The Sovereign-V4: C45: The Son of The Butcher King

The Sovereign-V4: C45: The Son of The Butcher King

The air in the Refractorium, already charged with the venom of Statera's familial war, turned to solid, suffocating ice at the pronouncement from the two figures in the archway. Umbra'Zel of Algol stood as a pillar of absolute void, his presence a hole in reality. Beside him, Mavros, Patriarch of Scorpio, was a study in contained venom, his obsidian eyes gleaming with a malice that was both personal and political. The silence they commanded was not one of respect, but of a collective, psychic intake of breath, waiting for the blade to fall.
"This conclave was called," Umbra'Zel rasped, his voice the sound of granite tombs grinding shut, his words echoed by Mavros's low, sibilant hiss, "to excise a cancer. A sentiment that has metastasized into treason."
He paused, a master of cruel theatrics, letting the silence thicken into a substance that was difficult to breathe. His void like eyes swept over the assembled court, gathering their collective anxiety and fear, refining it into a weapon.
“For cycles, I have observed,” he rasped, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates deep beneath a dead world. “The Algol do not rush to judgment. We taste the resonance of truth, and we wait for the full bouquet of deception to mature. And what a vintage this is.” He turned his gaze back to the royal party, a predator cornering its prey. “The first lie is the oldest. The lie of misplaced mercy.”
His finger, long and shadowy, pointed at Shiro, making the boy feel like a specimen pinned to a cosmic board. “This one. He was presented as a pity case. An orphan. A survivor. But the resonance does not lie. Woven into the faint, pathetic signature of his Polaris blood is a sharper, more complex frequency. A melody of betrayal. It is the song of Andrasteia.” He let the name hang, a cursed relic pulled from a tomb. “The architect at the uprising 20 cycles ago, who, for promises of power from the growing shadow in the east, delivered the resonance frequencies of our outer defences into Ryo’s hands. Ten thousand Starborn, your brothers, sisters, parents, and children, were waiting in those bastions, believing in the unbreakable strength of Nyxarion. They were not broken. They were unmade from the inside out, their light fed to Ryo’s war machine, because of her. And this… this is her living legacy. Her son? A constant, walking reminder of our greatest shame, nurtured at the breast of her own sister, Statera. The very Lumina who defended the traitor, now coddles the consequence.”
He didn't wait for the gasps to subside. Mavros took a half step forward, his voice intertwining with Umbra'zel's emerging whisper, creating a dissonant chorus of condemnation.
"But that lie," Umbra'zel whispered, the sound sucking the light from the air, "was merely the prelude."
"...was merely the window dressing," Mavros hissed, his eyes locked on Kuro. "Beneath it festered the true rot."
Umbra'zel leaned forward, the mosaic tiles at his feet dimming. "This one... this 'Falak heir'..."
His voice rose for the first time, not in volume, but in intensity, a razor of pure certainty cutting through the last of their denials. “He is not a pawn. He is not a hostage. He is the son of Ryo Oji. His biological heir. The future Scourge of Nyxarion, the next chapter in the Oji line, and your Queen… your beloved Nyxara… she knew. She looked upon the face of the boy whose father orchestrated the vivisection of her own husband, and she did not see an enemy. She saw a son. She has given the heir to our extinction a seat at her table, a place in her heart, and the keys to our innermost sanctums. This is not sentiment. This is treason, woven into the very soul of our leadership.”
The vacuum of sound that followed was absolute. It was the silence of reality breaking. Kuro’s mind, his brilliant, strategic mind, did not just reject the idea; it shattered. The foundations of his new life, the furs, the baths, the teasing, the anchors, vaporized into the screaming, horrifying truth. Son of Ryo. The man who had unmade Aerel. The architect of suffering. His father. A wounded, animal sound tore from his throat.
“THEY ARE MY SONS!”
Nyxara’s roar was a galactic event, a supernova of maternal fury that made the mosaic beneath their feet glow with incandescent heat. Her form swelled, a terrifying, beautiful aurora of pure, unadulterated power. “I DON’T CARE WHAT BLOOD FILLS THEIR VEINS! THEY ARE MINE! YOU WILL NOT TOUCH THEM!”
