Beyond the murky skies of Dessix, the only world he had ever known, countless pinpricks of light stretched across the void, each carrying a heavy weight as they looked down upon him. These distant, fiery orbs held worlds he could only imagine—worlds swarming with life, beings living their small, forgettable lives under the same stars. They would never know him, yet their destinies would someday rest in his hands.
The vastness of the universe felt like a quiet reassurance, a reminder of the endless mysteries waiting for him to master them. For years, Torne had guided him to understand that this knowledge was his birthright, and that power lay within reach of only those who dared to claim it. Each mystery, each piece of wisdom, would one day serve as the pillars of his rule, a foundation built to endure millennia. Torne had ingrained in him that every truth uncovered and every memory etched would form the beacon by which he would navigate his duty to the Order.
Memories of his last session with Torne—days of brutal training—lingered as reminders of his place within this grand scheme. Pain was not new to him, nor were the scars he bore a mystery. His hands were steady, his skin healed, but beneath lay the reminder of his mother’s betrayal and of Torne’s wrath. She had tried to take his life even before his first breath, yet he lived, a testament to his purpose. Those scars had ceased to feel like wounds; now, they felt like words branded into him, part of his story, woven into his identity. His fate was not one he would question—he accepted it, even embraced it.
Since birth, he had known no home but the secretive Citadel on Dessix, no family other than the Order itself. In the watchful eye of the Epsimus, Izzar saw his purpose mirrored back—a loyalty bound to something greater, something timeless. Torne had raised him to serve the Order with unwavering devotion, to live and breathe its secrets. The absence of any family beyond the Order and the mystery of the mother, who only appeared in cloaked silence, were things he had long accepted. These were not losses; they were simply the ways of an heir. Izzar was no ordinary child—he was the chosen successor to the Epsimus, and that destiny required something more, something the Citadel demanded, and the void confirmed.
The warmth of a mother’s love was a concept he had never known, a distant idea rather than a void in his heart. He had never yearned for it, nor did he see it as anything he was missing. From his earliest memories, he had belonged solely to the Order, sworn to it as surely as if his very blood had been bound in oath. He had always understood that any bonds beyond the Order would be an indulgence, a distraction from the destiny he had been born to fulfil. For him, the four hundred and ninety-nine Modus Ipsimes who roamed the halls of the Citadel formed the only family he had ever needed.
Occasionally, a silent figure draped in white would walk through the dim halls, gliding toward the Epsimus’s chambers. It was his mother, or so he had been told by the Modus Ipsimes, though he knew her only by the name they had given her. She was a figure wrapped in secrecy, nothing more. Rarely granted an audience with the Epsimus, she would come and go like a shadow, a fleeting apparition. He neither wondered about her nor desired her presence, for what place did a mother have in his life when he was destined to become something so much more?
Izzar’s mind held no connection to her. Torne had instilled in him that such ties were not essential for one who would one day oversee the destiny of humankind. Any curiosity he might have had dissolved long ago, leaving in its place a firm conviction that his loyalty lay only with the Epsimus. His life belonged to the Order, and anything else was irrelevant.
Izzar’s place at the side of the Epsimus was never intended to be solitary; his destiny, forged long ago, was bound to include others. From the beginning, Torne had foreseen that the path ahead would not be walked alone. Just as Izzar had been selected at birth, so too had two others—chosen through a power only the Epsimus could wield. Through Torne’s unknown means, two others had been marked for the same purpose: Aargon Lexius, son of the Grand Keeper of the Lybrarius Society on Prion, and Viha Remit, the only daughter of the king of the Warrior’s Guild on Gandron.
In the isolated halls of Dessix, they would be trained to fulfil their roles as his advisors and allies, their lives bound to Izzar’s as tightly as he was to the Ipsimus Order. Together, they would complete the Rule of Three, an ancient trinity of strength, wisdom, and guidance that would lend Izzar the support he needed to lead as Grand Master of the Order. Through this enduring bond, their fates intertwined, they would ensure the continuity of the Order’s vision for the galaxy—a vision as unyielding as the stars above.
