Chapter 46: Origins III

A vast tent, erected on the plateau above Krutone’s stone city. The air outside is chilled, the sun low and distant. Inside, the canvas walls ripple in the wind. Eight chairs encircle a thick table of dark cedar. The tent glows softly from lanterns lit by fire.

Arten is already seated. Older now. His beard gray, his eyes dimmed by years, but still sharp, a man who has carried the weight of the world, and knows it. The others arrive one by one. His fingers twitch slightly. The Orb is not with him. Not today. Vila enters first, shoulders slouched, eyes unreadable. She leans against the table edge rather than sitting.

Vila: Still no throne? You disappoint me, Arten. I imagined you with a gold one by now. Maybe two.

Arten: And yet here you are, gracing me with your sarcasm instead of flowers.

Vila (smirking): Flowers wilt. My words don’t.

Tensen storms in next, not angry, just unable to move slowly. His cloak is streaked with dust from travel, his jaw tense.

Tensen: The roads are clogged with protest again. Luria’s miners this time. I passed a boy screaming in the street that “freedom is dead.”

Tensen pauses, slams fist lightly on the table.

Tensen: He’s not wrong. But he doesn’t understand why.

Arten: Few do. That’s why you’re here.

Dezra follows next. She moves silently, her eyes flickering across everyone before she speaks. She sits near Arten.

Dezra: They are rioting in Revano over the price of grain. Not because they’re starving… but because someone whispered that someone else has more. We thought peace would silence them. We forgot what noise envy makes.

Arten (softly): I haven’t forgotten. I just… hoped.

Vexis arrives next, wiping ink from his hands with a rag. He doesn’t look up as he sits.

Vexis: Hope isn’t data. Even without war, uprisings rise every seven years. Lawful borders fail after twelve. Unity collapses without enemy after twenty.

Vila (eyebrow raised): Always the optimist, Vex.

Vexis: Optimism is the graveyard of analysis.

Peni enters without a word at first. She glides in, calm, almost graceful. There’s something unsettling about how slowly she moves. She’s deliberate, like a knife deciding where to land. She finally speaks as she slides into her chair.

Peni: There was a priest in Yumitra who tried to set himself on fire to “awaken the gods.”

She smiles slightly.

Peni: They’ve traded violence between tribes… for violence against ghosts.

Arten (quietly): Because it gives them purpose. Purpose is more dangerous than war.

Zanek enters last. His boots are polished, his coat sharp. His presence shifts the air. Cold, grounded, necessary.

Zanek: Enough pleasantries.

He sits, folds his hands, and surveys them all.

Zanek (flat): We ended every war. Killed every tyrant. Crushed every uprising with mercy and might.

He leans forward.

Zanek: And still, they riot. Still, they burn. There’s nothing left to fight… so they fight us. That makes us the enemy now.

Tensen (mutters): Then we give them someone else to blame.

Dezra (frowning): That works… for a time.

Vexis: Until they figure it out. They always do.

Peni: Not if we design the lie… well enough.

Silence falls. The eight of them now sit in full circle. Lanternlight flickers across tired eyes, calloused hands, and hearts that once dreamed of utopia.

Arten: We’ve ruled the world longer than any empire in history.

Arten looks to each of them.

Arten: But peace doesn’t keep itself. It decays. Quietly. Like rot beneath floorboards. The people cry out, not because they are oppressed, but because they are directionless. They are free… and they hate it.

Zanek: Because they were never meant to rule themselves.

Tensen (growling): You suggest we make them slaves?

Zanek: I’m saying we make them… manageable.

Vila: Words matter, Zanek.

Arten (raising a hand): Enough.

He pauses.

Arten: This is not the world I envisioned when I first touched The Orb. But it is the world we have.

Tensen: The miners in Luria were protesting dust. Said they wanted “cleaner air” while working in the caverns.

Tensen snorts.

Tensen: They breathe fire to light their own tools. What do they expect?

Peni: A god to rescue them. Or a villain to blame. Whichever comes first.

Vexis (dry): Preferably both. That way they can demand mercy and vengeance in the same sentence.

Dezra: Clyden’s protest was over a map.

She sighs.

Dezra: A child painted the nation’s crest upside down in a schoolbook. The elders declared it sacrilege. Half the city burned before we could even speak.

Vila (leans back, disgusted): And in Troita, a woman slit her own throat to protest the length of new prayer hours. We cut the day shorter for their sake… and they still bled themselves for attention.

Arten: How many dead?

Tensen (firm): Eight hundred and twelve. Half of them never knew what they were protesting.

