Telomere, Scallia Republic, Northern region of Rohana Federation, 2057 S.C. 171st day
A heatwave bore down on the city of Telomere, surpassing the previously recorded maximum measured 50 star-cycles ago. In this city with a population of around 200,000 people, it seemed as though the entire city was neglected, as the people could be seen cooling off with water from the fountain in front of the administrative building.
From the six-story administrative building, built of red and gold bricks and adorned with the stark black banners of Scallia and the Rohana Federation, a figure of a man could just barely be glimpsed behind the closed windows of the top floor, observing the scene unfolding in the forecourt below.
Alex Luriano, captain of the Telomere branch of the National Guard, was furious. Beads of sweat trickled down from beneath his short gray hair, pooling in dark stains on the red fabric of his uniform. The problem for Alex loomed above his head. A metal fan with four wooden blades turned at an insignificant speed, producing a high, shrill screech at every turn.
Faced with the choice between sweating profusely or damaging his hearing, Alex chose the former.
"Where is that mechanic? I sent for him two hours ago. This is becoming unbearable," Alex growled under his breath, still gazing out the window. His eyes drifted to the window again, drawn by the carefree sight of children and parents. He was envious. Then his gaze shifted to the sky, a clear blue with barely any clouds, wrapped in a pattern of millions of neon crosses, faintly pulsing with a golden glow.
Tired of standing, he decided to sit in his chair. Unfortunately for him, the seat and backrest were made of animal leather, which only added to the heat.
"Two more days," Alex muttered, his voice dry as the air itself, "and the season changes. Finally, the temperature will start to drop. I don't recall the temperatures ever being this high. And maybe it's the heat dulling my senses, but I'd swear there were fewer crosses in the sky a star-cycle ago."
Tired of standing, he then decided to sit in his chair. Unfortunately for him, the seat and backrest, crafted from animal leather, clung to him like a second skin, which made him sweat even more.
His thoughts of cooling off were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Finally! He rejoiced inwardly.
"Come in!" Alex shouted, preparing to give the mechanic a piece of his mind.
But through the door, a soldier entered with an unhurried stride. Alex's face darkened, anger yielding to disappointment in a silent, heavy sigh.
"Apologies, Captain, but mail has arrived for you," the soldier murmured, head bowed, as he extended a yellow envelope.
Alex rose from his chair and took the envelope. His eyes lingered on the bold red letters - classified - stamped across its surface. His grip tightened as he held the envelope that was sealed with wax bearing the insignia of the Church of Harmony.
"You understand, soldier," Alex began, his voice cold and edged with steel, "you've never seen this letter, and this conversation never took place. Now, find Lieutenant Sergei and bring him here. Tell him it's urgent."
"Understood, Captain," the soldier replied with a salute, before bolting from the room, his hurried steps echoing faintly behind him.
For a moment, Alex remained still, the envelope in his hand feeling heavier than it had any right to be.
Alex had forgotten the heat as the clammy chill of cold sweat started sliding down his back. What business could the Church have with the captain of a modest town like this, who had spent most of his career in this tiny office? His modest expectations mirrored his surroundings of his workspace: a wooden desk bearing the engraved emblem of the Scallia Republic; two small flags dutifully representing Scallia and the Rohana Federation; a worn leather chair; two scuffed wooden cabinets with glass doors... and the broken fan. From what he'd heard about the offices of other captains, the room was unremarkable.
Also, Scallia itself is a republic located along the northern edge of the vast hemispherical barrier that encloses Rohana and its surrounding sea and land territories. Among the states of Rohana, it held the distinction of being the quietest, maintaining its neutrality, a position that kept it largely out of the Church's gaze. Above its and Rohana's domain, the sky shimmers with millions of crosses, their colors shifting during the seasonal changes. The barrier becomes reflective at lower altitudes—a silent, impassable wall. No one has ever breached it, neither to escape nor to enter. Depending on the opinion, the barrier is either a haven or a prison created by the gods referred to as the creators.
By getting lost in his thoughts, questioning historical facts, Alex barely registered the knock at the door until it echoed a second time.
"Enter," he said, his voice cold, measured.
"I heard you were looking for me, Captain," said a tall, thin soldier with crimson hair and equally crimson mustache. His tone was carrying a faint edge of wariness.
"Can we drop the formalities for today, Sergei?" Alex sighed.
"So, it's that bad?"
"You can see for yourself," Alex replied, handing over the envelope. Even though it was still sealed, Sergei immediately recognized the gravity of the situation.
No words were needed. The fear in their eyes spoke volumes.
"What would the Church want with us?" Sergei finally asked, with fear evident in his voice.
"I don't know. Has there been any activity I haven't been informed about?"
"Nothing," Sergei said, shaking his head. "Things here are as dull as ever. You know our assigned forces are barebones - just enough for patrols and basic reconnaissance."
"I don't like this at all," Alex muttered through clenched teeth. Then, silence fell. Both men knew what had to come next.
Alex reached for the envelope. His fingers hovered for a moment, then pressed down, cracking the wax seal. Inside the envelope were several papers and photographs.
"Sergei," Alex said, his voice trembling, "go fetch yourself a chair from the other room. I'll see if I can pour us a drink." As Sergei stepped out, Alex approached the cabinet. Alongside folders of various reports, Alex kept a small collection of drinks. He pulled out a bottle of mead from an old wooden bottle of mead, its surface engraved with coils of a dragon's body. It was a drink he usually reserved for special occasions, for entertaining important guests who brought tidings of hope and prosperity. But today, it was the only drink that might help him relax, if only a little. He hoped the taste would evoke fond memories, freeing him from the grip of fear in which he now found himself.
Sergei returned with a chair and placed it next to the armchair. Together, they set to work sorting through the reports and photographs, sorting them out across the desk. The photographs were stacked, and the immediate detail of the top one drew their attention. It was a photograph of open village gates with a sign above them bearing its name - Marcialla.
"That's one of the villages under our jurisdiction, isn't it?" Sergei asked, leaning forward.
"Yes, two hours' drive north of here. The last settlement before the barrier, if memory serves. Their trade is medicinal herbs and potions, mostly."
"You don't think... they've fallen into heresy, do you?" Sergei ventured, his words heavy with unease.
"Let's not jump to conclusions. In all my service, I've never received a single complaint about how that village operates. Let's see what the reports actually say."