The room was circular and tall, so tall that the ceiling was lost in a golden twilight where chandeliers of pure gold floated like small suns, with no neon to stain their light. The walls, of polished stone, rose in a perfect curve to the limit of vision, and the windows—tall, narrow, Gothic—went from floor to ceiling, but the black iron shutters were closed, preventing the pale, sickly light of Orthid from entering. Only the gold of the chandeliers illuminated the room, creating shadows that danced like specters on the stone walls.
The white table, square and immense, occupied the center of the room. Twelve white chairs, tall and austere, surrounded it. Each had a coat of arms engraved on the backrest—the symbols of Orthid's ruling families.
Ollum Der'Olth entered, and his footsteps echoed in the silence.
All eyes turned to him. Some with indifference. Others with curiosity. Some with the contempt that only nobles can cultivate over generations of power.
Ollum bowed, quick and dry, like someone fulfilling a formality without believing in it.
"I apologize for the delay," he said, his voice neutral. "Circumstances."
No one responded. Only Olweyn, the matriarch of the Oweyn family, coughed exaggeratedly, as if reminding everyone that the meeting should have started long ago.
Ollum ignored her.
He sat in the place that belonged to him—the chair with the Olth coat of arms, the white circle representing Orthid's immobile sun. Beside it, Olheita's chair. The woman he loved. The woman who would never love him.
Olheita looked at him.
Her eyes, of a gray that seemed to contain all the colors of the universe, fixed on his. It wasn't the usual look—the one that said "no, never, impossible." There was something different. A hesitation. A doubt. A possibility.
Ollum felt his heart race. He didn't know what that look meant, but he knew it was something good.
"These are for you," he said, extending the Oséfery flowers. The petals, which once shone with all the colors of the universe, now seemed paler, as if the cold of the tower were slowly killing them.
Olheita hesitated.
Ollum felt fear grip his chest. Fear of being rejected. Fear that she, like all the others, would look at him with contempt. Fear that this moment, the only moment he had tried to be human, would be crushed by the indifference that was Orthid's only law.
Olheita extended her hand. Her fingers, pale and thin, touched the petals.
She took the flowers.
And she blushed.
Ollum felt the world stop. Time, which was once a straight line, seemed to have curled in on itself, creating a circle where only the two of them existed.
"Thank you," Olheita murmured, her voice low, almost inaudible.
Ollum smiled. The smile, which was once a mask, was now genuine. He felt an ecstasy he hadn't known since childhood—since before learning that emotions were a weakness.
She accepted, he thought. She accepted.
Olweyn coughed again. Louder. More insistent.
Ollum ignored her.
"How are you?" he asked, his voice softer than ever. "I haven't seen you since the last meeting. You seem... different."
Olheita hesitated. Her fingers, holding the flowers, gripped them tighter.
"I'm fine," she replied, her voice still low. "And you?"
Ollum felt his heart expand. She never asked how he was. Never. He was always the one who asked, who hoped, who desired. She, who responded with monosyllables and empty stares.
"I'm better," he said. "Now that I'm here."
Olheita didn't respond. But she didn't look away.
Ollum felt a hope he hadn't felt in years. A hope that, he knew, was probably an illusion. But at that moment, he didn't care.
"Ollum," called Oquar, his voice dry, irritated. "Can you shut the hell up so we can finish the meeting?"
Ollum turned slowly. The smile, which was once genuine, transformed into a cold mask.
"Do you want to die?" he asked, his voice neutral, as if commenting on the weather.
Oquar trembled. His eyes, once full of arrogance, were now full of fear.
Olheita touched Ollum's arm.
"If you kill him," she said, her voice low but firm, "I'll kill myself. So I never have to marry you."
Ollum felt the cold run down his spine. He looked at Olheita. Her eyes, once full of possibility, were now full of a silent threat.
"I won't kill him," he said, his voice low. "Not for you. Because you chose to ask."
He resigned himself. He fell silent. He pressed his hands on the table, his knuckles white with tension.
Oquar let out a sigh of relief. His eyes, once full of fear, were now full of renewed arrogance. He looked at Ollum with a triumphant expression.
Ollum didn't respond. He just waited.
Eunar, Oquar's bastard brother, observed the exchange with disdain. His white hair, the same shade as his father's, fell over his eyes, and his expression, impassive, showed no emotion.
"If you all calm down," said Ollucutur, the eldest son of the Osan family, his voice hoarse and amused, "we can begin."
Ollucutur was tall, with dark skin and hair as white as night snow. His hands, broad and strong, rested on the table, and his smile, which showed white teeth, was simultaneously welcoming and threatening.
"Where is your father?" asked Olweyn, the matriarch of the Oweyn family, her voice hoarse from decades of smoking.
Ollucutur laughed. The laughter echoed in the circular room.