Dezra: They followed flames because it gave them something to feel.

Peni (smiling thinly): Pain is the most democratic of emotions.

Zanek: Enough. You summoned us here to fix this, Arten. I have a solution.

The table stills. All eyes shift.

Zanek: We create the illusion of freedom.

Vila: Come again?

Tensen: You want tyranny?

Zanek: No. I want control. A system so vast, so interwoven, that rebellion becomes a myth and choice becomes a guided path. The people want freedom… but not the burden that comes with it. So, we give them the shape of freedom.

Zanek leans forward as everyone listened closer.

Zanek: We let them vote. But only on things we allow. We let them worship. But only gods we name. We let them rebel… in controlled doses. Small, useless fires to keep them warm, but never enough to burn the house down.

Dezra: A managed illusion… That would reduce emotional volatility. False opposition could be staged to exhaust real dissent.

Vexis: It would require multiple levels of deception. Educational filters. Controlled history. Constructed media.

A small pause.

Vexis: But… it’s possible.

Vila (frowning): You want to lie to the entire world forever?

Zanek: They lie to themselves already. We’re just writing the script more clearly.

Arten: This is why I called you. Not because I have the answer… but because you might.

Tensen (skeptical): And what? We carve the world into eight kingdoms and play gods?

Peni: No. We carve it into roles.

Arten (sits up): Exactly. Roles. Places that balance each other. One for discipline. One for innovation. One for culture. One for order. Each of us leads one. Not as monarchs, but as architects. The people won’t worship us. They’ll forget us. That’s the point.

Vexis: A rotating archive of rulers. Bloodlines can’t be trusted. Not even yours, Arten.

Arten: Especially not mine. My son tried to kill me for this position…

Silence.

Dezra: Then we create succession protocols. Measured. Merit-based. Artificially tested. Let them think they choose their leaders. Let them think merit was found, not built.

Vila: We’d be burying the truth alive.

Zanek: Truth is a luxury the world cannot afford.

A long moment of silence.

Arten: We call it peace. Not because it is. But because it will feel that way.

The wind outside howls briefly. Inside the tent, silence deepens.

Peni: And what of The Orb?

Zanek: We bury it too.

Vexis: Not just bury. Erase. Rewrite the records. Replace it with a myth, a parable. Make it poetry, not prophecy.

Dezra: And if it’s ever needed again?

Arten: Then let those who remember where it sleeps… decide whether the world deserves to wake it.

A long silence passes. Then slowly, Arten stands. The rest remain seated, watching.

Arten: We are not heroes. We are not tyrants. We are the ones who saw that peace was not enough… and chose to make it permanent.

He looks out past the tent flap, toward the silhouette of the stone towers rising in Krutone. Then, he returned to his seat.

Arten: If we are to control the world… then it cannot be ruled from one place.

Vexis: Agreed. One capital invites resistance. Fragmentation offers protection. Eight pillars, not one tower.

Tensen: And what happens when one of us dies?

Zanek: That’s the point. We don’t pass it to family. We pass it to the system. Bloodlines breed arrogance. Ideology is cleaner.

Dezra: Then we must build the ideology first. Assign meaning to each region. Define its role… its narrative.

Peni: Give them a mask to wear, and they’ll forget their real face.

Vila: So, we divide the world… not by strength… but by function.

Arten (nodding): Yes.

A small pause.

Arten: If unity cannot be found in peace… then we forge it through necessity.

Zanek: Then let’s begin.

Zanek stands and places a small map on the table, hand-drawn, but already marked with notches.

Zanek: Eight regions. Each shaped not by geography… but by purpose.

He places his finger on the heart of the map.

Zanek: Krutone— control. The capital. The mind. This is where all decisions converge. No one outside this circle knows how deep the control runs. This is where The Orb was born. This is where power will sleep.

Arten: Krutone will need silence… and vigilance. No worship. No rebellion. No myth. Only law.

Dezra: And memory loss. We fade The Orb from their textbooks. Erase the truth from their children. Little by little.

Zanek: Let them believe in science. Let them worship system stability.

He moves his hand west.

Zanek: Revano… Fear. The necessary chaos. This is the region we let burn, over and over again. The world will look at it and remember why it obeys.

Tensen (jaw clenched): You’re making them the enemy?

Zanek: No. I’m making them the consequence.

Peni (murmuring): A land of fire and famine. Brutality breeds faster in places where hope is scarce. We plant fear there. I see your methods.

Vila: Ahh… You’ll turn their suffering into propaganda.

