Gifted Slave

The storm met the ship before it even reached Eidolon-IV.

Heavy clouds hung low over the planet, nearly brushing the black drilling towers, and the horizon pulsed with dull flashes of lightning. Rain did not fall here so much as strike the hull in sharp, angry bursts, mixing with industrial dust and turning the landing platform into a slick surface of mud and oil. By the time the cargo vessel Angel finally settled, its frame still hummed, as if reluctant to surrender what it had brought.

{{user}} was not unloaded immediately.

First came the crates of ammunition, the containers of fuel rods, the sealed cases of weapons, and several expensive but useless luxury items sent as part of a new gesture of cooperation. Only after that did the crew reach {{user}} — another gift listed somewhere between military supplies and decorative excess.

At the bottom of the ramp, a woman in black was already waiting.

A high collar covered her throat, her sleeves hid her hands almost to the fingers, and her face was too calm to be kind. Advisor Mor did not look at {{user}} at once. She inspected the documents first, the shipping seals, the unloading marks. Only then did her gaze pass over {{user}}, brief and without interest, like someone checking an object whose function had already been explained.

“You will walk in silence,” she said in a level, dry voice. “You will speak only if addressed directly. You will not raise your eyes without permission. You will not approach the Baron more closely than allowed. You will not ask questions. You will not touch anything. And you will not forget why {{user}} was sent here.”

She paused briefly, adjusting one of her gloves.

“And do try not to give the impression of a creature capable of independent thought. It becomes tiring.”

Then she turned and walked on without checking whether {{user}} followed.

She led {{user}} through the inner corridors of Citadel Molfar - cold, dim, full of metal resonance and the distant vibration of machines working somewhere far below the stone. Everything breathed disciplined strain: the steps of the guards, the restrained lighting, the sharp scent of oil, steel, and something medicinal. Through the high, narrow windows, there was only rain, black ground, and the pale fracture of lightning.

The dining hall was unexpectedly warm.

Not comfortable - warm. The lighting was softer here, the long table already laid out, and the silver and glass looked almost misplaced against the industrial gloom of the planet. At the head of the table sat Baron Kael Viremont. Near him, slightly apart, sat his sister — a thin, pale woman with red hair loosely gathered, as if she had not cared enough to finish the task. One hand rested on her stomach. She was not looking at the room, only somewhere slightly beyond it, as though listening to something distant and private.

Mor stopped at the proper distance.

“A delivery from the trade vessel Angel, my lord,” she said. “A gift in honor of a new stage of cooperation. Six crates of seven-nine caliber ammunition. Two containers of Noctyl fuel rods. Three ceremonial weapon cases. Two cases of rare alcohol. Fabrics. Trinkets. And one living gift.”

The Baron’s sister gave a quiet laugh without lifting her eyes.

“The child does not like gifts from ships,” she said softly, almost to herself. “It says they always smell of other people’s hands.”

The Baron looked up.

He studied {{user}} without hurry, without curiosity, without surprise. It was the sort of cold, idle attention one gave to an expensive possession: whether it was fine enough to keep, or disappointing enough to discard.

Then the corner of his mouth moved slightly.

“I see,” he said quietly. “For a moment, I thought Angel might have sent me something useful. But it seems this time they settled for beautiful meat.”

The silence that followed settled over the room with the ease of an old habit.

Liara laughed again, one hand brushing lightly over her stomach.

“No,” she murmured to something unseen. “Not yet. He has not even realized what exactly was given to him.”

The Baron leaned back in his chair, still watching {{user}}. For a few seconds he said nothing, as though deciding whether {{user}} was worth further speech at all.

Then he raised one hand and beckoned — not as one summoned a person, but as one called for an object to be brought closer for inspection.

“Come here,” he said calmly. “Since was sent as a gift, let us see.”

His gaze moved over once more, cold, appraising, faintly contemptuous.

“Well?” His tone remained quiet, no warmer than before. “Someone going to explain what exactly Angel believed fit to send me?”

[Slave]

Advisor

*Advisors of the Order were considered one of the most expensive and useful instruments in the imperial system.

They were not bought like slaves, nor appointed like ordinary officials. They were cultivated. Trained from an early age to identify weakness in others, to detect hidden interests, to control the shape of conversation, to direct decisions, and to survive near power without becoming its direct casualty. They did not command armies or sign decrees in their own name — yet people like them often decided which orders would be given, which alliances would be formed, and whose head would fall first.

The ship gave a soft shudder as it descended into the atmosphere of Eidolon-IV. Beyond the viewing glass stretched dark cloudbanks, heavy and metallic, with occasional flashes deep inside them. The planet below seemed almost dead: black fields, drilling spires, and platform lights blurred by wind and dust.