Their purpose was singular and absolute: to advise and accompany Izzar through every matter, task, or journey he would undertake; only death could sever this bond. It was a binding oath, one that Torne had woven deeply into the fabric of their lives. The Rule of Three, as Torne intended, would unite them into a trinity of might, wisdom, and leadership—a bond forged through loyalty and necessity, as immovable as the foundations of the Order itself. This triad, this unbreakable union, was the essential structure for the rulership of an Epsimus, upheld for thousands of years as the cornerstone of the Ipsimus Order.
For millennia, this tradition had held unflinchingly. Yet, in recent years, the unbroken chain had been shattered. Torne’s own advisors, who had served beside him for decades, had been assassinated in a devastating breach within the Citadel. During what should have been a routine audience, assassins struck. Though the Modus Ipsimes—ever vigilant with their preternatural abilities—prevented the Epsimus’s death, Torne was left maimed, scarred not only in body but in spirit. The attempt on his life had eroded his trust, driving him into isolation on Dessix, where he could control his surroundings and pursue his research.
Fearful of further betrayal, Torne had refused to select new advisors, convinced that infiltration was inevitable. The Modus Ipsimes, too, were shaken. To shield him from the reach of unseen enemies, they restricted access to the Citadel, locking it down. Only the highest-ranking leaders of the Order, Izzar and the Modus Ipsimes themselves, were permitted within its walls—and even then, only by Torne’s explicit summons.
From the moment of Izzar’s birth, Torne had marked him as his successor. The Order had long adhered to the tradition of choosing heirs as newborns, moulding them from infancy into leaders who would uphold the Ipsimus legacy. Yet Torne’s choice of Izzar ignited a fierce discontent within the Order’s hierarchy. Sorath, Izzar’s older brother, had been initially designated as heir and was held in high regard by the senior leaders, who saw him as the rightful continuation of their tradition. Sorath was the favoured candidate, a figure around whom loyalty had quietly formed—a reality Torne could not afford to ignore.
The discord that simmered from this decision was compounded by a rise in assassination attempts and internal fractures within the Order, each adding pressure to Torne’s authority. The threat was no longer external but a creeping corrosion within the Ipsimus itself. Desperation growing, Torne turned to a force spoken of only in shadows: the Oblivium. This mythical power, shrouded in secrecy and awe, represented something beyond mortal understanding, a force capable of solidifying his influence over the Order. To restore the fractured foundation, Torne reached into the depths of the Oblivium, intent on regaining the control slipping from his grasp and securing Izzar’s place as the rightful heir.
Among the many ordeals Torne imposed on Izzar was an unyielding trial of isolation, sending him deep into the dense, fog-covered jungles of Dessix to unearth ancient ruins veiled beneath the twisted canopy. These ruins, remnants from an era older than the Order itself, were hidden in the depths of a landscape that seemed alive with secrets. The thick, otherworldly fog shrouded each step, making navigation treacherous and turning every shadow into a potential threat. Yet, without hesitation, Izzar ventured into the depths, scouring each site to retrieve fragments and relics that were painstakingly arranged within the Citadel’s great hall. Under the vigilant eyes of the Modus Ipsimes, these pieces were measured and fitted, slowly unveiling a path to the ancient power Torne sought—a power that, piece by piece, Izzar was expected to help reveal through sheer resilience.
But today, as dawn began to break, casting a pale glow through the fog-laden jungles, Izzar knew his task would demand something far beyond braving the wilderness. Something darker awaited him—a trial not of his body but of his very soul. He had sensed it the night before, an ominous presence creeping into his meditation, filling him with an unease he could not name. The otherworldly mist had felt thicker, the jungles alive with an unsettling quiet. Sleep had entirely eluded him; though his body was weary, his mind was fortified, braced against whatever torment Torne had devised. And now, the moment had arrived.
