn into stone statues.”
But even he didn’t mask the seriousness in his eyes. His hands, though folded loosely, were tight at the knuckles.
Freya sat back, her mind spinning. The Core wasn’t just a piece of technology—it was history, blood, betrayal. She whispered, almost to herself, “So what Vorkesh took… was only the prototype?”
“Yes.” Rhorvak nodded grimly. “But make no mistake, Lady Freya. Even the prototype holds danger. Enough to cripple planets. Enough to kill.”
Silence fell again. The weight of the revelation pressed into every corner of the room. The crackling energy of the glowing map seemed to echo the pounding of their hearts.
Finally, Axir spoke. His voice was steady, but Freya heard the storm beneath. “Then we have two tasks. Retrieve the prototype. And find the Core before Rathmund—or anyone else—does.”
No one disagreed.
But in Freya’s chest, a different storm brewed. She looked at Axir, his shoulders squared, his jaw locked, his eyes shadowed by memories of fire and family and duty. And she wondered—if this was the destiny written for him, what did it mean for her?