The corridor stretched before him, a monument to sterile authority. Polished floors reflected the harsh strip lighting overhead, making the endless passage feel both infinite and suffocatingly close. Private Angus Tyvorr swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the tomb-like silence. His boots clicked rhythmically on the gleaming surface, each step echoing his own escalating dread. His gloved hand tightened on the data-slate tucked securely under his arm, its cool metal a stark contrast to the clammy sweat gathering on his palm.

  Delivering reports was routine. Delivering reports to Lord Aegil was… something else entirely. Especially reports deemed 'Urgent - Eyes Only,' bypassing standard channels. Especially when arriving unannounced. Angus clutched the slate tighter. This had better be worth the potential reaming.

  He reached the end of the corridor, marked by a pair of immense double doors forged from some dark, non-reflective alloy. They were seamless, featureless save for the stark, angular sigil of the Dynasty Internal Security Directorate etched into their center. Before the doors stood two figures, motionless as statues, clad in the elite crimson and black carapace armor of Aegil’s personal guard. Their faces were entirely concealed behind impassive, mirrored visors, pulse rifles held ready across their chests. They didn’t react as Angus approached, their stillness more intimidating than any overt threat.

  Angus halted a respectful distance away, clearing his throat nervously. "Private Angus Tyvorr," he announced, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the imposing space. "Reporting to Lord Aegil. Urgent intelligence."

  One of the guards shifted slightly, the movement accompanied by the faint whisper of servo-mechanisms. "Lord Aegil receives petitioners by scheduled appointment only," the guard stated, his voice electronically filtered, devoid of inflection. "Transmit your request through standard channels. Priority Alpha clearance required."

  "I… I understand, sir," Angus stammered, feeling a prickle of panic. "But the nature of the intelligence… Section Commander Alkyyr deemed it of immediate operational significance. There wasn't time to secure formal scheduling."

  "Regulations are clear," the second guard intoned, identical to the first. "Deviation constitutes insubordination. Submit your request via standard protocol, or withdraw."

  Angus' stomach sank. He imagined the layers of bureaucratic approval, the endless forms, the hours ticking by while this vital information languished in a queue. He couldn’t risk it. But challenging Aegil’s guard directly…? He swallowed again, bracing himself to argue, when the immense black doors behind the guards slid open with a deep, resonant hum, revealing not the expected corridor beyond, but darkness.

  Then, a voice drifted from within that darkness – cool, resonant, carrying an edge of faint amusement laced with absolute command. "Let him enter."

  The guards instantly snapped to perfect attention, stepping aside with rigid precision. Angus hesitated for only a fraction of a second, daunted by the sudden permission, then hurried forward, clutching his data-slate like a shield, stepping across the threshold into Lord Aegil's private chambers.

  The doors slid shut behind him with a soft, final hiss, plunging him into a disorienting blend of ancient opulence and cold technology. The room was vast, far larger than standard officer quarters aboard the Dynasty flagship Hunter. Dark tapestries depicting stylized star charts and mythical void creatures hung on walls paneled in rich, dark wood that looked impossibly old.

  Thick rugs woven with intricate geometric patterns muffled his footsteps. Yet, integrated seamlessly into the near-medieval aesthetic were sleek consoles displaying shifting streams of data, recessed lighting panels casting targeted pools of illumination, and, most unnervingly, a swirling sphere of captured plasma suspended above a polished chrome pedestal near a large, unmade bed. The sphere pulsed with contained energy, casting restless, dancing shadows across the room.

  And in the center of the chamber, bathed in the light from a strategically placed overhead beam, stood Aegil.

  He was practicing sword forms, moving with a fluid, predatory grace that seemed at odds with the chamber's hushed stillness. The blade in his hand was long, elegant, forged from mirror-polished chrome that reflected the ambient light in sharp, blinding flashes.

  Aegil’s hair was dark, like Vantis's, but styled more severely, slicked back from a high forehead. His features were sharper, harder than his brother's, his expression set in lines of brooding concentration, though a subtle aura of contained power shimmered faintly around him. He looked like Vantis viewed through a distorting lens of ambition and bitterness.

  He didn’t acknowledge Angus’s presence immediately, continuing his blade-whispering through the air. Angus stood frozen just inside the doorway, heart pounding, suddenly feeling like an insect trapped under glass. The heavy silence, broken only by the swish of the blade and the faint hum of the plasma sphere, pressed down on him.

  Finally, Aegil completed a complex, spinning strike, the blade stopping inches from a priceless-looking antique vase, utterly controlled. He lowered the sword slowly, turning his head, his dark eyes – so like Vantis's, yet colder, more calculating – fixing on Angus.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Private Angus Tyvorr," Aegil stated, his voice quiet yet carrying effortlessly across the vast room. "You interrupt my meditations unannounced. Commander Alkyyr must hold your 'urgent intelligence' in exceptionally high regard. Or perhaps he merely wished to test the limits of my patience?"

  Angus flinched. "My Lord Aegil," he began, bowing his head slightly, "Commander Alkyyr sends his deepest apologies for circumventing protocol. He believed… we believed… the information warranted immediate presentation."

