Halcyon Days: The Colossus

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Prince Lucan Regis van Ferro’s Capital Ship, The Inquisitor, loomed beneath the storm at twilight, its vast hull pounded by relentless rain. Droplets pinged against the metal mask of the man on the skydeck. The mask was permanently frozen in a snarl, its beastlike form shaped in the image of Lucan’s people, Avatars.

Lucan was a prince of Aurelia. A prince of monsters masquerading as men.

Only the masked man’s eyes were visible through the dreadful visage, the tight chrome sheltering all other features. His cool blue eyes scanned the cloud line that hung oppressively above him. They looked impassive, but the way they shifted betrayed a hint of unease. He worked to control his breathing, the sound of his own lungs echoing inside the mask.

It was hard to hear anything over the rasp of each breath and the drumming of the rain. The echoes of both were familiar now. If anything, they grounded him in the present situation.

Otherwise, the hammering of his heart might have sent him right over the edge and down into the warzone below.

He should have been focusing on that chaos. It was why he had stepped out onto the skydeck, after all, but he had heard the hum almost immediately.

The sound of something hiding in the clouds.

He had sent for the Prince five minutes ago.

No attack had come yet. The masked man might begin to doubt his hearing or sanity if one did not come soon.

In the meantime, the Prince had not moved The Inquisitor above the cloud line to investigate or confront the uninvited guest, as the masked man had requested.

Instead, they waited for the unknown ship to make its next move.

Frozen in place, like the face of the monster he wore. 

The hatch hissed open behind him, and Prince Lucan strode through. His towering frame cut a sharp silhouette against the rain-slicked deck. The downpour looked like it would continue for some time. Lucan didn’t notice, or like the masked man, he 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 own 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 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 better.

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

The Colossus barely seemed to notice. Its blue flesh and crystalline plating deflected the shardshot cannons without effort.

It was a walking nightmare made real. After all, it already carried half of White Hill on its back. The rest of the major Iverian city lay shattered in ruin on Gaia’s surface.

Lucan wondered if there were still survivors clinging to the wreckage of their former home.

The thought irritated him. They had no right to exist on his weapon. His troops would clear them out soon enough.

For now, his forces focused on swarming the Iverian ships, harrying their defenses, and boarding where they could. It was mostly futile, but it was enough as the Colossus found its footing.

Rook had told Lucan the fleet was important. Required for this phase of the plan.

Small steps for the sleeping giant, he had said a year earlier. They did not want to rely on it too much at this stage.

Lucan had not disagreed. In fact, he had seen it himself before Rook ever did. He knew that, but only a moron tried to make himself look like less a fool in hindsight.

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, he would have to wait for Dr. Cid for that. Lucan wouldn’t risk being anywhere near that beautiful, horrible thing until it was fully under his control.

He eyed the fighting below. Blue cannon shardshot ricocheting and careening off the Colossus. Underpowered red shardshot from his light fighters lazily harassing the Capital Ships.

Lucan recognized the three Capital Ships of the Iverian Armada: The Arcaida, The Berkshield, and Heydon’s Fury. Just one of those ships could decimate his fleet on its own, three were practically invincible while over Iveria. Most tantalizing, there were sure to be Arbiters among their crews.

By Gaia, he wished to get his hands dirty, but the smart play was to wait until at least one Capital Ship was downed before committing more of his heavy cruisers and frigates. Two, ideally, before turning The Inquisitor lose on the third.

Lightning pummeled the top of the Colossus, as if Gaia herself were trying to put the creature down. The rolling sound of thunder blurred with the relentless shardshot cannon fire raining down on its armored hide. Each volley sparked harmlessly while the Colossus reached, lazy and slow, for its assailants. As a child waking up from its nap.

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

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

“Neither, 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.”

“I am surprised you can hear anything in that mask.”

Lucan spat onto the deck. Even the passing mention of Iverian technology being clean rankled him. He always despised the arrogance of the Iverian people, thinking their technology 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 strongest 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.

Rook’s transformation stopped him.

His body expanded, joints twisting unnaturally as thick crystalline crimson fur erupted, covering his clothes. His legs bent into a digitigrade stance. Heat shimmered off his back as strands of his fur coat evaporated, reformed, and drifted upward like embers in a fire.

Yet the mask remained intact, its face and hinged neck adjusting seamlessly to the monstrous transformation beneath.

Lucan wasn’t surprised. He had seen this countless times. Avatars comprised the vast majority of Aurelia’s forces, including the four King’s Guards standing beside him.

Warriors of the Rose Crystal, blessed with durability and strength. Their bestial forms were a requirement when they tapped into that power.

The surprise wasn’t the shift. It was the timing. Lucan had sensed nothing above the clouds, but this man had.

Rook, fully shifted, turned to him, his massive form looming. His voice was lower now, threaded with a growl.