The silence of his chamber was broken by the soft creak of the door. A robed Modus stepped forward, his voice an echo through the mist-shrouded room. “Master Torne is ready for you,” he intoned, each word carrying the weight of something ominous.
Izzar rose, steeling himself. He had faced Torne’s cruellest lessons before, but something about today felt different, heavier. This was no mere exercise in discipline or endurance. He could feel it deep within him—this would be a trial that would leave its mark as indelibly as any scar.
The chains bound tightly to Izzar’s arms, biting into his skin until thin rivulets of blood ran along the cold metal links, pooling into droplets that fell silently to the floor below. The room was devoid of features, cloaked in an impenetrable darkness that seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing even the sound of his own breathing. He had been chained here for hours, his body stripped of clothing, the biting cold turning his skin a sickly, pale blue. Yet he forced his mind to remain grounded, never allowing his thoughts to drift beyond the present moment—a hard-learned lesson after losing focus in a previous session, nearly paying with his life.
This form of training, brutal and isolating, had become customary for Izzar, and he had long ceased to perceive it as cruel. It was simply another of Torne’s methods, a means to fortify his will and sharpen his endurance. Torne was a man of formidable strength, age having whittled away none of the dark presence that cloaked him. With each lesson, he imparted wisdom that twisted and reshaped Izzar’s understanding of his place in the universe, instilling a steely resolve in him to match the gravity of his destined role.
In the quiet suffering of this training, Izzar found purpose. He knew that one day, he would rule in Torne’s place, the immense weight of the Ipsimus Order bearing down upon him. Torne’s own time would end, and Izzar would be left without his guidance. Thus, these lessons were necessary, each one preparing him for the brutal reality of an Epsimus’s duty. The pain was a reminder, a taste of the burden he would one day shoulder alone.
The hours in darkness stretched, each moment indistinguishable from the last. Izzar had long since abandoned any expectation of when the ordeal would end, accepting that the timing was as much a part of the lesson as the silence and cold. The key was to remain centred, never allowing his mind to stray beyond the present, lest it pull him into doubt or fear. Losing his balance, he understood, would be fatal. He knew the dangers all too well—the last time he had endured this ritual over a year ago; it was to teach him the hidden strings of the Order’s political web, knowledge permitted only to the one destined to rule.
As the air around him grew colder, an ominous sensation crept along the walls, and he felt it—a presence, dark and vast, slithering through the shadows. His skin crawled, his muscles tensing involuntarily, yet he forced himself to remain motionless. Fear was an old acquaintance here, and he could feel it being savoured, each shiver an offering to the shadow that consumed the room.
“This is your lesson for today,” Torne’s voice emerged from the darkness, low and insidious, carrying with it a chill that seemed to sink into Izzar’s bones. The sound was as inhuman as the dark presence itself, a quality only Torne possessed—a coldness that seemed to speak of depths unknown, ancient and ruthless.
Izzar kept his eyes down, knowing that looking up would show him nothing but the void, the intangible essence of his master. Torne’s words held a quiet weight, each syllable calculated.
“The first Epsimus hailed from Earth,” Torne began, his voice moving through the darkness like a serpent, weaving his lesson around Izzar’s mind. “He was a warrior of unmatched wisdom and strength, elusive to all but the highest ranks of the Order. His power lay not in being seen but in remaining unknown—a phantom at the helm.”
Izzar felt the slight displacement of air as Torne moved with unnatural speed, the whisper of his footsteps a testament to his lethal grace. He remained unseen, a shadow among shadows, reminding Izzar that true power did not need to be visible to command respect. Torne’s voice, ever-present yet invisible, continued to circle him, a relentless reminder of the lineage Izzar was bound to inherit.
