Argall stood at the entrance to the Genesis Chamber, staring up at the towering doors etched with geometric lines and faintly pulsing lights. He folded his arms across his crimson breastplate, the metal reflecting the quiet hum of the overhead strips that bathed the vast corridor in a sterile glow. He could hear machinery inside the chamber, its internal workings resonating through the walls. The place where so many impossible feats had already been accomplished was about to serve an even greater purpose.
He stepped forward. His boots clacked against the polished floor, leaving faint echoes in the still air. Each step felt heavier than usual, as though some invisible burden pressed upon him. For days, he had wrestled with self-doubt, weighed down by the enormity of what he considered. Angron had taken that doubt from him. Yet caution still lingered, a vestige of the rational fear that any leader would have before plunging into the unknown. He did not slow, though. There was no time.
Hyperborea stood on the brink of an inevitable conflict. The Imperium was too vast, too unyielding. Their endless legions might not match Hyperborea's advanced technology on a one-to-one basis, but the Imperium's size made war a grueling affair - one in which pure attrition might spell ruin for his people. Argall wanted no illusions. If hostilities escalated, the Imperium would eventually send more fleets, more armies, more resources than Hyperborea could handle, even with allies. The Necrons, after all, cared little for mortal struggles. Their aid, while helpful, had limits. Argall refused to see his people crushed beneath the Imperium's unrelenting wheel.
He inhaled slowly. The large doors hissed open, revealing the Genesis Chamber's interior in all its sprawling complexity. Rows of equipment lined the walls, each humming with hidden power. In the center lay the prime apparatus: a tall, cylindrical pod enclosed by shimmering fields of energy. Next to it stood tables crowded with canisters, data-slates, and syringes. Monitoring consoles blinked, detailing flows of genetic code, chemical compositions, and energy readouts. Small arcs of static crackled along power couplings, dancing like tiny lightning. The faint, pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with an undercurrent of something metallic.
He stepped inside. The door sealed behind him with a quiet hiss, enclosing him in a stillness broken only by the constant drone of machines. A ring of overhead lights cast bright circles on the smooth floor. He paused beside a steel counter, where a single small vial rested. It was unremarkable at first glance, a simple container made of glass-like crystal, but Argall knew its contents. That fragile vessel carried the last remnants of his adoptive father's Viltrumite DNA.
He picked it up with careful precision, his gauntleted fingers brushing the cold surface. Inside, a swirling golden liquid glowed faintly, derived from strands of Thragg's hair. The near-infinite potential of Viltrumite physiology lay within that glow. Argall lifted it to eye level, letting the overhead lights refract against its surface.
He recalled the countless nights he had spent in silent debate with himself. He had sworn never to tamper with Thragg's DNA out of respect for his father's renunciation of war. Yet circumstances had changed. The Imperium's looming threat overshadowed any personal scruples. Better to beg forgiveness from his father - if he ever returned - than to watch Hyperborea burn.
He exhaled softly, slipping the vial into a recessed slot on one of the consoles. The display lit up, lines of code rippling across a screen. A gentle hum ensued as the device began scanning, analyzing, and verifying the genetic sample. Argall typed in quick commands, instructing the system to combine the Viltrumite DNA with a stable vector serum. This was the formula that would, in theory, integrate the alien genetic traits with his own. He had tested the theory on simulations for days, ensuring the serum would remain stable long enough to take effect. Still, no simulation could fully predict the reality of merging Viltrumite genes with his own inhuman genome.
The screen displayed progress bars and chemical readouts. Symbols for protein strands, codon sequences, and enzyme markers scrolled by in rapid succession. He read them with rapt attention, his gaze darting between lines as the console updated. Once satisfied that the mixture was correct, he pressed his palm against a biometric panel. A hiss sounded, and a small injector, shaped like an elongated syringe, emerged from a slot in the console, filled with the golden fluid. The tip glowed faintly, the solution swirling within.
