Chapter 26
[Embercrown 31st (8th month), Year 1356 of the Arcane Calendar]
| x:xx AM |
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[ Malvo ,Habitable zone-3 ]
knock knock..
"Enter."
Calix pushed back from the chair, pen in hand, leaning slightly to see who had entered.
A young man in his late twenties stepped inside, moving with brisk purpose. Without hesitation, he snapped a salute, hand hovering just above his forehead.
"Captain Calix, sir! Neil, your appointed first lieutenant, reporting. I hope to be of service."
Calix smirked. "It's only a temporary position, that's all."
"Understood, sir," Neil replied, his grin faint but defiant. "Though as long as I'm a lieutenant, I'm allowed my own opinions."
Calix set the pen down, folded the letter with deliberate care, and rose from the chair. "Take me to the general. Afterward, make sure this gets mailed."
"Yes, sir!" Neil snapped to attention, pivoted sharply, and led the way toward the door with precise efficiency.
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The door groaned open, spilling a strip of lamplight across the stone floor.
The war room was built for function, not comfort. Thick stone walls held in the heat of burning lamps, the air heavy with ink, sweat, and the bitter tang of steel. A long oak table dominated the chamber, its surface scarred by knives and ringed with old stains, maps spread across it and pinned by daggers, markers, and scattered reports.
Men and women sat along its length, left and right. Uniforms dark, expressions carved from iron. None rose when Calix entered. They didn't have to. They outranked him now. Years ago, it would've been different. Years ago, they would've stood.
At the head of the table sat the weight in the room.
The general.
He didn't move, didn't need to. His posture was rigid, his face half in shadow beneath the lamp above. Four gold stars gleamed on his right shoulder.
He didn't need to raise his voice. The stars spoke for him.
Calix stepped forward, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. His boots scraped against stone, echoing louder than they should have. The air pressed down on him like a second set of armor, suffocating and inescapable.
At the far end, the general's eyes locked onto his.
The room said nothing.
The silence itself was a command.
Calix lowered himself into an empty chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He gave his greeting to the general. The man inclined his head in return—no warmth, no ceremony.
Around the table, the others only watched. Some with flickers of nostalgia, the kind that felt like seeing an old comrade through smoke on a battlefield—recognition tangled with grief. Others offered nothing at all—just silence. The weight of shared memory hung in the air, thick enough to choke.
The general broke it first. His voice rolled low, steady, absolute."Most of you already know why you've been called here. Even those who no longer wear the uniform."
The room froze.
From halfway down the table, a man leaned forward, knuckles white against the scarred wood. His voice cracked the silence like a blade."General. I have a question. Forgive my arrogance—but only you can answer it."
Their eyes locked. Silence stretched, heavy, unyielding, until it became its own language. The general read the desperation there. Finally, he exhaled, the smallest sign of weight breaking through the steel.
"I know what you want to ask," he said, voice rough.
"Fine. Let's end this guessing." He crossed his arms over his chest, gaze sweeping the room. "And yes. What you fear… is true."
A chair scraped hard against the floor. A woman stood, fists trembling, her voice sharp with fury sharpened by grief."Eighteen years. Eighteen years of fog—and now it's opening again."
The room tightened, breathless. All eyes turned back to the general.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His reply came low and final."Yes."
The word hit like a hammer.
Silence followed, dense and absolute.
Calix felt it sink into him, cold and crushing. His throat tightened before he forced the words out."General… how many days has it been?"
The general leaned forward. Lamplight carved harsh lines across his face, shadows sinking deep around his eyes. He spoke slowly, each syllable deliberate, as if the weight of it might break the table itself."The soonest we knew was twenty-five days ago. Embercrown, the sixth."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was heavy. Alive.
And it pressed down on every soul in the room.
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"Are you guys ready?" Linda asked, her voice gentle but steady.
Dain slouched back in his chair, arms dangling. "Yeah, yeah—we're good."
Then, with a sudden jolt, he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers lacing together. His grin sharpened. "But you know what?"
He tapped his knuckles together, eyes glinting with mischief. "We should really blackmail Felix one of these days."
