Those Who Ignore History

The chamber was dimly lit, its walls carved from obsidian that glimmered faintly as though swallowing the lamplight instead of reflecting it. The ceiling arched high overhead, ribbed with veins of some crystalline mineral that pulsed faintly in rhythm with no heart they could name. A round table dominated the center of the room, its polished surface veined with silver inlays that traced runes too old for most mortals to understand.

Six chairs surrounded it. Six presences filled the space, though none sat in a way that suggested camaraderie. The table was not a gathering place, not truly. It was a ring of containment, the only thing keeping their volatile powers from grinding directly against one another. Six Dominus and Archons who rarely spoke face to face, yet now forced together by necessity.

The silence stretched until Morres leaned back in his chair and let out a long, weary sigh. His voice, when it came, was gravelly, tired, deliberate—the sound of a man who had carried too many burdens too long.

"Think they bought it?"

The words seemed to ripple through the others, drawing out subtle shifts of expression and aura.

Ranah was the first to answer. She sat across from him, her body sprawled out with lazy insolence, one booted foot propped on the edge of the table. Her sharp blue eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, reflecting the crystalline veins above. She tilted her head in a small, knowing nod.

"Yeah," she said, casual as anything, her tone flat but sure. "They bought it. No hesitation, no suspicion. Well… no more than usual." She stretched like a cat, her aura humming faintly. "They're so eager for challenge they didn't bother asking why you were so willing to share your otherrealm."

Gin chuckled lightly, the sound like glass bells shaken in amusement. He leaned back with his hands folded behind his head, his white-gold hair shimmering faintly as though it had its own light source. His eyes, pale as quicksilver, danced with irreverent delight.

"Of course they bought it," he said. "Mortals always want a clean story to follow. You tell them: 'This place is plagued by infection, go fix it.' They'll nod, sharpen their blades, and charge in. They don't stop to ask if that was the whole truth. Because if they did—" His grin sharpened into something almost predatory. "—they'd lose the confidence that keeps them moving forward."

A low growl rose from Barbatos. The hulking Dominus shifted in his chair, the faint ember-glow under his skin flaring brighter, painting him like a furnace barely contained. His presence made the air heavy, as if the room itself strained to withstand his sheer weight.

"I just don't get why we decided to give them this deception," Barbatos rumbled, his voice like rolling stone. "Just be honest. Explain what this really is. They've proven themselves capable. Why all the lies?"

Leraje, who had been twirling a dagger idly between her fingers, finally looked up. Her hair, green as fresh leaves, seemed to sway in some invisible breeze. Her posture was too relaxed to match the sharpness of her gaze. She exhaled with theatrical boredom, as if this entire discussion was beneath her.

"If we did that," she said flatly, "they'd debate. And debate again. And again. And every second wasted would mean the spread continues unchecked. You know how they are. They'd argue morality, legality, consequences—mortals can't help themselves." She spun the dagger one more time, the blade flashing like a shard of moonlight. "Better for them to believe the story we crafted than to drown themselves in questions. The lies push them forward; the truth would freeze them in place. So lies it is."

"Yes," Barbatos rumbled, his voice rising with irritation. "But we know full well what they are capable of. They aren't children. You insult them by keeping the truth from them."

Ranah cut him off with a flick of her hand, her sharp gaze snapping toward him. "No. We don't know what they're capable of. Not all of them." She leaned forward now, no longer lazy but intent, her aura coiling like a serpent ready to strike. "We only know what the boy is capable of."

The word boy carried weight, heavier than the stones of the chamber. Alexander's name didn't need to be spoken aloud; they all knew.

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Ranah softened, her expression sharpening into something almost fond, almost respectful. "Besides, he has Lumivis there. And his aura. No matter what happens, they aren't becoming infected. That alone tilts the scales."

Barbatos's molten eyes narrowed to burning slits. "You speak as if it's guaranteed. Nothing is guaranteed when Viraloids are involved. Nothing." His voice cracked like iron in a forge, heat rising with every word.

Ranah only shrugged, infuriating in her calm. "Even if they do get infected, the infection would be harmless to them. They aren't Dreamers."

