Kael stood before the imposing door of the commander's office, clearly nervous—and how he hated that he was nervous. He despised this man with a passion, but he dared not voice it aloud. He had been to this office many times, and he always came out angry and frustrated—not at the man, but at himself. The commander had a gift for dragging out the worst in people. All Kael knew was that his father had been close friends with this man.
He straightened himself, brushed the sand off his shoulders, and knocked three times.
"Enter," came the voice from inside. Calm. Controlled. The kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be dangerous.
Kael stepped in.
Commander Nyre's back was turned. He was staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight as a blade. The glass framed the training fields below—cadets moving in perfect sync, drills unfolding like clockwork. Dust kicked up in soft bursts beneath their boots, but none of it reached this room. Up here, everything was quiet. Controlled.
Kael stood just inside the doorway, still bruised, still sore, waiting.
"Sit," Nyre said, his voice cold and cool.
Kael straightened his posture but inwardly scoffed. "I prefer to stand, sir," he said meekly.
"Do you dare to disobey?" Nyre asked quietly, his voice ringing a warning in Kael's mind.
"No, Commander," Kael replied. "I just don't see the need, since I'm in the presence of a high-ranking officer. To me, it would feel disrespectful, as I'm not your equal."
There was silence before a small chuckle broke through. Nyre was still gazing out the window, a smirk forming as he turned to face Kael. Kael gulped at that smile. It was what people referred to as an amused smile. And as expected, it transformed into a controlled frown.
"Sit your ass down, Kael." Each word stabbed Kael's heart. "That's an order."
Kael knew he'd be mad to challenge him, so he stepped forward and lowered his "ass" into the chair mechanically. Nyre made his way to his desk and sat down.
Commander Nyre now sat behind a wide desk, hands folded, eyes sharp. The room was sparse—no medals, no distractions. Just a glowing blue screen interface, a few files, and the weight of authority.
Nyre looked him over once, slowly.
"You've had an eventful morning," he said.
Kael swallowed. "Yes, sir."
Nyre leaned back slightly. "Tell me, Kael. Do you know the difference between a soldier and a spectacle?"
Kael hesitated. He knew exactly what was happening. "A soldier earns respect. A spectacle earns attention."
Nyre nodded once. "Good. Then tell me—why are you becoming the latter?"
Kael gulped. He looked nervous, but inwardly he was sneering at the man. How he hated him. Just because he was powerful, he always summoned Kael to lecture him and make him feel worthless. Didn't this man have something better to do than meddle in his life?
He took a deep breath. "I don't have an answer, sir. I've tried my best."
"No, you haven't," Nyre replied.
"Tell me," he said again, voice like steel dragged across stone, "why are you becoming a spectacle?"
Kael stood there, the sting of the question cutting deeper than any punch Chris had thrown. He wanted to speak, to explain, to defend himself—but the words felt thin. Useless. He looked down at his boots, still dusted with courtyard sand, then back up at Nyre.
"I lost control," Kael said finally. "I let the crowd get to me. I let Chris get to me."
Nyre didn't blink. "You let yourself get to you."
He stepped closer, the air between them tightening.
"You think combat is about rage? About proving something in front of a crowd?" Nyre's voice rose just slightly—not loud, but heavy. "You think the battlefield will wait for you to catch your breath, or that your enemy will care how humiliated you feel?"
Kael swallowed hard but held his ground.
Nyre sat silent for a moment, still facing Kael. The light caught the edge of his jaw, casting a sharp line across his face. Then, without any expression, he dropped it—flat, cold, and final.
"Your father, Dr. Karim Armstrong, is dead."
The words didn't echo. They didn't need to. They just hung there, heavy and unmoving.
Kael didn't flinch. He didn't speak right away. He just stared at Nyre's face, eyes unreadable, the silence stretching between them like a wire pulled tight.
Then he exhaled, slow and bitter—and burst into cold laughter.
"So that old bastard's dead."
Nyre just stared, his expression still unreadable. "He died in the prison house."
Kael's face didn't change. No grief. No shock. Just a flicker of something behind the eyes—something old, something buried.
"I always said he'd die surrounded by his work," Kael muttered. "Guess I got my wish."
Nyre turned and looked out the window. "I didn't expect that reaction from you."
"He wasn't there," Kael spat. "For four fucking years. He never told us why. He didn't even come for Mum's funeral. He never called. Not even a fucking message."
Tears welled in Kael's eyes, but he hastily wiped them away. "And you expect me to cry over him? I won't do that, sir."
"You're crying right now," Nyre pointed out.
"There's sand in my eyes," Kael replied quickly.
"Yeah, sure there is." Nyre replied sarcastically.
"You'll go to the prison house," Nyre then said, calm and final. "It's custom. Family collects the belongings."
Kael turned slowly, his face unreadable, bruises still fresh, sand still clinging to his uniform.
Nyre stepped around the desk, eyes locked on him. "Dr. Karim Armstrong died from prostate cancer, but he spent his final months in confinement. Off the record. You'll receive what's permitted. The rest stays sealed."
Kael let out a dry breath, almost a laugh. "So I'm supposed to dig through whatever scraps they think I deserve?"
Nyre didn't blink. "You're his blood. That's enough."
Kael stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Fine. I'll go."
He got up, saluted, and walked out, closing the door behind him.
---
The prison house sat on the edge of the compound, tucked behind the old barracks and shielded by high walls and silence. It wasn't marked—no signs, no flags. Just a steel gate and a scanner that buzzed as Kael approached.
The guard barely looked up when Kael gave his name. A quick scan, a nod, and the gate slid open with a mechanical groan.
Inside, the air was colder. The walls were bare, the lighting dim. No cells in sight—this wasn't that kind of place. It was where they kept the ones who didn't belong anywhere else. Scientists gone rogue. Officers who crossed lines too quietly to be executed. Men like Dr. Karim Armstrong.
Kael followed a clerk down a narrow corridor until they reached a small room. A metal table sat in the center, and on it, a single box. Standard issue. Sealed.
The clerk gestured. "Everything cleared for release is inside. Sign here."
Kael didn't speak. He signed, took the box, and waited until the door closed behind him before opening it.
Inside:
- A worn leather notebook, edges frayed
- A pair of cracked reading glasses
- A data chip, unmarked
- A photo—faded, creased—of Kael as a boy, standing beside a younger, sharper-looking Karim. Neither of them smiling
Kael stared at the photo for a long time. Then he picked up the notebook and flipped through the pages. Equations. Notes. Scribbles in the margins. Some of it looked like madness. Some of it looked like secrets.
He held up the data chip, turning it between his fingers. No label. No hint.
Just silence.
"Of course Father wouldn't give a hint or label," Kael scoffed, then picked up the box.
He looked up at the clerk. "Can you take me to his lab? There are things I need to get."
"That wasn't in my orders," the clerk frowned. "I could get discharged."
"Just do it. I promise you won't get implicated," Kael replied.
The clerk thought for a moment before sighing. "If I get screwed," he warned, "I'm taking you down with me."
Kael nodded. The clerk escorted him down to Armstrong's lab.
"Here's the key," the clerk said, handing it over. "Return it when you're done."
The clerk walked away, leaving Kael alone. He opened the lab door and stepped inside.