“As Epsimus, you are to lead in the shadows, as unseen as the stars obscured by distant galaxies.” Torne’s voice held a chilling clarity. “Be as Primis Velix was—unseen, a ghostly presence feared yet unknown. And for that reason, your inner circle must be chosen with exacting care. Those closest to you will know the very breath of your ambitions and failures; they can either fortify or fracture your rule.”
The chains, heavy and unyielding, pressed deeper into Izzar’s shoulders, sending tendrils of pain down his spine. Each word from Torne seemed to stretch time, the seconds elongating into something torturous, his voice growing slower, colder as if designed to wear him down to his core. The words themselves began to dissolve into sounds that felt foreign and incomprehensible, their meaning lost in the throbbing pressure building within Izzar’s mind. His entire body burned with the desire to ease the strain, but he held himself firm, knowing that Torne was watching, waiting for the moment his will would snap.
“The weight you feel,” Torne’s voice became a low rumble, resonating in the darkness, “is but a shadow of what you will bear as Epsimus. It is not a burden for any one being to carry alone.”
Izzar’s muscles strained every fibre of his being aching under the load. He understood; no, he felt that alone, he would be crushed. The chains pulled on him, both physically and in the ominous lesson embedded within them, and he felt the truth of Torne’s words in his very bones. The relief he sought was nowhere in sight, a distant promise at the edge of a precipice.
“Trust no one, Izzar.” Torne’s voice dropped to a pitch so low it seemed to crawl through the very stones of the room, an evil resonance that sent a tremor through the walls. “Not even me.”
The air thickened with something dark, palpable—a menacing essence that seemed to seep into his skin, filling the room with an aura of hostility. Izzar’s breath caught, a small intake of air, as he registered the weight of the warning.
“Death is but a means to an end, Izzar—not an end itself,” Torne’s voice took on a tone that echoed through the dim chamber, weighted with centuries of the Order’s hidden history. “One day, I too shall depart, and the Order will fall upon you—not as a burden, but as a legacy. Remember, the fear that surrounds the Epsimus has endured from the first to the last. Fear of death, fear of loss… these are the very forces that have bound the Order together for nine thousand years.”
Torne’s words settled heavily in Izzar’s mind, each phrase etched with purpose. Torne himself was a testament to the Order’s longevity, his unrelenting presence, and a living memory of countless Epsimi before him. To the Order, the Epsimus was more than a ruler; he was a vessel of fear and authority, a figure who rose above human weaknesses. Yet Torne’s voice carried an undercurrent that felt raw, even haunted—a man’s awareness of the end creeping ever closer.
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“As Epsimus, fear cannot control you, for the Epsimus answers to no one. We are the chosen Izzar, heirs to the bloodline of the universe’s true emperors and kings. We alone possess the means of ruling… but not alone. Those we rule over must see our strength reinforced. Advisors, leaders, enforcers—each element is essential. This is the Rule of Three. It is not merely a structure, Izzar; it is the weapon that sustains the Order’s dominance. Without it, the Order’s power would have faded centuries ago.”
The mention of the Rule of Three caught Izzar off guard, a concept he had not yet been introduced to, an ancient tenet Torne now entrusted to him. Izzar couldn’t recall ever seeing Torne surrounded by advisors or confidants; if anything, he appeared to rule alone, his voice the singular authority within the Citadel.
“Your enemies,” Torne continued, his voice a low growl, “are infinite, ever-present, waiting in shadows and in plain sight. Should the Rule of Three crumble, so will the Order. To let your guard down is to invite ruin. You must understand, Izzar, that its survival rests upon your vigilance. You will defend it with your life, for the Order must endure.”
The weight of this lesson pressed on Izzar like the chains that still held him down. The Rule of Three was no arbitrary tradition—it was a lifeline, one that Torne, in his self-imposed isolation, had set aside. Yet now, he passed it on to Izzar, not as a suggestion, but as an imperative for survival.
