Universal Location: Aqualora
Coordinates: Land of Tiaza
Mission: Seek aid from the settlement
The first thing he felt when his suit's floodgates sealed shut was the sudden, alien quiet of a world that breathed instead of being forced to breathe. The pressure‑forged coral that rose like a forest of crystal spires around him seemed to pulse with a faint, violet after‑glow—psychic residue left over from a thousand generations of telepathic dialogue. The water he had just left behind, a deep sapphire that would have been enough to drown a star, now lay only a thin veil beneath his boots, filtered through a lattice of living runes that sang softly in a language of currents.
He raised the hand‑panel of his Valorian armor and, with a flick of his thumb, disabled the underwater mode. The suit's respirators fell silent, the glassy visor darkening as its internal HUD rerouted power to the environmental stabilisers. In the space of a heartbeat, the air in his suit hissed out, replaced by the cool, sweet scent of ionised brine that drifted through the streets of Tiaza. He inhaled, and the atmosphere filled his lungs with a taste of the planet itself—salt, mineral, and something else, a faint metallic tang that hinted at the Blackness circulating in the veins of the Xal'Zir.
Around him, the city unfolded in impossible geometry. Buildings were not built; they were coaxed from the ocean's own pressure. Transparent bubble‑glass domes grew from the coral, each one a perfect sphere that amplified the resonant thoughts of those within. Bridges of luminescent kelp arced between towers, their tendrils swaying in a rhythm that matched the slow, measured breaths of the planet. In the distance, a great spiral of light rose—a spiral not of steel or stone but of living water. He believed it must be of importance somehow.
Serath's eyes—augmented with Valorian optics that could parse sub‑atomic fluctuations—took in the scene with the practiced efficiency of a warlord scanning a battlefield. He noted the flow of traffic: sleek, chrome‑shimmering submersibles slipping through the water‑filled avenues, bioluminescent drones that hovered like schools of fish, and the occasional Xal'Zir ambassador in a mantle of flowing black‑silk, their masks glinting with obsidian and runes. It was a city that welcomed the ocean, not a fortress that tried to keep it out.
He pressed forward, the weight of his mission an iron anchor around his throat, to these uncharted sectors of Aqualora, a mission that had once begun with a simple directive had now been a mission of survival, both physically and mentally.
A soft chime rippled through the air as he turned a corner, and a figure stepped from the shadow of a coral archway. The being was one of the Xal'Zir—a regal silhouette of tentacled limbs coiled beneath a flowing robe, a mask of polished obsidian covering its face, etched with swirling bioluminescent glyphs that throbbed in sync with its heartbeat. Its eyes, visible through the mask's twin slits, glowed a gentle amber.
"Welcome, traveler," the Xal'Zir said, its voice resonating not from a mouth but from the very water that surrounded them, a harmonic vibration that seemed to settle into Serath's mind like a pebble dropped into a still pond. "You look as though the sea itself has delivered you. How can I help you?"
Serath inclined his head, the mask's reflective surface catching the faint light of the surrounding bubbles. "I am Serath Valorian of the Valorian Dynasty," he replied, his tone formal but wary. "I seek audience with the Guardian. My purpose is urgent."
The Xal'Zir's tentacles curled and unfurled in a gesture of hospitality. "Oh my, sounds quite urgent," it murmured, a faint smile evident in the subtle shift of its bioluminescent runes. "I believe it is the Guardian you wish to speak to. The Guardian watches over us here at the Tiaza. But, yes, if you wish to see the Guardian, you must first pass through the Greater Bubble just over there—the entrance to the Accord."
It gestured toward a massive, translucent sphere that hovered above the plaza, its surface rippling with an inner light like a sun caught in a glass prism. The sphere pulsed in time with the thoughts of those who stood near it, as if it were a living heart of the city.
"Follow me, I can take you there," the Xal'Zir said, its tentacles guiding him like a lighthouse beam. "The path is always open to those who carry respect for the water's mind."
As they moved, Serath's gaze lingered on the surrounding architecture. The pressure‑forged coral seemed almost organic, each arch and column a continuation of the seabed's natural growth. Yet within those stone‑like forms run intricate, geometric patterns—hyperbolic tessellations that stretched the limits of Euclidean comprehension. The bubble‑glass, a product of Nexirial Transmutation Domes, refracted the ambient light into a kaleidoscope of colors that rode across the faces of the passing citizens.
He thought of Mizu City from before, the isolated dome city of the Imperium's own allied oceanic colonists—a place of sealed domes, strict environmental control, and a culture that prized separation from the raw oceanic chaos. Mizu's architecture was sharp, angular, a fortress of glass and steel that kept the water out as much as it kept the city's secrets in. Tiaza, by contrast, seemed to have surrendered itself willingly to the deep, integrating the sea into its very soul.
