Sons of Quintaether

In an ancient equilibrium of power, born from the ashes of a forgotten time, rested the Royal Guilds of Arcanum. Weaving their secrets with cybernetic marvels, they hoarded their wealth and enhanced themselves in palatial fortresses that pierced the sky, towering thousands of meters over the commons—the monstrous reliquaries of the means to their inexorable might. Their dance of power was as inescapable to them as it was to their subjects, and the brooding feuds of royalty rarely descended into bloodshed—events significant not even by the measure of those sacrificed in pursuit of futile ambition.

Amidst this dance of stalemated power, the Supreme Chancellor of Guild Quintaether, an unrelenting autocrat of towering intellect, brooded in discontent. His sons, the heirs to his vast empire, had become a source of deep disappointment for him. He had lavished upon them the zenith of his guild's achievements—augmentations that melded the Quintaether arcanum with cybernetic prowess, RNA smithing that had honed their strength and physical form, and cellular enhancements that fortified their bodies against the ravages of time and disease. Yet, his two eldest sons had descended into hedonism and vanished from his view.

The youngest, still tethered to his father's side, was a stark contrast to his brothers. His unapologetic empathy for small and meaningless things was a source of continual irritation for the Supreme Chancellor, yet his grasp of the intricacies of guild politics was astute and undeniable. Fed up with his sons, the Supreme Chancellor tasked his youngest to deliver a grave ultimatum to his prodigal brothers—contribute to Guild Quintaether something worthy of their position, or face a summoning of the Quintaether arcanum that would crack their implants, crippling them forever. The threat was merciless, and the youngest son, now fearing for his own well-being, embarked on a search to find his brothers.

When he finally discovered them, they were in a lavish penthouse nestled in the heart of an affluent enclave of the sprawling technolite commons—the urban expanses that bridged the palace fortresses of the guilds. Here, amidst the undistinguished masses, the brothers had found a sanctuary of excess. The penthouse owners, though wealthy by common standards and accustomed to luxury, were oblivious to what designs would cause a pair of guild princes to stay in their establishment, yet the ceaseless flow of wealth was a welcome boon to their already elevated position among the technolites.

Upon encountering his siblings, the youngest was met with their scorn. Immersed in self-indulgence, they mocked his concern for the inconsequential. “How will you take what is rightfully yours when you care for the meaningless?” they sneered. Yet, their derision faded to solemnity as he relayed their father's ultimatum, and the necessity to reaffirm their worth settled upon them—the threat to their augmented prowess a stark and sobering reality.

To redeem themselves in the eyes of their father, they would need to orchestrate a feat of significant magnitude, and though the brothers wielded power akin to little gods on Earth, they could not just brazenly plunder the commons. The sprawling urban lands of the technolites, teeming with wonders of technology and arcanum, were not just home to the masses, but also the backbone of the guilds’ economic might—home to the consumers of their products. The ancient codification of power between the guilds, written within the very fabric of their world, afforded the commons some protection.

The other guilds, similarly, would be of little use. At best, princes of a foreign guild arriving to beg for assistance in appeasing their enraged Supreme Chancellor would be met with scornful humor; at worst, it would be perceived as some inept attempt at espionage, or even an insulting joke. Proper royal decorum simply did not allow for such displays of desperation. For the brothers, there was no clear path to redemption.

They set off through the dense tapestry of the commons. As they traveled, they fine-tuned their augmented senses, desperate to detect any whispers of opportunity. Yet, their presence among the technolites was as subtle as the palatial fortress from whence they came. Their noble lineage was an unspoken proclamation, turning heads and silencing chatter wherever they went. Conversations ceased, replaced by hushed whispers and covert telepathic exchanges, as the technolites watched the trio with a mix of awe and apprehension. The fruitless search persisted, yielding nothing for the brothers but the echoes of their own royal spectacle.

Yet notably, one day, traveling alone in a wealthy enclave of the technolites, they stumbled upon something seemingly out of place—a small, unattended cache of honey arcane. The rare substance, a nectar of otherworldly origin, was a prized commodity of great value, a trophy to be paraded among the royal courts of the guilds, or gifted as an heirloom at a royal wedding. The cache was unattended but not unguarded, surrounded by a swarm of bee sprites—creatures birthed in augmented reality, then gifted power to interact with the physical through imbuement with small amounts of honey arcane. It was a formidable defense for a technolite, but no match for a prince of the guilds.