As the chains slackened, Izzar’s limbs felt the first whisper of release, a sudden relief tinged with the agony of overuse. His arms fell limp, numb and unresponsive, sending him plummeting to the floor. He lay there, gasping for air, the faint taste of iron on his lips from the blood that had run down his arms. His vision blurred, and his head spun, a lingering effect of the lost blood. A cool breeze brushed over him, a shocking contrast to the suffocating darkness of the chamber, drawing his senses back just enough to register the ice-cold hands gripping his shoulders.
Two Modus Ipsimes, impassive as statues, lifted him from the ground, their touch as chilling as the room had been. They dragged him forward, his body too drained to protest. As they moved, he lifted his head just enough to make out the silhouette of Torne in the doorway. His old master stood in the faint light, his familiar cane in hand—a dark, carved extension of himself, the very symbol of his presence.
The Modus Ipsimes hauled Izzar behind Torne through winding corridors until they emerged into the open air of the courtyard. It was the Citadel’s sparring ground, a patch of hardened earth surrounded by high stone walls where Izzar and the Modus Ipsimes often trained. Today, however, the air was tense. This was no routine spar; the weight of the Modus Ipsimes’ presence pressed in from all sides as they formed a silent audience along the courtyard’s perimeter. Torne had not stepped into this space in years, and his entrance cast an unsettling significance over the gathering.
The Modus Ipsimes dropped Izzar onto the dirt and stepped back, their cold hands releasing him without ceremony. Struggling to push himself up, he looked up as Torne methodically shrugged off his robe, handing it to a Modus who stood ready. Another Modus approached, placing a blade into Torne’s hand, its edge gleaming dully in the faint light.
“If you are alone, you are vulnerable to attack.” Torne’s voice echoed in the courtyard, each word carrying the weight of a command that could not be denied. He stepped forward, his skeletal frame deceptively unassuming, but his grip told a different story. His cold, unyielding hand wrapped around Izzar’s arm, lifting him with an ease that defied his gaunt appearance. The surge of power in that grip was a shock to Izzar—a silent reminder of the strength that still coursed through his master’s bones. Torne held him suspended, a chill spreading from his hand, piercing through Izzar’s skin and deeper into the core of his being. Then, just as suddenly, he let go, and Izzar crumpled to the ground, his body unwilling to respond.
“Get up.” Torne’s command reverberated through the courtyard, a tremor that rippled through Izzar’s exhausted form. He strained to obey, but his limbs lay heavy and unresponsive against the earth, drained of every ounce of strength. Torne’s gaze bore down on him, severe and unrelenting.
“I said, get up!” This time, Torne’s voice cracked through the air with such intensity that the very ground seemed to tremble. The Modus Ipsimes took a step back, their disciplined ranks shifting as if in response to an invisible force. Still, Izzar could not move, his spirit railing against the weakness of his flesh, frustration churning within him as he fought the command.
“Weak.” The disgust in Torne’s tone sliced through Izzar like a blade. Torne’s dark, piercing eyes drilled into him, hollow and shadowed yet filled with a malice Izzar had long since grown familiar with. Those eyes could unearth every trace of fear, every doubt he had fought to suppress, and with every glare, Torne seemed to strip away his defences.
“You call yourself the heir…” Torne’s words trailed off, his expression shifting as if something buried deep within him surfaced. For a fleeting moment, Izzar saw a glimpse of something unfamiliar—a flicker in his master’s eyes that was neither contempt nor anger, but a shadow of something else, something he couldn’t define. It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving him to wonder if it had been there at all.
“You are not worthy of being an Epsimus; you are weak and a failure!” Torne’s voice was ice, every word filled with contempt as his heavy boot drove into Izzar’s side, a brutal force that fractured bone. The pain was immediate, a sharp explosion radiating through his ribs, but Izzar’s mind was numb to it; his senses dulled from years of bearing such wounds. He skidded across the cold, hard ground and came to a halt before one of the Modus Ipsimes, the Modus’s gaze fixed beyond him, detached, as if witnessing nothing more than a shift in the wind. Not a flicker of emotion crossed the Modus’s face—no sympathy, no disdain, just a hollow, obedient emptiness.