His lips pressed into a thin line. He removed a single gauntlet, exposing his bare hand. The lab's recycled air felt unnaturally cold against his skin. He gripped the injector, pausing for only a heartbeat, then raised it to his bared forearm. With a swift movement, he jabbed the needle through his flesh, pressing down the plunger. Pain flared. He clenched his teeth, not from any real agony but from the sheer alien energy that coursed through his veins the instant the solution entered. A burning sensation spread along his arm, twisting its way into his nerves like molten wire.
He tossed the injector aside. It clattered against the counter, bouncing twice before rolling to a stop. His breath shortened, each inhale stuttering. He could feel his heart pounding, the pulses slamming in his ears. Heat exploded in his chest. It raced outward, forcing an abrupt trembling in his muscles. A wave of nausea clawed up his throat. He hunched over, bracing a palm against the console, trying to keep steady.
Too late. His insides clenched. Blood roiled in his gut, and he gagged. A convulsion shook his body, forcing him to retch. Blood spattered the floor, bright and startling. He coughed, gasping as another wave struck. He staggered, losing his grip on the console. His knees hit the ground with a thud, and the world blurred. The chamber's lights flickered in his dazed vision.
His jaw tightened. He forced his eyes open. Tremors riddled his limbs, his muscles rebelling against every attempt to steady them. Dimly, he registered the console's alarm pinging, reacting to sudden spikes in his vitals. He wanted to input some override, to silence the damn beeping. But his arms refused to respond properly. He sank fully onto the floor, lying on his side, blood coating the corner of his mouth.
A kaleidoscope of sensations swarmed him. White-hot pain lanced through his bones, accompanied by a prickling numbness that fought it at every turn. His mind scrambled for control, battling primal urges to thrash and scream. He refused to let the anguish dominate him. The serum was working, or it was killing him. Possibly both. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness flood in.
He blinked. The darkness receded. The droning of machinery ebbed into muffled static. Shapes drifted at the edge of his awareness. He felt softness beneath him, a mattress or cushion, maybe. He breathed in, feeling each rib expand, testing if they were intact. No pain. That was new.
Slowly, his eyes opened. The overhead lamps glowed with subdued intensity, less harsh than the chamber's usual brilliance. He recognized the silver-and-green walls of a medical suite within the same facility. Quiet beeps emanated from a console. An IV line dangled beside him, though from the dryness in his throat, he wasn't certain if it carried anything.
A shape moved at his bedside. He tilted his head, focusing on the figure. It was a woman, her hair silver with age, arranged in a neat, braided coil atop her head. Deep lines creased her face, the echoes of a lifetime of experiences. Despite her advanced years, her posture retained a graceful poise, each movement measured, almost regal. She looked at him, raising a brow, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed. Argall recognized her immediately.
"You just went ahead and did it, didn't you?" she said, her voice low, not unkind, but bearing the exasperation of someone who expected better.
Argall shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. A quick flush of confusion gripped him, but recognition soon replaced it. Syreen. His sister. His oldest bond. She had aged, yes, but her dignity remained.
He opened his mouth, but only a quiet rasp came out. He swallowed, tried again. "I had to. The Imperium—"
Syreen's lips thinned, and she lifted a hand, halting his words.
"I know," she said simply. Her gaze flicked to the IV stand, then back to his face. "But you nearly died. You vomited enough blood to paint the floor."
She let out a soft exhale. Her shoulders tensed, then relaxed. "I understand the logic, Argall, but our father would hate this."
Argall stiffened at the mention of Thragg. He glanced away, focusing on a blank patch of wall.
"I'll apologize to him, if he returns," he murmured. He frowned, searching for words. "Better that than watching our world burn."
Syreen studied him, her eyes calm, but the hint of sadness lingered in their depths. "So you used the Genesis Chamber for... that."
Argall nodded.
