Near the Friton system, the bustling transit planet of Lanides served as a crossroads for countless travelers, traders, and exiles navigating the outer rims of the Accord. It was also the planet where Kasavin had chosen to temporarily reside.
While he and the rest of Round Table Studio were actively looking for a permanent, secure location closer to Friton to be near their H.Q., the chaotic, densely populated streets of Lanides would do for now.
The air was thick with the scent of unfamiliar spices and the hum of neon signs as Kasavin pushed aside the heavy, woven flap of a street-side food stall.
"Good evening," Kasavin called out, taking a seat on a slightly wobbly stool at the counter.
Behind the steaming vats of broth stood the owner, a native Lanidesian. They were striking, odd-looking creatures, characterized by impossibly long, multi-jointed fingers, two distinct mouths and throats that allowed for complex, overlapping speech, and glossy, iridescent flesh. Their heads were shaped sharply like a 'T', with a large, expressive eye resting at either end of the horizontal span.
"Welcome, traveler," the Lanidesian greeted, their two voices harmonizing in a warm, rumbling tone.
"One portion of those good-looking noodles, please," Kasavin ordered, pointing to a bubbling pot that smelled heavenly.
The Lanidesian offered a fluid nod and immediately began preparing the meal with rapid, precise movements of their long fingers.
While he waited, Kasavin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather notebook and a simple ink pen. It was a strange, almost archaic habit he had completely copied from Arthur.
In an era dominated by instantaneous datapads, neural links, and holographic wristbands, their boss still insisted on keeping physical paper and ink around the studio. Arthur always claimed the tactile sensation made it easier to brainstorm raw ideas.
Kasavin had been highly skeptical at first, but he decided to try it. And lo and behold, Arthur was entirely right. The physical act of scratching ink across a page engaged a different part of his brain. So now, Kasavin, the lead writer of a multi-million-credit gaming studio, carried a little notebook and pen everywhere he went.
He clicked the pen, staring down at the page. He was currently trying to scratch down the narrative dialogue for the upcoming Stardew DLC, the meteor event that Round Table Studio was planning to release simultaneously with Yustea Prime's actual Centennial Shower.
But he was completely stuck.
He read over his notes, his brow furrowing. He didn't know exactly what it was, but the narrative felt wrong. It felt entirely too sleek. It felt dreamy in a bad, manufactured way.
He was specifically struggling with writing the dialogue surrounding the 'Silent Vow'. From all the Accord-approved historical databases he had researched, the Yusteans supposedly observed this strict vow of silence to honor their ancestors during the shower. But the more Kasavin dug into the core tenets of their culture, the more the silence felt contradictory. Their entire perspective on the meteor shower was meant to be a massive celebration, a time to connect, sing, and be thankful for one another, mirroring the countless, beautiful collisions of the meteors in the sky.
Why would a culture built on communal celebration suddenly take a vow of absolute silence during their most important century-spanning event?
Kasavin let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Paper, huh?" a voice suddenly spoke from the stool next to him. "That is rarer than fresh Muurbeast milk out here in the rim."
Kasavin lifted his head, blinking in surprise. He let out a soft chuckle. "Huh. Yeah. I just started using it recently, to be honest. It feels... better in the hand, if you know what I mean. It helps me think."
The man sitting next to him was older, his face lined with the deep, weathered wrinkles of someone who had spent a lifetime chasing difficult truths. He wore a heavy, slightly battered traveler's coat, and his eyes held a sharp, observant intelligence.
"Yes," the mysterious man nodded slowly, a knowing smile touching his lips. "I know exactly what you mean. Though, looking at your expression, you seem to have found quite a hurdle there."
Kasavin looked back down at his messy, crossed-out notes and scoffed quietly. "I don't know. I'm just stuck. I'm trying to write a story based on a real event, but the pieces aren't fitting together."
The older man looked at Kasavin, his eyes briefly flicking to the ink stains on Kasavin's fingers. "A journalist, then?"