Though valuable, a cache of this size would amount to little more than a rare artifact of intrigue in the royal courts, trivial in its actual power, but the brothers were frustrated. The eldest, eyes glinting at the sight of the rare substance, showed no hesitation.

“Let's take it,” he declared, impunity driving his judgment. “It's a rare find, and Father could make use of it at Quintaether.” The middle brother nodded in agreement, and together they moved towards the cache, unmindful of any moral quandary in their actions.

A metallic hum emanating from the bee sprites swelled into a piercing alarm. Their collective form expanded into a shimmering barrier between the cache and the brothers. Despite their virtual nature, these sprites recognized the futility of their stand against such mighty adversaries. Nonetheless, bound by duty, they would defend the cache, even at the cost of their own existence.

“No!” The youngest brother's protest cut through the air. “This is of no consequence to us.”

His words were brushed off with a laugh from his siblings, who continued their advance undeterred. But the youngest would not be so easily dismissed. He quickly positioned himself between his brothers and the bee sprites. A blue glow of Quintaether arcanum began emanating from his core, and he transformed before their eyes. Wings, majestic and shimmering, unfurled from his back, casting a shadow over his brothers. His hands summoned spheres of lightning that arced and crackled as he began levitating off the ground. His voice, now modulated with square-wave timbre, boomed with deep ferocity.

“I will not let you kill these sprites to bandage your wounded pride, brothers! This is a tiny cache. Father will not be impressed!”

The elder brothers halted. They harbored a latent disdain for their younger sibling, but they were bound by blood, and they were neither naive to the power he wielded. A fight with him would not be so straightforward. More than that, though, beyond the surface of their egos—though they would never openly admit it—there was a silent acknowledgment: he was right. The prize was inconsequential, their father would be very unimpressed, and their actions were nothing more than a petty attempt to soothe the stinging of their bruised pride.

The elder brothers relented, and the three moved on from the cache of honey arcane. As they walked away, the youngest received a subtle message in his mind, conveyed in silent text: “We can help you.” Looking back, he noticed the queen of the bee sprites, her figure slightly apart from the rest, her gaze locked on him.

Their journey through the commons gradually took them from the opulence of the wealthier districts to the sprawling slums. Here, their god-like presence was as terrifying as it was confusing, met only with fear and silence by the impoverished technolites. Slinking into the shadows at the brothers’ approach, they would whisper to each other in hushed tones, “What are they doing here?”—the perennial question.

“Nothing good,” the obvious answer.

The squalor of the poor districts was intolerable to the elder brothers, who would voice their displeasure in petulant outbursts towards the proprietors of humble establishments they entered. The poor technolites would mask their terror with strained courtesies, their relief palpable when the brothers finally departed. As an act of compassion, the youngest brother would silently transfer substantial tips as the trio departed—compensation for the trauma.

It was the youngest brother who had insisted upon exploring the slums, arguing that their father's demand might find answers in unexpected places. He had believed that overlooking the poor might be a misstep in their search, but now he questioned his own advice, as it seemed even more pointless to be searching for opportunity in the slums.

It was in one of the dilapidated establishments, though, that the brothers synced with the local data stream, merging their consciousness with the virtual overlay that coexisted with the physical space. Here, they stumbled upon another peculiar sight—a data pool, serene and untouched, guarded by sentries disguised as ducks swimming on its surface. But these were no ordinary sentries—each bore a trace of honey arcane, so minute that it was almost imperceptible. The elder brothers, ever preoccupied with self-congratulation, failed to notice it. However, the youngest, keenly observant, recognized the faint arcane sweetness. He guessed that one of the contributors to the pool had a tiny heritage of honey arcane and had used it here to make collective assets more well defended.

When his elder siblings moved to wipe the sentries away and plunder the data pool, the youngest once again intervened. “This is likely a collective effort by a local community,” he reasoned. “A pool of resources, barely fortified. It is not worth our time.” His brothers acknowledged his logic and relented more easily this time. As the trio moved away from the data pool, the youngest glanced back, and in a moment of eerie synchronicity, all the duck sentries were facing him, their digital eyes locked on him.

