Halcyon Days: The Colossus

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Prince Lucan Regis van Ferro’s Capital Skyship, The Inquisitor, loomed beneath the storm. Its vast hull was battered by relentless rain, lightning splitting the twilight as though the sky itself had taken offense to the day’s events.

Droplets pinged against the metal mask of the man on the Skydeck. He wasn’t Lucan, but he was just as responsible for the day’s chaos.

The mask he wore was frozen in a permanent snarl, its beastlike form shaped in the image of Lucan’s people, the Avatars. Lucan was a prince of Aurelia, a prince of monsters masquerading as men. After today, the masked man knew he was the most monstrous of them all.

Only his eyes were visible through the dreadful visage, the tight chrome sheltering all other features. His calm blue eyes scanned the cloud line that hung oppressively above. They looked impassive, but the way they shifted betrayed a hint of unease. 

The rain and his beating heart echoed in his ears. One outside and one in. Opposites vying for his attention, but neither would have it.

He should have been focusing on that battle. It was why he had stepped out onto the skydeck, after all, but he had heard the hum almost immediately. No, more like he felt it.

A presence hiding in the clouds. It could only be there waiting to strike. Whoever they were, they had been patient. No attack had come in the five minutes since he hailed the prince. If no attack came soon, he might begin to question his instincts or his sanity.

The Prince had not moved The Inquisitor above the cloud line to investigate or confront the uninvited guest, as the masked man had asked. Typical Lucan. He didn’t take orders, even those disguised as requests.

Instead, they waited for the unknown ship to make its next move. The masked man felt frozen in place, like either the face of the monster he wore, or prey the moment before the strike.

Mercifully, the hatch hissed open behind him, and Prince Lucan strode through. His towering frame cut a sharp silhouette against the rain-slicked deck. His flowing white hair clung to him, nearly translucent, and his royal clothing did little to hold against the rain.  The downpour would last a while yet, but Lucan, like the masked man, didn’t care.

Four King’s Guards followed, their red capes billowing in the turbulent air as they stepped into place with crisp, rigid precision.

Lucan’s voice overpowered the storm. “Rook, friend, you dare command me to move my ship?” He spread his arms, grinning like a man with nothing to fear. “A thousand years since this creature last moved. The might of Iveria is helpless against it. And you think to turn us away in our moment of glory?”

The grin sat easy on his face, but Rook knew that he wasn’t the only one wearing a mask.

Lucan stepped to the edge and looked down. Fire and rain consumed the battlefield below. Three Iverian Capital Skyships, massive airborne dreadnoughts, unleashed everything they had at the monster.

The Colossus moved beneath them, oblivious, monstrous.

While the light ships of the Aurelian Fleet attacked, Lucan held The Inquisitor back, away from the chaos. He didn’t yet control the Colossus, and would have to wait for Dr. Syd for that. Lucan wouldn’t risk being anywhere near that beautiful, horrible thing until it was entirely under his control.

He eyed the fighting below. Blue plasma from the Armada’s shardshot cannons careened in sharp arcs harmlessly away from the Colossus, while underpowered red blasts from his light fighters lazily harassed the Capital Skyships. 

Usually, those three ships carried enough firepower to burn his Fleet from the sky.

What a prize it would be to put them down. Most tantalizing of all, there were sure to be Arbiters among their crews. By Gaia, he wished to get his hands dirty, but the wise play was to wait until at least one Capital Skyship was downed before committing more of his heavy cruisers and frigates. Ideally, if two Capital Skyships were downed, he could turn The Inquisitor loose on the third.

Lightning hammered the top of the Colossus, as though Gaia herself were trying to strike the abomination down. The rolling thunder merged with the relentless shardshot cannon fire from every warring skyship, a deafening chorus of fury. All the while, the Colossus reached for them like a small child grasping at a toy just outside its reach. 

“You received my message that there’s another ship above the cloud line?” Rook asked, his tone calm.

Lucan turned to see Rook pointing above them. Lucan’s gaze followed the gesture up. “Capital, cruiser, or fighter?”

“None, it sounds like a frigate,” the masked man replied, never disengaging his eyes from the clouds overhead.

Lucan’s lip curled in disdain. “Ours?”

“No, Iverian. Sounds like clean engines.”

Lucan spat onto the deck, the mere mention of Iverian technology being "clean" enough to sour his mood. He always despised the arrogance of the Iverian people, believing their technology to be superior. They saw Aurelian technology as bulky and outdated. How easily they forgot that the designs based on the Rose shards had fueled and shaped the most substantial empire Gaia had ever known.