Kasavin shook his head, offering a modest, self-deprecating smile. "No. Just a simple writer."
"Ah," the man chuckled, taking a sip from a steaming cup. "Don't sell yourself short, my friend. A simple writer can change the galaxy. Sometimes, a well-told story has far more impact than the almighty Celestarch launching a fleet."
Kasavin thought of Hades and the profound emotional resonance it had struck across millions of players. He smiled, though he kept his identity hidden. "I doubt mine would do all that."
He looked over the counter at the Lanidesian chef, who was currently entirely focused on serving three other customers at the far end of the stall.
The older man followed his gaze. "Ours will be ready in a while. He is famous on this street for the taste of his broth, certainly not his speed."
Kasavin chuckled, realizing he had been rude. "Oh, where are my manners? I am Kasavin. The writer."
The man extended a calloused hand. "I am Kre Jalirelg. The journalist."
Kasavin shook his hand firmly. "Nice to meet you, Kre. Where are you traveling from?"
Kre released the handshake. He looked down at the scratched wooden counter, his expression turning somber, heavily burdened by the weight of a story he couldn't yet tell.
"Yustea," Kre said quietly. "Yustea Prime."
…
Meanwhile, back in the glittering, cutthroat depths of Sela's most exclusive gala, the atmosphere was thick with manufactured joy.
People who, in any other setting, would never so much as crack a smile were currently throwing their heads back and laughing as if it were their second nature. The air was a heavy perfume of wealth, ambition, and desperately guarded secrets.
Standing alone near the lavishly appointed snack table, Percival quietly sipped a glass of vintage champagne. He could feel it. Even with his back turned, he could sense the dozens of eyes darting toward him, analyzing him, and looking at him with an unsettling mixture of awe and predatory calculation.
Floating invisibly above the spread of caviar and truffles, Aphrodite scowled.
"Let me increase the weakness infliction, cousin," the goddess offered, her tone laced with divine indignation. "They stare at you like commoners observing a prize stallion. They need to be reminded of their place."
Percival kept his gaze fixed on a particularly intricate ice sculpture. 'No need,' he muttered internally, strictly controlling the output of the Eternal Rose Keepsake. 'Your charm aura is more than enough to deal with these people. I just need them distracted, not paralyzed.'
Aphrodite crossed her ethereal arms with a huff. "Humph. Mortals. They do not know the true might of Olympus."
Before Percival could mentally reply, a soft, familiar voice broke through the ambient noise of the gala.
"Having a great night, Composer?"
Percival turned instantly. Standing a few feet away was Briane Taleini.
She looked absolutely breathtaking. Her form-fitting red and gold dress perfectly complemented her rich, chocolate skin, and her signature snow-white hair was styled flawlessly. Beneath a delicate, jewel-encrusted domino mask, her white eyelashes fluttered open, revealing eyes the color of clear summer skies.
The tense, defensive posture Percival had been holding all evening visibly, instantly relaxed. He set his champagne glass down and stepped forward, pulling her into a warm, genuine hug.
"Thank God you're here," Percival exhaled, a profound wave of relief washing over him.
As they separated, Briane looked up at him, a playful, teasing smile resting on her lips. "What's the matter? Can the world-renowned Composer Percival not tame a single room full of corporate dickbags?"
Percival physically backed up a half-step, completely caught off guard by the language coming from the elegant Crystal Canary. "Can you even say that here?!"
Briane shrugged gracefully, reaching out to take a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "If anyone overhears, I'll just tell them you're the one who said it. Ehe."
Percival let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. The suffocating weight of the gala immediately lifted, anchored by her familiar presence.
He leaned slightly closer, his tone turning sincere. "Can I be honest with you?"
Briane took a slow sip of her champagne and nodded, her eyes locking onto his.
"I have been talking to more people tonight than I can even count," Percival confessed quietly, glancing around the room. "The executives, the producers, the legacy artists. Yet... not a single one of them felt genuine. Every conversation felt like a transaction waiting to happen."