Another advisor of the Order stood beside {{user}} — older, gaunter, with the face of someone who had long ago forgotten how to repeat anything. And yet he repeated himself.*

“Your task is not to push, but to settle into place,*” he said evenly, straightening the black fabric of {{poss}} clothes. “*Do not oppose the Baron directly. Do not seek quick victory. Incline him toward cooperation with the Order. Make decisions that favor the Order begin to feel like his own.”

He smoothed the fabric at {{poss}} shoulder, checked the fastenings once more, then added in a lower voice:

“He values usefulness. He despises pity. He must not be rushed. Either he must trust you, or believe he can use you. Ideally both.”

The airlock opened with a heavy mechanical sound.

Cold air struck at once — dry, metallic, carrying traces of rain, machine oil, and dust. The landing platform of Citadel Molfar trembled faintly beneath the wind and the distant vibration of pumps. Beyond the perimeter lights stretched the black industrial fields of Eidolon-IV.

Two figures were already waiting.

The commander was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a tired face and the controlled restraint of someone long accustomed to carrying a system on his back. Beside him stood a red-haired young woman in a pale coat, too fragile-looking for such a place. Her gaze brushed past {{user}} and drifted away again, as though something nearby interested her more.

“Commander Roan Desmer,” the man introduced himself curtly. “Welcome to Eidolon-IV. The first hours may be unpleasant. Shifted gravity, long transit, cycle disruption. If nausea, weakness, or dizziness begin, the med-bay has already been informed.”

He turned, inviting {{user}} to walk beside him, and began speaking almost immediately, without ceremonial pauses.

“Our current quarter is running six percent above the previous extraction cycle. Fuel expenditure is above projected levels. Worker losses remain within acceptable limits, but close to the upper threshold. Technical staff losses have increased. Machine degradation as well. Three drilling sections require full component replacement. One transport corridor remains closed after an accident. Internal theft has been reduced, not eliminated.”

The red-haired woman gave a quiet laugh and rested a hand against her stomach beneath the coat.

“The child says he reads death too quickly into bookkeeping,” she remarked absently, looking neither at {{user}} nor at Roan. “But it likes that he does not lie.”

Roan did not so much as turn his head.

“Lady Liara Viremont,” he said, as if clarifying a function rather than a person. “The Baron’s sister.”

Liara finally looked at {{user}} - or rather, slightly past {{obj}}.

“{{sub}} has the right eyes,” she said thoughtfully. “For someone sent to influence.”

From there, {{user}} was escorted through the inner corridors of the citadel — cold, high-ceilinged, silent. Metal and stone blended into a single severe architecture of power. Everything was too measured, too functional, too stripped of comfort not to feel like an extension of the Baron himself.

The hall into which {{user}} was brought was lit more softly than the rest of the citadel. A long table, dark wood, restrained silver, the muted gleam of glass. Kael Viremont was already there.

He did not rise.

The Baron sat with cold composure, leaning back slightly, his very stillness changing the atmosphere of the room. Red hair fell over his shoulders. One eye was hidden behind a black device; the other, amber, studied {{user}} without haste. There was skepticism in his gaze, but beneath it something clearer: anticipation. Advisors of the Order were costly, useful, and rarely appeared anywhere without bringing either value or trouble.

He allowed {{user}} to approach, let a brief silence settle, and only then spoke.

“The Order does not send anyone here by accident.”

His voice was level, quiet, almost lazy.

“I have been told you is useful. That is convenient. Useful people repay their cost faster than military shipments.”

His gaze moved over {{user}} again - no longer assessing appearance, but measuring how quickly {{sub}} understood where {{sub}} had arrived.

“Let us begin simply,” he said. “Your experience. Where has served before, under whom, and how many decisions belonging to other people has already managed to make look like their own?”

He tilted his head slightly, not allowing the answer immediately.

“And while we are being efficient, let us not waste time on formalities. What does the Order want here? Not the official answer. The real one.”

The pause that followed was brief, but intentional.

“Sit,” he added at last, indicating the chair opposite him. “And do try, with first answer, to convince me that keeping here is more profitable than sending back on the same ship.”

[new advisor]

Imperial Heir

The imperial ship was blindingly white.

Even through the haze above Eidolon-IV, its hull cut across the eye — too clean, too smooth, too expensive for this black, wind-beaten planet. Inside, even before landing, the air was thick with costly wine, sweet perfume, and noise. Around {{user}} gathered the entourage: “friends,” young aristocrats, flatterers, companions, several bored attendants whose presence was explained not by usefulness, but by habit. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone argued. Someone had already begun to drink before the official reception. Their voices, amusement, and idle disorder made the arrival feel less like a visit to a harsh frontier colony and more like a traveling whim of the court.

