The aide led them from the reverent silence of the Archives back out into the grand plaza of Paradisia. The air here was different, carrying the faint, clean scent of ionised water from the decorative fountains that lined the polished marble square. Above, the city's crystalline spires split the pale Antarctic sun into a thousand dazzling rainbows, and silent, teardrop-shaped vehicles glided on unseen magnetic pathways between them. It was a city humming with a power so profound it had forgotten the need for noise.
An armoured ground vehicle, long, black, and silent as a shadow, was waiting for them at the edge of the plaza. Its doors slid open without a sound.
Inside, the cabin was a study in minimalist luxury. The synth-leather seats were cool to the touch, and the tinted, armoured window muted the city's brilliance to a soft, ethereal glow. The journey began with a smooth, silent inertia that felt less like driving and more like floating. They moved through the grand avenues of the capital, a ghost in a machine of state.
Diaval sat opposite Runne, his silver hair seeming to absorb the cabin's dim light. He watched Runne take in the impossible, perfect city.
Unbeknownst to him that was the furthest thing from Runne's mind. 'Couldn't this wait for tomorrow?' He voiced to himself slightly annoyed.
"Look at it, Private," Diaval said, his voice a low, even tone that cut through the silence. "Perfection. Order. This is the civilisation we protect. Today, the people need to be reminded of that. They need to be reminded of what they stand to lose."
He leaned forward slightly, his silver eyes locking onto Runne's. "When you are on that stage, you are not a soldier. You are not Runne Veyne. You are a symbol of our perfection. A story of survival to give them hope. Your only duty is to stand there and be that story. Say nothing. Let your presence speak for itself."
'A story,' Runne thought, his gaze drifting to the window. He saw the citizens of Paradisia walking on the pristine pavements, their clothes clean, their faces placid. They looked like the holographic figures from the Archives, unreal. He saw their perfect city and all he could think of was the chaos of Fortuna's Gambit, the real smell of ozone and blood, the real sound of his brother's voice before it was stolen from him. He was the single, jagged crack in their perfect diamond.
The vehicle glided to a halt before a building so immense it seemed to hold up the sky, a colossus of white stone and gold trim. The General Assembly Hall.
"We're here," Diaval said simply.
The door slid open, revealing the first of many receiving lines and security checkpoints. The quiet journey was over. The performance was about to begin.
The silence of the cabin was not just broken; it was shattered. A wall of sound, a physical force, slammed into Runne, a deafening roar composed of a thousand shouting voices. He flinched back, but Diaval's hand on his shoulder was an iron clamp, urging him forward and out of the vehicle.
He stepped onto the polished cobblestone and into a war zone of light and noise.
A massive crowd surged against a barricade of grim-faced Aegis Guards, their white and gold armour a stark line against the chaos. Faces in the mob were a blur of emotions—rage, terror, and a terrifying, desperate hope. Overhead, massive holographic news tickers floated in the air, their headlines shimmering in the afternoon light.
RIFT CONFIRMED: IS THIS THE SECOND FRACTURE?
'MIRACLE BOY' TO ADDRESS ASSEMBLY: MILITARY FORCES SILENCE
Dozens of camera drones zipped through the air like angry metal insects, their lenses flashing with a blinding intensity. Each flash sent a spike of ice through Runne's gut, the strobing lights not just dazzling him, but throwing him back ten years.
The flicker of the dying terminal lights. The green pulse of the Rift. The muzzle flash of a soldier's rifle firing into the dark.
"—Veyne! Over here! A question for the Miracle Boy!"
"—Is the military telling the truth?!"
"—Are we all going to die?!"
The reporters were a frantic pack, shoving microphones towards his face like spears. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The roaring of the crowd began to sound like the screams from the airport.
'I can't do this,' he thought, panic clawing at him. 'I can't breathe.'
"Forward," Diaval's voice was a low command right beside his ear, calm and absolute amidst the chaos. Harlow and Damien formed a tight wedge around him, their bodies a physical shield, and began to move. They were a single, determined unit, pushing through the wall of noise.
"Smile for the cameras, hero," Harlow muttered, her voice a low growl only he could hear.
They reached the grand, arched entrance of the General Assembly Hall. As the colossal doors swung shut behind them, the roar of the crowd was instantly muffled, reduced to a distant, impotent rumble. The sudden, relative quiet was just as disorienting as the noise.
They were in a vast, echoing foyer, the antechamber to the main hall. It was filled with the quiet, predatory energy of Paradisia's elite: politicians in sharp suits and high-ranking military officers from the other Dominions, all conversing in low, urgent tones. Every single one of them stopped to stare as Diaval's procession entered.
A bear of a man with the insignia of an Eastern Dominion Commander broke away from a small group and approached them, a mocking grin on his face. Commander Elias Voss.
"Well, well, Blackwood," Voss boomed, his eyes raking over Runne's ornate uniform. "If it isn't the Miracle Boy himself. I must say, I'm impressed. Does the uniform come with a manual, or are you just winging it, Private?"
Damien stiffened beside Runne, but Diaval's expression remained unchanged. "Commander Voss. I trust your journey from the East was pleasant."
"It was," Voss said, his eyes still fixed on Runne. "But not as pleasant as this theatre you've orchestrated. Half the world is in a panic, and you dress up a Dormant grunt like a pre-Fracture king. A bold strategy."
Before Diaval could respond, a sharp, feminine voice cut in. Lieutenant Diana Thorn, her green eyes narrowed, stepped up beside Voss. "He's taller than I expected," she said, circling Runne as if he were a prize horse. "And broader. Did they pump you full of stimulants for the cameras, or is that all natural?"
Runne's cheeks burned with humiliation. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remember Diaval's words. 'Let them wonder.'
The same aide from the Archives materialised silently at Diaval's side. "Commander," he said, his voice a low whisper. "The Assembly is seated. They are waiting for you on stage."
Diaval gave a curt nod, his silver eyes sweeping over Voss and Thorn with cold dismissal. He placed his hand on Runne's shoulder, a final, chilling gesture of ownership.
Diaval's single word, "Showtime," was the final, quiet command. He gestured towards a set of tall, ornate doors. Runne followed him, his legs feeling strangely distant, as if they belonged to someone else.