Weighted down by weeks of fruitless searching, the princes decided to leave the slums, their presence having only spread fear that further stifled an already trickling flow of information. They set their sights on another affluent area of the technolite commons, hoping for better fortune amidst the more well-heeled populace.

As weeks turned into months, a sense of defeat pervaded their spirits, and the youngest brother was increasingly weary of keeping his despotic elder brothers in check. The collective frustration simmered, a constant undercurrent in their interactions.

It was in this state of shared despondency that they stumbled upon an extraordinary scene. In the midst of a meticulously maintained field, a pile of shattered data crystals, about two meters in height, drew their attention. The pile was being assembled by a swarm of robotic ants. The youngest brother, with his acute perceptiveness, again noticed a faint imbuement of honey arcane within these mechanical insects.

The presence of honey arcane yet again, here in the technolite commons, was baffling. While not unheard of in the opulent halls of the guilds, its occurrence was rare enough to be a marvel. The youngest brother had rationalized its appearance among the wealthiest technolites, but encountering it three times in their months-long odyssey through the commons struck him as beyond the realm of chance.

As the brothers approached this peculiar sight, the ants ceased their work. One ant, breaking from the rest, approached them with an unexpected greeting, “Your reputations precede you, princelings…”

“Did you just call me a princeling?” the middle brother snapped, bristling at the term. “You insolent little…”

“Quiet!” snapped the youngest. “Spare us your petty indignity, brother.” He then returned his attention to the ant. “Continue,” he said.

Now addressing only the youngest, the ant delivered a cryptic message, “You should head off-world, to Cybele.”

The simplicity of the statement left the brothers momentarily speechless. “Is that it?” the youngest finally asked.

“Yes,” the ant confirmed, before rejoining its companions, who resumed their diligent work as if nothing had happened.

“Off-world to Cybele?” pondered the eldest, breaking the silence that followed. “We'll need a ship for that.”

The middle brother, eager to leave the technolite commons, suggested, “Let's return to Quintaether and procure one of Father's ships. Something fast and luxuriant.”

But the eldest brother, displaying a moment of prudence, abruptly countered, “If we return to father now, without anything to show for ourselves, and beg him for a ship, he may just smite our implants right there, and set us toiling in the imbuement chambers as a lesson in respect to future heirs.”

A smile of amusement crept across the youngest brother's face. His eldest sibling was occasionally germane.

“There’s a spaceport about 300 kilometers south,” the eldest brother added after a moment. “It should have vessels capable of such a journey. We should make for there.”

As they turned to leave, the youngest brother received another subtle message in his mind, once again as text: “We can help you.” Glancing back, he noticed that while the other ants busied themselves with their tasks, the one that had spoken to him remained still, its gaze fixed on him.

Upon reaching the spaceport, the princes found an adequate ship with relative ease. The captain, a seasoned navigator whose age was obscured by the benefits of advanced means, was visibly surprised at the approach of three guild heirs, not at first fathoming why such as they would be interested in a ship such as his. When they disclosed their intended destination, his eyes widened and his eyebrows raised.

“Honored ones,” he said, his tone marked by a respectful wariness, “I fear questioning your judgment, but are you certain about traveling to Cybele? It's widely known that none who venture there return, and that is not mere folklore.”

The middle brother looked at the eldest, a trace of anxiety flickering in his eyes, but the eldest remained unfazed.

It was the youngest who responded, though. “Yes, that is our destination.”

Though he hid it well, the captain felt extreme misfortune at being commandeered by what he believed must be adventure-seeking princes, who, due to their extreme power and privilege, had never learned a sense of fear. They were conscripting him, he figured, because the Supreme Chancellor of their guild, who was likely their mother or father, would never allow them to take one of the guild spacecraft on an errand so ill-advised.

Despite these feelings, the captain, adhering to long-established conventions, set forth reasonable conditions for his servitude.

“Noble travelers,” he said, “the journey to Cybele is long. I will need ample fuel, provisions for you and my crew, and, considering the perilous nature of our destination, substantial compensation.” The brothers agreed to his terms without hesitation, and paid him upfront.

The journey to Cybele stretched on, marked by an awkward feeling that hung heavily within the confines of the ship. The crew, oblivious to their true destination, steered clear of the princes, which proved not difficult, as the princes mostly stayed in an area of the ship that had been cleared out for them. The captain, keen to maintain morale and prevent panic, had wisely chosen not to disclose their ominous endpoint, allowing his crew to bask in the fleeting joy of their newfound wealth. He was pretty sure they were not going to live long enough to spend it.

