“That’s the Forgemaster?”
“Wearing a jumpsuit? No way.”
“Survivor? That’s… a name?”
Even the delegation seemed momentarily caught off guard by the introduction.
Celine’s eyes sharpened with interest.
Harkon’s brow furrowed in consideration.
Lucen raised an eyebrow, quietly analytical.
Survivor, however, was bewildered — every instinct in him screaming to flee.
Lyssandra stepped closer, her voice low and steady.
“Best you say something.”
A softer breath followed.
“Just… be yourself.”
He attempted to collect himself and spoke.
“Um… greetings. I’m the person you wanted to meet.”
A few aides chuckled under their breath — a brief, ill-timed sound that cut sharply across the tension.
It ended instantly when Lucen lifted a hand, commanding silence with nothing more than a gesture.
Ilya leaned in beside Survivor, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s okay. Talk to them like you talk to us.”
Something in his posture eased.
He exhaled.
“I’ll be honest — etiquette isn’t my strong point. But I’d like to talk things out.”
Lucen stepped forward, extending a hand.
“Then we will talk.”
Survivor shook it, his grip hesitant but real.
Celine and Harkon nodded in acknowledgement before all three delegates returned to their seats — the room settling, yet charged with a tension that hummed beneath every breath.
Survivor moved as if preparing to stand behind Lyssandra again, but she gently gestured toward the empty seat across from the delegation.
“They want you to talk,” she murmured.
He froze.
Then, reluctantly, he sat — seeing the table from her perspective for the first time.
From here, he could feel it:
- eyes watching,
- expectations pressing,
- unspoken questions hanging over him like a weight.
He glanced to Lyssandra for help.
She offered a small, apologetic look: I’m sorry — but this is what must happen.
He turned back toward the delegation, throat tight, mind fogged by the forming pressure.
The delegates remained respectfully silent, giving him space to settle —
but the silence only made the weight heavier.
After a long moment, he found his voice.
“So… is there anything you wish to talk about?”
Celine was the first to respond, tone smooth and direct.
“Yes. The galaxy would like to know why you wish to assist us.”
Harkon followed without hesitation.
“Indeed. You have no obligation to cooperate with us — or even acknowledge us. Yet you came forward. Why?”
Lucen added calmly, but with the sharpness of someone experienced in negotiations.
“Talks like this usually involve trade, exchange, or a request. It is rare for someone to offer help with no expectation in return.”
Survivor answered with disarming honesty.
“Well… I just wanted to help. And the crew of this ship needed my help. So… I’m helping.”
Harkon leaned forward slightly.
“What help did they ask for?”
Survivor spoke without hesitation, voice plain and unguarded.
“Well, the recovery of Darius — another person like me.”
The room reacted instantly.
Eyes widened.
Murmurs rippled through the aides.
Even the seasoned delegates shifted in their seats.
Lucen, however, remained still —
face steady, body controlled —
but his eyes tightened at the mention of the name.
Survivor twitched at the sudden swell of reactions — gasps, mutters, the rapid widening of eyes across the table.
Lyssandra reached out, giving the back of his chair a small, grounding tap.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“It was going to come up eventually,” she whispered.
He swallowed, unsure why this revelation caused such a stir.
Lucen’s voice cut through the room like a blade, firm and controlled.
“You’re saying you can revive the Protectorate’s Emperor?”
Only then did Survivor realize his mistake. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Yes. I… heard his spawn point was damaged. I can repair it.”
Celine leaned forward slightly, her curiosity sharpened.
“A ‘spawn point’? What is that supposed to mean?”
Harkon clarified, his expression tight.
“You’re referring to the resurrection pod. The one only Forgemasters can use.”
“Yes,” Survivor answered simply.
The room erupted in hushed whispers.
“Is that really what they call it?”
“I thought those pods were unique to each Forgemaster.”
“He can fix it?”
Survivor flinched at the brewing noise.
“Yes,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. “As long as it’s only damaged… I can repair it.”
More whispers. More tension.
Lucen’s hands tightened into fists atop the table.
Harkon raised his voice.
“Silence. Let him speak.”