The chamber, once a place of humming potential, became a vortex of raw, unfiltered malice. The parasitic whispers that had for so long been a background static now swelled into a unified, screaming chorus of condemnation, a wave of curses directed with pinpoint accuracy at the mothers.
“
She is a harlot for the enemy!
” a Sirius voice shrieked, sharp and analytical in its hatred.
“
Nyxara has betrayed her husband’s memory for his killer’s spawn!
”
“
Statera’s light is polluted! She defends the beast that consumed her own sister’s soul!
”
“
They are a sickness! A contagion of weakness!
”
“
Coddling the viper that will strangle us all!
”
“
Your love is a weapon pointed at our throats!
”
The shouts were not just words; they were psychic projectiles, each one a hammer blow against the mothers’ resolve, feeding the collective fury, creating a feedback loop of destructive energy that made the air itself feel thick and toxic.
The four women became a fortress of flesh and light, encircling the twins. “You think blood defines them?” Lucifera’s voice was a razor’s edge, her brilliance a lethal promise. “You are blind. They are my children. Their past is irrelevant. Their future is with me. Approach them, and I will un write the history of your clan from the cosmos.”
“They are innocent!” Statera cried, her Polaris light blazing a defiant, desperate blue white. “They are my boys! My Shiro! My Kuro! You will not punish them for sins they did not commit!”
It was then that Aether spoke, his voice dripping with glacial contempt. “Look at her,” he said to the court, gesturing to Statera, who had positioned herself squarely in front of Kuro. “My own daughter. Debasing the Lumina gift, shielding the son of the beast who seeks to devour us all. She would cradle our annihilation in her arms and sing it a lullaby. This is the flaw. This is the sickness. She is unfit.”
Phoinissa nodded, her razor smile a thing of pure malice. “Utterly compromised. She has chosen her pathetic, makeshift family over the very survival of our people.”
The fight that erupted was not of magic, but of will, struggle of realities clashing. The mothers were a bastion of love, a single, throbbing heart of defiance. The court was a hive mind of fear, a unified, psychic juggernaut.
Nyxara did not fight to disarm; she fought to annihilate. She became a walking nebula of fury, her light lashing out, not in beams, but in waves that disintegrated incoming attacks and sent courtiers flying. “YOU! WILL! NOT! HAVE! THEM!” she screamed, each word a detonation.
Lucifera was a symphony of precise violence. She moved in blurs, her hands and will a scalpel that dissected bindings, shattered lances, and turned the court’s own power against them. “You are a variable,” she snarled at Mavros as she unravelled a Scorpio venom thread meant for Kuro. “An obstacle. And I remove obstacles.”
Lyra’s song was a physical force. It was a wall of harmonic energy that shattered Algol null fields and made the air itself a weapon against their attackers. It was a lullaby of defiance, a scream given melody. “You cannot have my darlings! You cannot silence their song!”
Statera was an unbreakable truth. Her light did not waver. It was a constant, a "no" made manifest. She froze projectiles in mid air, encased advancing courtiers in ice, her voice a steady, desperate chant. “My sons. My sons. My sons.”
As the physical fight erupted, the mothers’ defence was a thing of terrible, beautiful fury. But the twins, in their desperation, tried to fight back. Kuro, his face a mask of tears and rage, lunged at a Scorpio guard who reached for Shiro. There was a sickening CRACK as the guard, without breaking stride, brought a hardened baton down on Kuro’s left leg. The sound was horribly loud, a dry, snapping that echoed the shattering of his world. Kuro screamed, a raw, animal sound of pure agony as he collapsed, his leg bending at a nauseating angle.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, the incident.
Shiro, seeing his brother fall, threw himself forward with a cry, his one good eye blazing. “Get away from him!” He managed to land a blow, a burst of uncontrolled Polaris cold that frosted the guard’s armour. It was a brave, futile gesture. Another guard seized his outstretched arm, twisted it brutally behind his back, and with a brutal, jerking motion, broke it over his knee. The sound was a wetter, more gruesome SNAP of bone and tendon. Shiro’s scream was higher, a piercing shriek of torment that seemed to tear the very fabric of the Refractorium.
