Ryn stepped out of the gate into a reception plaza that had clearly seen fewer visitors than stars in the sky. The air smelled of damp stone and faint bioluminescent lichen, mingling with the distant, mineral tang of subterranean water.
At the center of the plaza, a lone old man slouched behind a worn stone desk, a thick blanket draped over his knees, sleeping in quiet surrender to time. Ryn approached the desk cautiously, seeing the old man sleeping beneath the worn blanket. He did not want to startle him. Clearing his throat softly, he said,
"Ehem."
The old man stirred, lifting one eye with deliberate slowness. The amber iris caught the faint glow of the bioluminescent lichen.
"Has been years since this gate saw travelers," he said, his voice gravelly but calm. "No one has stepped through in decades."
Without haste, he reached for a small, ancient console beside him and activated it. Lights flickered along the interface, feeding him streams of data. The AI managing the gate hummed quietly in the background, largely dormant, its routines unused for years. He scrolled through the log, studying the anomaly that had brought Ryn here.
"The vectors indicate a misalignment," he murmured. "A glitch in the transit matrix. Something or someone has overridden the standard routing."
Ryn, watching him work, hesitated for a moment before handing over his card. The old man took it, placing it under a scanner. The device traced the etched micro-ink with careful precision, lights tracing lines that spoke of heritage, identity, and clan. When the readout finished, he let out a small, almost amused smile.
"Ah… Thalos-Morvayne," he murmured. "Clan name still resonates. The echoes of your line travel farther than you know."
Ryn finally asked, his voice soft and echoing against the caverned walls,
"Is this Neroth?"
The old man shook his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"No… this is not Neroth. You have been brought elsewhere, to a place older than the names you know, where the stones remember travelers long before your time."
He leaned back, thinking for a moment, then added,
"Ah, I remember now. This planet was once called Mor-Khalis."
He gestured to the faint path winding through the caverned hills.
"Follow that path. You will see the citadel on the hill. While you wait for answers as to why you were transported here, you can wait there."
He followed the path, but the trail seemed endless. Days bled into each other as supplies ran low, and he hunted along the winding road, every root, every leaf, every small creature becoming a lesson in survival. He remembered his mother's teachings, what to eat and what to avoid, and it felt as if her presence guided his hands. Oddly, he realized she must have once walked these lands before him, leaving her lessons embedded in the world. The land itself seemed to whisper, and he sensed he was merely retracing steps she had taken long ago. When night fell, he made camp under a copse of glowing flora, the sky above a quiet canvas of twilight, while the fire crackled and hissed, sending warm light over his features.
Sitting there, he let his thoughts drift. Memories of his father rose first, sharp and fleeting, his voice, his laugh, the way he held the carbine, steady and sure. His father had not only taught him to fight, but how to think like a strategist, how to observe, plan, and anticipate. To evade, to hide, to secure a position, and then carefully decide the next step. Every action had a purpose; every movement was measured. Intelligence, patience, and revenge were lessons his father had drilled into him as thoroughly as any target practice.
He took out a small chip from his pack and studied it carefully. His father's instructions echoed in his mind: keep it hidden, and decide for yourself if and when it should be used. The chip was small and crystalline, with delicate veins etched across its surface, as if it had been grown rather than made. It could be inserted into a terminal or some other device, though it did not resemble any conventional interface. Oddly, it seemed to have a neural link, a subtle connection that hinted it could interface with a mind, respond to thought, or adapt to its user in ways he could not yet comprehend.
Then his mother appeared in his mind, patient and resolute, teaching him drills and survival in the wasteland. She showed him how to read the land, identify what was safe to eat, where to take cover, how to move silently, and how to fight when necessary. Her lessons were immediate and practical, vital habits that had saved him more times than he could count.
He did not know if either of them were still alive or if they had escaped, and that uncertainty pressed heavily on him. For now, there was only one priority: surviving, staying hidden from the pursuers who had taken everything from him. Someday, he would uncover why they had killed his parents, why they had attacked them, and when that day came, he would be ready, every plan, every step, every strike meticulously calculated. The fire offered a small comfort, a steady rhythm to anchor his solitude.