“Pike,” he barked into the comm. “Scramble two fighters above the cloud line. Most likely Iverian. Frigate-class. Intercept and engage.”

“Belay that,” the masked man said into his comm.

Lucan knew Rook probably had his reasons for countering his command, but the challenge itself made his blood simmer. He respected the man’s tactical brilliance. It was almost as sharp as his own. Unfortunately, insubordination was a step too far. Lucan turned, his hand tightening on the hilt of his suka.

"Keep the liquid metal in your suka. You’ll want it for someone else," Rook said, his voice calm despite the tension crackling in the air.

Lucan’s fingers flexed around the grip. Another order, Rook was getting emboldened by the day’s success. The liquid metal within the suka stirred in response to Lucan’s will, ready to shift, harden, and take shape at his command. He was a master of the weapon, able to mold it into anything he could imagine. Right now, he could imagine plenty that would bring Rook to heel.

The only thing that stopped him was Rook’s transformation.

Rook shifted. Red crystalline fur bloomed as joints bent in the usual grotesque theater. Lucan didn’t flinch. He’d known some Avatars to have graceful transformations, but Lucan didn't care about the spectacle. Only results.

The surprise wasn’t the shift. It was the timing. Avatars tended to shift only when necessary, conserving their stamina. Becoming a living weapon capable of punching holes through a skyship’s hull was exhausting.

Rook, now entirely shifted, turned to him, his massive form looming. His voice was lower now, a deep growl rumbling beneath his words.

“They’re here.”

A sleek transport burst through the clouds, its Iverian engines slicing through the storm with a low hum.

Lucan had never seen its like before. Rose Crystal ships were always bloated things. Power without elegance. This one wasn’t. It was sleek, fast, and dangerously exposed.

Four figures dismounted, two leaping from the sides. As they landed, Lucan’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the leader.

“Arbiter Toren,” Lucan said, grinning, his voice cutting through the hammering rain. “I know that face. You have become something of a terror to my people in such a short time. To what do I owe this honor?”

He gave an exaggerated bow, spreading one arm. His words dripped with thinly veiled mockery. His hand brushed the liquid-metal suka at his side. Intentional, of course.

Toren stepped forward, just as unfazed by the storm. “You cannot control that thing,” he called over the din, nodding toward the railing and the Colossus. “Maybe you believe that you can. I know you hope it will destroy Iveria, but it will destroy you too.”

Lucan’s grin widened. “Is that why you’ve come? To tell me the meaning of my works? You don’t command here. You barely command daddy’s skyship.”

His voice darkened. “If you’re here, then who commands the Arcadia?” He let the question hang. “It must be a well-drilled crew that doesn’t need its master. Makes one wonder if they ever did. Or if the great Toren Luinondo was just that. Only a name.”

The figures on the deck didn’t respond. They had played this game before, the fight before the fight. Good.

Lucan tilted his head. “You risk a great deal, coming here. Do you think killing me will end this that quickly?”

Toren smirked, shaking his head. “No,” he exhaled, “but I cannot let you continue either.”

Two of Toren’s soldiers flanked him, while the fourth lingered near the speeder. The two warriors pulled out Iverian sukas, shaping the liquid metal into a short sword and a scythe. The man in the back did not draw a weapon. Perhaps he was just the pilot.

Lucan’s gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable. Three Arbiters, and the one in the back, an unknown.

“Guards, leave Toren to me. Occupy the two beside him, but do not kill them. All four are mine, make sure none of you get in my way.”

The King’s Guards shifted into Avatar form, menacing in the dim light. Red snouts curled in minor snarls, a base instinct before battle. These men were disciplined, but Lucan could forgive the outbursts. Discipline made them effective. Instinct made them dangerous.

He gestured toward the lone figure in the back, the only one unarmed. “Rook, think you can handle the scrawny one?”

Rook was silent for a beat before sighing. “Yes,” he said. But Lucan sensed something was off.

No matter. This would be a lovely little fight, one meant to be savored.

Lucan exhaled as his transformation began.

Like Rook, his frame expanded, muscles swelling beneath his armor. His stark white, shoulder-length hair blended into the crystalline red fur before disappearing. His tailored clothes shifted with him at first, then vanished beneath the thick coat of his Avatar state. His back was solid red, no patterning. The elders said it meant he was bred for great things.