"At home," he replied. "Feeding some rat or other. The old man is going mad. It's only a matter of time until he dies."
Everyone laughed. Even Olweyn, who coughed while laughing, creating a strange sound that resembled a skeleton's cackle.
Ollum didn't laugh. He just watched.
Olzinith, the leader of planet Orém and father of the Orealem family, tapped his fingers on the table.
"Let's hurry," he said, his voice impatient. "Olthernyuhu called me to speak today, and I want to get home to see my newborn daughter."
Ollum tilted his head. His white hair, which shone with its own light, reflected the chandeliers' glow.
"This will be quick," he said. "I have only one question."
He looked at Oquar.
"Why do you consider yourself worthy of becoming the head of the Oquando family?"
Oquar raised his chin. His white hair, almost devoid of light, fell over his shoulders in perfect waves.
"Because I am not a bastard," he replied, his voice firm. "That is reason enough."
No one laughed. Silence settled, heavy and dense.
Ollum looked at Eunar.
"And you?" he asked. "Why do you consider yourself worthy?"
Eunar didn't hesitate. His eyes, a dark gray, fixed on Ollum's.
"Because being a bastard," he said, his voice calm, "and having more power than the original is reason enough. I am the one who manages the family's finances. I am the one who knows the collaborators, the important people, the alliances. And I have a good business relationship with all of them."
Oquar laughed. The laugh was sharp, unpleasant.
"The conversation is over," he said. "I'm not stupid, Ollum. If you vote for me, Olheita will be yours."
Olheita looked at her brother with disdain. She said nothing. She couldn't. The family rules did not allow women to speak on matters of succession.
Ollum looked at Eunar.
"And you?" he asked. "Do you offer me something better?"
Eunar didn't hesitate.
"No," he replied. "I won't force my sister to do something she doesn't want. Whatever she chooses, I will accept."
Ollum felt Eunar's words echo in his mind. *I won't force my sister to do something she doesn't want.*
That was exactly what he wanted. That she would want him. That she would choose. That she, for the first time in her life, would look at him and say "yes" without being forced.
Ollum stood up. His eyes, a silvery white, scanned the assembly.
"Put your hands on the table," he said.
Everyone obeyed.
Ollum closed his eyes. He drew upon the sun itself. Upon the power that ran in his veins, the power he had inherited from his ancestors, the power to judge, to cut, to control.
Orthid's sun shone.
Not outside the tower. Inside each of them. Inside each hand placed upon the table.
Ollum opened his eyes.
"There were seven votes in favor of Eunar," he said, his voice neutral. "And zero in favor of Oquar."
Oquar's face became indifferent. His eyes, once full of arrogance, were now empty.
"It doesn't matter," he said.
Eunar smiled. His eyes, a dark gray, shone with a light that came not only from the chandeliers.
Olheita smiled too. She sighed, as if an immense weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
"How many children should we have?" Ollum asked, his voice softer.
Olheita looked at him. The smile, once of relief, transformed into a serious expression.
"Four," she said, her voice low.
Ollum felt his heart tighten. Four. She had already thought about it. She had already imagined a life with him.
"Four?" he repeated, his voice trembling. "Then we'll have four."
Eunar leaned back in his chair. His eyes, a dark gray, fixed on his older brother.
"Oquar," he said, his voice neutral, "are you going to respect my authority as head of the family... or are you going to be expelled?"
Oquar didn't respond. He just stared at the void, his eyes empty of any emotion other than defeat.
The meeting ended. The lords rose, one by one, and left the circular room. Ollucutur, the one with dark skin and hair as white as night snow, nodded to Ollum as he passed. Olzinith, the father of the Orealem family, hurried to the exit, his eyes fixed on his watch.
Ollum stayed. Olheita too.
"Thank you," she said, her voice low. "For choosing Eunar."
Ollum looked at her. His eyes, a silvery white, fixed on hers.
"I didn't choose Eunar," he said. "I chose what he offered me."
"What was it?"
Ollum hesitated.
"The promise that he wouldn't force you," he said, finally. "The promise that he would let you choose."
Olheita didn't respond. She just looked at him, her eyes full of an emotion he couldn't name.
"I'm leaving," she said, finally. "But... thank you. For the flowers. For the choice."
She turned and left.
Ollum was left alone in the circular room, surrounded by golden chandeliers and shadows that danced like specters. The Oséfery flowers, which once shone with all the colors of the universe, were now dying slowly in the place where Olheita had left them.
Ollum picked one. The petals, once soft, were now dry, almost powdery.
"Four," he murmured to himself. "Four children."
The smile that formed on his lips was not the smile of a monster. It was the smile of a man who, for the first time in his life, had achieved what he wanted without resorting to force.
And, for that very reason, it was the most dangerous of all.