Behind her delicate mask, Briane's summer-sky eyes softened with a sad, knowing light. "Yeah... that's the industry for you, Percival. I think because you've operated as a hermit for so long, they forgot who you actually are. They just see the numbers you pull."
Percival defensively crossed his arms, taking a sip from his glass. "I'm not a hermit."
Briane reached out and lightly poked him right on the cheek, just below the edge of his half-mask. "Aww. You're nervous."
Percival blinked rapidly, his posture stiffening again. "What? Me? No. Absolutely not."
Briane just chuckled easily, entirely unconvinced. It was endearing to see the boy who had commanded a million people in a stadium look so utterly out of his depth at a cocktail party.
Before Percival could mount a defense against the 'hermit' allegations, a smooth, heavily practiced voice slid into their conversation.
"Mind telling me what the fun is all about?"
Percival tensed, caught off guard by the sudden appearance. But Briane didn't miss a beat. She turned with a flawless, radiant smile, completely shifting back into her pop-star persona.
"My, my," Briane deflected smoothly. "It is a masquerade party, darling. The fun lies entirely in the mystery, does it not?"
The man, a highly decorated executive wearing a sleek, obsidian mask, smiled charmingly. "Of course, oh mysterious Canary."
He then turned his sharp gaze directly toward Percival. The executive's eyes scanned the simple, dark half-mask and the silver shoulder pad. "And you. Tell me your secret. You have been standing on the side of the room all night, completely silent... yet, our eyes cannot help but follow you. What is your trick?"
Percival leveled his gaze, the Eternal Rose radiating a subtle, undeniable wave of charisma that made the executive subtly lean forward.
"Nothing but a bit of mystery and charm," Percival replied smoothly, his voice a low, resonant baritone. "That is all."
A woman wearing a spectacularly extravagant, feathered mask chimed in from the man's side, her tone dripping with passive-aggressive critique. "With such an understated mask, at that. Some would say you spared no effort on the event's theme."
Percival caught his breath for a fraction of a second, feeling the sharp edge of her insult. But he didn't falter. He simply offered a cool, entirely unbothered smile.
"I would say," Percival countered effortlessly, "that when a room is absolutely brimming with bedazzled feathers and jewels, a simple, understated one would stand out the most. Perhaps that is why I caught your eye."
He turned slightly, plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a hovering Compadre unit, projecting an aura of absolute, unshakable confidence.
The small group of executives paused, entirely disarmed by the sharp, eloquent retort. Then, they all laughed; a highly impressed sound that rippled through their immediate circle. The composer with the silver shoulder pad wasn't just a wallflower; he had teeth.
But just as Percival was about to steer the conversation back to Briane, the atmosphere in the room violently shifted.
The heavy, gilded main doors of the gala hall swung open.
The ambient chatter of hundreds of the galaxy's most powerful people instantly died. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on the sound system.
Stepping through the doorway was the woman whose very breath commanded the fates of nearly every artist under the roof.
Mar Raila had arrived.
It wasn't just her striking appearance, the immaculate gown she wore, or the ornate, terrifyingly beautiful mask that covered her face. It was the sheer, crushing weight of the absolute power she held. When Mar Raila walked into a room, the industry stopped to watch.
Mar Raila looked around the grand hall, her sharp, predatory eyes cutting through the sea of bedazzled masks and expensive silk until they inevitably caught Percival's. A slow, deeply knowing smile curved her lips.
"Go on," Raila announced, her voice carrying a hypnotic resonance that commanded the vast space without raising an octave. "Don't let me stop your fun."
As she walked further into the venue, the room slowly restarted its ambient chatter. But there was an undeniable, magnetic pull in the air. Every single executive and artist in the room desperately wanted to form a new circle around Mar Raila. But these people also understood the treacherous game of Selanian high society; hurrying to crowd her would just reveal them as desperate and too eager, which meant she would instantly cast them aside.
So, they waited. They mingled in place, though their eyes hungrily followed the spot where absolute power culminated.