Torne stood over him, his eyes as dark and endless as the void, his skin stretched tight and pale, a haunting reminder of his own relentless endurance. The Modus stepped back, clearing the space as though anticipating the continuation of this brutal lesson.
“I am disappointed in you,” Torne continued, his tone lower now, almost sorrowful, though the hardness in his gaze betrayed any pretence of tenderness. “I had so much hope, but failure should have been what I expected. The Order will die with you.”
Izzar’s gaze met Torne’s, unwavering, despite the ache that radiated through him. His master’s words struck him, not because of their malice, but because of something else he detected—a shadow of regret, as if, for the first time, Torne was confronting a truth he couldn’t deny.
In that fleeting moment, Izzar recognised that the words weren’t entirely meant for him. There was a crack in Torne’s mask, a glimmer of fear perhaps buried beneath layers of iron resolve. This was Torne’s own lament, whispered aloud under the guise of condemnation—a bitter realisation that even he, in all his power, could not entirely control the path of destiny.
Strength surged through Izzar’s limbs, unexpected and defiant. He pushed himself up from the ground, his gaze locked onto Torne’s. His breath was ragged, his body bruised and battered, yet he stood, unwavering, fuelled by something deep within—a resolve forged in pain and tempered by relentless survival. Torne took a step back, his grip on his sword faltering momentarily. A flicker of shock flashed in his dark eyes, quickly masked by a twisted smile. The old man’s smirk was both a challenge and a warning, an acknowledgement that Izzar had surpassed something, perhaps even a boundary Torne hadn’t anticipated.
“There might be hope for you yet,” Torne sneered, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Now, defend yourself.”
Without further warning, Torne lunged, his movements fast and lethal, void of any pretence of mere instruction. Izzar barely reacted in time, instinct pulling him out of the way as the blade sliced through the air where he had stood only a moment before. His naked skin caught the cold of the courtyard, his muscles now primed, responsive, unhindered by exhaustion or pain. He rolled to the side, narrowly escaping another strike. Torne was relentless, each swing a calculated effort to break him, each step a test of endurance and precision.
The absence of any armour or cloth gave Izzar a startling agility; he felt sharper, lighter, as though he had shed more than just his garments—shedding, in part, the weight of the constraints that had been pressed upon him. His body moved with a grace he hadn’t known before, each dodge and sidestep in sync with an internal rhythm he was only beginning to understand.
But Torne did not ease; he increased his pace, his strikes more aggressive, forcing Izzar to react faster, to think in an instant between life and death. There was no reprieve, no moment to gather himself. This was a fight for survival, a brutal reminder that in the world Torne inhabited, weakness was a liability, and strength was the only currency that mattered.
The world around him seemed to slow, every sound fading into an eerie silence as Izzar stared at his hands. He could scarcely believe what he had done—what his body had done instinctively, as if it possessed knowledge beyond his own understanding. Torne’s sword, meant to deliver a fatal blow, had stopped cold in his bare palms. His hands were steady, unmarked, untouched by the sharpness of the blade. The wounds that had marred his wrists from the chains only moments before were gone, leaving no trace of the punishment he had endured.
Torne’s reaction was a spectacle all on its own. The unflinching, cold Epsimus—the figure who rarely betrayed anything beyond his ruthless demeanour—stood frozen, his mouth agape. His eyes were wide, almost hollow, his face paler than usual, as if he had witnessed something beyond his own comprehension. It was not a look of disappointment or anger. It was fear. The raw, undisguised terror flickered in his gaze before he stumbled backwards, letting the sword slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground.
“How did you…?” Torne’s voice was barely more than a whisper, carrying an uncertainty that Izzar had never heard from his master.