The word hung in the air like a curse.

Morres finally stirred again. He pressed two fingers to his temple as though warding off a headache. His cloak shifted around him like a shadow with its own mind, folds swallowing the faint light. Deep lines of age and fatigue carved his face, each one etched by too many losses, too many battles endured.

"No," he said slowly, his voice heavy as iron dragged across stone. "They are not." His eyes narrowed faintly. "Although Fractal…" He paused, choosing each word with care. "…Fractal has one of the mana types required to become a Dreamer. But she most certainly does not qualify."

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by a low, velvet chuckle.

Temptation had been quiet until now. He lounged with his cheek resting against one hand, his posture loose, his presence filling the chamber like perfume—cloying, alluring, dangerous. His violet eyes glimmered faintly, a playfulness dancing in them none of the others trusted.

"Disappointed, Morres?" Temptation asked softly, his tone teasing, almost intimate, as though the very question was bait.

Morres turned his gaze on him. His expression didn't harden—if anything, it softened, though not with warmth. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm happy we found a group who could deal with this threat. Legally. Without the Archons butting in."

"Hey!" Gin suddenly piped up, straightening with mock indignation. He placed one hand against his chest like a wounded actor. His grin, however, only widened, sharp as a fox's. "I resent that! We Archons are very important, thank you very much. Why, without us, who would shuffle the rules around and claim precedent every time someone bends Dominion Law until it breaks?"

His exaggerated huff drew a rare smirk from Leraje, who muttered under her breath, "You mean without you, who would make it worse?"

Gin ignored her, turning his grin toward Morres. "And besides, technically it was just one Dominus invading and claiming the territory of another. Legal under Dominion Law~" He sang the last word like a melody, twirling a strand of his shining hair with mock elegance.

Temptation's smile deepened, though his eyes stayed sharp, flinty. "Yes. Legal. But not without consequence. You know as well as I do that the other Dominus will not take kindly to it."

"True," Morres admitted, his tone resigned. He leaned back once more, folding his arms across his chest. "But that is precisely why we need them. A band of Walkers, unbound by Archons, unsworn to any Dominus. A strike force whose actions are legal because their authority is shared, not dictated."

Barbatos leaned forward, his presence oppressive, heat flaring faintly in the room until the silver runes in the table pulsed to contain him. "And if they fail?" His voice was blunt, unyielding.

Morres's gaze grew hard, colder than stone. "Then the infestation spreads. And the dream dies with it."

The words dropped into the chamber like a hammer, silencing all but the faint pulse of the obsidian walls. Each of them knew the cost if that came to pass, though none wanted to say it aloud.

It was Gin, of course, who broke the silence first. His laughter rang bright and sharp, like shattering glass. "Well! No pressure on them then, hm? Just the fate of an entire otherrealm, the balance of power between Dominus, and whether they become heroes or corpses. Easy work!"

Ranah shot him a withering glare. "You joke too much."

"You frown too much," Gin countered easily, his grin never fading.

Temptation's voice slid into the quiet again, smooth as silk, velvet over a blade. "We all knew what this was when we agreed. Lies are kinder than truth here. If they succeed, the lies will be forgotten in the triumph. If they fail, they will die never knowing how deep the truth ran. Both paths protect them." He tilted his head, his smile curving like a mask. "And isn't protection what we're all pretending to give them?"

Barbatos's low growl rolled through the chamber again, but he said nothing this time. His silence was heavier than words, a furnace banked but not extinguished.

Leraje twirled her dagger one last time before stabbing it point-first into the wood of the table. The steel quivered, humming faintly, silver runes lighting around the impact as if recognizing her challenge. "Then it's settled. We lied. They believed. Now we wait to see if they break."

Morres closed his eyes briefly, his expression caught between resignation and hope. "No," he said softly, almost to himself. "We wait to see if they rise."

The chamber stilled. Six beings, bound by necessity, sat together in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Beyond the walls, the pulse of the infected otherrealm stirred like a heartbeat, faint and steady, waiting for the inevitable clash.

And in that silence, every one of them wondered—not whether the Walkers could win, but whether the lies would carry them far enough to see the truth on their own.