The suggestion wasn't shocking—I already knew the context. Still, it caught the air like a spark.
Reis gave a dry laugh, rubbing his temple. "You're late to that thought. I considered it long before you did."
He exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Problem is, there isn't much to use."
Reis shook his head, lips tightening. "And second… umm yeah that's all."
His eyes flicked between us. "Does anyone even know why he joined the Daily Essentials Club? Seriously—why?"
He spread his hands in exasperation. "I've never once seen him use any of the skills we've learned. Not even the most basic one: maintaining a room."
Linda chuckled softly, a calm warmth in her expression. "If I remember right, he said it might be useful later. In our fourth year, the second term is entirely a team mission into the spirit realm."
She let out another small laugh, this one touched with fond amusement. "And he added—if he's going to be stuck sleeping outside, he at least wants it comfortable. Plus, he wanted to learn how to make good food."
Dain arched a brow, smirking. "Seriously, Linda… what do you even see in that guy? If I were to drag in a random stranger and ask whether you two were dating, ninety-nine percent would say no. The last one percent? Just pity votes."
Linda didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled—calm, unbothered, the kind of patient smile that seemed to smooth the edge off every conversation. "Believe what you want," she said softly.
Reis and I both nodded in silent agreement with Dain's jab.
Still, Reis leaned back with a wistful look. "I do wish Felix would cook for us, though. For their club presentation, they even got funding to buy three-horned scimitar oryx meat."
He paused, then tilted his head toward Linda, his tone sly. "Whenever we ask him, he says he's too tired… but I'm willing to bet he cooks for you once in a while."
Linda's composure slipped for just a moment. She looked away from Reis's gaze, a nervous, guilty smile tugging at her lips.
"Team Thirteen, Glyph Society!"
The voice calling our club name carried across the hall. Linda rose gracefully and started toward it.
After a while, Linda's voice cut through before Cornelius could retort. "Let's go, guys."
At her call, we rose from our seats and moved toward the backstage entrance. The waiting area was dim and narrow, the muted buzz of the audience leaking through the curtain like a low, restless hum.
The announcer's voice boomed: "Team Thirteen — Glyph Society!"
We stepped out under the lights. A few polite claps scattered through the crowd, but nowhere near the thunder that had greeted the larger, flashier clubs. Our club was the most unpopular one here—four members total, and none of us could claim it was "fun." Practical, yes. Exciting? Hardly.
With the help of the volunteers, Reis, Dain, and I carried out a plain table and a whiteboard. No grand props. No spectacle. Just us and our work.
Linda, calm as always, took the mic-like device and offered a polite bow. "Thank you for having us. We are the Glyph Society." Her voice was warm, measured—the perfect opening. She was our leader for a reason.
Once the introductions were done, Dain stepped forward, gesturing toward the mic in Linda's hand. "Let's start simple."
He gave a brief explanation of what runes are, setting the stage for the audience.
Reis then picked up smoothly, sketching a few quick marks on the board.
"Each rune has a function," he began.
"Think of it like language: letters form words, words form sentences. In the same way, runes from the Lumic script can be grouped. When spoken and manifested, we call it a spell."
"But when those runes are arranged physically—etched, inscribed, or bound together into a structure—that arrangement is called a cipher."
He gestured toward Dain's mic.
Dain continued without pause. "This device, for example, uses mostly wind runes, supported by lightning runes for resonance, and stabilizers that regulate the volume of sound. It might look straightforward, but even a simple tool like this represents years of refinement. Projecting a voice clearly and consistently, without distortion, is a challenge that requires layers of adjustment.
"If even one rune is placed incorrectly—or if the cipher is damaged—the whole function can collapse. That's the level of precision involved."
Linda nodded, her expression calm but confident, and stepped forward to draw the explanation together. Her voice carried warmth, like she was gently guiding the audience along.
"In short, objects that appear small and ordinary often carry incredible complexity within. A cipher may look like nothing more than a handful of runes arranged on a surface—but inside that sequence is a carefully balanced system at work. That's what makes rune craft so engaging. It shows us that even in the simplest tools, there's a whole world of knowledge to explore. And with the right combinations, we can create solutions for challenges far greater than this one."