When they finally reached their destination, and the ship was commencing its final descent onto Cybele, a fleeting sensation brushed against the youngest brother's consciousness. It was a touch laced with sweetness, a flavor perceived without taste, a realization reminiscent of the lucid clarity of dreams. In that instant, he realized that a hex had been cast upon him, an enchantment laced with inexorable effects birthed within the honey arcane. He noticed a subtle shift in his eldest brother's demeanor, an indication that he too had perceived this arcane intrusion.

The landing was unexpectedly harsh, jarring the brothers in their chambers. The cause of the rough touchdown was soon apparent—the crew was immobilized, suspended in a state that was neither of ice nor of stone, but rather as if time itself had ensnared them in perpetual stillness. Yet, mysteriously, this temporal stasis had spared the princes. Accessing the ship's computer revealed that Cybele's surface conditions were unexpectedly benign—a gravitational pull of 1g and an atmosphere conducive to normal respiration. Upon learning this, the brothers exchanged surprised glances. Though unexpected, they accepted this anomaly with a sense of resigned belief—not outside the realm of possibility in the world of technology and arcanum. Stepping through the airlock doors, they found themselves on the dark, desolate surface of Cybele.

The ship's computer relayed further information: a large structure, reminiscent of a guild palace, loomed about 6 kilometers away at their eleven-o'clock position, set against the backdrop of massive cliffs. The trio, with a deep sense of foreboding but driven by the realization that there was no turning back, ventured towards the indicated location.

As they neared the structure, its resemblance to the familiar palace fortresses of Earth became unmistakably clear. Although it was not as vast as those on their home planet, the palace still towered an impressive thousand meters over the surface of Cybele—the ghostly stillness of abandonment enveloping its lifeless edifice.

As they approached the courtyard, expansive and desolate, they came upon a chilling sight—scattered throughout were figures, frozen in time just like their ship's crew. However, these were not technolite commoners; they bore the distinct features of royal guild bloodlines. Similar to the brothers, these individuals hailed from the guilds, a fact that caused the elder brothers to exchange worried glances. By the time they approached the towering, arched doors of the palace, a sense of solemnity had consumed the trio.

Without any visible prompt, the massive double doors began to open, to welcome—or perhaps ensnare—the brothers within the palace.

Standing just inside was an augmentation of a man—appearing to be real, but only a projection.

“Well,” it began in a tone that hinted of mild surprise, “it has been a long time since anyone has come here.”

“Who are you?” the youngest brother asked.

The augmentation responded with a tinge of irony and pomp, “Is that how it is? Demanding identities upon entering a domain that is not your own?”

The elder brothers exchanged glances, their concern deepening at this encounter. Rhetorical question left unanswered, the augmentation continued, “Regardless, my identity is of little consequence. I am an AI, left as a custodian to inform you about your circumstance.”

“And what is our circumstance?” inquired the youngest, dryly.

“Well,” the AI admitted, “it is dire, but there is no secret about what you must do; there is no riddle to solve here. Those,” he gestured towards the numerous figures frozen in the courtyard, “are the ones who have tried before you.”

A silent understanding settled on the brothers; they were now bound by the same hex that had ensnared so many before them.

“However,” the AI continued, “we shall begin addressing that matter tomorrow. For tonight, you are invited to partake in a feast befitting your royal heritage, and to rest in chambers reserved for nobility within this palace.”

Guided by the AI, the brothers traversed the gilded hallways of the palace, passing through the dim silence of an abandoned grand throne room and ornate royal court, until they reached a dining hall that seemed to defy the desolation of the palace surrounding it. A lavish banquet was spread before them on a long table, flanked by tall, luxurious chairs. The feast was comparable to the finest their father had ever hosted, with sumptuous dishes and robust wine that tantalized their senses. The weight of their quest lifted, and they found themselves reveling in the moment, indulging in the unexpected attention paid to their accommodations. They temporarily forgot their worries, and for the first time in months, they actually enjoyed themselves.

As the night deepened, their merriment gave way to weariness, and the AI escorted them to their chambers. The beds they found were as fine as any in the palace fortress of Quintaether, and their slumber more restful than any they had known for months.