Lucan gripped the hilt of his suka, channeling the gift of the Rose Crystal into the liquid-metal blade. It felt like tapping into the flame of his soul, fueling it, commanding it.

The red liquid metal flowered upward, defying gravity before hardening into a massive, single-edged sword.

Lucan let the moment stretch, anticipation thick in the air. Toren’s foot shifted back, preparing for the attack. Lucan already respected the man’s instincts.

With a roar, Lucan launched into a high, arcing swing. He knew the cut would not land, but he just had to get close to Toren for now.

Toren sidestepped the blow like it was nothing.

Lucan swung again and again but found only air. He lunged, Toren knocking the blade aside and slipping past him.

Lucan disengaged with a wide side cut. Toren vaulted the blade behind Lucan and launched his strike. His speed blurred, and his blade bit into Lucan’s flesh.

Lucan countered with wild swings, raising an arm to shield his eyes. He missed wildly, but that was expected.

This had been accounted for long ago. Defense was the first thing an Avatar learned. To make their body like granite and endure. Some were better at it than others, and Lucan had never known an equal.

Toren’s cuts were shallow against Lucan’s reinforced flesh. Laughable, but the sting was undeniable. Each cut was sharp and unrelenting.

He could outlast Toren, but that wasn’t enough. He had to beat him. Unfortunately, like most Avatars, his abilities meant little against a target he couldn’t hit.

Lucan wasn’t most Avatars.

The process was called Accretion, but it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t meant to be. Avatars controlled mass and density. That power took time to shape and anchor. That was why the others wore armor.

Lucan didn’t need time. He was better than that.

He could project a field, one that thickened the world around him, dragging everything down. Toren didn’t know it yet, but he was already drowning.

Toren might have been good, one of the best, but he was facing a deadly ability in the hands of someone destiny had chosen to wield it. He wouldn’t realize he was snared until it was too late.

Their blades met again. Toren was beginning to feel the added mass of Lucan’s field. The slow accretion was catching up to him. Soon, his speed wouldn’t matter.

Toren frowned. Lucan smiled.

Lucan split his blade into twin seaxes. Toren’s suka stretched into a staff. The clash was immediate with the liquid edges hardening, shattering, and reforming—a duel of minds and metal.

They traded strikes like breath and heartbeat. No room for mistakes. No time to think. Lucan pressed in, forcing Toren back step by step.

They were evenly matched now, exchanging blows with near-perfect precision. Openings appeared and vanished in an instant. Toren would step out of Lucan’s accretion field, and Lucan would rush back in, forcing him to keep gaining mass and density.

Lucan sidestepped and pressed forward, forcing Toren back toward the skirmish between the King’s Guards and the two Arbiter novices. Lucan’s four warriors were struggling, but that was expected. At least they were not dead. These Arbiter novices were nowhere near Toren’s level, but they were still too fast for his guards. It typically took a hundred Avatars to put a single Arbiter down, depending on their comparative abilities and training.

Four Avatars versus two Arbiters would have customarily been a slaughter. It was a good thing the King’s Guard was some of the best Aurelia could offer. Especially Lucan’s.

Lucan caught a glimpse of the third fight on the skydeck. Rook’s arm hung limp, reverted. Broken? Lucan blinked. That... wasn’t supposed to happen.

No time to dwell on that. He needed to focus on the next strike and not allow himself to be distracted from the glorious task before him.

Lucan slipped past Toren’s blade and struck the back of an Arbiter guard. Both of Lucan’s sukas buried deep, through the Arbiter’s spine and into his own King’s Guard’s chest. The sound they made was perfect, a twin gasp, like surprise learning to scream.

He didn’t flinch or blink. He braced his boot on the Arbiter’s back and ripped the blades free with a wet snap.

The bodies fell, dense with death. His own man hit the deck like a sack of meat, already reverting. Good, let the survivors wonder if they’d earned their place beside him.

Lucan turned to Toren just as the horror bloomed on his face. There it was, a crack, Toren’s weak spot. He cared. Maybe Toren and the dead Arbiter had been friends. Lucan hoped so.

He smiled without teeth. “Do not worry, you’ll see him soon enough.”

Before Lucan could press his advantage, a scream tore through the night. Both he and Toren turned just in time to see the masked man, now reverted to human form, slide like a rag doll over the edge of the skydeck. The bare-handed pilot watched him go over before reaching, too late.

