Chapter 87: Intermission: The Primarch

  House Agriculture Estate, Skyhaven – Year 689 (18 years ago)

  Dalton Rose sat at the study desk in his chambers.

  It was big and sturdy, crafted from high-quality oak grown on House Agriculture’s vast grounds in Skyhaven, shaped in the carpentry houses in Orlinth where it was also lacquered to a polished sheen. The desk was positioned beneath the room’s large window, where the afternoon sun that slipped through the clouds bathed the space with its warmth.

  Young Dalton, in his early twenties, was engrossed in the sheet of paper before him—a poem he was writing. With a mechanical pen in hand, he wrote, then crossed out a few lines, then wrote again. After a moment, he leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he spun the pen idly between the fingers of his left hand.

  “How should I rhyme this…?” he muttered.

  His mother, Amanda Rose, had passed away six months ago.

  She had been the Prime of House Agriculture—a House of great importance to Solvane’s ecosystem, yet one that never seemed to hold the power it deserved. Their vote in the House Summits counted as one, unlike those of House Security, House Energy, and House Innovation, whose votes counted as two. As if providing food and one of the most vital building materials to all three platforms was somehow less important than safety and invention.

  His mother, however, had begun to change that.

  Through careful planning and shrewd investment in the right connections, she had managed to earn their House more political weight than it had ever possessed in its long history.

  Unfortunately, she died from a terminal illness before she could reap the fruits of her labor. Before she could be elected as Head of Solvane, the Primarch.

  Dalton had never cared much for politics, intrigue, or power struggles. Born with a golden spoon in his mouth, he just wanted to enjoy life. Outside his studies, he partied through most of his teens, right up until the moment Amanda’s condition worsened and she became bedridden. Her death followed soon after.

  He loved her deeply. Yet now, after she was gone, he feared he hadn’t shown it often enough. Being an only child only deepened that guilt. And the knowledge that her dormant illness might one day escalate—a fact known to everyone in the House for many years—made the loss feel even more unbearable.

  Now, through poetry—her favorite hobby—he felt he could still connect with her. As though, somehow, he might make up for the time he had lost. After all, at her core, she was just like him—she just wanted to enjoy life and all the luxuries it had to offer.

  Today, he wrote for a different reason—to calm his nerves before what he was about to do to him.

  “Dalton, get your ass over here right now, damn you! We need to leave!” a low, masculine voice shouted from outside the room, every word tinged with fury.

  It was his father’s. Gale Rose.

  Dalton’s expression twisted in disgust. He hated that man with every ounce of his being—for being a good-for-nothing father, for being a pathetic failure with no diplomatic skills, for not being there when she died. Most of all, he hated him for inheriting the title of Prime Agriculture after her death and for steadily, methodically, undoing all the work his mother had done to elevate their House.

  And the worst part? He wasn’t even a Rose!

  His father was a high-ranking banker who had married into the Rose family. His mother had been a true Rose—actual nobility, born of a lineage that had endured for centuries, even before Floating Solvane’s inception.

  Gale Rose was a failure. He was a hard worker, sure, but at the same time he still managed to ruin everything he touched, everything he invested time and money in. The only reason her marriage to him made any sense was the vast capital and influence his family wielded within the banking circles—resources she had needed to pursue her ambitions.

  Lately, Dalton had imagined killing the man more times than he cared to admit. He could not, in good conscience, allow him to bring House Rose into ruin. He would not let everything his mother had built crumble into nothing.

  No.

  He would continue her legacy. He would become Primarch. He had sworn it to her at her deathbed.

  His plans to replace his father as Prime Agriculture were already set in motion.

  “I’m coming!” he called back.

  Dalton stood, leaving his unfinished poem on the desk. He slid the pen into the inner pocket of his jacket and exited his chambers, locking the door behind him with a brass key—an additional layer of security atop the chamber’s COG-recognition terminal.

  “Finally!” his father barked the moment he saw him. “We’re going to be late because of you. Now, come!”

  Dalton followed the man in silence, walking a step behind as he studied him.

  The sweaty, greasy skin. The unkempt hair. The sagging double chin that was somehow visible even from behind. The clothes that never quite sat right on his body, despite the estate employing a private tailor, because he always seemed to gain more and more weight.

  And the stench of booze.

  It was partially masked by an overpowering lilies-scented perfume, but Dalton—despite his young age—had drunk enough in his life to recognize it instantly.

  It drove him mad.

  “On House Agriculture’s most important day of the semi-year,” Dalton snapped as they walked, “you dare show up reeking of alcohol?!”

  Gale spun on him in an instant, his hand flying toward Dalton’s face.

  Dalton reacted quickly, stepping back just in time for the strike to miss.

  “Keep your mouth shut, boy!” Gale growled, his face flushed red with rage, matching his eyes.

  Dalton couldn’t hide his disgust anymore. “You’re pathetic. You spit on her memory.”

  Gale’s eyes narrowed, burning. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “You know nothing about my grief. You lost a mother, but I lost the love of my life, damn it!”

  Dalton nearly laughed.