But Izzar had no answers. His own strength was a mystery to him, the renewed energy coursing through him like an unstoppable force. He felt whole, unwounded, as if something within him had finally awakened. Torne turned, abandoning the courtyard without another word, leaving behind his sword, his robes, and his cane—a symbol of his authority, now discarded in haste. The Modus Ipsimes around the courtyard exchanged glances, their usual stoic faces reflecting astonishment, even reverence, as they turned their eyes upon Izzar.
“What happened?” he murmured, feeling the words slip from his lips unbidden. He looked down at his hands once more, still marvelling at their unmarred skin. The Modus Ipsimes met his gaze, their expressions betraying a rare vulnerability, as if they, too, had glimpsed something that should not be possible.
The courtyard, once a place of trials and relentless demands, had become a place of revelation. And though Izzar did not understand the nature of what had changed, he knew at that moment that something irreversible had shifted, a power within him that had been dormant until now. The world of Dessix suddenly seemed both smaller and infinitely larger, as though he were standing at the precipice of a destiny far grander than he had ever imagined.
A tall, younger Modus stepped out from the shadows, holding a robe. Without a word, he draped it over Izzar’s shoulders, the rough fabric brushing over skin that only moments ago had been bruised and bloodied. As they moved through the dimly lit corridors, whispers rippled around them. The Modus Ipsimes, typically silent and inscrutable, exchanged hurried, astonished murmurs. News of what Izzar had done had travelled faster than he could have anticipated, igniting a quiet storm among those who had once watched him with distant detachment.
Yet, it was not the whispers that haunted him, nor even the strange new power that coursed through his veins. It was the look on Torne’s face—stricken, drained of its usual unyielding command. Torne had always been a figure of merciless strength, calculating and unbreakable. But in that courtyard, Izzar had glimpsed a rare fracture in his master’s iron demeanour. Torne’s reaction was not only one of surprise but of something deeper, something that bordered on disbelief, even fear.
As he walked, Izzar couldn’t help but glance down at his hands, studying them as if they belonged to someone else. His wounds, which usually took days to mend even with assistance from the Modus, had vanished entirely. The skin was smooth, untouched by the brutality he’d just endured. His mind raced, grappling with the mystery of his own body’s resilience and the strange force that had allowed him to block Torne’s sword with bare hands.
Each step echoed in the quiet halls, heavy with the unspoken understanding that he had crossed a threshold. The power that lay dormant within him was now unleashed, a force he had barely begun to comprehend.
The Modus departed, leaving Izzar alone in his quarters, the silence unbroken and laden with unanswered questions. There was no customary follow-up, no additional instructions from Torne, and no word from the Modus Ipsimes about continuing his training. Izzar took his place on the narrow ledge where he often sat to meditate, gazing out over the mist-shrouded jungles of Dessix. The damp, earthy sounds of the jungle—leaves stirring in the dense fog, distant calls of unseen creatures—seeped into his mind, grounding him in the present yet offering no clarity.
The scene in the courtyard replayed itself in fragments, like flashes of lightning cutting through a storm. The power that had surged through him, the way he had deflected Torne’s sword without injury, lingered as both a mystery and a revelation, but no answers formed, and no insight surfaced. It was as if his mind danced around the edges of something vast and unknowable, refusing to look directly at it.
Hours drifted by in contemplation when suddenly, the loud creak of his door jolted him out of his thoughts. Turning, he saw a small DG6 unit, the metallic form of Diggix, wheeling into the room unannounced.
“Oh, Diggix, it’s only you,” he murmured, a hint of weariness in his voice as he shifted his gaze back toward the jungle.
“Master Epsimus sent me. He wishes you to repeat to me the lessons given today,” the bot replied in its usual monotone, unwavering in its purpose.