Zanek: Next, Clyden. The moderates. The moral center. This land becomes the illusion of peace. Hardworking. Humble. Loyal to order.

Vexis: We make them feel chosen. Respected. But not too powerful. Just enough to obey. Too weak to revolt.

Dezra: Clyden becomes our mirror. If protest rises elsewhere, we show the people of Clyden nodding, clapping, obeying. And say, ‘Why aren’t you more like them?’

Zanek (nods once): Exactly. You understand.

He taps the next part of the map.

Zanek: Luria. Art, history, theater. The veil.

Vila: The distraction? Fascinating.

Zanek: Let them write songs. Paint their sadness. Protest in words. Keep the revolution in art, not in the streets.

Arten (quietly): I loved Luria once. I still do.

Zanek: Then let it live, Arten. Next to Krutone, but not freely.

He taps the next part.

Zanek: Allatora. Religion. Faith. Control by salvation.

Tensen (tense): You’ll create new doctrines?

Peni: No. We can bend the old ones.

Vila: Truth isn’t sacred. It’s pliable. We’ll leave their scriptures intact… and reinterpret every word. The divine becomes law, and we become the voice that speaks it.

Zanek: Yumitra… Science, education, compliance. The thinkers.

Vexis (instantly engaged): Neat… Control through logic. Reason becomes obedience. Schools teach not curiosity, but loyalty.

Zanek: And language.

Dezra (turning): Language?

Zanek: We teach them how to speak… and we decide what can be said. If they don’t have the words, they can’t form the rebellion.

Peni: Or the empathy.

Zanek: Troita, the spiritual reserve. The last illusion. We preserve suffering there… but tie it to belief. Let them rebuild. Let them pray. Let them feel righteous… while they rot.

Tensen: But… You’ll make their poverty into a virtue.

Zanek: Yes. And they’ll thank us for it.

Arten: And Eztan?

Zanek (shrugging): Scarcity. Keep it broken. Make it a cautionary tale. The bottom rung. The pit.

Peni: Desperation can be useful. It can be a place to test fear.

Zanek: We’ll make it livable. But just barely.

A long pause.

Vexis: What of communication between regions?

Zanek: Limited. Filtered. Monitored.

Vexis: I see. So, divide them so they speak different morals… even when they speak the same tongue.

Zanek: Yes. We split them by values. Make them argue over ideas we invented.

Zanek leans forward.

Zanek: And the moment they start thinking for themselves? Give them a protest… Or secretly eliminate them.

Tensen: You really believe this will work?

Zanek: Not yet. It’ll take time.

Peni: And if it fails? What if people one day look up?

Arten: Then we bring back The Orb.

The room is still.

Arten: We seal it. Hide it. Erase it. And should the world ever rise too far… we remind it what god once looked like.

Zanek (nods): Then it’s settled.

Arten: We give the world a story. And we become the authors. Zanek… you’re brilliant.

Zanek: The structure alone is not enough.

Arten: Explain.

Zanek: Control collapses without succession. Power must pass, not through blood, not through favor, but through selection.

Peni: So, what… we choose heirs?

Zanek: No. We design the illusion of choice. In Krutone, we implement elections, debates, ballots. Let the people think they speak. But every candidate is ours.

Dezra: We’ll need decades of grooming. Control of early childhood education. Exposure control through news and media. Maybe even emotional patterning.

Vexis (scribbling quickly): Assign psychological archetypes. Categorize viable future leaders by risk. Filter them early. Promote only the obedient.

Tensen: You’re talking about… engineering souls?

Zanek: Exactly. Leadership is not born. It is cultivated. Cloned in thought, not flesh.

Vila (scoffing): And when the public demands transparency?

Zanek (unfazed): We give them transparency, just the version we approve. Let them protest. Let them complain. But keep them exhausted. Distracted. Give them theater. Feed them narratives.

Peni: They won’t remember what didn’t serve them. They never do.

Dezra: What of religion?

Zanek: In Allatora, faith becomes succession. Prophets replaced with curated messiahs. Holy visions approved by script. Those who claim divine leadership… must pass our test. Or vanish. Whichever works in our favor. 

Tensen: And if someone rises outside the script?

Zanek: Then we eliminate them. Quietly. If necessary, publicly… with meaning, of course.

Arten: Meaning?

Zanek: We don’t silence dissidents. We canonize them. It’ll make rebels manageable. Give their death a headline. A holiday. Wrap it in flags. And the people will mourn instead of follow.

