The tidecraft whirled through the unseen currents before halting with a sharp, controlled stillness. General Velaric descended in a single fluid motion, boots meeting the surface of the Confluence Realm—a place where all waters of existence converged, yet felt unnervingly dry, as though the essence of fluidity had been stripped to its purest form
A figure awaited him. Seven feet in height, broad-shouldered, unmoving—more sentinel than man. His presence was rigid, his gaze unwelcoming.
When he spoke, his voice carried no warmth, only function. "Identify. Origin. Purpose."
The General Velaric straightened, every inch the officer. "Excellus, General Velaric. Laniakea Supercluster, Local Group, Sol, Earth. The matter is urgent."
The sentinel did not move. "State the issue."
Excellus did not hesitate. "A primordial entity ravages our oceans. It drains lifelines—energy, essence, soul. A village is lost. Though the destruction may be far greater than we have recorded."
His jaw tightened, though his composure never faltered. "Its origin is unknown. Unrecorded. We do not know its nature, nor its limits."
A measured breath.
"Our concern is not one world. If it consumes enough, it will extinguish life on Earth. If it transcends its world…"
His gaze hardened, voice lowering with quiet gravity. "…the consequences for the galaxy, for the universe, are unpredictable."
A brief pause followed, deliberate and respectful. "On these grounds, we formally request an audience with His Grace."
The sentinel regarded him without expression. "Your concern is trivial. His Grace attends to greater currents. Return."
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the staff in the sentinel's grasp shimmered—faint at first, then swelling with a restrained, volatile light. Energy gathered along its length, humming beneath the surface. His posture stiffened; his eyes sharpened, narrowing into something distinctly predatory, aglow with an unnatural sheen.
The shift was abrupt. And just as abruptly—it faltered.
The light dimmed. His grip slackened, if only by a fraction. When he spoke again, the tone remained controlled, but something beneath it had… fractured.
"…Very well. His Grace grants you audience. Proceed."
Excellus did not question the change. He inclined his head with measured courtesy. Without delay, he turned and reentered the tidecraft, guiding it forward through the suspended currents until it came to rest before a vast, sealed door—its scale alone enough to diminish even seasoned command.
He descended, moving to the side as the hatch opened. With deliberate formality, he extended a hand.
The Chieftess emerged first—composed, sovereign in bearing—followed closely by Master Mercedius, whose presence carried a quieter, deeper weight.
Excellus stepped aside, then glanced back toward the cockpit. "Remain here," he instructed his copilot, voice low but firm. "This realm does not favor the aimless. Do not wander."
The copilot gave a quick, silent nod. Excellus turned forward again, attention sharpening as he faced the doors ahead.
Master Mercedius stood still for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the vast expanse before them. "Unchanged," he said quietly. "It remains… precisely as it was."
Chalisse turned slightly toward him, her composure unbroken. "You miss this place, Master?"
A faint breath left him—not quite a sigh, but close. "I do. But I can no longer endure it. Even now, standing here… I feel it. My body is too weak. The energy of this realm is a weight I cannot sustain."
Chalisse studied him for a brief moment, then spoke with quiet authority. "Remain with the tidecraft, Master. Preserve your strength."
Mercedius shook his head, a small but resolute motion. "We have come too far. If this is my end, let it be in service. To guide you… is an honor."
A pause.
Then Chalisse inclined her head, accepting. "Very well." Her gaze shifted. "Assist him, General."
Excellus stepped forward at once, steadying the Master without a word.
The gates parted, and a woman stood waiting beyond them.
"Welcome."
Her voice was soft—almost melodic—but it carried weight, authority woven into every syllable.
Chalisse, Excellus, and Master Mercedius bowed their heads in unison.
Her gaze settled on the elder, recognition flickering almost instantly. "Master Mercedius… is that you?"
"Indeed," he replied, lifting his head slightly. "It has been some time. How do you fare, Corintha?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "Better than I deserve. To see you again is… an honor."
"The sentiment is returned," Mercedius said. "You have risen well. It is… pleasing."
She inclined her head. "Not without your guidance." Then, with a graceful gesture inward, "Come. His Grace awaits."
They stepped inside.
The chamber stretched endlessly upward, supported by towering pillars etched with markings older than memory. The walls shimmered—not stone, but living displays—vast projections of oceans from across the universe. Waters of every hue and temperament moved in silence, like a thousand worlds breathing at once.
They walked until a waterfall came into view, cascading from unseen heights.