"I extracted the unique gene sequences from his hair. Distilled them into a serum. Used it on myself. My calculations showed a high chance of success." He lifted his arm, noticing with mild disbelief that there were no bruises or needle marks. Even his veins looked as though they had never been pierced. "But it was worse than I predicted."
Syreen's expression softened, faint concern etched in her gaze. "What do you feel now?"
Argall paused, letting the question hang. He took a breath, testing the air, feeling it fill his lungs with astonishing ease. A mild warmth coursed through him, different from the immediate pain of the injection. He noticed the tension in his muscles was gone, replaced by a coiled potential that felt almost electric.
He sat up, slow and deliberate. The simple action flooded him with awareness of every fiber in his body. Each breath, each heartbeat, resounded within him like a chord in an orchestra. Even the distant hum of the medical suite's machinery felt magnified. He blinked, glancing at his hand. It trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from raw energy.
He lifted his head, meeting Syreen's gaze. "I feel... strong. Too strong."
The last two words escaped him in a hush. He pressed a hand to the bed's metal frame. Without any visible effort, his fingers bent the alloy. Alarmed, he snatched his hand away, eyes widening. That shouldn't have been possible, not without bracing or pushing. He had exerted no force, just curiosity. The near-invulnerability his father must have possessed dawned on him. A flicker of alarm flashed across his face.
"It's the Viltrumite side," he said, voice tight. "I can feel it. Stronger than I ever imagined."
Syreen set her hand on his arm gently.
"Don't move too quickly," she warned, her tone soft but firm. "It must've take father ages to make sure he didn't break every little thing he touched. You have to learn to rein it in."
Argall took a measured breath, willing his racing heart to settle.
"I never realized how easy it would be... to destroy everything around me," he whispered, glancing again at the bent frame. The knowledge weighed heavily. In a single moment of carelessness, entire structures could buckle. Lives could end.
Syreen exhaled, her shoulders easing a fraction.
"I wish he hadn't been afraid to show me this side of himself," she said, letting the memories rest in her voice. "I figured it out on my own, but it would've been a lot better if he explained it properly. Mom didn't tell me the truth either, though I guess I could've asked more than once."
"Be sure to remind him of that when he comes back." Argall said, smiling.
Syreen chuckled. "I don't think I'll still be alive when our father makes it back, but I can hope.
Argall huffed and smiled, his expression contemplative. He now understood the reason behind his father's refusal to wage wars. The weight of being a near-unstoppable force had crushed him in ways Argall hadn't fully appreciated until this moment.
He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling a faint throbbing behind his eyes. Not pain, exactly, more a sense of heightened awareness. Every scent, every rustle of fabric or hum of machinery, invaded his mind, forcing him to sort the stimuli.
"How long was I out?" he asked, voice subdued.
Syreen slipped a data-slate from her pocket, tapping its screen.
"Almost two days," she said. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "We weren't sure you'd survive. The changes were... profound."
She placed the slate aside. "But you're stable now, apparently. The doctor says your vital signs are off their charts, but consistent."
Argall let out a soft hum of acknowledgment. He let his gaze wander around the room, noticing details that he would've overlooked before. The faint ridges on the metallic walls, the subtle vibrations in the floor, the rhythmic beep of some distant monitor. Everything was clearer, brighter. A wave of gratitude swept through him, but it mingled with an undercurrent of apprehension.
He looked back at Syreen, taking in her frail form. She had aged so much, though her movements retained elegance. The thought of how easily his new strength could injure her made his chest tighten. He had always been protective, but now the burden felt heavier than ever.
Syreen seemed to read his concern. She offered a slight smile, patting his forearm. "You'll learn to control this. You always were the smart one in the family."
Argall swallowed, nodding once.
"I hope so," he said. Then, with a gradual motion, he swung his legs off the bed, planting his feet on the floor. The cold metal touched his soles, a stark contrast to the heat in his blood. He slowly stood, testing his balance. The medical gown rustled around him, offering minimal coverage, but modesty was far from his primary worry.