Just as the audience began to assume the presentation was over, and some of the claps had already started to fade, Linda spoke again, her voice cutting clearly through the lingering applause.
"Today, we would like to give a short presentation on an idea which, in theory, could become one of the life-changing devices I mentioned earlier."
Before anyone could fully register her words, Dain continued—something that even surprised us, since we hadn't planned for him to speak.
"What we are about to show," he said with a confident grin, "I can say with certainty will be something even our runic and magical engineering professors would find shocking."
The unexpected declaration immediately drew the audience's attention.
If Linda's statement had caught the interest of a few already engaged listeners, Dain's bold claim seized the focus of those who had been chatting quietly among themselves—the supposedly uninterested, now leaning forward.
He shot me a look and smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes, clearly enjoying the effect he had on the crowd.
I returned Dain's grin and lifted the mic to my mouth.
Instead of feeling pressure from the crowd under Dain's gaze, I doubled down.
"What my friend just said," I began, "was an understatement. I would even go so far as to say our professors might take nearly a minute to fully understand the cipher I'm about to show."
My eyes scanned the audience until they landed on a familiar face among the other professors—Professor Iris, whose smug expression practically said, I accept your challenge.
The tension in the room shifted. The professors leaned slightly forward, curious. The murmurs from the audience grew, anticipation creeping into the hall like static electricity.
Dain and Reis wheeled a chalkboard onto its stand, a cloth draped neatly over it, facing the two professors.
The magic engineering professor cleared his throat and spoke through his mic, voice dripping with curiosity—and just a hint of mischief. "And what do we get if we manage to guess your cipher within a minute?"
A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd, excitement buzzing in the air.
I looked at Dain, who suddenly looked worried. Well, no going back now.
I smirked. "If either Professor Leonard—or Professor Iris—solves it in under a minute," I said, letting the words hang for effect, "I and Dain will serve as their personal assistants for the next five months—holidays included. Every errand, every lecture prep, every tedious task. I won't complain… much."
The crowd chuckled softly, but the professors exchanged a brief, knowing glance, a silent calculation passing between them.
Professor Iris leaned forward, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Bold," she murmured, the words almost a challenge.
Leonard's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Five months, you say? Very well. Let's see if your cipher is as clever as you claim."
I nodded to Dain and Reis. With a simple flourish, they pulled the cloth from the chalkboard, revealing the intricate runic cipher etched in precise, interlocking patterns.
A collective murmur rippled through the hall. Even the students who had been chatting fell silent, leaning forward to catch every detail.
ProfessoIris'ss' eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line, her expression unreadable. Leonard squinted at the arrangement, fingers tapping lightly against his chin, clearly already analyzing the structure.
I lowered the mic slightly, letting the silence stretch, closing my eyes as I contemplated whether I'd done something reckless.
The murmurs around me suddenly erupted, curiosity breaking through. I opened my eyes.
Iris leaned closer to the chalkboard, tracing the runes with her eyes, murmuring under her breath.
Leonard, at first, appeared relaxed, his pupils calm and steady. But after twenty seconds, I closed my eyes, and a subtle tension seemed to have crept in.
His eyes contracted and expanded as he tried to parse the pattern. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pen and beginning to jot notes on a sheet in front of him—the same one he used to track the performance of each club in presentations, a simple competition to see who delivered the clearest, most impressive demonstration.
Professor Iris' reaction mirrored Leonard's. Her calm scrutiny shifted into focused concentration, eyes darting over the cipher as if trying to anticipate its structure, every subtle detail weighing on her mind.
The audience's whispers grew into low hums of speculation.
-"Is it a wind-based cipher?" one student whispered.
-"That looks like lightning integration…" another muttered.
Everyone leaned in, captivated, but none could get past the basic runes. They couldn't decipher the collective function, couldn't see what the cipher was ultimately meant for.
I glanced at the illusional spell-conjured timer above the stage—fifteen seconds. The tension tightened, the very air in the hall seeming to vibrate.
Dain nudged me lightly. "You feel that? They're hooked."
Despite the confident tone in his voice, I could tell he was nervous—his legs were trembling.