Chapter Fifty-One

Milton sat at his desk in the Administrative Archives, a cavernous hall lined with sleek consoles and holographic displays. The hum of machines filled the space, faint and constant, like white noise meant to drown out thought. The ceiling lights shone too brightly, casting shadows so crisp they felt unnatural. He leaned forward, scrolling through endless lines of reports. The data washed over him—requests for construction permits in Londonium, trade projections, reports on the cultural integration of the new Lhazareen refugees.

He stared at the screen, but his mind drifted back to that day—the day everything was taken from him. He was just a boy when the Seeker soldiers came, unstoppable and remorseless, killing every adult and dragging him and the other children away from the only world they had known.

The air in the facility had reeked of disinfectant, cold and sharp in his nose. He remembered how it clung to his skin, making him itch in places he couldn't scratch. He learned quickly to suppress those urges. "Clean and still," the doctors said. "Stillness is a virtue in Eden." At first, he fought, kicking and screaming. But the ones who fought didn't last long. The real punishment was quiet. No beatings. Just isolation. A room so silent you could hear your own heartbeat, your breath becoming your enemy in the stillness. After days—or weeks?—they would bring you out, and the doctors would smile again, offering rewards for good behavior. Milton learned. He pretended the lessons were taking root. He pretended until they believed him.

The others weren't so lucky. Some of the children became their new identities completely, as if they had never known anything else. Others broke. Milton still remembered a girl named Esha, who refused to speak the Edenite language. One day, she disappeared. No one ever mentioned her again. He never forgot the hollow feeling in his chest when he realized that they wouldn't even mourn her. In Eden, there was no mourning. Only forgetting.

He glanced around the office now, the faces of his coworkers hidden behind sleek, glowing screens. They worked efficiently, silently, like clockwork mechanisms. No conversations. No personal touches. Everyone was content, as they were supposed to be. It was hard to tell whether the contentment was real or just another performance—one they all had perfected through habit. The younger workers, in particular, were perfect. Not a crack in the mask. They smiled on cue, exchanged polite greetings, and offered meaningless condolences if the situation called for it. But their eyes were always empty. They didn't know what they were supposed to feel, so they felt nothing.

Milton's console chimed softly. "Lunch break in five minutes," the automated system announced. The message repeated every day at the same time. It was impossible to forget.

He stood up, smoothing down his gray uniform. He shared the break room with half a dozen colleagues, all seated at identical tables, eating neatly portioned meals. He grabbed a nutrient pack from the dispenser and sat in silence, observing the others out of the corner of his eye.

To his left sat Camille, a young analyst who specialized in trade logistics. She always smiled, her perfectly symmetrical face glowing with health, thanks to Eden's mandatory genetic enhancements. She noticed Milton looking and gave him a bright, empty smile.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" she said, as if reading from a script.

Milton returned the smile, his lips curling upward in what he hoped was the right amount of warmth. "Perfect," he replied.

Camille nodded. "Did you see the news about Londonium? They're already ahead of schedule. We might even finish before the celebration." Her voice was light, enthusiastic—but forced, as though enthusiasm were an assignment. Milton had seen real excitement before, back when he was Drogo, when warriors boasted of their victories by the fire. This was something else entirely—an imitation so precise it was unsettling.

"That's impressive," Milton said, unwrapping his nutrient pack. He forced himself to chew slowly, methodically. Eating was another chore in Eden, a routine to be followed.

Across the room, a young intern named Eren was laughing with two others. His laugh was loud, but too polished—a rehearsed sound meant to fill the air without meaning.

Eren glanced at Milton and flashed a grin. "Have you heard about the new Soma blend? They say it helps you focus and relax at the same time."

Milton nodded politely, as was expected. "I'll have to try it."

Eren leaned forward, his smile widening. "They're giving it out for free at the Cultural Hall tonight. You should come. It'll be fun."

Fun. Another word that had lost all meaning in Eden. Milton gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe. If I have time."

Eren chuckled, as if they were sharing a private joke. "You've always got time, Milton. We all do."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their truth. In Eden, time was infinite, and yet, it meant nothing.

---

Later that evening, Milton sat alone in his apartment, staring out the window at the glowing sprawl of the city. The lights of Eden spread out beneath him, shimmering like stars in a night sky devoid of constellations. It was beautiful. It was horrifying.

His console pinged—a new message from the Department of Cultural Integration. He knew what it would say before he even opened it. The Dothraki Integration Program was beginning. They would call it a humanitarian effort, a mission of mercy. But Milton knew better. It was a death sentence, not for bodies but for souls. The Dothraki would be taken, just as he had been, and remade into something unrecognizable. They would be given new names, new identities. They would forget who they were.

And the worst part was that they would thank Eden for it.

He closed the message and leaned back in his chair, exhaustion washing over him. There was nothing he could do. He was just a clerk, a cog in the great machine of Eden's progress. And even if he tried to resist, no one would care. In Eden, resistance was impossible. There were no rebellions here, no uprisings. Just the quiet, inevitable march of perfection.

He reached for the Soma bottle on his nightstand and stared at it for a long moment. His hand hovered over it, trembling slightly. He didn't want to take it. He wanted to feel—anything, even if it hurt. But the ache in his chest was unbearable, and the silence of the city pressed down on him like a weight.

With a sigh, he unscrewed the cap and swallowed a pill. The numbness crept in almost instantly, smoothing out the jagged edges of his thoughts.

He stared out at the city again, his vision blurring slightly as the drug took hold. Somewhere far away, Londonium was rising. Soon, the Dothraki plains would follow. And there was nothing he could do but watch.

Milton Draxon was all that remained. And even he was starting to disappear.