Episode 9: Unsettled Dome

  Chapter 028 - Cost of Freedom

  Xollor had been walking for some time, not appearing to have a clear direction. Recruits and stationed men would greet him before he’d pass along in silence. Usually, he would nod. But he circled the Armiton Headquarters more than he acknowledged his men.

  Evening came, and the sun sank low, casting the stone barracks in streaks of orange and dull gold. From the far side of Armiton, the cries of sparring soldiers rose and fell. Bursts of laughter, steel, and commands echoed across the humid air. The world functioned just fine, even without him. In the world of Strength, memories could easily be forgotten, especially sparring domes. Speaking of, his mind redirected itself to one sitting on the backside of HQ.

  He made his way there. His boots scuffed the dust of a forgotten training dome. It was one of the old ones left forgotten by most of the newer recruits. Unused for a long time, cracks formed along its edges. Broken spear tips and rusted gauntlets lay scattered. The heat hung heavy here. The dome’s high ceiling trapped it like a greenhouse—the only difference was that this dome had no greenery. His cloak clung to his back, and sweat to his skin.

  Each step echoed around the circular dome. He made his way to the center. There, he closed his eyes. The distant sounds of festivity reached inside, leaving behind echoes more cryptic than a crystal howl through a cave.

  This spot had always given him solace, a place of quiet comfort for his heart. The way the tiles pressed against his feet brought him peace. After all, this was where he had grown up, a home once left now revisited.

  Opening his eyes, he remembered being a child here, clashing blades with his mentor. One on one. Xollor saw the two standing before him like memories. That little boy with the wide grin, swinging as if each strike proved his worth, as if he mattered. And the man, young and skilled beyond his years. His blows landed with meticulous swings. It would always make him fall. But the boy always rose again, even with a cut bleeding down his leg and boots stained red.

  As the child charged once more, the vision faded. Xollor stared at the empty air and sighed. Some of the cracks in these tiles were his doing. Things like that ought to remain, etched as honorable memories. They were reminders that life could be simple and peaceful. Politics and conflict would last only for a time, but peace remained. Maybe that was what he needed, to bring that lasting peace with him. So he did. Silently, he turned to leave.

  But just as he left, his mind rang with a sharp noise. He froze. A whip cracked behind him. One strike. Then a child howled in agony. It was his howl.

  Xollor heard the boy crying, the sound tearing through the air. Each shout scraped his throat. The voice was broken and torn, yet the lashes did not stop.

  The child cried again. Chains rattled at his wrists. He pulled, but the shackles held. Another whip slashed his back. He apologized over and over without knowing why, only that he had to.

  Xollor kept his back turned, refusing to look. But he heard every word from that wicked man’s mouth. He remembered the grin after each strike. He remembered the shackles, the cabin cloaked in absolute darkness. Maggots and flies swarming, festering wounds, eating through his flesh.

  The memories struck harder now, sharper. His hands curled. The child’s scream rose louder, humiliation burning in its pitch. It rattled his eardrums—until he could take no more.

  A flicker ran through his veins.

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 46

  Light pulsed across his arms. A sharp hum answered him, and the air rippled. His system interface bloomed in silence before his eyes: arc-light digits and incantation glyphs hovering mid-air.

  The magic responded.

  It seeped out of his palms, pouring into the tiles beneath his feet like molten iron, and blossomed like roots. They pierced the ground and traveled under the tiles. Cracks formed wherever they went, traveling far until they reached the arena’s edge. The ground shivered. One second of absolute silence. A second later, the veins burst into the air.

  One by one, the stone tiles of the arena lifted from their roots. Thin orange veins of energy crawled across their surfaces, lifting them as if by invisible threads. Ten. Then twenty. Then dozens more. The pitch in the air rose. It sounded like a whining howl, high and relentless until it rattled the eardrums. Until it deafened the child’s cry.

  Light tore across the dome in vertical bursts. Strands of raw force bent upward like wild flames burning with endless fuel. Dust rose with them, spinning violently in the wind that now circled the chamber in widening rings.

  And in the center, Xollor stood still. The black silhouette of his armor dimmed in and out in a world of color and magic. His head hung low.

  Veins laced his arms and neck like burning cords, twitching by every heartbeat. His jaw clenched tight enough to tremble. Blood was drawn up to his face, and his shoulders shook in exertion that bordered on pain.

  ● System Interruption ●

  You are hurting your body.

  Bodily Capacity — Overused

  Activating Temporary Decrease

  –0.5 DEX/s

  –1 STR/s

  The system flared up like a warning. But he kept steady, hoisting those tiles up that were bigger than a human body. Up they stilled, by a multitude of magical threads wrapping around them. The tiles floated like shattered bone, hundreds of them, orbiting him.

  His jaw rattled, and his eyes pressed shut more than was comfortable… Until he didn’t, when memories ceased to haunt him for today.

  With a breath that scraped its way out of his throat, Xollor calmed, and the veins of magic collapsed.

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  The light vanished. The wind died. The tiles dropped like hail.

  Stone slammed against stone in a cascade of cracks, echoes, and choking dust. Shards burst outward. Some tiles splintered on impact. Others rolled to a stop against the far edges of the arena. Silence followed, and Xollor bowed his head with hands open. Arms rested at his sides.

  The field around him was broken. But he didn’t move. The last echoes of magic still hummed in the air.

  Xollor stood amid the fractured tiles, steam rising faintly from his arms. His breath slowed, but the heat hadn’t left his arms. The debris settled in uneven patterns around him. What remained was a shattered ring that was cracked and scorched.

  Suddenly, there came a sound, a soft, steady approach. It wasn’t long until someone joined him in the unsettled dome. Boots walked quietly in the hollow ring.

