Year 2018 - Original World
The road to the Parliament of Tibios cut through the square in a straight, ceremonial line, ending at the outer gate. Beyond it, a small road lead to wide stone steps which rose toward the Parliament doors.
The ministers of Tibios stood on those steps, arranged by rank and proximity, their positions decided long before the cameras arrived. They were meant to be seen from below - elevated, composed, untouchable.
Today, they were simply visible.
Wind moved freely across the open square, tugging at coats and loose papers. A minister adjusted his stance, heels scraping against stone. Another rested a hand on the railing, fingers tightening briefly before relaxing again. No one spoke. Microphones captured only the ambient noise of the city and the distant hum of traffic.
What had been planned as a contained incident had failed.
The Volthar delegation was supposed to arrive at Parliament under heightened security. Talks were scheduled. Statements prepared. The visit was meant to be routine, forgettable even. Instead, it had ended before it properly began; intercepted, erased, and buried beneath a narrative that would never need to be tested.
A terrorist attack.Unidentified perpetrators.No survivors.
At the top of the steps stood the Prime Minister of Tibios.
Malik Voss faced the square with practiced stillness, hands resting at his sides, expression controlled by years of exposure to crisis. Tibios was the host nation. That alone made this his problem, regardless of whose blood had been spilled. A failure on Tibios soil could not be allowed to stand without explanation.
Between the gate and the steps, reporters lined both sides of the road, pressed shoulder to shoulder behind metal barriers. Cameras were already raised, lenses trained on the empty stretch of pavement beyond the gate.
They were waiting for confirmation.
The gate opened.
A single figure stepped through.
There was no convoy. No security detail clearing the way. He walked alone onto the road, stopping just inside the gate, ironwork behind him and Parliament rising ahead.
Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow, drying as it traced the line of his face. His suit was torn at the shoulder and sleeve, the fabric stiff where it had already begun to set. Gun powder burns marked his one cheek faintly, but unmistakably.
In his left hand, he held a military knife, its blade angled toward the ground. Drops of red struck the stone pavement at irregular intervals.
In his right hand, he held a severed head by the hair.
The square fell silent.
Recognition spread unevenly. Some reporters reacted instantly. Others needed a second look. Even those unfamiliar with the face understood that this was not part of any acceptable script.
The man lifted his gaze and looked up the steps.
Alaric Valcaryn.
Broadcast feeds went live within seconds. Footage propagated faster than explanation. Analysts spoke in fragments as the image spread, each trying to anchor meaning to something that refused to settle.
The public saw chaos.
A terrorist attack gone wrong.A survivor turned executioner.A volatile situation spiraling out of control.
Those closer to power saw something else.
They recognized a failed erasure.
The Volthar minister had been the target. His delegation collateral. A clean removal, planned far from public view and framed to dissolve into outrage without accountability. Tibios would condemn the act. Volthar would mourn its dead. The incident would close itself.
That had been the intent.
There were no acceptable survivors in that version of events.
Alaric Valcaryn had been present. Close enough to see what unfolded. Close enough to understand what had been arranged. In every version of the plan that mattered, his death had been assumed alongside the others.
If the Volthar minister had died alone, it would have been tragic.If the entire delegation had died, it would have been conclusive.If Alaric Valcaryn had died with them, it would have been complete.
Instead, he stood at the gate of Tibios Parliament - bloodied, exposed, and alive - holding proof that the ending had not gone as written.
At the top of the steps, Malik Voss drew a slow breath. His gaze remained fixed on Alaric, but his thoughts were already moving; to emergency calls, to diplomatic lines that would soon be tested, to how quickly this failure would need to be contained.
Below, Alaric felt the square settle.
Good.
He adjusted his grip on the knife - not for comfort, but for visibility - and let his posture remain loose, unthreatening in a way that invited misinterpretation. Wind pulled at his torn sleeve. Clouds drifted overhead.
They would explain this.
They would argue over motive, over blame, over jurisdiction.
By morning, there would be statements. By nightfall, conclusions.
None of them would include the truth.
And that was enough. Because now Alaric had turned into a pawn for bigger players.