Corintha lifted her hand.
The water obeyed—parting cleanly down the middle, revealing a path beyond.
As they approached, she spoke without turning. "His Grace has long since anticipated your return, Master Mercedius."
Mercedius gave a quiet breath. "Has he?"
"Indeed. He believed your paths would cross again. His instincts… do not fail."
Mercedius allowed the faintest trace of a smile. "So it would seem."
They stepped through the parted waters and continued forward.
They stepped through—and the world fell away.
There were no walls. No ceiling. No ground.
Only space.
They stood upon something unseen, an invisible plane suspended in the vastness. Everywhere they looked, stars burned in the distance, galaxies drifting like slow-moving currents, as though the universe itself had been pulled close enough to witness.
At the center stood a man.
He faced away from them, peering through a massive instrument—something akin to a telescope, though far too intricate, too alive to be compared to mortal design.
Corintha lowered her head. "Your Grace. The visitors have arrived."
The man raised a hand.
She fell silent immediately.
Without turning, he stepped aside, moving with quiet precision to a nearby surface—if it could be called that—and began inscribing symbols upon it. The markings formed and shifted like a living script, luminous and fleeting, as though reality itself struggled to hold them in place.
Then he stopped.
He turned.
And began to walk toward them.
With each step, the air changed.
The pressure deepened. Not physical—something far older. It pressed against their senses, slipped beneath their skin. Goosebumps rose along their arms. A sharp current traced down their spines, like a distant echo of lightning.
Instinct drove them lower. Their heads bowed further.
Then he spoke. "Raise your heads."
His voice was deep—abyssal in depth, yet impossibly calm. It did not command. It simply was, and obedience followed.
They lifted their gaze.
And saw him.
His face was human. Familiar in structure, serene in expression—nothing monstrous, nothing divine.
But his eyes—
They were not still.
Within them, something moved. Flowed. Endless motion beneath the surface, like an entire ocean contained in a single glance. Currents shifted. Waves formed and dissolved. Depth without bottom.
It was not a reflection. It was presence.
"Mercedius."
The words were spoken with familiarity rather than formality. He inclined his head in a restrained bow.
Mercedius answered in kind, deeper this time. "Your Grace. I see I will not die without purpose."
A faint warmth passed through the man's expression.
"Your end is not yet written, Mercedius. My court has missed you. I have missed your counsel."
Mercedius gave a small, knowing smile. "Flattering. Though it seems the court thrives now that Corintha has taken my place."
"Indeed," His Grace replied. "Competently." His gaze lingered a moment. "Yet humility remains your most persistent trait."
A quiet pause followed.
"I have felt our paths would cross again," he continued, "though the reason was unclear."
His attention shifted slightly.
"Corintha."
She stepped forward immediately.
"Make our guests comfortable."
She bowed her head. "At once, Your Grace."
Without another word, she turned and departed, leaving them suspended in the silence of stars.
His Grace inclined a hand. "Be seated."
At his gesture, the emptiness of space shifted.
A living room formed around them—subtle, seamless, as though it had always existed. A coffee table formed at the center, smooth like still water. Seating followed, elegant and restrained.
They sat.
His Grace regarded them calmly. "Why have you come?"
Mercedius answered without delay. "I bring the Chieftess of the village I reside in, from my retirement world. Earth—Sol system, Local Group, Laniakea."
His Grace's expression shifted subtly. "I have felt a disturbance in those currents," he said slowly. "Not disruption. Not alarm. Anticipation."
Mercedius' gaze sharpened. "You have felt it? The entity? It drains lifelines. Leaves nothing."
A pause.
"If so," he continued, "its nature exceeds our estimation."
He turned slightly. "Chalisse. Report."
Chalisse inclined her head. "Your Grace, thank you for the audience."
His Grace responded gently. "Formality is unnecessary. We are all composed of the same matter—what you call Life."
Chalisse paused. "Humble, as always."
She continued, producing the gathered records. "We bring evidence of the matter afflicting Earth. It demands your attention."
She gestured.
His Grace examined the data.
"Hm." A pause. "For such a civilization, the instruments are… rudimentary. I am disappointed."
"Our instruments are primitive," Chalisse said evenly. "Our artificers are not."
He gave a small nod. "Do you require more energy? Is your world lacking?"
"No. Our world holds more energy than it can regulate. The difficulty is control."
"I understand." He straightened. "I cannot interfere. Each world must shape its own path. Even I am bound by that principle."