Awakening refreshed the next morning, the brothers were met once again by the AI, there to inform them of the end of their brief respite. “Now,” it announced, “we begin.”

Leading them outside, the AI brought them to a vast, long-dead garden, spanning roughly a kilometer squared—a vision of faded glory. “One at a time,” the AI instructed. And turning to the eldest brother, said, “You first. Within this garden lie ten thousand fragments of a shattered crystal. Your task is to find every piece. You have eight hours.”

The eldest brother's face grew a shade paler, and he stepped into the garden as he embarked on the seemingly insurmountable task. Eight hours later, his efforts had yielded only 100 pieces. When the AI reappeared and saw that the eldest brother had not completed the task, a sphere of golden light enveloped the brother, and an instant later, he was frozen in time in the palace courtyard among the others who had tried before him, while the crystal fragments he had gathered were scattered once again into the garden.

“You are next,” the AI stated to the middle brother, “but we shall begin again tomorrow.”

That evening, the banquet was as sumptuous as before, the wine just as exquisite, but the atmosphere had shifted. A somber cloud hung over the brothers, particularly the middle one, who pondered aloud, “Why treat us like royalty if we are already hexed, only to be presented with an impossible task, and then frozen in time forever for failing?”

The youngest brother replied discerningly, “Whoever wove this hex, despite the harsh consequence to us, still had respect for the codes of royal conduct, that’s all. We are allowed to approach the royal court solely due to our bloodline. Our treatment as honored guests is a matter of proper protocol. In our case, the eldest is granted the first attempt at the challenge due to seniority, then you, and lastly me. It’s simply a matter of decorum.”

The middle brother scoffed a little, and with a hint of cynicism replied, “Well, I must concede—the food is unsurpassed, the wine among the finest I’ve had, and the accommodations unparalleled. At least we are afforded our dignity in our final moments.”

The youngest brother shrugged in response. They touched their glasses together in a gesture of resigned solidarity and drank the exquisite wine.

The next day, the middle brother took his turn. Despite his determination, the vastness of the garden and the sheer number of shards proved an insurmountable challenge. Eight hours of searching culminated in a few final moments of despair. When the AI appeared to mark the end of his time, he was kneeling, defeated and sobbing, among the dead flora. Having found only a handful of shards, he was enveloped in golden light and transported to the courtyard to join his elder brother in frozen vigil, as the shards he had collected were once again scattered.

The following day, the AI guided the youngest brother to the garden and promptly vanished, leaving him alone at the opening to the vast, once-lush Eden. Confronted with the enormity of the garden, he couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the task. He was trying to decide if he should seriously try to find the data shards, or if he should spend his few remaining hours exploring what this garden had once been, when a presence came into his mind. It was not in speaking, but in feeling that he understood its intention.

“We can help you.”

The intent came into his mind with the faint sweetness of honey arcane. He was now tainted with it because of the hex, and a presence within it now communicated an offer of assistance.

“We can sense the shards; we need your power.”

With limited options, the youngest brother decided to yield to the presence, granting it access to his implants. Almost immediately, a golden ball of light, about 5 centimeters in diameter, appeared in front of his face. As it vanished, almost as quickly as it had appeared, a robotic ant dropped out of it. Then, another appeared, and another. A few seconds later, there were dozens of golden balls of light appearing in front of him, vanishing, and dropping robotic ants onto the ground. In a matter of minutes, there were thousands of ants, each setting off in a different direction to scour the garden for shards of the shattered crystal. And in a matter of hours, the task was complete.

When the final shard was returned to the rest, the crystal spontaneously reassembled itself, whole but still broken, bearing the scars of its fragmentation. The youngest brother immediately recognized what it was—a data crystal.

When the AI returned at the end of the eight-hour period, the youngest brother presented it with the reassembled crystal. The AI tilted its head and raised an eyebrow in a gesture of surprise.

“Well,” it remarked, “as I said, there is no riddle to be solved here. The task is completed. Very good, I will show you the next task.”

With the reassembled but fractured crystal in hand, the youngest brother followed the AI away from the garden and into the depths of the palace. Their path wound down, through the once-bustling underbelly of the abandoned guild's stronghold: past sprawling kitchens, deserted servant quarters, abandoned factories, and vast imbuement chambers—all relics of a bygone era of grandeur and industry, now dark and lifeless. The deeper they delved, the more palpable the stillness of the long-forgotten guild became, the more each step seemed to echo through a silence unbroken for centuries, and still they went deeper.