“After him!” Toren shouted.

Without a second thought and at the same speed as an Arbiter, the pilot leapt back onto the sleek transport bike, kicking off in a shallow arc. Within seconds, the craft disappeared into the chaos below.

Rook, the masked man, was gone, just like that.

Rage flared through him. He threw himself back into the fight, but Toren stayed out of his mass field long enough to revert to his full Arbiter speed. This time, he kept his distance, only moving in to strike.

Lucan’s attacks turned reckless, becoming more brutal and less focused. Toren dodged easily and kept Lucan at bay, stepping in only to cut before slipping back out. Each wound was still shallow, but they were getting deeper.

“Jackson, now!” Toren yelled.

The remaining Arbiter disengaged from the King’s Guards, vaulted over the railing, and plummeted toward the broken city below.

Lucan roared in frustration. Another one slipping through his fingers.

No matter, she would have been a small trophy anyway.

He would have to settle for the grand prize standing before him.

In that moment, Toren’s body flared with power as he fully primed. His nerves glowed blue beneath his skin, azure crystalline shards blooming continuously along his arms, legs, and face. They framed his bright blue eyes, which grew and then evaporated again and again. The crystals were fragile like thin ice but sharp as razors.

Lucan would never admit to its beauty. His pride refused to let him.

Toren’s blade blurred, moving faster than Lucan could track.

Shallow cuts opened across Lucan’s arms and torso. His defenses were wearing down. Deploying his field while accreting his skin drained him, even with his legendary stamina. He staggered, frustration igniting into fury.

He felt the strain. The field wouldn’t grow. He was at his limit, but so be it.

Toren seemed to be hitting a wall, too. Instead of continuing the assault, Toren scooped up the fallen Arbiter’s body. His crystalline-enhanced speed made the movement nearly imperceptible. The only evidence was the deformed puddles he left behind, the spray kicked up into the growing night.

He jumped off the edge and vanished into the storm, plummeting toward Gaia below.

To Lucan, it seemed as if they had vanished into the raging battlefield, their presence washed away by the relentless storm above.

Lucan charged to the railing, fury trembling through him. Below, The Arcadia had slipped into position. The Arbiters would be safely back on their ship by now. Well, at least the living ones.

The Arcadia’s shardshot cannons were still trained on the Colossus, but Lucan knew that would not last long. He would have to pull The Inquisitor back further or risk The Arcadia’s devastating shardshot cannons turning on them instead.

Beyond The Arcadia, the city-state of White Hill burned, its streets reduced to embers beneath the Colossus’s feet.

Meanwhile, the sky between them blazed with fire from the three Iverian Capital Skyships locked in battle with the towering monstrosity.

One of the King’s Guards approached hesitantly. “My Prince, your orders? Our fighters are prepped. Should we… follow them?”

It was not the failure of losing his prize that rankled him. It was not even losing Rook. It was knowing he could have won. His fury boiled beneath the surface, barely held in check by the mask of royalty.

Next time, he would not let something as trivial as friendship interfere with killing First Arbiter Toren Luinondo.

His thoughts returned to the question. The absurd, empty question.

“Sure.”

Lucan’s hand shot out, seizing the guard’s arm in a vice-like grip.

The man’s face twisted in shock. Terror choked off his attempt to speak. He almost moved to grab Lucan’s hand, but stopped himself. Lucan was unsure whether that first reaction was based on fear or training, but he gave credit to the man for mastering himself in the moment.

He hurled the guard over the railing. 'Follow them,' he said. The scream was lost in the storm.

Lucan’s expression didn’t change as the figure missed The Arcadia. It was disappointing, sloppy.

“Who else wishes to follow them?”

The other two guards stood still, but Lucan could feel the nervousness.

One would have to do.

“Dismissed.” The two guards marched wordless into the open hatch. Lucan took note of their restrained haste.

Lucan turned back to the hatch, his anger smoldering but contained. He felt better. He always did after indulging that side of himself.

“Move The Inquisitor into the cloud line. Pull back the Fleet. Get us away from The Arcadia, now!” Lucan barked into the comm.

He stepped inside his skyship and paused.

What had begun as a flawless victory had soured into something far less.

It was not perfect. That was what the Domain demanded from him, what the Emperor expected of him.

He paused at the threshold, glancing once more at the storm and madness beyond.

“Again, it falls to me,” he said. The hatch slammed. He vanished into the depths of The Inquisitor.