  ‘The love of my life…’ he echoed in his mind. ‘Sure.’

  Gale drew a sharp breath, visibly forcing himself to calm down. He straightened his clothes and ran both hands through his hair, sleeking it back into place.

  “Now,” he said stiffly, already turning away, “let’s get this over with already.”

  “Wait,” Dalton called.

  Gale paused.

  “Your tie,” Dalton said as he stepped closer, reaching up to adjust it.

  “Thank you,” Gale muttered, allowing the gesture. “Son.”

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  Dalton didn’t do it out of affection, nor was the tie particularly crooked. As his fingers worked the fabric, he slipped a small object into the inner pocket of his father’s jacket, right over his heart.

  A Cryora Capsule.

  He had acquired it from the gangs down in Orlinth. The small device contained an unstable Cryora crystal. Once activated, it released a faint, yet constant, nearly imperceptible cold pulse in a tight radius.

  It wasn’t designed to freeze as Cryora usually had. Its purpose was different.

  Given enough proximity to the heart—even through fabric—for as long as a few hours—according to his source—the cold would gradually disrupt cardiac rhythm until the heart simply…stopped.

  When it happened, Dalton would just rush to his father’s side. He would scream. He would feign shock and horror. And in the chaos, he would discreetly retrieve the Capsule and make sure Ironwatch never found it.

  Then, by right, Dalton Rose would become Prime Agriculture—the first step in his ascent to Primarch.

  Together, they exited the estate and boarded a Porter Carriage bound for the southernmost stretch of their lands on the platform—the wheat fields. There, his father, accompanied by health inspectors from House Health, was scheduled to present the grain handling facilities: the intake yards and sorting lines where harvested wheat was collected, inspected, and prepared for transport.

  Once everything was declared in order—a mere formality back when Dalton's mother was in a charge, but now an actual concern—Gale Rose would, hopefully, ascend the stage prepared for him and announce to the assembled field hands—permanent immigrants from the Foundry—that they were permitted to begin collecting and processing the season’s yields.

  The only reason Dalton was required to attend was the hand fields themselves.

  Many of them came from families that had served the Roses for generations, some even born on these very grounds. They despised Gale’s policies and his lack of understanding in agriculture, and did not consider him a true Rose. Dalton—his mother’s son—was meant to stand beside him as a symbol of continuity and legitimacy, a silent reassurance that meant to snuff out any thought of a possible unrest.

  The Porter Carriage rolled through the wheat fields and continued toward the fields’ main intake station, the central hub where harvested grain was processed before further transport. Endless rows of gold stretched out on both sides, and not for the first time, Dalton found himself amused by how this pastoral landscape clashed with the rest of industrial Solvane, let alone the modernized Skyhaven.

  As they rode in silence, Dalton kept stealing glances at Gale, watching for the slightest reaction—any sign that he could feel the cold of the Capsule in his pocket.

  He had prepared a contingency to divert suspicion if Gale noticed something was wrong. What truly worried him was having to devise an entirely new plan against a man who now knew someone had tried to kill him.

  They arrived at the station to find the inspectors already waiting. None of them looked pleased.

  “You’re late, Prime Rose,” said the lead inspector—an aged man with a sour, grumpy expression.

  “A-Apologies,” Gale replied nervously, gesturing toward the hub. “Shall we begin?”

  ‘Oh, how low have we fallen?’ Dalton thought. Then, unable to hold back his fury, the words just escaped him.

  “Why are you apologizing to a lowly inspector?!” he snapped. He turned sharply toward the man. “House Agriculture is never late on its own grounds. Apologize to us. Now!”

  The lead inspector recoiled. Dalton’s fury sent him stumbling backward, straight into a puddle. Mud splashed up his jacket and trousers.

  “Dalton, that’s enough!” Gale shouted, panic written all over his face as he shoved Dalton aside. “Go wait near the stage!”

  “But – “

  “No buts!” Gale barked, loud enough to make even Dalton hesitate.

  Gale turned back to the inspector at once, helping him up with the help of his subordinates while issuing apologies, and then, to Dalton’s horror, shrugging off his own jacket and offering it to the man.

  ‘No! The capsule!’

  Dalton took a step forward, already opening his mouth, even prepared to offer his own jacket instead—to salvage his plan—but his father, upon seeing him, barked again.

  “Dalton, leave!”

  Stunned at how effortlessly, and stupidly, everything had unraveled, Dalton turned away. Defeated, he made his way toward the stage, where the amassed field hands waited in uneasy silence.

  On his way there, the full weight of it struck him.

  He hadn’t merely failed to assassinate Gale. He was going to kill someone else.

  If he won't notice it earlier, the inspector—who had only just begun his exposure to the Capsule—would likely collapse only after the gathering. When that happens, Dalton won’t be around to retrieve it. The conclusion was immediate and terrifying: Ironwatch would inevitably trace the Cryora Capsule back to House Rose.

  And even if the blame fell solely on Gale, and if, by some miracle, he was actually punished for it, the House itself would not escape the shame. Being caught red-handed in an assassination attempt would cripple them politically for generations.

