Almost regretting taking a walk through his Neptura that he had spent so long building up, Marcus made his way to a luxury residential district reserved for high officials. This was where Valen’s private residence was.

  A stark, blocky militaristic style dominated the grey, monolithic buildings around here. Nestled between towering habitat-complexes, Valen’s private residence was less an estate and more a fortress. Its exterior unadorned and uniform. A single strip of fluorescent light flickered above the doorway.

  Marcus approached the entrance, letting the door scan his ID. With a soft beep, it hissed open.

  Inside, the room was characteristically basic. A few medals were displayed in a glass case by one of the grey, steel walls; a ceremonial general’s sword hung on another, it’s hilt some kind of black stone, with a decorated golden pommel and hand guards in the shape of an eagle’s wings. The blade was impressive, too. The steel a polished mirror sheen, ingrained with subtle, shimmering elegant patterns. The edges of the blade glowed a cold blue as though a live current of electricity flowed around the sharp edge.

  Valen walked into the hall, wearing a standard grey tunic and trousers, raising a brow. His once glittering uniform, lit with honours and decorations and the insignia of his station, was now stripped bare. He looked smaller than before, diminished, yet his eyes were no warmer. “Your excellency… welcome. Forgive me, you look rather underdressed.”

  “I’ve never been one for pomp, Valen,” he lied. But he liked playing the part of some humble samaritan. Always plays well to look humble. “Seems you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

  Valen looked around his room, shrugging. “It’s nice. I prefer the walls of a starship, with the music of cannon fire to drown out my thoughts.”

  “You can have it,” Marcus replied. “I never asked you to retire from the military. Only politics.”

  The clone sighed. “We can skip the pleasantries, your excellency. Come on into the living area. I’m sure you're tired from your walk here,” he added with a hint of sarcasm in an almost insulting tone.

  Valen took him into a humble but cosy living area. Hover furniture floated slightly above the ground, and a table laden with fruit and drinks laid before him.

  “Lorqa juice or wine?” Valen said, grabbing two small, decoratively carved glasses.

  “Wine, please,” Marcus said, and the clone poured him some. Valen sat opposite to him in a spherical chair lined with soft lilac cushions. “I noticed you weren’t at the Stellar Colony Initative’s conference? It was quite a buzz. I had hoped to speak to you there.”

  “Oh, my eyes and ears were there,” Valen quipped. “Only I was not.”

  Marcus chuckled. “So I don’t need to brief you on what went on then? You should have come. The buffet was delicious. And I’ve never sailed on such a fine yacht before.”

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  “Have you not?” Valen leaned back, raising his glass to his lips, unbothered. “Basic wave manipulation technology, it’s nothing fancy. Though you do keep claiming you came from some distant, primitive planet, so maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise that such things amuse you.”

  His lip twitched. He talks to me with an awfully callous tone, this general. He may not have been wholly accepting of Marcus’s role as Grand Archon, but Marcus still demanded the respect which such a position demanded of his subordinates.

  “In any case,” Valen continued, placing his glass down. “I saw no need to be there. I am an exile, after all. And I can’t stand all that pomp.”

  Marcus raised a brow. “You’re still my special advisor, are you not? That was our agreement.”

  “Oh, that? Yes.” Valen shrugged. “I know you talked of some primitive xeno race you’ve discovered, and it seems you came to your conclusions perfectly fine without me. I’m not sure I’ve been consulted on anything since you banished me, come to think of it.” His face remained stern.

  Marcus exhaled, swirling the wine in his glass. “I never banished you, Valen. If you feel like an exile, that’s of your own choosing. You still have free access to the command complex as and when you please.”

  The clone faintly smirked, nursing his drink. “Ah, yes. Stripped of my rank, my command, my station. Forced to linger on the world I helped build like a relic of a past regime.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “But no, not an exile. Merely… forgotten.”

  Marcus frowned. “You’re not forgotten.”

  “No?” Valen leaned forward, his voice quieter but sharper. “Then tell me, Grand Archon, when was the last time my counsel shaped one of your decisions?”

  An awkward silence stretched between them.

  Marcus sat back, deciding not to take the bait. “I like to trust my own judgment.”

  “You do. That’s the problem.” The clone’s gaze was piercing, studying him like a strategist sizing up his maps. No defiance in his voice, no obvious disrespect, but nor was there deference. It was something else. Something calculated.

  What are you thinking in that little head of yours, Valen?

  “Don’t mistake me, your excellency,” Valen continued. “You are the Grand Archon, I am merely your humble servant. Your people obey you. And I…” He chuckled, spreading his hands. “I just watch.”

  Marcus bristled. Valen’s words unsettled him perhaps more than they should have. “And what do you see?”

  He tilted his head for a moment, quiet. “A leader whose will shapes an empire. A future wrought of fire and death.”

  There was something in the way he said it, something chilling enough to send a shiver across Marcus’s skin. He wasn’t sure if that comment was meant as praise or as a warning.

  Marcus finished his wine. “I didn’t come here for riddles, Valen. Funnily enough, I just wanted to check in. Just to remind you that your service is still valued.” And to make sure you’re not a threat.

  The clone studied him for a long moment before offering a slow nod. “Then I’ll remember that.”

  Marcus stood, smoothing out his plain overcoat. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, then.”

  “I will,” Valen muttered, standing. “It’s been enlightening, your excellency.” He bowed his head.

  As Marcus walked toward the exit, he felt Valen’s gaze lingering on him, watching. He didn’t need to look back to know that the conversation had changed nothing. He’s not broken or beaten. He still hates me. And he still had influence in the higher military circles. Those words he said. ‘My eyes and ears were still there…’ He was not isolated.

  And that’s the problem.

  The door hissed open, and Marcus walked out into the cold Nepturan night. The towering spires of his perfect, obedient city rose around him.