He drew a tentative breath, attempting to gauge his new abilities. Uncertainty rippled through him, accompanied by a quiet resolution.
"I did this for my people," he stated, softly. "The Imperium won't give us space. We need every advantage, or they'll drown us in sheer numbers."
Syreen let her hand linger on his arm, her grip barely more than a light press of fingertips.
"I know," she said. Her gaze flicked to the window, where the spires of Hyperborea rose like gleaming blades beneath a sky tinted faintly purple by the setting sun. "Just make sure all this power doesn't get into that big head of yours."
"My head is above average. It is not big." Argall exhaled slowly, nodding.
Syreen chuckled. "Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big head."
He moved away from the bed. The floor felt odd beneath his bare feet. Each step seemed effortless, as if gravity itself had less hold on him. He approached a mirror mounted on the far wall, scanning his reflection. Apart from being a bit pale, he saw no drastic outward change. Inside, though, everything felt different. A quiet tension hummed in his muscles, as though they yearned to move at speeds yet unknown to him.
He placed a hand on the mirror's edge. The metal squealed under his grip, warping slightly. Alarm crossed his features, and he hastily removed his hand. The sound made Syreen take a step closer, but she halted when Argall lifted a calming palm.
He turned to face her, summoning a measure of composure.
"I'll adjust," he murmured. "It's... just overwhelming."
Syreen offered a small, understanding nod.
"You'll find your equilibrium in time," she said. "Our father managed it. You can too."
Argall set his jaw, nodding slowly. The mention of his father again tugged at his chest. He hoped that Thragg - wherever he was - would eventually forgive this trespass against the principles he had lived by. But Argall would rather risk condemnation than witness the Imperium grind Hyperborea into dust.
A beep from the console near the bed drew his attention. Data scrolled across the screen, referencing Argall's vital statistics: heart rate, oxygen saturation, neural patterns. He scanned them quickly, absorbing the details. Everything read as "elevated," "beyond normal," or "unclassified." The system had no baseline for someone part Hyperborean, part Viltrumite.
He reached out to press a button, but then paused, remembering how easily he might crush the controls. Carefully, he placed just the tip of one finger on the console, applying minimal pressure. The screen responded, unbroken. Relief flickered across his face. The synergy of advanced technology and newly unleashed power gave him a brief sense of wonder.
"Any messages?" he asked, glancing at Syreen.
She tapped a separate device, scanning it.
"Councilors request your presence when you're able," she said, scrolling through. "Some are alarmed by the unusual energy spikes recorded in the Genesis Chamber. Others are preparing for potential conflicts offworld. A few rumors have circulated about new technology in development."
She paused, arching an eyebrow. "They have no idea what you actually did."
Argall exhaled, offering a slight shrug. "Better that way for now. I'll meet them soon enough." He cast a fleeting look around the room, noticing a neatly folded bundle of clothing on a nearby chair. The standard attire for Hyperborean leaders, embroidered with faint patterns symbolizing unity and guardianship. He moved toward it, each step measured so as not to crush the floor.
He lifted the garments, letting them unfold. Simple, yet regal, reminiscent of his father's old style. The memory of Thragg's quiet dignity stirred inside him. He dressed slowly, each motion careful, mindful of the power coursing through him. The material slid across his skin, and he felt a surge of awareness in even the smallest sensations. He breathed in, steadying himself, then turned to Syreen.
"Thank you for staying," he said softly.
She tilted her head, a gentle warmth in her gaze.
"I know why you did it," she replied. "You need to do what Father once did for us, in your own way. And, no, before you ask; I'm not interested in receiving that serum."
Argall nodded, eyes drifting to the mirror once more. He caught sight of himself fully clothed, but behind the reflection, he sensed a latent, awe-inspiring force simmering beneath the surface. He clenched his fists and relaxed them, satisfied he could handle it, if only with caution.
He stepped away from the mirror and stood by the wide doors leading out to the corridor.
"Time to face them," he said, voice steady.
