The klaxon screamed. 0600.
But this time, Mali was already on his feet.
He was standing in the center of his cold, vast apartment, his eyes closed, his breathing measured. He had been awake for an hour, not in a cold sweat of terror, but in a state of pained, humming focus.
He was dissolving.
In his outstretched palm, a small, standard-issue data-slate, which Jararu had "forgotten" the night before, was slowly un-making. The plastic and metal were flaking away, turning into a stream of dull, gray particles that his body was absorbing, refining, and converting. It was slow. It was agonizingly difficult. It felt like trying to drink a river through a tiny straw. But it was working.
[Alkahest Touch (LVL 1) -> (LVL 2)]
[+500 XP] [CTL (Control): 5 -> 6]
The final corner of the slate dissolved. Mali collapsed to his knees, his arm trembling, his body drenched in sweat. He had just "eaten" a piece of technology. The ENERGY (EP) it provided was minuscule, but the CONTROL he had gained was everything.
The klaxon was still blaring.
He stood up, his body aching, but strong. A week of Jararu's "king-making" had forged new, hard lines in his muscles. He was still lean, but the "porter" was gone, replaced by the wiry, dangerous resilience of a survivor.
The door hissed open. It wasn't Kaelen. It was two Scion Guards, their golden armor gleaming. They slammed their fists to their chests.
"Your Highness," one said, his voice a digitized monotone. "0730. Your fitting."
Mali just nodded. He was too tired to be terrified. This was just the next box to check on the schedule.
They led him not to the Crucible, but to a new, brighter section of the ship. The "fitting" room wasn't a room; it was a high-tech tailoring studio. A dozen automated drones and three severe-looking individuals in white uniforms—"Artisans," their titles read—were waiting.
They didn't see a boy. They saw a mannequin.
"Remove the novitiate tunic," one of them ordered, his voice clipped.
Mali stripped, his new, scarred, and honed body standing under the bright, analytical lights. The Artisans didn't flinch, but they took notes, their eyes scanning him with the critical gaze of sculptors.
"His Highness's V-taper is more pronounced than the initial projections," one murmured. "Musculature is hyper-dense. Standard weave won't be sufficient." "Note the scar tissue on the left shoulder. We'll need to reinforce the lining for comfort."
For ten minutes, they measured, scanned, and prodded him. He was an object. A thing to be draped. He felt the old Imposter Syndrome whispering. See? You're just a doll they're dressing up.
Then, the lead Artisan brought it out.
It was not a suit. It was a statement.
It was carried by two drones, a formal uniform of such imposing, dark beauty that Mali's breath caught. It wasn't the brilliant gold and white of the Scion Guard. It was the color of a starless, midnight sky, a deep, resonant black, almost purple in the light. It was cut with sharp, military lines, but the fabric was no fabric Mali had ever seen. It seemed to move, to subtly shift and drink the light, like a living shadow.
It was threaded and trimmed not with gold, but with a dull, silver-black metal. His new Alkahest Touch skill vibrated in his bones just looking at it. It was the same material as the pylon. Void-metal. Tamed.
[SYSTEM NOTE: Material is an 'Alkahest Weave,' a composite of refined Void-matter and kinetic-dampening fibers. It passively dissolves low-level energy signatures.]
They dressed him. The uniform was heavy. The high, stiff collar brushed his jaw. The tailored lines made his shoulders look broader, his stance more powerful. They slid his feet into polished, knee-high boots that felt as strong as armor.
The lead Artisan stepped back, his critical gaze softening for the first time. "It is... as it was designed."
Mali turned to face the mirror, and the man staring back was not him.
It was a prince.
It was a stranger, cold, powerful, and utterly terrifying. The dark uniform made his skin seem paler, his eyes, still wide with a porter's fear, look alien and out of place. This was a costume. A lie.
[EQUIPMENT > BODY:
[Aethel Novitiate Tunic]
-UNEQUIPPED]
[EQUIPMENT > BODY:
[Alkahest Heir's Regalia (Formal)] - EQUIPPED]
> (DEF: 40) > (+10 'Dignitas' - Social Stat)
> (+2 'CTL' - Passive Focus)
> (SET BONUS: [Alkahest Weave] - 1/3)
"He... he looks like his father," one of the younger artisans whispered, her voice thick with awe.