  Aegil placed his sword carefully onto a nearby weapons rack, the chrome gleaming under the lights. He picked up a silken cloth and began polishing the blade with meticulous, almost obsessive care, his gaze still fixed on Angus.

  "Potential threats. Minor fleet movements. Resource allocation disputes. These are matters for subordinates and scheduled briefings, Private. Why is this information deemed so critical that it necessitates disturbing my quarters?" His voice remained calm, but the underlying impatience was unmistakable, a dangerous current beneath a smooth surface.

  "My Lord," Angus swallowed, forcing himself to speak clearly, "it concerns… Dynasty Internal Security File AX-774. Ongoing surveillance related to the renegade Vantis."

  Aegil paused in his polishing, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "Vantis," he repeated, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. "My wayward little brother continues to be an irritation. What new pathetic defiance has he managed this time?"

  "Standard deep-spectrum scans were conducted over the Agon-Tor worldlet in the Vestian Reach, following residual energy signatures consistent with his vessel's passage," Angus recited, trying to keep his voice steady. "Initial reports were unremarkable. However, cross-referencing local constabulary enforcement logs flagged a minor incident."

  Aegil waved a dismissive hand, resuming his polishing. "Minor incidents are the purview of local governance, Private. Unless my brother incinerated their primary spaceport, I fail to see the urgency."

  "It wasn't Lord Vantis directly, my Lord," Angus pressed on, acutely aware that he was losing Aegil's interest. "The incident involved a local youth found possessing restricted historical texts – specifically, literature pertaining to unsanctioned mana resonances."

  Aegil sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "A farmer's boy reading forbidden books. Riveting. Explain, Private Tyvorr, before I have you reassigned to atmospheric discharge monitoring on Xirgoth VI, why this triviality justifies your presence here."

  This was it. Angus took a breath, tapping the data-slate to activate its display. "The constabulary report included a visual confirmation log, my Lord. Standard procedure for processing." He held the slate out, the image displayed brightly on its screen. "This is the youth in question."

  Aegil glanced at the slate dismissively, then stopped. His hand froze mid-polish. He slowly lowered the sword and cloth, his full attention snapping onto the image. He took the slate from Angus's trembling hand, his dark eyes scrutinizing the face displayed there – the unmistakable sunset-gold eyes, the coppery-blonde hair, the facial structure eerily echoing of Renmyr, and by extension, Aegil himself.

  "Furthermore, my Lord," Angus added quickly, sensing the shift in Aegil’s demeanor, "passive bio-scans conducted during the Constabulary encounter, cross-referenced with Vantis' known genetic markers from Dynasty archives, indicate a high probability… exceeding ninety-seven percent… of a direct familial link. Specifically, a probable paternal sibling."

  A long, tense silence filled the room. Aegil stared intently at the image on the slate, his expression unreadable. The faint aura around him seemed to flicker, darken. Then, slowly, unnervingly, a thin, cold smile spread across his lips. It wasn’t a smile of warmth or amusement. It was the smile of a predator sighting unexpected, vulnerable prey.

  "Agon-Tor," Aegil murmured, almost to himself. "Renmyr’s bastard." He looked up from the slate, his dark eyes gleaming with a sudden, avaricious light. He focused on Angus again, the earlier impatience gone, replaced by an unnerving affability. "Private Angus Tyvorr, you say?"

  "Y-yes, my Lord," Angus stammered.

  "Your diligence in recognizing the significance of this finding is... commendable," Aegil said, the smile widening slightly. "So rare to find initiative paired with competence in the lower ranks. What is your current unit assignment?"

  "Third Battalion, Internal Security Fleet Logistics, my Lord," Angus replied, bewildered by the sudden change.

  "Consider yourself reassigned. Effective immediately," Aegil declared, tapping commands rapidly onto a nearby console linked to the swirling plasma sphere. "Sergeant Tyvorr. You'll report directly to my personal adjutant for new duties."

  Angus stared, dumbfounded. Sergeant? Direct assignment? "My… my Lord, thank you! I…"

  "That will be all, Sergeant," Aegil cut him off smoothly, turning his attention back to the consoles, the image of Corym still displayed prominently. "You may leave." He paused, his back still to Angus. "And ensure Commander Alkyyr understands that while his instincts were correct this time, further deviations from established protocol will be met with... considerable displeasure."

  "Yes, my Lord! Thank you, my Lord!" Angus bowed hastily, backing towards the door, his mind reeling. He almost tripped over a rug in his haste.

  As Angus fumbled for the door release, Aegil spoke again, his voice distant, already focused elsewhere, addressing the ship’s communication network. "Helm Control. Prepare discrete deployment orders. Squadron Epsilon, consisting of the Feverlion and Cloudpike, with full complement of assault shuttles and boarding teams. Destination: Vestian Reach, target wordlet Agon-Tor." He glanced back at the image of Corym on the screen, his cold smile returning.

  The doors hissed shut behind Angus, leaving Aegil alone in his chambers with the swirling plasma, the chrome sword, and the holographic image of a face from his own bloodline, now marked as a target.