Syreen crossed her arms, expression pensive.
"Remember, a single miscalculation could end a life," she said. "Even a handshake might crush bones if you forget."
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
"I won't forget," he answered, a subdued determination marking his tone.
Together, they left the medical suite, Syreen's measured steps echoing Argall's slow, deliberate stride. The hallway lights bathed them in a subtle glow, revealing the crisp lines and metal sheen that defined the Hyperborean architectural aesthetic. Guards stationed at the corridor's entrance gave them respectful nods, though Argall noticed how they lowered their eyes, hinting at the rumor mill swirling behind the scenes.
Argall felt an odd sense of detachment as they progressed. Each subtle shift in the corridor's airflow registered in his mind, the faint hum of power lines behind the panels tapped a subtle rhythm, and he even sensed the heartbeats of the guards, beating steady and slow. He clenched his jaw. The Viltrumite legacy coursed through him like a silent tempest, a new dimension of awareness layering over his existing senses.
Syreen guided him to a private lift, the doors sliding open smoothly. They stepped inside, and she keyed in a code on a touchpad. The lift descended, carrying them to lower levels usually reserved for internal government affairs. Argall used the moment of solitude to test the subtle muscle control in his arms, rolling his shoulders. His entire body felt coiled, as though it hungered for motion, for speed. He pressed that feeling down.
The lift doors parted. They stepped into a marble-floored foyer, its curved walls adorned with banners of the Collective. Soft lights illuminated the waiting area, but no staff greeted them - Argall had requested privacy. He strode forward, each step assured. Syreen, beside him, offered a calm presence, her expression a guarded mask of quiet support.
They entered a large conference room with a broad table at the center. Windows lined one side, revealing a panoramic view of the Hyperborean cityscape, spires glinting under the midday sun. Holographic displays floated around the table's perimeter, each summarizing the Collective's latest data on the Imperium's movements. At Argall's entry, a hush fell. The handful of Councilors present, along with a few key aides, rose from their seats, bowing in deference.
Argall inclined his head in acknowledgment. The watchers studied him with varying degrees of curiosity and respect. He sensed the subdued tension, the swirl of questions kept in check by protocol. But their eyes flicked to Syreen, noticing her composed stance, and to Argall's posture, reading the subtle shift in his manner. Some recognized that a change had occurred, though none could define it.
He approached the table, resting a hand lightly on its polished surface. Again, he reminded himself to apply minimal pressure, mindful of the hidden might in his limbs.
"Councilors," he said, letting his voice resonate. "I'm here to reassure you. Our readiness stands. Our allies remain active. The Imperium hasn't moved in force yet, which means the location of Hyperborea remains secret, but we must be prepared."
They nodded, some adjusting their data-slates. One of the Councilors, one of Jadan's folk, cleared her throat. "We detected unusual activity in the Genesis Chamber. Our readings suggested a significant spike in biological manipulation. Should we be concerned about an experiment gone awry?"
Argall's eyes flicked to Syreen. She remained stoic, offering no clue. He looked back to the Councilor, choosing his words carefully.
"No. The operation was controlled. There's nothing to fear. I made a series of refinements to existing data on genetic augmentation." He watched them for a reaction, noting how some eyebrows rose, others smoothed in acceptance.
"It was successful," he added, letting them interpret that as they would.
Another Councilor, sporting a teal sash, inhaled, her posture rigid. "We see. You've always advocated pushing boundaries, Chancellor. I assume this is part of your plan to gain an edge against potential aggression?"
Argall gave a single nod. "Precisely. We cannot afford complacency. Our technology surpasses most of what the Imperium fields, but they have numbers beyond our imagination. Adopting new methods is vital."
The Councilors exchanged glances. One or two seemed uneasy, but none challenged him openly. Argall noticed some tension leaving the room, replaced by an undercurrent of curiosity. They trusted him, if not entirely, then enough to refrain from pressing further. That was all he needed.
