Chapter 4

Intara stands before the entrance of her home and leans in so that the dwelling detection system can give her a retinal scan. The thin white light emanates from the data screen on the wall beside the door and scans her eyes up and down before it chimes with approval. The seal door slides to the left, granting her access. Once she steps inside, it closes behind her.

Intara exhales heavily. "Atron," she says, greeting the kinetic interactive AI that is linked to the positronic core of the dwelling system.

"Welcome home, Intara."

She strolls through the open-floor lounge, the silver matt glazed walls and floors, ornamented with grey fixtures. She walks further until she stands in front of the expansive glass window that overlooks the entire Capital city.

A world divided in austere splits. Classed by the Limen. No matter how much the rollicking thoroughfares are entangled with races of different species. Everyone knows their place. All Kairfellians are classed.

Rank is what they are identified as.

Limen is what they belong to. 

Segregated by only three types of Limens: Aedis. Sedis. Houses.

Only ones that are born into the Bellatoris and belong to the military, belong to Houses. And only the top Houses in the whole of Kairfell are numerically ranked by their feats and distinctions.

House Niblian is ranked first. Notably known as House One.

And has persevered in their rank since the time of old.

"Atron, are there any transmissions from father?" 

Intara folds her arms across her chest and stares out of the window with a barren expression, devoid of hope but habit compels her. She asks, although she already knows.

"My apologies Intara, but there have been no recent transmissions."

Intara's gaze drifts to the floor and a dejected breath escapes her lips.

"Why would I need to send a transmission, when I can speak with my little warrior in the flesh?"

Her head snaps to the side. The Bellator Commander stands on the top of the wide three-step staircase. He's enveloped in the stately emerald colours of the Bellator, attired in his regal uniform with a golden broadsheet that ornates his chest. With the crest of the Bellatoris; an escutcheon, a shield bearing the coat of arms. His gleaming collar sheet, gilded epaulettes and military ornamentation showcase his prime rank in the Bellatoris.

The Commander descends the glazed steps, and his eyes never waver from her gaze. She jabs a strong forearm across her chest in a proud salute. He halts before Intara, admiring the widespread smile that illuminates her face. A soul-quenching, seraphic smile that renews his weary spirit.

"Commander Niblian." 

Simultaneously, Lescius and Intara beat a flattened hand on their chest three times before the palms of their hands meet. Lescius Niblian chuckles and engulfs his progeny in a bone-crushing embrace, arms locked around her sylphlike waist. Intara hugs him back desperately, uncertain if she will ever be able to let him go again.

"My beautiful, you look more and more like your mother with every cycle," Lescius says as his fingertips comb through the velour soft strands of her dark and long tresses.

"I have missed you so much," she whispers into his chest.

Lescius rests his cheek on top of her head. She eagerly soaks up the warm and loving embrace of her father, one that makes her forget, for just a moment, how arduous and cold the solar days have been without him.

"I have good news to share." He smiles, reluctantly untangling himself from her clinging limbs but keeping her at arms-length. His face is suffused with wonder, gazing into her eyes deeply. Pools of light sienna staring into a resplendent contradiction; her dusky orbs that represent every dark shade flecked with brighter hues that ring her pupils.

"Prior to your advent, I was speaking with an old friend of mine. General Akion of Kairfell's Umbraculum."

Intara's eyes enlarge and her mouth rounds with tangible shock. "The General?" 

Lescius scoffs and brushes her amazement off with a wave of his hand.

 "Before he was a General. General Ortis and I all shared a room in the plebe quarters in Naroha, cycles ago." He observes her with cautious optimism. "He has agreed to aid your conscription into the Umbraculum, in three cycles when you are of age." 

Guilt swells within her. It was her own fault since she chose to appease her father with a lie that she wants to join the Umbraculum. She tolerates the notion, befriending the idea all in the hopes to please him. A quiet yearning like a soundless flame, longing for her father to look at her in the same way he looks at her brother.

"Oh." Her smile wobbles and the light in her eyes dims. "I thank you, father," Intara says awkwardly. 

Lescius's smile wanes and he stares at her with a questioning look. "Are you not pleased?"

"Yes, of course." She fumbles out a laugh and it forces her smile to extend, but her father can see right through her smiling visage. Lescius arches his eyebrow at her and then he lifts his gaze up into the air dramatically.

"Atron, does she sound pleased to you?"

"Not even remotely, Commander."

Intara closes her eyes for a moment and drags out a weighted breath. She then peels her eyelids open, watching her father staring back at her, perplexed. She shrugs and breaks eye contact, tossing her gaze out of the window beside them. 

"Let me elaborate, then. I am pleased to finally be on Crux's level." Bottled resentment, long suppressed—tension that had once been a tightly coiled spring bursts forth, sending shards of pent-up anger and sorrow scattering. "I know that attending the Umbraculum is obligatory for our House. That is for the ones that do not enlist into the Bellatoris. Scarce disappointments like me."

Intara pivots sharply to observe the city. Soon her father's towering figure stands beside her. He clasps his hands behind his back, brooding briefly, indulging in the picturesque view with her.

His dark hair is neatly trimmed with an undercut that displays the daunting designs that appear as if they have been carved into the back and sides of his head. A visual declaration of rank and authority, underscoring the formidable title of the wearer.

"I wish you would stop comparing yourself to your brother," he says, forthright, glancing down at Intara who studiously avoids eye contact. "You are on no one's level but your own with the mind and mettle to forge your own destiny."

A flash of fury coerces her to say, "Then why do I feel like my destiny is shaped by the Niblian stigma? That because of what House Niblian symbolises, my destiny is already forged, and it has already been written." 

"Intara, that is not true. I—"

"No?" she interjects, "Your father was a General, you are a Commander and Crux is following that same path of being a soldier." The words stammer out, "A…a war legend!" She crosses her arms as if trying to contain her frustration.

 Lescius pushes out a drawn-out sigh. "We are not war legends, Intara. We are protectors. House Niblian is known for its valour in warfare, not because we are fearless, but because we know that our only limit is in our mind."

Lescius pauses for a thoughtful moment, and a wistful smile blossoms on his face. 

"We are Niblians, warriors by nature and fighters by instinct. It is in our blood and it is who we are. It is who you are, and you might not see it now, but you will." He gazes down at his progeny, trying so hard to hide her emotions and mask her worry behind a stoic expression. The edge of her cheeks crinkled, but her eyes betray her truth.

"But I sense that there is more to your outburst than the concern for your future." 

Finally, she looks up at him with glossy eyes. "I was so worried that you would not return. The reports endlessly rave that the attacks are only worsening and I—" her voice breaks.

Lescius stretches out his arm and wraps it around her shoulder, reeling her into a side hug and giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Why should we fear?" he begins and purposefully trails off to allow her to complete a known Niblian mantra.

"When death fears us," she mumbles. 

"I only wish that your mother could have been here to witness her two progenies grow into the great warriors that you are, a greatness that I know will change the worlds."

She and her father remain as they are for a few comfortable moments longer, beholding the Capital city. Her eyes wander over the dazzling skyline, lingering on the steel horizon.