Finally, down a long staircase, they reached the dark soil of Cybele itself. Here, in a cavernous space far beneath the palace, the AI led him to a deep pool of clear water, about 10 meters across. Completely covering its surface were five wheels of golden energy, layered horizontally on top of one another, each spinning in the opposite direction of its neighbors. The wheels were formed from webs of luminous threads, moving in a mesmerizing dance, creating transient gaps that would occasionally align between two of the wheels.

“A key to your crystal lies at the bottom of this pool,” the AI disclosed, its voice disembodied, seeming to echo through the silence. “You must retrieve it. You have two hours.” With those words, the AI vanished, leaving the youngest brother to contemplate yet another seemingly impossible challenge.

Standing before the pool, the youngest brother experienced a momentary surge of irritation at the contrivance of the task. It seemed childlike in its design to him, reminiscent of a puzzle meant for a game. Yet, this moment of annoyance was swiftly overtaken by the stark reality of his predicament—he had barely completed one impossible task only to be faced with another. Despite his vast array of powers, breathing underwater was not among them. Even if he could somehow navigate the transient gaps of the wheels, the pool was so deep that he could not see the bottom.

The dancing threads of arcane energy making up the wheels appeared dangerous. To test this, the youngest brother scoured the area around the pool and found a rock-like object in the dusty soil of Cybele. He threw it into one of the larger gaps as it opened in the top wheel, observing with a mix of relief and curiosity as the object, upon being encased by the threads as the gap closed, was harmlessly ejected back onto the ground. Well, he thought, at least I am not being shredded if I choose the wrong opening.

At that moment, the youngest brother felt another presence touch his mind, once again feeling its intentions rather than hearing its words.

“We can make this dive. Allow us to enter your environment.”

With little hesitation, he once again acquiesced to the presence, granting it access to his implants. Suddenly, twelve sentry ducks—the same that had guarded the VR data pool in the slums—appeared around the pool's edge as augmented entities. The tiny hint of honey arcane, imbued into these virtual beings at their creation, had endowed in them the ability to interact with the physical world. They stationed themselves evenly around the pool, their gaze fixed intently on the top wheel. The number of gaps in the wheel that opened at any given time appeared to be sporadic—two, eight, three. There was no discernible pattern, yet the ducks remained vigilant.

Suddenly, after minutes of waiting, twelve gaps simultaneously opened in the top wheel. In perfect unison, each duck leapt into a separate opening. As the threads closed on the first wheel, three ducks were ejected, while nine were pushed down into the second layer. This pattern repeated, with fewer ducks advancing at each wheel, until finally, a single duck penetrated the final layer and began its descent into the pool's depths. It dove deep, beyond the youngest brother’s sight.

After a tense period that seemed unduly long, the duck reappeared, swimming up with a slender, translucent, cylindrical object in its beak. When the duck emerged again from the pool, it placed the object in the youngest brother’s hand, and he once again recognized what it was—a hardware key for his data crystal.

When the AI returned and saw that the youngest brother was holding the key, it again raised an eyebrow. “The second task is complete. Very good,” it acknowledged. “Now, come. I will show you the next task.”

Guided by the AI, the youngest brother ascended from the depths beneath the palace, passing through the now-familiar ghostly grandeur of the throne room and royal court. Their journey led them upwards, beyond the banquet hall and guest chambers, high into the upper echelons of the palace. There, in a vast chamber, a surreal scene was presented. Lying on one-meter-tall pedestals, clad in flowing white gowns, with dark skin, long features, and silky, shining black hair draped tastefully over the pedestal sides, lay hundreds of apparently identical copies of a woman. Not just any woman—she was royalty, an heiress of this forgotten guild. Her hands were clasped over her midsection, a presentation that had been prepared with love, and she looked beautiful.

“The task,” the AI began, “is to find the true bloodline among these replicas. She alone has honey arcane placed within her mouth. You must identify her and kiss her. You have only one chance.” And with that, the AI again disappeared, leaving the youngest brother before a sea of indistinguishable replicas, obscuring, somewhere in their midst, the true heiress of this guild.

