Zamir stood frozen in the vast throne hall's corridor, eyes wide as a pair of towering, armored figures waited at the edge of the hallway. They didn't move. They didn't blink. They didn't even look at him. But Zamir could feel it—the same kind of soul-freezing pressure he imagined being stared down by a lion might give off.
He'd just finished recovering from Tim's galactic drama performance and now, apparently, it was time to meet the galaxy's deadliest bird soldiers.
"They're waiting for you, Sovereign," said the aide beside him.
"I… I figured," Zamir muttered, adjusting his robe nervously. "They always stand that still?"
"They are trained to maintain full battlefield readiness even during peacetime, Your Grace."
"Of course they are," Zamir muttered.
The aide gave a short bow and vanished. Zamir took one long breath.
One step. Then another.
Each time his talons touched the floor, the click echoed. The two armored giants stood in ceremonial armor, white and gold, with blue energy glowing softly from within the chest plates. Psychic light floated just above their helmets—thin rings of polished obsidian and shimmering light. The one on the left tilted his head very slightly.
"Praetor-Legion Commander Vel'Zharon and Praetor-Consul Archaelion, Sovereign," said the captain at the doorway. "They stand ready."
The two knights bowed. It wasn't deep, but somehow it felt more sincere than the floor-scraping rituals of the court, much refreshing then the bureaucratic drama on the throne room.
Vel'Zharon stepped forward first. His voice was calm, low, like distant thunder. "We have waited, Your Radiance."
"I, uh…" Zamir tried to stand straighter. "Yes. Sorry to keep you waiting. You're… big."
Archaelion blinked. "We have grown stronger since your last command."
That was possibly the most intimidating response Zamir had ever heard.
They led him into the inner sanctum—a chamber built like a war cathedral. Holographic banners floated in midair, each representing a different campaign. A table in the center displayed a flickering map of the Holy Sector and its defensive borders.
"We are ready for review," Vel'Zharon said.
"Right. Of course."
He stood over the map, nodding slowly like it all made sense.
In truth, it didn't.
Lines crisscrossed between stars, energy signatures blinked in code, and alerts with names like "Sector 5B-Beta Spatial Disturbance" and "Warp Gate 02 Minor Instability" popped in and out of existence.
He squinted. "What's this flashing one?"
"An echo disturbance from a forgotten signal relay. Unimportant," Archaelion answered.
"Oh, yes. I knew that," Zamir replied.
What did he mean?
They continued the report. For thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of standing, nodding, listening to battlefield readiness numbers, recruitment status, fleet alignment, and psychic compatibility index scores. Zamir barely kept up. He just repeated what worked before: nod. Stay silent. Occasionally look thoughtful and spacing out most of the time.
Eventually, Vel'Zharon ended the review. "As ever, the Praetoria stands ready. Ten legions hold firm. 4 legions each guard the gates. Two… patrol the stars."
Zamir raised an eyebrow. "Only two legions are outside the Holy Sector?"
Vel'Zharon hesitated. "There are… complications."
Archaelion stepped forward. "The vassal states are restless. The legions are thinly spread. Terra remains safe, but the outer holdings strain us."
So that was it. After fifty years of silence, the glue was wearing thin.
"Couldn't the vassals police themselves?" Zamir asked without thinking.
There was a pause.
Vel'Zharon spoke carefully. "Only under your divine authority do they bend, Sovereign. We have enforced your name in your absence… it has been... 50 Imperial Years..."
Zamir winced. "Right. Yes. Carry on the light and… justice and, uh, order."
Vel'Zharon bowed. "As you command."
The meeting ended. They didn't linger. They returned to their guard posts without another word.
Zamir stayed behind.
He stared at the map.
So many systems. So many borders. And he wondered barely a fraction of the territory he once wielded. It was impressive, but it wasn't infinite. The Praetoria was strong—but stretched. The vassals were distant—and slowly boiling.
He sat down at the edge of the map table.
His voice was a whisper. "How the hell did I manage this before…?"
Monologue – Zamir's Thoughts
I didn't even like managing group projects in school… now I'm expected to rule over entire systems. Empires. Armies. Psychic armies.
And yet… when I stand here, part of me gets it. The scale. The weight. It's terrifying. But there's something about it.
Still… I can't get attached. Not yet. Not when I don't know what happened to Earth. To Kasura. To my family.
This might all vanish tomorrow. Just another dream.
...And I still hope this is just a dream.