He raised a hand, palm outward. "I'll keep you informed of any developments. For now, continue as normal. Improve our defenses. Maintain our alliances. Dismissed."
They rose, bowing again, then filed out. Argall remained by the table, watching them leave. The door slid shut behind the last one, leaving him alone with Syreen. He exhaled softly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You're going to have to show them eventually," Syreen murmured, glancing sideways at him.
Argall let his gaze rest on the city skyline.
"In time," he said. He uncurled his fists, noticing again how effortlessly he could crush the table's edge if he forgot himself. "For now, let them remain curious."
Syreen walked to the window, her reflection merging with the bright spires beyond. She placed a hand against the glass.
"I just hope you won't regret it," she said, her tone pensive.
He stepped behind her, close enough to see the lines etched in her face.
"If I don't do this," he said quietly, "I'll regret watching the Imperium tear our world apart. That's a greater shame."
She turned, meeting his gaze. Her expression softened, though a trace of lingering worry shadowed her features. She reached up, resting a palm against his cheek, an intimate gesture that recalled memories of their youth - him tall and strong, her quick and spirited.
"Then don't let it consume you," she whispered. "Father never let the power define him. Don't forget that."
Argall's throat felt tight. He placed his hand over hers, nodding once.
"I won't," he promised.
Later, in the hush of Argall's private study, he tested his new abilities in subtle ways. He placed a heavy bar of tungsten alloy on a sturdy table, pressing it downward with two fingers. It bent easily, folding under the faintest application of force. He pulled back, swallowing. The realization that entire squads of Hyperborean soldiers would strain to achieve half that effect unsettled him.
He stepped away from the table, focusing on the rhythmic beat of his heart. He felt each chamber pump with precision, each breath saturating his blood with oxygen. If he wanted, he could probably remain underwater without risk. If he soared into the upper atmosphere, the lack of air might no longer pose a threat. He clenched his fists, feeling the raw power coil in his muscles. Danger lurked in every movement, waiting for him to slip.
This is what Father endured every day, Argall thought, a mixture of awe and caution crossing his face. Thragg had roamed the cosmos with these gifts, forging his own path. His father once spoke of the brutal conquests of the Viltrumite Empire. He could've very easily done the same here, whenever he wished and, Argall figured, not even the Necrons could've easily stood against him. Instead, he chose peace. Argall's admiration grew, blending with a surge of renewed responsibility.
He wanted to punch something, to test the upper limits of his might, but the chamber's walls would not survive. Instead, he practiced controlling his strength by lightly tapping a hardened steel column set in the corner. The column was meant to anchor the building's structure in disasters. He placed a single knuckle against it, then pressed. The metal creaked almost at once, warping under minimal pressure. He pulled back, a swirl of caution swirling in his eyes. Another reminder of how careful he must be.
A chime sounded, signifying a visitor. Argall turned. The door slid open, revealing a Hyperborean officer in formal attire. The officer bowed. "High Chancellor, the Council requests your presence. They've received urgent signals from the outer systems regarding increased Imperial scouting parties."
Argall nodded, turning away from the battered column.
"Inform them I'll be there shortly." The officer departed, leaving Argall alone once again. He breathed in, steadying himself. The flicker of power inside him pulsed, urging him onward. Now, there was no time to linger in doubt.
He left his study, striding through corridors that glowed with Hyperborea's refined elegance. Lights cast gentle hues over polished floors. Soft hums of hidden machinery accompanied his every step. His heightened senses picked up on the muted heartbeats of personnel behind walls, the distant hum of the city outside, the faint rustle of air vents overhead.
But he pressed on, a calm discipline guiding each movement. He refused to let this new power blind him. Father had reined it in for a lifetime. He could, too. He made for the council chambers, Syreen trailing him from a respectful distance. She observed him, noticing the precision in his steps, the subtle tension in his hands. He turned slightly, offering a faint smile. She returned it with a nod.