"We are aware, Your Grace."
He placed the tablet into a recess within the structure.
The device responded instantly.
Light spilled outward—not projected, not reflected—but real in presence, as though reality itself had been rewritten to accommodate it. The autopsy data unfolded into three-dimensional form. Haugen's recorded remains appeared next, suspended in perfect clarity. Every detail held with unsettling precision.
It was no longer a hologram.
It behaved like matter—observable, encircled, even approached—yet never truly touchable.
His Grace observed in silence, the data expanding subtly as if it responded to his attention alone.
"These wounds…" he said at last, voice low. "Familiar. Yet not."
Chalisse stepped forward slightly. "Haugen. First victim. The files also contain records of the massacre at Harborville."
At his gesture, the scene shifted.
The village formed around them—fully reconstructed in spatial clarity. Buildings stood intact in representation, while others bore the marks of destruction: collapsed roofs, fractured streets, frozen moments of collapse.
It felt less like a projection and more like time preserved in place.
His Grace studied it quietly. "How many were lost?"
"One hundred and sixty confirmed," Chalisse replied. "Possibly more. Several remain unaccounted for."
His gaze returned to Haugen's file. The body rotated slowly under his focus. Wounds expanded. Details sharpened. Even the face held the imprint of final terror.
Silence settled.
"I sense fear," he said. "He did not die in peace."
A pause.
"Sirens do not break in such a way. Has your nature changed?"
Chalisse remained composed. "It has not, Your Grace. Death in battle is honor. We do not fear it. Whatever did this… was enough to break what should not break."
She continued evenly.
"Lifeline, soul, energy—all extracted. Identical wounds across victims. Their cores are absent. Even genetic structure altered. Rewritten."
His Grace studied the data for a long moment. "Corintha will cross-reference this with our archives."
"We are grateful," Chalisse said.
He gave a single nod. "I must depart. My duty awaits. Remain. I will return when matters are settled."
He turned.
The space shifted subtly as his presence began to withdraw.
Then Corintha returned.
"Your Grace," she said, urgency breaking through her composure. "I must speak with you. Now."
He paused. "Can it not wait? I am bound to a schedule."
Without hesitation, she presented something to him.
A silence followed.
Then his expression shifted—small, but absolute. "Very well."
He began to move, then stopped mid-step.
Turning slightly, he addressed them again. "An investigator will be assigned to your vessel. Master Mercedius…" A brief warmth returned. "It is good to see you again."
Mercedius inclined his head. "If permitted, I would like to show my companions around."
"By all means," His Grace replied. "You are free. However, remember—"
"I know," Mercedius said calmly. "The longer we remain, the more time diverges on Earth."
A faint nod. "Correct. I shall take my leave. Farewell."
He turned toward Corintha.
"Prepare for departure."
~~~
Chalisse exhaled softly as they were left alone in the vast space. "That was abrupt."
Mercedius let out a quiet chuckle. "He has not changed. Still bound to his schedule."
Chalisse tilted her head slightly. "We were in discussion. Is he always like that?"
"Oh, indeed," Mercedius replied without hesitation. "But his attention is a resource—scarce. His responsibilities stretch beyond comprehension. I am surprised he afforded us this long."
Chalisse considered that for a moment. "I understand. Even I find myself spending less time with my own daughters than I once did."
"A burden of leadership," Mercedius said quietly. "It reshapes bonds."
Excellus, who had remained respectfully silent until now, spoke with measured pride. "It is an honor. Few Velarics—few sirens—stand in His Grace's presence. I will meet my end knowing this. I am grateful, Chieftess."
Chalisse turned to him with calm sincerity. "And I am grateful for your service, General."
A brief silence settled between them—respectful, weighty, and unspoken.
Chalisse frowned slightly. "What did Corintha show him? It looked like—"
"A Crestmark," Mercedius interrupted smoothly.
Chalisse glanced at him. "A what?"
"A Crestmark," he repeated. "A convergence sigil. It only manifests for a high-order summons. One requiring His Grace's immediate attention."
He exhaled lightly, expression turning more reserved. "Judging by his reaction… there will be a proceeding."
Chalisse's gaze sharpened. "A proceeding? Like a trial?"
Mercedius gave a faint shrug. "It is not our affair."
Then, as if releasing the moment entirely, he gestured outward.
"Come. I will show you around. I have walked these halls longer than most can remember."
A rare chuckle escaped him.
Chalisse allowed a small smile. "Very well, Master."