The murmurs died instantly.
Lucen spoke again, every word measured and heavy.
“I believe your intentions are genuine… but I cannot allow you anywhere near my Emperor. Or my empire.”
Lyssandra and Ilya both stiffened, eyes widening at his declaration.
Survivor leaned forward slightly, bewildered.
“Why—?”
Celine cut him off with a raised hand.
“There are two matters of grave concern now.”
Her tone lost its earlier smoothness; this was the voice of a stateswoman speaking on behalf of an entire civilization.
“First,” she continued, “your gate-ships caused catastrophic damage upon arrival.”
Harkon’s jaw tightened as he added:
“And the second matter… is you.”
Survivor’s muscles tightened, confusion coiling in his chest.
“What do you mean? Did I… do something wrong?”
Lyssandra moved to intervene—but froze.
Lucen’s look cut straight through her.
A silent command in his eyes:
Don’t.
Harkon answered instead, voice firm and unflinching.
“Yes. You did. Those ships you sent… wiped out entire task groups that were dispatched to contact them.”
A distant echo rang through Survivor’s mind—Kael’s warning in the station.
His breath hitched.
A whisper rippled through the aides:
“They destroyed a hundred ships…”
Survivor’s denial was immediate, shaky.
“No—no, that’s wrong. They’re set to defend themselves only.”
More whispers built like rising static.
“Defend? More like annihilate.”
“Self-defense doesn’t level fleets…”
“And it's only five ships that did all that.”
Survivor’s breathing turned shallow.
His heart hammered loud enough he felt it in his teeth.
Harkon struck the table with his palm.
“Enough.”
Dust leapt up from the impact, drifting through the air.
The whispers died down but not stopped.
Celine leaned forward, tone sharp but controlled.
“Whether intentional or not, the damage was done.”
Survivor’s voice cracked as he tried to steady himself.
“I… I can repay it. I can—fix this.”
Harkon’s expression hardened.
“It isn’t just the ships, Forgemaster. It’s the occupants inside them.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
Survivor’s hands curled, knuckles whitening.
His mind slowly, painfully piecing together the truth.
Celine sensed the shift — the emotional tremor spreading through the room — and redirected with precision.
“Which brings us to the other matter. Your name is ‘Survivor,’ correct? But if you’re a remnant… shouldn’t there be others?”
Whispers began again, louder this time, anxious, uncertain.
Harkon added gravely,
“That name implies something.”
Survivor looked up, eyes unfocused.
“It means… someone who lives through an ordeal. Grief. Loss. Right?”
Celine nodded slightly.
“Yes. But it also means—”
She was cut off as the whispers grew into a rising murmur.
“Did they all—?”
“Were there others?”
“How does he not know?”
“Does he not care?”
Then one aide—young, unguarded—spoke loud enough for everyone to hear:
“...There were people on those ships?”
Survivor’s entire body locked in place.
The memory slammed into him.
Kael’s words in the Captain’s quarters.
The thing he had dismissed.
The thing he hadn’t understood.
Harkon slammed the table again—
“Sile—!”
Dust burst upward from the strike, scattering into the air.
For a moment, it drifted freely.
Then the room froze.
Chairs creaked into silence.
Breaths stopped halfway.
Eyes locked on Survivor—wide, searching, horrified.
The aides who had been whispering a second earlier now stood rigid, mouths slightly open, afraid that any sound might shatter something fragile.
Lyssandra didn’t move.
Ilya didn’t blink.
Even Lucen, always composed, sat perfectly still—jaw tight, realization flickering behind his eyes.
The dust was the only thing that refused to obey the silence, shifting lazily under the lights.
Survivor stared at it—at the drifting particles that seemed to mock the stillness around him.
He felt suddenly outside his own body, watching instead of living—
as if the whole room had become a painting with a single moving brushstroke.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody dared.
It wasn’t just silence.
It was a verdict.
Thanks for reading
Please give a comment, review if you want.I would love to see how you guys view the story. Even like to hear your critique, if willing.
If worried about the AI assist, I use it for polish and grammar checks, but am learning to write without the polish.