"I did not kill God because I hated him. I killed him because he made us kneel." - Unknown Archive Entry 41581
Lord Kevan Thorne waited in his opulent hall in the very inner ring of the Citadel. He tapped the glass screen for all of his guests to file through the doors and greeted those whom he allowed to dine with him at the head of the room. The chandelier overhead glimmered with the light of real diamonds, not the fakes grown in a lab that sparkle on most of the upper meridian's jewelry. Suspended beneath it, a silk banner fluttered with the Conclave's insignia: seven interlocked circles with a winged sword emblazoned in the center. Thorne swirled his glass of aged wine and savored the silence that always came just before the toast. It was his favorite moment. That brief hush, as if the city itself had paused to listen. Ministers, lords, and ladies twirled on the dance floor below, their suits and dresses creating a sea of whirling colors. Beyond the arching windows, beyond the sight of the dancing guests, ash and smog choked the sky. Leaving the world outside covered in a grey oppressive haze. But within the glass palaces of the Upper Meridian, laughter reigned. The atrium's polished glass dome showed no stars, not through the haze of pollution and history long erased, but no one missed them. Inside the room, everything sparkled brightly. Small table ornaments glittered with a variety of colors, from light pinks to deep blues. Illuminating the faces of the guests in their preferred hue.
"Minister Thorne," purred a regal woman, one of the ministers of public relations who reclined in the chair to his left beside a platter of sugar-crusted fruits, "I do hope you've seen the latest mood index? Public satisfaction in Tier Three rose by 0.3% after the recycling campaign."
He smiled thinly. "If a man finds pride in pissing clean water, who are we to mock his joy?"
More laughter. Subtle, elegant. The kind of laughter that came from people who never had to laugh. Along the table sat some of the most powerful people not on the Conclave: CEOs, ministers, and legacy barons. Each had clawed their way into the regime's shadow; each served as the hands and teeth of the conclave above them. Thorne, as Minister of Communication, prided himself on subtlety. His job wasn't just censorship — it was narrative. Control the story, and you control history. The masses didn't need to love the Conclave; they just needed to fear anyone else, fear the unknown beyond the walls. Another round of applause erupted as a young servant, barely seventeen, with mechanical joints stiff from overuse, brought in a floating tray of real ice cream. Thorne ignored the boy, keeping his gaze over the flowing crowd below, which flicked to his sleeve as it buzzed with a notification. His attention flicked to the datapad folded discreetly beneath his sleeve as words flashed across its surface.
CODE BLACK: Zone 7-B anomaly. Target Confirmed.
He raised a brow. So, the ghost had resurfaced.Thorne tapped in a response:
Increase observation. He may lead us to those vagrants that keep interfering.
He closed the message with a thought and let the glass screen fade back into his sleeve. If the ghost wanted to cower in the slums like a rat, let him. His cowardice was containment enough.
He raised his wineglass. "To order," he said. "And the comfort of knowing we earned our place atop the world." The toast echoed through crystal and gold.
That's when the floor shook, just slightly, but enough to make the chandelier above clink. Kevan's eyes flicked toward the chandelier.
"Odd," he muttered under his breath, checking his data pad and seeing that the shock dampeners were still functioning at one hundred percent.
His guests, too absorbed in their indulgence, noticed nothing. Then the second shake came. Stronger. The tableware danced. The quiet murmurs of fake conversation became more rushed and nervous. Then the east wall shattered. Flame and pressure tore through the chamber like a vengeful god, and Kevan was lifted off his feet. And slammed into a column. The world became sound: metal groaning, fire roaring, people screaming. The scent of singed hair and melting skin filled the air. And then silence; the world seemed to be free of everything. It was as if the void of space had descended into the remnants of the once-shining room.
Heat filled the air, creating rippling waves that distorted the world around the guests. The burning of his skin was all that kept Thorne from losing consciousness. He looked down, seeing his body covered in blackened skin as if he had been roasted over a campfire; red and rough flesh poked through the cracks in his charred flesh. I'm going to die. He thought, his ears ringing but numb; no sound seemed to be able to pass through the overwhelming ringing within them. Warm blood dripped from his ears onto the side of his face, leaving little red rivers etched across his skin. Thorne coughed; blood and vomit splattered onto the marble floor in front of him, washing away the dust that coated the ground like a layer of snow. His vision swam as he tried to push himself up, but his legs seemed unwilling to move. He glanced down to see if his legs were pinned and his face twisted in horror. He opened his mouth, emitting a soundless scream as he plastered the floor in a mix of bile and blood once more. What remained below his waist were bloody, twisted messes; small shards of bone poked through the mutilated and burnt flesh like the pieces of a broken porcelain dish. His shins had been twisted like a towel wrung out, leaving the flesh mutilated; blood coats the floor in an ever-growing pool. The atrium was obliterated. The chandelier had been reduced to splinters, and diamonds littered the floor, having turned into little crystal bullets, piercing through bodies, shining like stars used to hang in the sky. The glass dome had collapsed, letting the night descend into the room, bringing a slight chill despite the fires. The smoke from the burning bodies flowed freely into the smog above, painting the sky with a harsh black haze. Thorne looked around for any way to flee, but flames, burnt husks, and shattered limbs were all that remained in the once opulent and beautiful hall. Thorne raised his gaze as glass crunched to his left, dragging his body towards the sound, calling out for help, only to produce a weak croak and cough up more blood from his shredded vocal cords. A black-clad figure stepped out of the destruction. He walked calmly over the threshold of fire and shattered glass as if it were simply a puddle on the sidewalk. His clothes were blackened, his skin streaked with soot. He wasn't wearing any armor, nor holding weapons; he was dressed in only a simple black outfit. No mask obscured his face; just two eyes that burned hotter than the explosion stared towards the shattered form of Thorne writhing on the floor in an attempt to escape. Rage was etched into every inch of his frame, barely contained within him, his muscles taut, his jaw and hands tightly clenched. He approached, like the night itself decided to take shape on earth; he walked slowly towards the form of Thorne on the floor like a leopard stalking its prey until he stood above him.
Thorne's nails clawed against the hard, black tile beneath him, trying to escape the terror that loomed over his broken frame.His mangled legs were unable to help him flee from the shadow that approached. "You survived," Thorne whispers, half in awe, half in horror. "You—you were dead. They told us—"
The man continued silently gliding towards Thorne with his hands clenched but his gait smooth and refined. The figure stared down at Thorne without pity, his eyes burning with rage and hatred. He flinched back from the man above him, but not fast enough, his body having nothing left to give. The man placed his fingers gently on Thorne's temples in an almost reverent manner, as if he were a priest blessing a child. Electricity flowed through Thorne's body, making his spine arc, dissecting thought from flesh. Thorne screamed out to a lonely world as his vision went black. What remained of Lord Kevan Thorne fell to the floor in a burnt, broken heap. The figure turned away from the husk on the floor and strode back out into the night; the sound of sirens could be heard echoing from the city below. He looked up to the sky above, seeing a column of smoke adding to the grey sky above.