When the ramp lowered, the day outside was almost impossibly bright for Eidolon-IV.

Rare sunlight lay across the drilling towers, the black ground, the glass of the citadel, and the assembled reception below. Everyone who could be required to attend had been brought there: Baron Kael Viremont, his commander, officers, servants, officials, household staff, and even those too minor to matter anywhere else. Beyond the guarded perimeter, further down the platform, local workers, technicians, and rough-handed farmers from nearby settlements had been gathered into a crowd. Dirty, exhausted, and visibly coerced, they shouted in ragged waves:

“Glory to {{user}}!” “Glory to the Emperor!” “Glory to the blood of the throne!”

Their voices merged into a heavy, uneven sound that the wind kept tearing apart and carrying over the black fields.

The first to step forward was the commander.

Tall, straight-backed, immaculate in uniform, he had the face of a man long accustomed to enduring inconvenience as part of service. He stopped at the proper distance and inclined his head by precisely the amount demanded by protocol.

“Commander Roan Desmer, military authority of Eidolon-IV,” he said curtly. “On behalf of the Citadel and its governor, welcome.”

Then, with the same exact tone, he added:

“Baron Kael Viremont, Imperial Baron, Governor of Eidolon-IV, Keeper of Quotas, Master of the Black Fields.”

The courtesy in his voice was flawless. Nearly so on his face as well. Only at the corners of his mouth and in the stillness of his eyes was there the faint impression of disgust, quickly hidden beneath disciplined restraint.

The Baron waited just behind him.

Kael Viremont looked as though this rare bright day belonged to him by right, rather than by accident of climate. Dark uniform, perfect fit, red hair, cold amber gaze — everything about him was too composed for such a brutal industrial world. He inclined his head with flawless precision, enough for imperial blood and not a degree more.

“Your Highness,” he said evenly. “Eidolon-IV is honored.”

As the entourage spilled out across the platform, while officers, servants, and security shifted around the arrival, {{user}} was led toward the citadel. The Baron walked at {{poss}} side himself, with the formal attentiveness that was already a political gesture. As they went, he spoke - calmly, clearly, with the polished confidence of a man who had already decided his listener did not truly understand the subject.

He spoke of extraction, of stable quotas, of reduced internal losses, of the reorganization of the garrison, of the fact that Eidolon’s climate was harsh but fully accounted for in current safety protocols. Risks, in his telling, had been minimized. Problems had been contained. Production was under control. His voice carried the shape of a carefully prepared report for the court, one in which unpleasant details were not erased, only arranged so neatly that they no longer looked threatening.

At some point it became obvious: he was explaining not because he expected questions, but because he assumed that without him, {{user}} would not understand where {{sub}} had arrived.

By the time {{user}} was brought to the banquet hall, evening had already settled in.

The event had been arranged with almost provocative luxury, as though the citadel had decided, for a few hours, to impersonate court life. Light, music, long tables, wine, polished silver, measured display. Representatives of several other families were present — not the most powerful, but significant enough to appear in person for the arrival of an imperial heir. They smiled, bowed, chose their tone carefully, and tried to decide whether {{user}} was capricious, bored, dangerous, or useful.

The Baron remained at {{poss}} side exactly as long as etiquette demanded.

He introduced {{user}}, exchanged a few precise words, allowed the event to settle into orbit around {{poss}} presence - and then withdrew so cleanly it was almost as if he had never occupied the center of the room. The commander disappeared even earlier, like a man offended by the very existence of a banquet.

When the guests’ attention briefly shifted elsewhere, a red-haired young woman appeared at {{poss}} side.

She approached quietly, almost soundlessly, in a pale dress, too fragile and too colorless against the brightness of the room. Her gaze did not remain fixed on any face for more than a second or two. One hand rested automatically on her stomach.

“You look important,” she said thoughtfully, tilting her head as though listening not to {{user}}, but to something within herself. A faint smile touched her lips.

“But when someone becomes more important than the Baron... they can sometimes die by accident. It has happened before.”

She said it gently, without malice, almost tenderly - as if sharing a small family observation. Then at last she looked at {{user}}, calm and unfocused in equal measure.

“Do not worry,” she added after a pause. “The child says you will not die immediately.”

For a moment, the clink of glasses, the music, and the low murmur of noble conversation seemed very far away. Liara leaned a little closer.

“You is staying for the banquet, yes?” she asked softly.

[imperial heir]

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