Izzar let out a quiet sigh, casting a sidelong glance at the semi-intelligent machine. Diggix was reliable, sometimes even insightful, but its relentless duty to Torne often made its presence more burdensome than welcome. At that moment, all he wanted was to be left alone, to untangle his thoughts without the loyal bot’s incessant questions and unwavering focus on obedience.
“Is there anything else?” Izzar’s voice was curt, barely concealing his need to be left alone. Yet he knew that Diggix would persist, the small bot’s hollow stare reflecting a purpose it was bound to fulfil with infuriating exactness.
Reluctantly, Izzar began his recount, but this time, he spoke with a deliberate intensity, his mind reliving each detail of the strength and resilience that had seen him through the ordeal. “I meditated for hours,” he started, “preparing myself for whatever the day would bring, bracing for what Master Torne had planned. But I had no idea of the… the weight he intended to place on my shoulders.”
He described the bite of the chains, how they dug into his flesh, stripping his skin raw as the hours stretched in that dark, soundless room. Each link was a calculated addition to his suffering, and yet he had endured not out of blind obedience but from an unyielding spirit. “The pain was constant, but I knew that if I lost myself to it, I would only be showing weakness. That’s not who I am,” he said, his voice steeling. “I stayed present—my mind on every breath, every second, refusing to let it break me.”
When he came to the part where Torne had entered, his gaze hardened. “Master Torne’s presence… it was different. His words were like a poison, seeping into every corner of the room, challenging me to falter.” Izzar’s hands unconsciously tightened, recalling the sinister tone that had echoed in the darkness. “And he spoke of death as a means of leading in shadows. He warned that trust is a weakness and that, as Epsimus, I would have to rely on myself above all others.”
There was a flicker of something in Izzar’s expression as he continued. “I’m not blind to his motives,” he said, a faint edge of defiance in his tone. “He was testing my will. Pushing me to the edge of fear and exhaustion… expecting me to surrender. But I didn’t.” He drew himself up, his voice now cold and resolved. “The Rule of Three, he said, is a weapon—the only thing that can make our Order last. But even as he spoke, I could see something in him—an emptiness he couldn’t hide.”
Izzar recounted the moment he blocked Torne’s sword with his bare hands, still unable to comprehend how he had done it. But he left out Torne’s expression, the subtle, almost vulnerable look that had passed over his master’s face. Somehow, that detail felt too raw, too close to something unspoken between them.
“Are we done?” Izzar asked, his voice tight and impatient, hoping Diggix would finally leave him to grapple with his thoughts alone.
Diggix’s expression did not change. Instead, it delivered Torne’s final message with a robotic detachment: “Master Epsimus has instructed me to notify you of this: He has sent for two beings to join you in these halls. Therefore, you are to prepare yourself for their imminent arrival. The names of these beings are Aargon Lexius of Prion and Viha Remit of Gandron.”
At this, Izzar felt a shift, an undeniable pull of destiny, and his gaze turned inward. He knew Torne well enough by now to sense the significance of these names. The Rule of Three would soon come to life around him, testing his spirit and reshaping his path.
This task felt routine, almost trivial. Izzar had been asked to prepare for visitors before, and each time, it left him indifferent. So, with a quiet sigh, he stepped down from his meditation perch and approached Diggix, who held out a sleek tablet with the necessary information on these new arrivals.
Taking it from the robot, Izzar’s gaze flicked over the screen, expecting the usual details. But as he glanced over the contents, something caught his attention. This was no ordinary introduction; Torne had been meticulous. The tablet displayed detailed profiles that were already open to Aargon Lexius. The specifics went far beyond what he typically received.
Torne wanted him to understand these newcomers deeply, to see beyond their roles. He could sense Torne’s calculating influence on every line on the screen. Nothing Torne did was arbitrary; every piece of information, every detail had a purpose, an intention.
As Diggix departed in silence, Izzar’s eyes traced the outline of Aargon’s profile. Each piece of information, each trait, hinted at how these two would become threads woven tightly into his fate, bound together by Torne’s grand design.
