The barracks of the Undying Legion were carved directly into the cliff face of the Citadel, a fortress within a fortress. Great windows opened to the roaring sea far below, letting in the scent of salt and the sound of the waves battering against the rocks. At sunrise, the chamber filled with molten light, turning the durasteel floors to gold.
In the training hall, twenty armored figures circled in steady rhythm — each one moving with the precision of a machine but the grace of a warrior bred to perfection. Their armor gleamed the color of polished brass, chased with etchings of serpents and vines. Their movements were deliberate, practiced; the Undying never hurried, never wasted motion. They were not men in armor, but statues brought to life.
At the center of the circle, Tarn Vorran struck.
His blaster-staff whirled in a blur of motion — a long shaft of tempered durasteel capped with energy conduits. Every sweep sang through the air with the crackling hum of charged plasma. His opponent, a knight nearly twice his age, parried — but barely. The clash of metal and energy lit the hall in a spray of sparks.
Tarn pivoted, sidestepped, and disarmed the man with one clean movement. The blaster-staff spun from his hand, arcing across the chamber before embedding itself in the floor with a satisfying clang. The elder knight took a half step back, then bowed low, pressing his fist against his chest.
"Yield, my lord."
Tarn nodded, breathing hard, sweat streaking his face. His training tunic clung to his frame, darkened at the shoulders and chest. His hair — black, like his father's — had fallen loose over his eyes, though they gleamed not with arrogance, but longing.
"Again," he said.
The knight hesitated. "We have sparred for three hours, my lord. You've bested every man here."
"Then we start again," Tarn said sharply. "This time, you don't hold back."
The knight looked to the others, uncertain, but before he could speak, a voice called from the mezzanine above.
"That's enough."
All twenty knights turned instantly and dropped to one knee. Only Tarn stood upright, catching his breath, his staff lowered but ready.
At the balcony rail stood Captain Rhest, commander of the Undying Legion — an older man, broad-shouldered and weathered, his golden armor dulled by time.He descended the stairway slowly, his steps echoing in the hall.
"My lord Tarn," Rhest said as he approached. "You fight with ferocity today."
Tarn bowed slightly. "Discipline sharpens the mind, Captain."
"And dulls the heart," Rhest replied. "Sometimes the Duke's son must remember he is still flesh, not forged Durasteel."
"I am my father's son," Tarn said quietly. "Steel is all he respects."
The Captain regarded him a moment, then motioned for the others to leave. One by one, the Undying filed out of the hall, leaving only Tarn and Rhest amid the training circle.
When the last echo of armor faded, Rhest removed his helm. His face was marked by an old scar that ran from his temple to his jaw — a memento from a battle long forgotten. His eyes, however, held nothing but a soldier's weary respect.
"You've improved," he said. "In speed. In precision. You even anticipate your opponent's strike before it comes."
Tarn hesitated, then said softly, "Sometimes I can see it — not with my eyes, but… somewhere else. Like the air moves before they do."
Rhest's gaze darkened. "You mean the gift."
Tarn said nothing.
"The Duke forbade that talk," Rhest continued. "He will not have it spoken under this roof."
"I didn't ask for it," Tarn said sharply. "Do you think I wanted this? To be born something he hates?"
Rhest sighed, setting his helm under his arm. "You are his blood, Tarn. That alone makes you stronger than most."
"Then why doesn't he see me?" Tarn demanded. "Why does he look at me as if I were… an accident?"
Rhest hesitated. There were a thousand answers — none that would satisfy the boy. "The Duke sees everything, my lord. He simply… prioritizes."
Tarn gave a bitter laugh. "Meaning my brother is his legacy, my sister his voice, and I—his embarrassment."
The Captain stepped closer. "Meaning you are young. And time changes many things."
But Tarn's expression did not soften. "Time doesn't change men like my father. It only hardens them."
Rhest said nothing.
After a long silence, Tarn spoke again, quieter now. "He once told me power must be earned, not given. That every man must cultivate his worth. I've spent my life trying to prove mine, and still… he looks through me."
Rhest studied him carefully. "Then keep training. Make yourself undeniable. When war comes to Volantis — and it will — the Duke will need every blade loyal to his name."
Tarn lifted his staff again, gripping it until the conduits thrummed to life. "Then I'll be ready."
Rhest nodded once. "You always are."
---
Outside, the sun had climbed fully above the horizon.
Rhest stood at the window, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "You know," he said, almost to himself, "your father fought once — not with blades, but with words sharper than any weapon. He brought rival Houses to heel, tamed trade guilds twice his power. But he never took the field."
"He doesn't need to," Tarn said. "He has us."
Rhest smiled faintly. "Indeed. But remember this, my lord — power can guard as well as it can consume. Be careful which it does to you."
Tarn looked down at his hands, still trembling from the fight. "I will."
He turned back to the sparring floor, but something in Rhest's voice stopped him.
"The Duke asked for you to dine with him this evening," the Captain said.
Tarn froze. "He did?"
"A rare thing," Rhest admitted. "He said he wishes to speak of with you."
Tarn didn't reply. His father rarely summoned him except for formality — and even then, conversation was a ritual of silence and disappointment. Yet still… a flicker of something kindled in his chest. Hope, fragile as glass.
"I'll be there," he said at last.
Rhest nodded.
---
Far above, in the Citadel's upper spires, Duke Vougal Vorran stood once again before the window of his study, a cup of black caf cooling in his hand. The ocean below was shrouded in mist, and the first trade convoys of the day were already breaking through the clouds.
His eyes lingered on the departing ships — small glimmers of silver vanishing into the void.
Behind him, the Captain's voice echoed faintly through the comlink. "The Separatist conference has concluded, my lord. Terms have been set."
"Good," Vougal said. "Keep them waiting for the signed accords. Let them remember who feeds them."
"Yes, my lord."
The link went dead.
Vougal took a sip of his caf, then set the cup down. The steam curled upward like a ghost, twisting in the golden morning light.
The Republic and the Confederacy could fight until the stars turned cold. He would not lift a blade. He didn't need to.
He had already won the only war that mattered.