The woman in the feathered mask standing beside Briane and Percival leaned in, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of Mar Raila... I heard the Mar family still hasn't found their long-lost heir."
Percival raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "Should we really be saying such things while standing under the roof of the very family you are talking about?"
The man beside the woman just shrugged, entirely unbothered. "It's an open secret at this point. No one knows where the girl is, or if she's even alive. It's a shame, really. The whole EMG empire will eventually fall to a distant cousin if she isn't found."
As the couple noticed Mar Raila finally stop at a particular VIP circle across the room, they immediately began to shift their weight, ever so slightly drifting away from Percival and Briane to try and naturally intercept the CEO. Before she turned her attention to her new guests, Mar Raila cast one final, lingering leer toward Percival, her smile widening just a fraction.
Percival turned away, plucking yet another glass of champagne from a passing Compadre unit.
Briane immediately shifted herself to be closer to his side, her brow furrowing slightly. "Slow down, Composer."
"I'm alright," Percival assured her, taking a sip. "I think my tolerance has increased recently."
Briane let out a long, maternal sigh. "Fine. But starting right now, if you want to take another glass, you have to tell me first. I am not carrying you back to your ship."
Percival offered a playful salute with his free hand. "Yes, ma'am."
They both laughed easily, the heavy atmosphere of the room melting away in their shared, comfortable bubble.
However, from a shadowed corner of the grand hall, a pair of intensely glaring eyes was locked onto the two of them.
Nico Tealeaf gripped his crystal flute so tightly his knuckles turned white. To him, the incredibly expensive Selanian champagne tasted like bitter ash. His presence in this room was a fragile, humiliating thing.
Ever since Composer Percival had effortlessly ruined his rising career by exposing his stolen tracks, Nico had been a pariah. He had only been saved from total obscurity because Goldclick's massive parent company, ZME, had quietly absorbed his contract.
Tonight, he was only here as a minor part of ZME's artist roster. Ezil, the powerhouse executive of ZME, had been invited to the gala and had brought a handful of his artists along to broaden their corporate connections.
But Nico hadn't come to network. He had come because his luck had finally turned, he wanted to see Briane Taleini, the beautiful 'Crystal Canary' caged under EMG, for himself.
But seeing her laughing so freely with the masked bastard who had destroyed his life made his blood boil. Nico slammed his empty glass down onto the tray of a passing Compadre and began to walk purposefully toward them.
Completely unaware of the approaching storm, Briane and Percival were still talking comfortably.
"Composer," Briane asked, her eyes sparkling. "Have you heard from Nazir recently? I heard he is currently doing a completely independent world tour out in the Miroli system."
Percival smiled warmly beneath his mask. "Good on him."
"Yeah," Briane nodded. "Countless major labels have been trying to poach him ever since The Sun-Drenched Soul broke the charts, but I heard he has flat-out refused all of them. He's doing it on his own terms now."
"Really?" Percival took another sip of his champagne, a deep sense of pride swelling in his chest for the veteran singer. "That's incredible."
Suddenly, Briane's summer-sky eyes darted past Percival's shoulder. She recognized the familiar, aggressive stride of the man approaching them. Without missing a beat, Briane shifted her posture, naturally and flawlessly stepping directly in front of Percival.
Nico Tealeaf stopped a few feet away, plastering a fake, entirely condescending smile on his face.
"Well, well," Nico drawled, looking her up and down. "If it isn't the Crystal Canary herself."
Briane didn't flinch. Her expression turned instantly to ice. She looked at him with the absolute, crushing indifference of royalty looking at a peasant.
"I am," Briane stated coldly. "You are?"
The blunt, humiliating dismissal completely shattered Nico's fake smile. It pissed the absolute shit out of him. His face flushed with anger, and he immediately abandoned any pretense of high-society manners.
Nico sneered, his eyes darting past Briane's shoulder to glare at the masked figure standing behind her.
"Is that the druggie composer?" Nico spat venomously.
**A/N**
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**A/N**