The engines cooled with a low hum as the transport descended onto the marble platform of the Imperial City.
The gates opened with ceremony — banners of gold, silver, and crimson fluttering in the high wind.
Dean Ancelot stepped out first, followed closely by his five students. The sunlight caught the edge of his cloak, his blonde hair gleaming faintly in the morning air.
He looked ahead at the towering city — a forest of glass and metal reaching for heaven. For a moment, pride filled his chest.
They made it.
"Dean Ancelot?" an officer called from below the steps. He wore the polished armor of the Imperial City Guard — formal, smiling, but sharp in the eyes.
"Welcome to Imperial City. Your students have been cleared for residence under Imperial privilege. You, however, must remain behind to finalize registration."
Ancelot frowned. "Registration should have been handled already. Everything was verified before departure."
The officer's smile never faltered. "Yes, of course. But the Viscount requires confirmation on-site. A small matter of procedure."
Behind him, the students turned — Eghosa, Trisha, and the rest, faces uncertain.
"Go on," Ancelot said with a reassuring nod. "I'll join you shortly."
They hesitated, but obeyed. Within minutes, they were escorted away by attendants dressed in gold-trimmed uniforms, disappearing toward the port where their escort awaited — to lead them to the accomodation prepared for them.
Ancelot exhaled slowly. Something in his gut twisted.
---
Hours passed.
One form turned into ten. Ten became twenty.
Each time he finished, another officer appeared — each more apologetic than the last.
"Just a minor verification, Dean."
"The planetary seal didn't imprint properly."
"Oh, and the Ministry needs your biometric confirmation again."
By nightfall, his patience was thinning.
He sat in an office large enough to house a classroom, filled with holographic ledgers and silent clerks.
Every wall shimmered faintly with Imperial sigils — like gold veins running through stone.
It was a beautiful cage.
He reached for his communicator, opening a direct channel to the villa.
Connection restricted.
He tried again.
Signal denied.
His hand clenched. "Not technical. Intentional."
---
A knock came at the door.
A young clerk entered, carrying yet another pile of documents. His steps were hesitant, his eyes nervous.
"Sir, I'm afraid we still need your verification for—"
Ancelot raised a hand. "Save your breath. Tell me, boy — do you even know what all these forms are for?"
The clerk froze. "They're… registration protocols, sir."
"Protocols written by who?"
He hesitated. "The Imperial Administration, I believe."
Ancelot's voice dropped lower. "No. They were written by someone who wants to keep me away from my students."
The boy paled. "I–I just follow orders, sir."
Ancelot leaned forward. "Then tell your orders this: when you play with flame, don't complain about the burn."
The boy flinched, bowed quickly, and left — closing the door behind him.
---
Left alone, Ancelot walked to the wide window overlooking the city.
From here, the streets glowed like veins of fire — every light pulsing in rhythm, like a living heart.
He thought of his students again.
He could almost see them, laughing, feasting, unaware of the invisible fingers already reaching around them.
"There are two kinds of prisons in this world," his mentor's voice echoed in memory.
"One that chains you with bars… and one that chains you with gold."
He exhaled. "And I've walked right into the second."
---
He turned back to the desk and pulled out a small black communicator — older, worn, and clearly not standard issue.
Its encryption lines glowed faintly blue before connecting.
"Marcus," he said softly.
Static answered him first. Then a low, familiar voice replied.
"Still alive, Ancelot? I was beginning to think they'd finally buried you under protocol."
"You always did have faith in me," Ancelot said dryly. "I'm being delayed. Every hour. Someone wants me contained."
"Empire?" Marcus asked.
"Or worse," Ancelot muttered. "I can't tell yet."
A pause. Then Marcus's quiet chuckle came through. "You never change. Always walking straight into fire just to see who lit it."
"Do you have what I asked for?"
A file appeared on the holo-screen — a map of the Imperial City, pulsing softly. A villa glowed faint blue.
"There," Marcus said. "That's where they've placed your students. But that's not the location they gave to you."
Ancelot's eyes narrowed. "So it's confirmed."
"Whatever this is," Marcus said, "it isn't bureaucracy. It's theater. You're not meant to notice the chains until you try to move."
Ancelot grabbed his coat. "Then I'll move."
"Careful," Marcus warned. "You start pulling at this thread, they'll remember who you used to be."
Ancelot paused. "Let them."
---
Moments later, the door burst open.
The clerk stood in the doorway, trembling.
"Sir… you're cleared."
Ancelot raised a brow. "Cleared?"
"Yes, sir. You may leave."
He stepped closer, his gaze cutting through the boy's fear. "Tell your director," he said softly, "I'll remember this."
Then he walked out — no one dared stop him.
---
Inside the office, panic followed his absence.
The Director of the Imperial Administration, a plump man in a purple sash, stormed in.
"What have you done, boy?!" he roared. "Do you know who ordered that man detained?"
"S–sir," the clerk stammered, "the secretary ordered his release."
"The secretary?!" The director's voice shook the room. "I don't care if a baron called! Unless the Viscount himself approved, he should have stayed until tomorrow!"
The secretary entered — calm, unreadable.
The director turned on him. "Why did you let him go?"
The secretary leaned close and whispered a single name.
The director froze. His anger evaporated.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and his knees buckled before he collapsed unconscious.
The clerk stared in horror. "Sir—what did you tell him?"
The secretary smiled faintly. "A name he's wiser not to repeat."
---
By then, Ancelot was already gone.
---
Night had settled across the city when he reached the villa.
Laughter spilled from the walls — bright, careless, echoing in rhythm with fountains and music.
A maid bowed deeply. "Welcome, sir. The students are in the pool area."
He walked through the halls — every surface perfect, every sound muffled, every scent designed to soothe.
Then he saw them.
Eghosa. Trisha. Leonard. Velibrum. Slitah.
Laughing. Swimming. Indulging in the luxury of a world that wasn't theirs.
For anyone else, it would have been a beautiful sight.
To him, it was heartbreak.
He watched silently, the fire in his chest dimming to ash.
Their spirit — the flame he had kindled — flickered weakly beneath the comfort they embraced.
His hand tightened.
And with a sudden, sharp motion, he struck the vase beside him.
It shattered.
The laughter died instantly.
Five startled faces turned toward him — water dripping, eyes wide.
And there he stood, cloak heavy with the dust of travel, gaze like iron.
No words yet.
Only silence.
The silence before a storm