Dezra: And Intergy? What happens when the next generation begins to unlock more of it? It came from The Orb… it won’t stay silent forever.

Zanek: We track carriers. Isolate them by region. Create classifications. Make them feel rare. Make them feel watched.

Vexis: Licensing. Registration. And social reward systems for obedience.

Tensen: So we raise the next gifted to serve the system that limits them?

Zanek: Yes. Exactly.

Arten: That’s what we’ve become?

Zanek (firm): No, Arten. That’s what we must be. If peace is the goal, then order is the weapon… And Intergy is just the battlefield.

A slight pause.

Arten: You sound like you’ve planned this for years.

Zanek (looks directly at him): I have.

A heavy silence follows.

Tensen: And what happens when the people forget us?

Zanek: Then we’ve succeeded.

Dezra: This… isn’t peace. Is it?

Zanek: It’s the only peace left.

Arten: They’ll call it freedom.

Zanek (correcting): They’ll believe it’s freedom. That’s all that matters.

Vila: And if someone like us… ever comes along again?

Zanek: They won’t.

Arten: But if they do?

Zanek looks at Arten a long while.

Zanek: Then they’ll meet a system so deeply embedded, they won’t know what they’re fighting. They’ll fight smoke, argue against shadows, and when they look up, we’ll be there. Not in form… but in everything else. In everything we’ve created.

Tensen: Then we’re not leaving behind peace. We’re leaving behind a trap.

Peni: And if they’re lucky… they’ll never know they’re inside it.

A long silence.

Arten: Then let’s make it law.

They all stand. One by one. In quiet acknowledgment.

Arten (final words): We do this not for glory. Not for memory. Not even for justice. We do this… because people can’t. And because someone has to.

They lower their heads. Not in prayer, but in surrender to purpose. The wind outside is still.

Arten: You know what I hate most about war?

They wait.

Arten (continues): It teaches us how to win… but never how to stop.

Tensen: We never stopped. We just changed the battlefield.

Arten: We did. And maybe that’s what history will forget. That we didn’t want this.

Vila: Then why did we do it?

Arten: Because peace was never enough. Not for them. Not for us.

He walks to the edge of the table and unrolls a final parchment, a coded seal. The one that will lead to The Orb.

Arten: This… we bury. Not physically. Spiritually. Culturally. Politically. The Orb will become myth, then rumor, then nothing.

Dezra: And if someone finds it?

Arten: Then they’ve already lost everything that made them want it.

A moment of silence.

Arten: When I first found The Orb… I thought I was chosen. A symbol. A light. I thought… if I saved enough people, they’d stop hurting each other. If I killed the monsters, the people would love again. If I bled enough… it would end.

Tensen (quietly): But it didn’t.

Arten (nods once):  You remove the tyrants… and the people turn on each other. You remove the weapons… and they sharpen words. You offer them freedom… and they burn it just to feel alive.

Peni: So, we give them what they want.

Arten (turns to her): We give them what they need. A world that feels real, even if it’s not.

He turns back to the group.

Arten: And no one will thank us.

Zanek: Good. That means we did it right.

Arten: I had children, once. I watched one of them lie to me, deceive me, betray me… just to try and take what I built. I saw ambition where love should’ve been. And I understood, then… Legacy is not what you leave behind. It’s what you protect from being inherited.

Dezra: Will you tell the others? The world leaders who come next?

Arten: Only what they need to hear. The rest… dies with us.

Vexis: And if we become the villains in their eyes?

Arten: Then let them hate statues. Let them curse names carved into stone as long as they don’t tear each other apart.

Arten walks to the center of the tent and pulls a box from beneath the table. Inside: eight rings. One for each of them. The founders.

He places them down, one by one.

Arten: You’ve followed me through wars I wish never happened. Through peace that never arrived. And now… into silence that no one will ever praise.

They each take their ring, one at a time.

Arten: You could’ve walked away. All of you.

Tensen: And let you bear this alone?

Peni: Never.

Dezra: We stayed… because we believed in you.

Vila: No. We believed with you.

Arten: I’ve never trusted the world. Not after everything… But I trusted you… And I still do.

He steps back, looking at each of them, his old friends, the architects of the lie.

Arten: You’re not just rulers. You’re anchors. You held me up when I broke. You never asked why I doubted my own blood. You just stood beside me… and made sure this damn world wouldn’t fall again.

He holds up his ring.

Arten: Thank you. For everything. For never turning on me, even when I started turning on myself.

They all stand together in silence.

Arten: Let the world forget us… as long as it never forgets peace…