As he ate what he had hunted, carefully distinguishing what was safe from what could harm him, he sensed the land itself watching. Every rustle of underbrush, every glimmer of lichen, every shadowed movement seemed like a lesson, guiding him without words. The land taught him patience, observation, and adaptability. He moved with its rhythm, hunting, gathering, resting, always pressing forward.
Finally, the citadel came into view, rising above the caverned hills, a massive stone structure etched with sigils and signs of history long lived. Ryn remembered the old man's words and felt a quiet amusement. He had described it as a hill.
This is not a hill, he thought, staring up at the imposing fortress; this is a mountain.
The climb began, steep and unyielding. Each step weighed heavily on his legs. Muscles burned, lungs gasped for air, and sweat ran in rivulets down his face. He paused at every landing, drawing deep breaths, steeling himself against the relentless ascent. Yet with each step, his resolve hardened, a quiet determination that no exhaustion could undo.
The path twisted and rose, demanding patience, endurance, and focus. By nightfall, he camped again, the citadel now looming larger against a sky sprinkled with distant stars. Firelight danced across his features as memories lingered in the shadows. He spoke quietly to the absent forms of his parents, sharing thoughts he could not voice aloud. He remembered their guidance, their lessons, and the safety their presence had once offered.
Mor-Khalis, he realized, was teaching him the same patience and resilience, guiding him without interference, letting him discover the path at his own pace.
Morning brought renewed resolve. The citadel grew in scale with each step, stone walls etched with sigils and symbols that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. The climb was no longer merely physical; it was a trial, a test of will and endurance. Ryn paused often, gathering strength, observing the land, and noting the rhythms of light and shadow. He hunted along the path, each movement deliberate, each decision informed by instinct sharpened in the wilderness and honed by the echoes of parental guidance.
When he finally entered the outer halls of the citadel, an uncanny stillness greeted him. The air was cool and scented with aged stone and faint incense. Shadows fell in impossible angles, and the faint hum of the structure seemed almost alive, vibrating beneath his feet.
Faint glyphs etched into the walls glimmered in response to his passage, like the building itself was recognizing him. He noticed subtle anomalies. The temperature in small pockets shifted inexplicably. Sounds echoed where no architecture should carry them. Sometimes a wall surface reflected light in patterns that resembled circuitry, though no electronics were visible. Every so often, the faintest pulse of energy brushed the back of his neck, like a presence observing him, just out of sight.
He paused in a wide chamber, lit by bioluminescent cracks in the stone floor. The sigils along the walls flickered and shimmered faintly, as though recording his movement, his choices, his path. He realized he was not entirely alone. Something unseen was following, cataloging, waiting.
A low hum, almost imperceptible, ran along the floor tiles. It resonated with his heartbeat, a subtle synchronization that made him glance around. He caught himself in a glance, seeing nothing, yet sensing a pattern in the silence, a presence beyond the visible.
Unbeknownst to him, a silent observer, EP-Psi, trailed the boy still, hidden in the network of the citadel. Micro-sensors woven into the walls, remnants of long-dormant nodes, blinked to life as he passed. The AI did not touch him or intervene, only recorded, adapted, and prepared. Every sigil pulse, every shadow, every flicker of light that seemed out of place was part of its watch, a breadcrumb chain tracking him deeper into Mor-Khalis.
Ryn pressed onward, drawn by the mysterious pull of the citadel. The structure itself seemed alive, guiding him, offering hints of rooms, passages, and chambers that might hold answers. Somewhere beyond the next corridor, a subtle resonance awaited him, a signal that only the patient and observant could perceive.
Mor-Khalis had begun to reveal itself, quietly, deliberately, leaving trails for him to follow and secrets to unravel. Step by step, corridor by corridor, Ryn ascended further into the citadel, each chamber more enigmatic than the last. Every glimmer, every pulse, every whisper of shadow suggested something watching, something waiting, something calculating.
He felt it, vaguely, a presence that was at once everywhere and nowhere. The citadel had accepted him. It had measured him. And somewhere, deep in the hidden network of its architecture, EP-Psi had noted everything, waiting for the moment when the paths it had prepared would converge.