Those screams, the sound of her children being broken, their pain given voice, did not just break the queens. It unmade them.
Something primal and ancient snapped within Nyxara. The regal queen vanished. What remained was a feral, stellar entity of pure malice. “YOU HURT MY SON!” she roared, and her light didn’t flare, it detonated. A wave of incandescent fury erupted from her, not aimed, but all consuming. It caught a cluster of advancing Algol and Leo courtiers head on. There were no screams from them. There was only a silent, terrifying vaporization, their forms turning to brief, screaming silhouettes of light before being scoured from existence.
Lucifera, seeing Kuro’s broken body, became death itself. Her precision vanished, replaced by a whirlwind of obliteration. She didn’t disarm; she
unmade
. She pointed at the guard who had broken Kuro’s leg, and the man simply… came apart. Not into gore, but into his constituent atoms, his form dissolving into a brief, glittering cloud of cosmic dust. “YOU BROKE HIM!” she shrieked, her voice no longer that of a councillor, but of a vengeful goddess.
For a handful of heartbeats, they were not mothers protecting their children. They were forces of nature unleashed, their love curdled into a killing rage so potent it forced the entire court to recoil. They were willing to burn down the universe, to paint the stars with the blood of their own people, to get to their broken boys.
But the ocean of hatred was too deep. The momentary shock gave way to a renewed, overwhelming assault. Dozens, then hundreds of psychic and physical bindings slammed into them, Sirius chains of logic, Scorpio webs of venom, Algol voids of nullification, Leo hammers of concussive force. The mothers, spent by their explosive, grief stricken rage, were finally, utterly overwhelmed. Their light was pinned, then crushed, forced to the cold, unyielding mosaic as their sons were dragged away into the darkness, their own broken screams echoing the ones they had just heard.
A unified, colossal psychic shove from Mavros, Umbra’Zel, and a phalanx of Leo envoys finally, catastrophically, broke their defence. The circle of light shattered.
“NO! PLEASE!” Nyxara’s scream was the sound of a universe ending.
“DON’T TAKE THEM! THEY’RE ALL I HAVE!” Lucifera’s cry was a shard of broken crystal.
Shadowy tendrils and hard, uncaring hands seized Shiro and Kuro. The boys screamed, reaching back, their fingers brushing empty air where their mothers had been.
As hard, impersonal hands seized them, dragging them from the fading warmth of their mothers' light, a final, devastating inversion of their new reality crashed down upon them. This was not the gentle, blushing surrender of a child asking to be carried to bed, safe in the knowledge of unwavering love. This was a violation. The same bodies that had gone limp with trust in Lucifera's arms, that had been cradled against Nyxara's chest, were now manhandled, their broken limbs jostling agonizingly as they were hauled like sacks of meat.
Kuro, his left leg a firestorm of pain, was hoisted by two Scorpio guards, his arms pinned behind him. His head lolled back, and through a haze of agony, he saw the vaulted ceiling of the Refractorium spinning above him. He remembered the feeling of Luci's shoulders beneath him, the solid, safe rhythm of her walk. Now, every step his captors took was a jarring impact that sent fresh lightning through his shattered bone. The memory of his own voice, mumbled against her robe, "Aunty Luci...I can't... walk."—echoed in his mind, now a cruel joke. He couldn't walk now, either, but this was not care. This was a cage.
Shiro, his right arm bent at a horrifying angle, was slung over the shoulder of a Leo guard, the pressure on his stomach making him gag. He remembered the regal height of being on Nyxara's shoulders, the world laid out before him, her cheerful voice pointing out "all the pretty, sparkly things." Now, his single eye was filled with the sight of blood dripping from his face onto the cold, uncaring mosaic floor, rushing past beneath him as he was stolen away. The memory of his own request, "Carry... please.", was a phantom limb, a prayer that had been twisted into a curse. They were being carried, but it was a theft, not a gift. It was the ultimate perversion of their surrender, the deepest possible cut, turning their greatest comfort into their most profound humiliation.