By the time they reached the Greater Bubble, a delicate current of thought had begun to stir within Serath—an echo of the Xal'Zir's telepathic communion. He could feel the faint presence of the Mindspire, a collective consciousness that spanned the entire city, like a web of silvery threads connecting each mind to a central node.
The Greater Bubble opened with a sigh, the surface parting as if a curtain of water were drawn back to reveal a vaulted chamber. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and kelp, the walls lined with polished stone and bubble glass that seemed to drink and disperse in the light. At the far end of the chamber stood a very tall figure that dwarfed the surrounding architecture—a towering silhouette cloaked in flowing black‑silk, its mask a seamless piece of obsidian that reflected the whole of the chamber in a single, perfect dark pane.
The Guardian of Tiaza turned, its gaze—if it could be called that—settling on Serath with a weight that felt like a tidal wave compressing his chest. The psychic presence emanating from the Guardian was both ancient and ferocious, a storm of thought that seemed to test the very core of Serath's being.
"Valorian?" the Guardian's voice boomed, reverberating through the stone and water alike. "You have traveled far, Hollow One. Speak."
Serath's armor's HUD flickered, displaying the encrypted protocols of his mission. He cleared his throat, the sound oddly muted by the Guardian's presence. "I come by accident, if you will, Guardian. I was captured and brought to this world of Aqualora. I require a space vessel if you may—so that I can return to my mission. One that may be the be-all-and-end-all of… everything. I hope you understand, Guardian."
The Guardian's eyes—if the twin slits could be called eyes—narrowed. In a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, the Guardian reached out, not with a hand but with a tendril of thought that brushed Serath's mind.
"Are you… the Valorian?" it asked, each syllable a ripple in the psychic ocean.
Serath felt the weight of the question press down on his chest. He had been raised on the lore of the Valorian Dynasty, taught to answer with unwavering certainty. Yet something about the Guardian's tone—a mixture of curiosity and a warning—made him hesitate.
He swallowed. "I am Serath Valorian, Warlord of Valour, as my lineage declares." He added, "I have no other purpose but to fulfill my duty as the Hollow One."
A flicker of light danced across the Guardian's mask, and then, with a speed that belied its massive form, the Guardian raised a hand. The air crackled, and the stone floor beneath Serath's feet shifted, exposing a yawning aperture that led down into darkness.
"Arrest," the Guardian declared, its voice now resonating with the authority of the Mindspire itself. "You are a threat to the balance of Tiaza. The Valorian name bears a weight that the Accord cannot ignore. You will answer for your intrusion in the depths below."
Shock rippled through Serath's thoughts. The Hollow One—a title earned through countless campaigns, to become a perfect instrument of war—found himself thrust into a scenario he had never prepared for. Not an enemy at the front lines, not a rival society, but a city whose very essence seemed to rise against him.
The Xal'Zir civilian that had guided him stepped forward, its mask glowing brighter for a brief second. "Traveler," it said, its tone threaded with an unexpected urgency, "I am terribly sorry I can assure you I didn't not except this outcome, I'm not sure what is happening, perhaps he—" it gestured to the Guardian—"does not know you? Perhaps he knows the name, the Dynasty."
Serath's own thoughts surged, a chaotic storm of battle plans and diplomatic protocols. He could have tried to argue, could have summoned the ancient Valorian power that demanded respect and honour. He could have activated the emergency protocols of his suit, a hidden array of weaponry designed for moments such as this. Yet, for a fleeting instant, a different part of him—harder, older—saw a different path.
"Guardian," Serath said, his voice steadier than he felt, "if my presence threatens the balance of your city, then let me prove my intent. Allow me to speak with the Mindspire directly, to show that I don't come as a conqueror, more as a seeker of passage. The Valorian Dynasty has never—"
The Guardian's mask shifted, revealing a sliver of molten amber beneath the obsidian, a flash of ancient fire. "You speak of peace while bearing the weight of an empire that crushes worlds," it replied. "The Mindspire has already spoken. Your fate is sealed."
The stone floor gave way, a spiral staircase of darkness descending into the undercity, a labyrinth of tunnels lit by phosphorescent algae that clung to the walls. As Serath was dragged down by unseen forces—perhaps psychic tethers, perhaps the very will of the city—he caught sight of the Xal'Zir's tentacles retracting, the mask's glow dimming in resignation.
The stairs spiraled deeper, each turn echoing with the distant, mournful song of the ocean's depths. Serath could feel the pressure increasing, the water's density pressing against his suit, though his armour still kept him buoyant. The air grew colder, and the faint hum of psychic resonance grew louder, as if the very stones themselves were chanting a warning.
He arrived at a vaulted chamber—damp, cold and desolate—and was thrown into what he made out to be a prison cell. The very same psychic force that had concealed his name had put the Hollow One behind bars, his mind arose with question an all he could bring himself to think was…
What just happened?