  This would set them back decades. Maybe even a whole century.

  Dalton knew he had to retrieve the Capsule. He just had no idea how. Not without causing too much of a scene.

  Still, he turned, already heading back toward the main hub.

  “Hey, you.”

  The voice caught him completely off guard.

  Dalton snapped his head toward the sound.

  A young woman stood there, dressed plainly in the same work-worn clothes as the other field hands. And yet, she didn’t belong.

  Her skin was smooth and unblemished. Her large blue eyes were striking. Her long brown hair fell freely, untouched by dust or sweat. Everything about her looked…untouched. Perfect.

  She was the absolute opposite of someone who spent her days laboring in the fields.

  Dalton was no stranger to the company of women, but even he faltered under the sudden impact of her presence. For a brief moment, his thoughts emptied completely. His mouth opened, yet no words came.

  The young woman laughed at his lost expression.

  The sound was light, disarming. With a single smile, she eased the tension coiled in his chest, causing him to momentarily forget the fear that gripped him mere moments ago, and smile back.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, an innocent smile on her face.

  Dalton blinked, confused. “What do you mean?” he said. “I’m Dalton Rose. I own these grounds. How would you not – “

  “You look worried,” she interrupted gently. Her smile faded into a frown as she stepped closer. “Is something wrong, Dalton?”

  Dalton chuckled softly. He wasn’t about to tell her—a complete stranger—the truth. And yet, something about her presence settled him. Absurd as it was, he felt that if there was one person in the whole of Solvane he could trust, it was her.

  “I blamed my father for destroying my mother’s legacy,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, “and yet, now I’m hours away from causing our House a thousand times more damage than he ever could.”

  “What if I could help you?” she asked.

  She reached out and placed her hands gently on his shoulders.

  Her touch was exhilarating. Dalton had never felt anything like it—warmth flooding his body, lightness in his chest, as though gravity itself loosened its hold on him.

  “W-What’s going on?” he asked, still smiling despite his confusion.

  She moved behind him, her hands never leaving his shoulders, and leaned closer to whisper into his ear. “I’m here to help you, Dalton. I can melt all your worries away. Just tell me what you need, and for a small price, I shall grant it.”

  Her words were ridiculous—almost theatrical—but carried on that strange, floating calm, Dalton found himself playing along.

  “Anything I want?” he asked, amused.

  “Three wishes,” she said softly. “They can be anything. Well, almost.”

  “Three?” Dalton echoed, turning thoughtful at her oddly serious tone. “And what’s this small price you mentioned?”

  “Oh,” she whispered casually, breath warm against his ear, “just your soul. In eighteen years.”

  Dalton laughed outright. “I wouldn’t call that small.”

  “It depends on what you use my wishes for,” she replied. “Make good use of them, and even eighteen years will feel like a long time.”

  Dalton nodded slowly. He recognized some truth in that.

  He had never imagined himself living a long life. To him, a man should die at his peak, not linger as a shriveled old husk, dependent on others for even the most basic dignity.

  And yet, eighteen years from now he’d be near forty. Still young. Still strong. Still capable. Still him. Or at least that’s what he wanted to believe.

  He shook his head and chuckled, embarrassed by how far his thoughts had drifted to the point of actually considering this hypothetical nonsense seriously. This wasn’t like him at all.

  “Thank you for the moment of levity, miss,” he said lightly. “I needed that.”

  He reached up to remove her hands and turn back toward the hub to fix the mess he made, but her grip on him only tightened.

  “What would your mother think?”

  The words struck him like a sword.

  She continued before he could react. “She devoted her entire life to House Rose’s legacy. She never once chose herself. She wanted to live—to truly live—and yet, she never had. Even marriage—something so sacred—she treated as duty, not desire.” She paused before dealing the final blow. “What would she think if she knew her son had been offered unfathomable power and walked away from it because eighteen years sounded too little?”

  Initially, Dalton wanted to shove her away for even mentioning his mother, but then…her words just hit home and he couldn’t.

  He still didn’t believe in wishes, but her words had laid bare something undeniable—he had been careless. Half-hearted. Sloppy.

  If he ever wanted to fulfil his promise to his mother, he needed to do better. To be more ruthless. More calculating. To be willing to pay the highest price.

  In his mind, he agreed that if granting wishes was real, then eighteen years would be more than enough to make his mother proud—to secure House Agriculture’s legacy for centuries to come.

  He tried to turn toward the woman, to ask more questions, but she still held him firmly from behind, placing a finger on his lips.

  “Shhh,” she murmured. “You don’t need to say anything. I already know your first wish.”

  A pause.

  “It is done.”

  Dalton still chuckled, though inside, he felt like the joke had dragged on for far too long.

  “What do I call you?” he asked lightly.

  She didn’t reply, and suddenly, her hands vanished.

  When Dalton turned, she was gone. No trace of her anywhere around.

  A second later, before he could even look for her, one of the inspectors burst out of the main hub, scanning wildly until his eyes locked onto Dalton.

  “Sir!” he shouted. “Mr. Rose—your father had suddenly collapsed!”