On Dakora-7.
Captain Guerra observed the scene with an impassive eye. Her analytical gaze swept over the assembly, noting the fear, discomfort, and cowardice painted on the lords' faces. Then it settled on Governor Garnus. His face was dark, etched with an anguish he was trying to suppress. And Guerra recognized that look. It was the look of a father who had given everything, forgiven everything, and now watched, powerless, as the child he cherished hurled his own world toward the abyss.
Bastion was an unknown power, a threatening shadow with unfathomable capabilities. The Governor knew this. Every fiber of his seasoned politician's being screamed at him to avoid conflict at all costs. But his son, this son he had placed above all else, was shattering everything to satisfy his wounded ego.
Governor Garnus, in a low voice that cut through the air like a blade: "Urek. Shut your mouth."
The command, more than a request, fell like a guillotine. A new shock, deeper than the last, ran through the crowd. The Governor had just raised his voice against his prodigal son. It was a first. A crack in the image of the indulgent father.
Urek, his eyes bulging with betrayal: "Father? You... you're shouting at me? You? Who love me more than anything?"
He approached, drunk on rage and misunderstanding, and grabbed his father's shoulder. He leaned in, and his whisper was a venom that no longer even tried to hide itself.
Urek, murmuring in his father's ear: "Are you losing your memory? It's because of me that you have a lineage. It's because of me that your name doesn't die with you. These outsiders, with their pretty armor, they're here to steal from us. And you, you're crawling before them like a dog? Do you remember what happened to the last person who humiliated me? Your own wife still swings in the wind, father. Remember."
Governor Garnus paled. His son's words were not a plea, but a cruel reminder of the Faustian pact he had sealed and the monstrosity he had let grow in his palace. It was pure blackmail.
As Urek straightened up, believing he had regained control, Captain Guerra turned her head slightly. Her gaze met Urek's, and without a muscle moving in her face, a single word, breathed with absolute contempt, crossed the distance between them.
Guerra: "Pathetic."
That word, more stinging than a whip crack, more devastating than a laser blast, hit Urek with full force. It wasn't anger. It was worse. It was the cold, final judgment of someone who saw beyond the screams and threats, and found before her only a spoiled and dangerous child, but ultimately, infinitely weak.
The dialogue between father and son had just revealed its full cruelty: a father trapped by his own creation, and a son who used spilled blood as currency. And in this theater of decadence, a single word from Bastion had sufficed to deliver the verdict.