As he walked between the rows, each presentation appeared as lifelike as the next, their closed mouths giving no hint of a possible arcane substance within. Presented again with a task allowing little to no chance of success, he was not surprised this time when an external consciousness again touched his mind.

“I can detect the faintest hints of honey arcane. Let me help you.”

Without hesitation, the youngest brother granted it access to his implants, and the queen of the bee sprites from the cache of honey arcane on Earth materialized before him. With deliberate precision, she flew down the aisles, hovering momentarily above the lips of each of the apparent heiresses, and eventually she stopped at one. “This is her,” she said.

Approaching the pedestal where the queen bee had stopped, the youngest brother leaned down and pressed his lips to the woman’s. The moment their lips touched, he tasted the unmistakable sweetness of honey arcane. Instantly, a shimmering mist of golden light began to seep from her cheeks, swirling in the air with an ethereal grace. This radiant mist flowed into the broken cracks of the reassembled data crystal still in his hand, healing them so that it was mended and perfect again.

Then, the translucent key he still held in his other hand levitated out of it, aligned itself with a slender opening in the crystal, and shot into it with a loud crack! The youngest brother jolted in surprise and found, to his bewilderment, that his lips were now inexplicably fused to the heiress’s.

The golden mist, having completed its task with the crystal, then spread to envelop them in a cocoon of golden light. Its brilliance intensified, obscuring everything from view. Then it abruptly dissipated, revealing a drastic change in their surroundings.

They were atop the stairs in the palace's royal court, positioned before the thrones—her still lying on her back, him still bent over her, his lips still pressed against hers. Below them in the grand royal court, the once-frozen figures from the courtyard, including his elder brothers, stood in bewilderment, suddenly liberated from their temporal stasis. The elder brothers' eyes met in confusion.

The heiress’s eyes opened, and she recoiled in shock from the unwelcomed kiss, pushing him off of her with strength that would have seemed out of place for one of her stature were it not for the enhancements of royalty. Frantically, she scrambled backward from him and sat staring at him a couple of meters away, her anger and disbelief at the insolence of the affront—even given his obvious nobility—apparent in her expression.

Her mind began racing to grasp the situation. None among the perennially enhanced royalty of the guilds were truly dim, but even among them, she was exceptional. The memories came flooding back—her twin brother's betrayal of their father and elder siblings, and the hex he had cast on their palace using the secrets of their arcanum, leaving only her alive because she was the only one he did not hate. They had been detestable, she knew, but she had loved them anyway. She was awestruck by the genius of the spell her twin had woven, supplanting their elders, and himself, with her in a way she would not have believed possible were the reality of it not upon her.

She checked the year in her mind. Centuries, she thought, and she looked down, her head and shoulders sinking slightly as the gravity of her situation descended upon her. “Dear brother,” she spoke softly to herself, “what have you done to me?”

As the last surviving member of her bloodline, she was now the Supreme Chancellor of her guild, Silhouesttia—sole surviving keeper of the secrets of its arcanum—but centuries had passed, leaving it forgotten. She had no industry, no workers, no soldiers—in fact, no subjects of any kind beyond the pathetic few now in her royal court, those who’d been ensnared by her brother’s hex. Her rightful holdings had long since been scattered to whatever opportunists had invariably stumbled across their dereliction. She had only her palace fortress—a formidable defense in itself—which, thanks to her brother’s hex, had not been plundered. But without an army, she would not last long. Her very survival, and that of her guild, hinged upon procuring massive logistical capability immediately—and she had nothing.

Her gaze returned to the youngest brother, reassessing him now—no longer an assailant, guilty of breaching all semblance of proper royal conduct, but instead an unintentional instrument in her brother's designs for her. Beneath his eyes, she saw his empathy and the strength of his convictions. She could thank her twin for the kiss, she knew; he’d always enjoyed theatric spectacle.

Pragmatism directing her actions now, she addressed the youngest brother.

“What can you offer me?” she asked.

The youngest brother, grasping the situation perfectly, offered a solution steeped in both tradition and strategy. “An alliance with Guild Quintaether through marriage,” he proposed. “The Supreme Chancellor, my father, can provide an array of resources—materials, laborers, engineers, biotechnics, mages, soldiers, and financial support. In return, he would seek exclusive access to the honey arcane, priced to keep his offerings competitive with yours.”