They entered the Council Hall, a large domed space adorned with murals depicting Hyperborea's history - scenes of invention, unity, and resilience. The Councilors stood around a central hololith displaying star maps and threat analyses. Their expressions turned alert as Argall approached. Some parted to make room, others bowed.
A Councilor in silver robes gestured to the map.
"My Lord," she said, voice hushed but urgent. "We have new intelligence. The Imperium probes our peripheral zones, mapping potential warp routes. Our scouts indicate at least three separate fleets rotating through these areas."
Another Councilor, wearing a sash of braided green and gold, added, "Their presence expands daily. If we wait too long, they'll figure out where we are."
Argall stepped closer to the hololith, scanning the flickering points of light that marked Imperial ships. His expression remained composed, yet beneath the surface, he was far from calm. The old Argall might have felt hesitation, a pang of doubt. Now, courtesy of Angron's empathy, that doubt was gone. Determination solidified in its place.
He nodded to Syreen, who tapped commands into a console, pulling up additional data.
"Our alliance with the Necrons stands, but they will not commit to anything that doesn't align with their own interests," Argall said. "We must prepare for the day when we stand alone."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "We cannot rely on them for everything."
The silver-robed Councilor bowed her head. "Yes, High Chancellor. We understand."
Argall glanced around the circle of Councilors, each scanning his face for guidance. He allowed a short silence to reign, collecting his thoughts. "We fortify our defenses. We push our research. And we keep watch."
A subtle murmur spread among them. None voiced disagreement. Argall suspected they gleaned confidence from his calm certainty, a certainty born partly from the gift Angron had granted him.
He folded his arms behind his back, the swirling powers of the Viltrumite serum buzzing beneath his composure. He felt unstoppable, yet deeply cautious.
Father, he thought fleetingly, forgive me if you disapprove. But I won't see these people slaughtered.
The meeting continued with Councilors sharing updates on resource distribution, planetary shields, and advanced weapon prototypes. Argall listened intently, offering short directives. This was routine, but the sense of an oncoming storm never left them.
When it ended, the Councilors departed, casting lingering glances his way. A few pressed hands to their hearts, an unspoken gesture of trust. Argall nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to Syreen, who had remained quietly supportive.
She stepped forward, noticing the faint lines of tension at the edges of his eyes.
"Are you feeling any better?" she asked softly.
Argall considered the question.
"I feel... more alive," he answered, voice low. He glanced at his hands. "But it's like holding back a tidal wave."
He looked past her, to the tall windows that revealed Hyperborea's skyline, the thousands of gleaming towers and spires that rose in defense of a bright future. He was their protector. He would guard them from anything, even if it meant carrying a power he scarcely understood.
Stepping closer to the glass, he pressed a hand gently against its surface, feeling the faint warmth from outside, the living pulse of his world.
"It's worth it," he murmured. "Whatever price we pay, it's worth it."
Syreen stood at his side. They shared a brief silence, the bustle of the city thrumming below. Beyond the horizon, beyond the star-laced sky, the Imperium prowled, plotting the next move. Argall kept his stare on the city, inhaling and exhaling, preparing for the trials yet to come.
He would become the shield Hyperborea needed, even if it meant unleashing the full might of Viltrumite power. Even if it meant betraying the peaceful legacy his father once tried to uphold. In the end, he could only hope Thragg would understand.
With that final thought, Argall turned away from the window, Syreen by his side. Together, they left the council hall, stepping into the labyrinth of corridors that wound through the heart of Hyperborea's capital. Each step echoed with a renewed purpose, each stride fueled by the knowledge that he bore a power no Hyperborean had held before.
Outside, the sky shone in a bright turquoise, the sun perched high, bathing the city in luminous rays. Argall squinted against the light, feeling the warmth on his face. The future was uncertain, the threat of war looming. But with the might of a Viltrumite coursing through his veins, Argall stood ready to shape that future, no matter the cost.
AN: Chapter 60 is out on (Pat)reon!