  He turned his head. There he was—his commander, the man with no flashy looks other than a dull armor wrapped in his cloak.

  Donnor stepped through the entrance, hands behind his back. His silhouette stretched long in the orange light of the evening, brushing against the curved walls of the dome.

  “What a wonderful dome,” Donnor said, gazing around. “Used to train here during my early regimen days. Coming from a foreign nation, it was hard to fit in. Still is, sometimes, even as a mentor for many. This poor man couldn’t party at all. Give me a break.”

  Xollor didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed slightly before he turned his full body toward the man, his long-ago mentor. “What is your reason for coming here?”

  “No need to get all tense,” Donnor replied. “Nothing to do with you. Call it a coincidence.”

  He moved past, stopping just beside him, gazing at the ground behind Xollor. His gaze drifted up toward the ceiling, then down across the cracked floor. His breath slowed with a thoughtful suspense that kept the two minds running.

  Silence expanded between them. The wind died down, and only the distant chatters and clashes were heard. Xollor couldn’t see, but when hearing the gravel floor grinding, he knew Donnor was looking at him.

  “All of us were weak once,” Donnor murmured. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Xollor’s head tilted, only slightly. His brows furrowed, but he said nothing. Without a word, he began walking toward the entrance of the dome. A silent exit for the guarded man.

  But Donnor’s voice followed.

  “Whether or not the child exists, he’s still a child. You don’t get to take away his freedom just because the slaves are afraid of what he might become.”

  Xollor halted mid-step.

  Donnor’s voice softened. “Children become monsters when we break them, when we teach them that order matters more than choice ever will.”

  Then he faced Xollor directly. “Don’t let your experience bleed into theirs—”

  XOLLOR

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 46

  Xollor spun. Magic ignited.

  The glyphs of his system flashed violently across his skin. The ground beneath him cracked with a thunderous snap, and a surge of heat roared outward.

  From the fractured stone, a massive slab of debris—tiles, soil, shrapnel—rose like a tidal crest. Fire erupted from its peak, a flaming spear of power aimed squarely at Donnor.

  But Donnor’s eyes burned in gold. His system ignited in full.

  DONNOR

  Rippling Magic ? Lv. 25

  The air growled. The ground eclipsed in blinding veins with a flash. And with another flash, the veins disappeared. And beneath him, the arena trembled.

  Hundreds of tile fragments lifted from the arena floor, swirling like a cloud of shards. With surgical precision, they shot forward, encasing Xollor’s wave of fire and stone in midair. The pieces compressed, layer by layer, folding around his magic like a cage of splinters.

  Rippling Magic, the strongest yet the most mysterious type of all three. Stronger than telekinesis. Stronger than incantation.

  In seconds, it was sealed, a glowing orb of pressure and heat. The outer layer shimmered. They cracked slightly, then they were sealed again. Faint pulses of caged flame blinked from within. A looming rumble echoed from inside, but it remained trapped with no escape.

  Xollor stood frozen.

  Donnor didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t move. It was quick and swift, full of control. And yet, with his stance, it seemed like nothing.

  “I was spared once,” he said, eyes never leaving Xollor. The sealed orb hovered in place beside him, crackling. “Mercy is strength. It always was.”

  “Then why allow the decree?” Xollor snapped, voice sharp. “Don’t preach mercy when that throne room didn’t—and you sat inside it.”

  Donnor’s breath caught, just slightly. His hand dropped to his side.

  “You are right,” he said. “My conscience chose it. I gave my vote to the kings. Freedom always has a cost. This nation was born in it. It still bleeds by it. The nation of Strength, they say…”

  He stepped closer. As he did, the orb hanging beside him grew still. The pulsing magic inside snuffed out. Without a flicker, it dropped to the floor and shattered. Only broken tile and dust remained. The flames died out. Residues of smoke lifted into the air as the pile buried the rest.

  “Here’s the bigger question,” Donnor said, passing him. “Anyone can live by their standards. But standards are carved from freedom. Your story is one among many. Will you live by that?”

  Xollor’s mouth quivered, fingers curling subtly. “By what?”

  “By your past.” He paused, then added, “Or… live free? Sounds easier said than done. But everything has a cost. Choose, if you are willing to stay the same, or take the blow and become someone free.”

  As he neared the dome’s exit, his eyes caught on two small figures at the threshold. A boy and a girl came into view, both young and searching for someone. When they spotted him, their faces lit up instantly.

  The girl raised a hand, a bright girl with a basket always hanging around her arm. The boy, on the other hand, grinned widely. He always carried a notebook with him.

  Donnor’s shoulders eased, and a smile tugged at his face as he walked toward them. He spoke one last time, not looking back. “Here’s the beautiful tragedy of living freely: the cost becomes yours. See for yourself.”

  Donnor knelt and opened his arms as the children rushed toward him. Their voices rose in cheerful bursts, questions tumbling over each other. He laughed softly and tousled the boy’s hair, and he gently touched the girl’s shoulder as they spoke. From a distance, Xollor watched, unmoving.

  Donnor’s attention narrowed to the children. His frame bent slightly to listen. The girl’s basket swung beside her. The boy scribbled something into his ever-present notebook between excited glances. And beside them, the war-hardened man walked like a father who had forgotten about their past.

  Xollor didn’t follow.

  He lifted his gaze to the fractured dome overhead, its ribs of rusted iron and glass revealing the last edge of a sun retreating into the west. He stood alone, surrounded by shattered tiles and the fading magic of Donnor. When the dust began to settle, he closed his eyes and drew a costly breath.

  As Donnor and the children left, their silhouettes blurred in the evening glow—into the warm light ahead. Standing behind them, in the gray and lifeless dome, was Xollor.

  Should I make a glossary for all the APs and Temperament Slates?