The name hit Mali like a physical blow. His father. The Emperor. The man he was failing to be.
[DEBUFF: Imposter Syndrome - STACKS (x3)]
[PENALTY INCREASED: Social-based action (CTL) at -50 penalty]
The uniform's +2 CTL buff was instantly annihilated by the -50 penalty. It was a lie. He looked like a prince, but his System knew the truth.
"The council convenes in ten minutes, Your Highness," the Scion Guard's voice cut in.
Mali walked out of the room, his movements stiff and unnatural, like a puppet in a play he didn't understand.
The corridor outside the Royal Council chamber was a sea of polished white stone and golden light. General Kaelen was waiting, his own formal, white-caped uniform making him look even more like a god of war. His gray eyes scanned Mali, and he gave a single, curt nod. Approval.
Mali's stomach was a pit of vipers. He was going to throw up. He was going to disgrace himself. The uniform was a lie, his CTL was a joke, and they were all going to see.
"He's not ready, Kaelen."
The voice was ice. Ambassador Vael, Anya's ambassador, stood near the doors, her arms crossed, her face a mask of contempt. "I don't care what Jararu has beaten into him. You put a crown on a stray, it's still a stray. This is a mistake."
Kaelen ignored her, his gaze fixed on the doors.
"He's not a stray," a new voice said, clear and sharp.
Mali's head snapped up. Anya.
She was walking down the corridor toward them, and she wasn't his ally. She was a princess. She wore the formal regalia of the Cygnus Ascendancy—a deep, indigo-blue uniform that flared at the hips, silver piping that looked like constellations, and a short, high-collared cape. Her hair was up. Her face was a mask of perfect, political calm. She was magnificent. And she was a stranger.
She stopped, not next to Mali, but a step in front of him, facing Vael.
"He is not a stray, Ambassador," Anya said, her voice dangerously quiet. "He is my husband. And he is the Heir of House Alkahest. You will address him as such, or you will be on the next transport back to Cygnus. Am I clear?"
Vael's face went pale. "Your Highness... I meant no..."
"You meant precisely what you said," Anya said, cutting her off. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. "Now, go inside and take your seat. We will be in momentarily."
Vael, her authority shattered, gave a stiff, furious bow and vanished into the council chamber.
Anya stood there for a second, her back to Mali. Then, she let out a long, slow breath, her perfect posture deflating just a fraction.
She turned around, and the mask was gone. The 'Princess' was gone. It was just Anya. Her green eyes were tired, but they were warm.
She looked him up and down in his new, dark regalia. A small, genuine smile touched her lips.
"Well," she said, her voice a soft, private murmur. "You clean up nicely, Your Highness."
"Anya," he breathed, the name a lifeline. "I can't. I... I look... this isn't me. It's a lie. My System... it..."
"I know," she said, stepping close. She reached up, not to kiss him, but to straighten the high, stiff collar of his uniform that he'd been unconsciously tugging at. Her fingers were warm against his neck.
"It's a uniform, Mali. It's armor. It's not a lie. It's a... a promise. Of what you're going to be." She tapped his chest, right over his heart. "Your 'Imposter Syndrome' is a debuff. You know what you do with debuffs? You don't let them win. You counter them."
She held his gaze, her own intense. "Remember the plan. You are the eye of the storm. You are the flag. You are the lynchpin."
She took a step back, her political mask sliding back into place. "And I am right beside you."
"Your Highnesses." Kaelen's voice was a gravelly interruption. "It is 0800. They are waiting."
Mali looked at Anya. She gave him a single, fierce, almost imperceptible nod.
He took a breath. He could feel Anya's Favor buff, a warm, steadying glow, pushing back against the cold dread of his Imposter Syndrome. His [CTL: 6] felt like a tiny, solid stone in the churning sea of his panic.
He was a fraud. He was a boy in a costume. He was an imposter.
But he was an imposter who had a plan. And he was an imposter who was not alone.
He turned to the General.
"Open the doors, Kaelen."