Outside the Dome
Far beyond the corrupted skies and fractured land, in a place untouched by time or decay, where the air shimmered with crystalline clarity and gravity obeyed the will of its inhabitants, hovered a floating city unlike anything within the known realms. Suspended by ancient forces and wrapped in a protective field that glowed faintly with rainbow hues, it was the seat of the Guardians.
At the heart of the city stood the Hall of Echoing Winds, a structure carved from translucent stone that pulsed with stored memories and living energy. It was here, inside the inner chamber that floated freely within a sphere of gravitational balance, that the three highest members of the Tribunal sat.
Ceberus reclined in a chair that looked like smoke frozen in water—ethereal and ghostly, yet firm and regal. His gaze was cast downward, through the transparent floor, where the world inside the Dome could be seen—a fractured paradise teetering on the edge of catastrophe. Though his lips did not move, his thoughts echoed powerfully within the minds of the others.
"Have you seen their proposal?" Ceberus asked, his mental voice sharp and disapproving. "They're becoming more aggressive with each cycle. It's a miracle they haven't stormed the Dome already to wipe out every wicked race that has ever made their world miserable."
There was no response, so he leaned forward, his thoughts growing sharper. "Training them. Empowering them. That was our greatest mistake."
Across from him, seated on a throne of golden vines and wind-swept petals, Lady Samarah let out a soundless sigh. Her robes shimmered with celestial blue, and her long silver hair floated gently in the air around her. Her lips curled into a wry smile as she responded, telepathically but with warmth.
"Oh, come now, Ceberus. You're always the pessimist. They're doing what they must to save what little remains of their world. And let's not forget—it was once our world too... or have you finally erased that from your memory?" Her words carried no malice, but they struck deep.
Cerberus stiffened, his gaze narrowing as her words landed. For the briefest moment, his facade cracked—guilt flickered like a shadow across his face, but he quickly composed himself again.
Seated between them, floating slightly above the rest, was Prince Davios—heir of the last royal bloodline before the Dome. He was younger in appearance than Ceberus and more severe than Samarah, but the authority he carried needed no embellishment. His robes were woven from twilight itself, flickering with distant stars and ancient glyphs that shifted endlessly over his skin. A silent crown—made not of metal, but of orbiting rune-stones—rotated above his brow.
His voice, when it echoed into their minds, was not harsh.
"Let us not argue. We're here to vote—not to reopen ancient wounds. The matter at hand is the proposal to establish a formal training ground for the Chosen. What are your thoughts?"
Ceberus's eyes narrowed. "Will it even pass the Council?"
"If we three are aligned," replied Davios, "then convincing the Council is merely a formality."
Samarah's smile brightened. "I think it's brilliant. We've already made the first step by empowering the Sentients and allowing them to bond with the Chosen. We've revealed ourselves, like it or not. This training ground is simply the next stage in that plan. Why resist it?"
Ceberus stood, his robes billowing as if caught in a phantom wind. He walked to the edge of the chamber and gazed out through the arched window, watching the energy currents swirl beneath the Dome.
"Because it's dangerous, Samarah." His voice was heavy now. "You know what humans are capable of when given power. Their minds are fragile, corrupted by greed, hatred, and pride. We shouldn't make them strong. We should be preparing for what happens when they turn that power against us."
"Then who will save them, Ceberus?" Samarah replied firmly. "Us? We've sat on the sidelines for ten thousand years, watching them fall. The Council forbade contact, so we did nothing. That's why we used the four humans—the scientists who gave birth to the Sentient Project. It's the only way we could help without defying the law."
Ceberus turned to face them, his tone rising. "And after they've defended their world, then what? What happens next? Do we honestly believe they won't come for us? We abandoned them, left them inside the Dome to rot while we watched from the clouds. What makes you think they won't seek revenge?"
"That is precisely why we must help them now," said Prince Davios, his eyes burning with conviction. "Because we are not giving them weapons to attack. We are giving them reasons not to so that when the Dome shatters—and it will—they know we were never their enemy, that we tried to help. You underestimate how quickly they are evolving. Once they're exposed to the true energies, they'll gain power whether we assist or not. All we're doing is guiding the direction of that growth."
"So we create a threat that we cannot control in the future?" Cerberus countered coldly. "We have the capability to eliminate threats now. We should use it."
Samarah's expression hardened. "Are you suggesting we kill them? Our people?"
"They're not our kind anymore," Ceberus said with quiet bitterness. "We've been apart too long. Generations of war, corruption, and decay have changed them. They've become smaller, weaker... and far more dangerous. The other races inside the Dome have twisted them. I will not accept that they are still like us."
Samarah was silent for a moment. But her silence was not from weakness—it was the calm before a storm. Her voice, when it came, was laced with sorrow.
"Time has changed you, Ceberus, or perhaps it is power that has changed you more than you know. You were once the one who taught me to believe in hope. You spoke of unity. Now I barely recognize the man standing before me."
Cerberus met her gaze without flinching. "My loyalty is unchanged, Samarah. It has always been to our people—and to our survival. Nothing more."
Davios raised a hand again. "We've heard both sides. As the Tribunal, we must vote. Lady Samarah, where do you stand?"
She didn't hesitate. "I stand by my choice—I will help the humans to the very end."
"And you, Master Ceberus?"
"I stand by my conviction," Ceberus said coldly. "They are a danger we cannot afford. I vote against the proposal."
Prince Davios stood slowly, descending from his floating seat to the floor, his eyes unreadable.
"I have stated my stance. I believe it is better to face the future with allies than with enemies. I've watched them, studied them. For every tyrant, I see ten who would lay down their lives for others. They are not perfect—but neither were we. Don't forget what destroyed the old world. It wasn't human ambition. It was our arrogance. My father's arrogance."
"He underestimated the will of a 'weaker' race, and in doing so, he brought about the Cataclysm, the death of half the world. I will not make the same mistake. I will not walk in his shadow."
Silence filled the chamber as his words settled in.
"This decision is not born of guilt or sentiment," Davios continued, stepping closer to Ceberus now, his voice steady. "It is born of strategy. One day, the Dome will fall. The energies will pour into their world. They will change—with or without us. But if we guide them now, if we build trust now, then when that day comes... we might stand beside them, not across from them."
Ceberus said nothing. His face was unreadable.
"You've always fought for our survival, Ceberus," Davios said gently. "I understand that, but survival is not found in isolation or preemptive violence. It is found in alliance, in hope, even when it seems foolish."
Prince Davios looked away, his mind occupied with multiple thoughts. Some of the present, while some goes back ten millennia ago.
"My decision is not rooted in charity but in wisdom. I vote in favor."
Silence. Then, a faint chime of harmonic resonance filled the room—the Tribunal's decision was sealed.
"Two votes to one," Davios declared. "The proposal is approved. I will face the Council of Elders and ensure it is passed."
Cerberus bowed his head slightly. "I still oppose it... but I will respect the ruling of the Tribunal. Convincing the Council will be your burden."
"Then let us end this meeting," Davios said, rising. A glowing waygate flared open beside him, spinning with runes of passage. He stepped through without looking back.
Ceberus turned to Lady Samarah one last time, his voice softer now, almost mournful.
"I hope they're worth it, my lady."
And with that, he too summoned a gate and disappeared—leaving Samarah alone in the chamber, her face lit by the gentle glow of the orb.
She stood in silence, gazing down at the human world—broken, bloodied, and burning with potential.
"They are," she whispered to no one.
"They must be."