The implications of this proposal were clear and mutually beneficial. For Guild Quintaether, it promised great long-term profitability from wonders birthed in exclusive access to Silhouesttian arcanum. For her, now Supreme Chancellor of Guild Silhouesttia, it met the acute need for logistical, financial, and military might—to defend her palace, regain her rightful dominion over lost territories, and to reassert the inexorability of her power.

“And…” the youngest brother said, hesitating afterwards.

“And?” She questioned.

He made a tiny motion with his head toward his brothers at the base of the stairs. “My brothers,” he said.

Her gaze shifted towards the elder brothers, measuring their worth in silence. Returning her attention to the youngest, she probed, “Can they be trusted?”

He hesitated in his response, conveying a subtle but clear message about their reliability—less than absolute. Yet, when he spoke, his words were true, “They will defend their own family.”

In his eyes, she saw the sincerity of his assurance—a bond of kinship that, despite its complexities, held a fundamental loyalty.

“Very well,” she said, her pragmatic tone holding, “you and I will be married. You will be Vice Chancellor of Guild Silhouesttia. Your father will provide what you have promised, and in return, I will provide what I have promised. And,” she hesitated, “your brothers. You agree to this?”

“I do,” he nodded.

“Then it is agreed,” she said, flatly. And upon this affirmation, she rose to a commanding posture. A soft, golden radiance began to emanate from her, and the entire palace lit up with shimmering light—awoken finally from its ancient slumber by the commands of a new master.

She opened her right hand, and a sword materialized there, with a golden laced hilt and a shining white blade. Now addressing the elder brothers, she commanded, “Sons of Quintaether, approach and kneel before me.”

The elder brothers shared a glance, then quickly ascended the stairs and knelt, acutely aware of their status as her subjects, here. As she placed the sword upon their shoulders, she proclaimed, “You are knights of Silhouesttia, commanded to protect the keepers of the ancient secrets. You shall be granted protectorates worthy of your mighty bloodline. Now rise, Knights of Silhouesttia.”

As they stood, she gestured for them to take their place by her side, which they did, surprised, even in themselves, with the sense of purpose this had caused in them. She opened her palm again, and the sword now dematerialized.

Turning to the youngest brother, she extended her left hand to him. He clasped it in his, and she continued with regal poise, “Let all present bear witness—this marriage contract, duly negotiated and consented to by both parties, is hereby enacted under my authority as Supreme Chancellor of Guild Silhouesttia. We are united as husband and wife, our union sealed by duty, tradition, and written within the arcane powers of this fortress.” And with that, it was codified within the vary fabric of their world. It would be written into the arcanum of all the guilds by all the palace fortresses everywhere, and though the other guilds, for selfish reasons, would disapprove of this union, they would be powerless to oppose it.

With a gentle motion now, she turned to face her new husband. Clasping his other hand in hers, she drew in closer and bestowed upon his lips a warm, lingering kiss—a tender gesture of unity between newlywed partners, and an acknowledgment of possibility even within a union necessitated by circumstance, forced upon her by her twin. As their embrace ended, she released his hands and turned back to address the sparse assembly, her demeanor shifting again from affectionate to commanding.

“Those among you who wish to depart, do so now,” she announced firmly. “Those who choose to stay, I will name my subjects. My court begins now. You will approach me, one by one, and I will name you and your duties under my rule. Know this—I reward loyalty richly, and I punish betrayal lavishly.” The court stirred, as some started leaving, but many stayed, enticed by the opportunity before them.

The Supreme Chancellor once again offered her hand to her new Vice Chancellor, which he accepted, and they walked with long-practiced royal dignity to the thrones, where they sat to begin their first court.

The Supreme Chancellor opened her right hand again, and a crystal materialized in her palm. Turning her gaze to the eldest brother now, she spoke. “This is the marriage contract between myself and your brother. Bring this to your father with urgency, and inform him of the union. I have instructed the palace to direct you to my fastest ship. Go now.” An AI projection appeared before them, different from the one that had previously led the brothers through the palace—a woman this time, not so unlike the Supreme Chancellor in features and stature.

“This way,” it directed the eldest brother.

It was custom to hand-deliver such contracts, and the eldest brother was an appropriate individual for the task. He accepted the crystal, and the two began to depart. As they walked past the thrones, the youngest brother looked at his eldest sibling with a wry half-smile.

“Father,” he said, “will approve.”