And as the chaos began to settle and the victors surveyed their prize, two small, anomalous things remained on the Refractorium floor, unnoticed by all. Where Shiro had fallen, a single, perfect shard of ice, no larger than a needle, lay against the mosaic. It should have melted instantly in the chamber's ambient warmth. It did not. It glinted with a faint, internal Polaris light, a tiny, stubborn law of cold that refused to be repealed.
And from the spot where Kuro's broken body had been wrestled from the ground, the river stone he had been trying to grasp still lay. It was not inert. A low, sub sonic thrum, the ghost of an Altair anchor, still resonated within its core, a density of purpose that had not yet bled away.
A sharp eyed Sirius courtier, ensuring no trace of the "contamination" remained, paused over the shard. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, his brow furrowing slightly at its persistent cold. "Lingering resonance," he muttered to a colleague, his tone dismissive. "A final, pathetic discharge. It will fade." He did the same to the stone, feeling its unnatural, humming weight. "And a minor inertial echo. Nothing of consequence." He moved on, already forgetting, leaving the two small, defiant truths behind.
They were gone, but echoes of their will, fragments of their hard won resonance, remained behind like psychic footprints, staining the stone with the promise that their story was not over.
The mothers were left on their knees, broken, held down by the combined will of the victorious court. The world had gone dark. The light was gone.
As the echoes of their children's names faded, the tall, severe Leo councillor stepped forward, flanked by the unmoving void of Umbra'zel and the simmering Mavros. He looked down upon the shattered queens, his voice echoing with final, ceremonial doom.
"The Queen is deposed. The council is dissolved," the Leo declared.
"For high treason against the celestial compact," Mavros added, his words a venomous seal.
"By the authority of the gathered Dominions," Umbra'zel rasped, the final judge.
"...we shall commence the Cyanelle Ecclesia," the Leo councillor finished, the words carving a new, terrible law into reality.
The pronouncement landed, but it was not heard, the only sounds were the broken, ragged breaths of the four women.
Nyxara did not see the chamber, the victorious court, or the cold, judging faces. Her eyes were locked on the patch of empty air where Kuro’s warmth had been, where the echo of his scream still vibrated in the marrow of her bones. The vibrant, multi hued light that was her essence didn't just die; it was snuffed out, as if a god had pinched the wick of her soul. A low, continuous moan escaped her, the sound of a star going eternally dark. “My storm…” she breathed, the words a ghost of a sound, “my beautiful, furious storm… guttered out. There is… no sky left.”
Statera did not tremble; she unravelled. The unwavering Polaris glow that had been the bedrock of her being was not extinguished, it was violently torn from her, leaving a sucking, psychic wound in its place. She clutched at her chest, not in a gesture of emotion, but as if trying to physically hold in a vital organ that had been ripped out. Her voice was a shattered, wet whisper, torn from the raw cavity of her spirit. “They tore out my heart. They took my Rain Baby… my only truth… my reason to… to be.”
Lyra did not simply fall silent. Her song was murdered. The eternal, harmonic hum that had been the background radiation of her existence was cut off mid note, leaving a silence so profound it was a physical mutilation. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only the hollow, airless void of a breath that would never again find a melody. Her hands fluttered weakly at her throat, a musician whose instrument has been crushed. “My music…,” she mouthed, the thought a silent scream in the void of her mind, “…my beautiful, chaotic, perfect noises… silenced. My universe has gone deaf.”
Lucifera did not weep. She simply… ceased. The brilliant, piercing light of her eyes did not dim; it was voided, replaced by the flat, matte emptiness of a star that has burned through its last fuel. The sharp, certain presence that was the Sirius Councillor, the unshakeable Aunt Luci, the ferocious Mommy, it crumbled into ash and blew away on a silent wind. Her mind, once a fortress of impeccable reason, was not a collapsed system, but a ransacked temple, its altars desecrated, its sacred texts burned. All the vast, terrible love she had so recently learned to hold, the love that had become her new, absolute law, had been the keystone of her entire being. With it gone, the entire structure fell in on itself. Her voice, when it came, was the sound of that final, total collapse, dust settling in a dead city. “My sons… my heart… my only law… gone. There is… nothing. Nothing at all.”

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V4: C45: The Son of The Butcher King