“They’re here.”

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

Lucan had never seen its like before. Ships built from the Rose Crystal were bulky, their cores requiring massive housings and even larger frames around them. That made them heavily plated, redundant, and built to last. This craft was the opposite. 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 pantomimed a 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. Maybe it will destroy Iveria first. But in the end, it will destroy you as well. Call off your fleet and let the Armada put it down. We can continue the Old War tomorrow.”

Lucan’s grin widened. “Is that why you have come? To tell me the meaning of my works? You do not command here. You barely command daddy’s ship.”

His voice darkened. “If you are here, then who commands The Arcadia?” He let the words hang. “It must be a well-drilled crew that does not need her master. It makes one wonder if they ever did.”

He tilted his head. “You risk much coming here. Do you think killing me will end this that quickly?”

Toren smirked, realizing his plea had fallen on deaf ears. “No,” he exhaled, shaking his head. “But it might be the first step toward solving this.”

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 assessed them with cool disdain. Three Arbiters, and the one in the back an unknown.

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

The King’s Guards shifted into Avatar forms, menacing in the dim light. Small snarls escaped their red snouts, an animalistic habit. These men were disciplined, but a fight was a fight. Lucan could forgive these indulgences.

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 crimson crystalline fur before being overtaken. His tailored clothes adjusted to his growing form, but they were soon lost beneath the thick red coat of his Avatar state. His back was solid red, unlike Rook and the King’s Guards. No patterning. A sign he was bred for greater 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 stood a beat, letting the moment breathe and the anticipation build. 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. This time, Toren effortlessly diverted the blade with his own while stepping around him. When fully solid, the suka’s edge behaved like metal, locking against Toren’s weapon in a clash of sparks. The liquid edges hardened, chipped, and repaired with each strike. Two masters, both wielding one of the most temperamental weapons ever designed.

More cuts. More misses. Then, as if he had grown bored, Toren sprang the attack. His speed blurred, and his blade bit into Lucan’s flesh.

Lucan countered with swings of his own, one arm shielding his eyes. He missed wildly.

This had been accounted for. 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, like a million paper cuts.

I might not lose this war of attrition, he thought, but laying a hand on this sparkie is another matter.

Like most ordinary Avatars, his abilities meant little against a target he could not hit.

Good thing he was no ordinary Avatar.

It had taken years of training, discipline, and Lucan’s singular talent with Avatar abilities. Mass and density control. From a young age, he had been told he was special. Luckily, he had masters who reminded him that talent meant nothing without work.

As a child, he could already add mass and densify his organs, bones, and skin like any Avatar novice, a process called accretion. Soon after, he could accrete his clothes and any object he touched, such as a hammer or a wall, like an expert Avatar.

As a teenager, he had asked himself: why not air?

Gases were difficult to manipulate, even for masters, but air was just loose matter. It had taken years, but eventually, he had succeeded.

Nearly two decades later, he had only improved.

Now, anything in a five-foot radius would gather or lose mass at his discretion. A trap to kill Arbiters. A singular ability for a singular talent.

One Toren would not know about until it was too late.

Their blades met once again. This time, Toren was beginning to feel it, the added mass of Lucan’s field. The slow accretion was catching up to Toren. Soon, his speed would not matter for anything.

Toren frowned. Lucan smiled.

Lucan split his blade into twin seax, the shorter weapons giving him an edge in close quarters. Toren responded by elongating his own blade into a staff, shifting to the defensive, trying to create distance. 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 losing badly, but that was typical. 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 versus two would have normally been a slaughter. It was a good thing the King’s Guard were some of the best Aurelia could offer. Lucan’s guards especially.

Lucan caught a glimpse of the third fight on the skydeck. Rook’s arm hung limply at his side and had reverted back. Broken, maybe?

Lucan had not seen the scrawny pilot wield a weapon, but breaking an Avatar’s arm? That was something Lucan had never once heard of. Interesting.

No time to dwell on that. Focus. Lucan would not allow himself to be distracted from the glorious task before him.

As they neared the guards’ melee, Lucan deflected Toren’s latest strike with precision, using the momentum to step past him and drive his twin blades into the back of an Arbiter guard and into his own man as well. The two men grunted. Lucan paused and savored the kill. He saw the deaths register on the faces of both his King’s Guard and the remaining Arbiter novice.

Lucan put a foot in the Arbiter’s lower back and pushed, withdrawing his sukas.

The Arbiter thudded when he hit the skydeck, his mass and density already doubling.

The Avatar reverted to human form, as they all do when they are knocked out or killed.

Lucan turned back to Toren in time to see the horror on his face. Maybe they had been friends. How wonderful.

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 ragdoll 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.

Lucan took a second to process it. Rook, the masked man, was gone.

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 true 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 prize overboard.

No matter. She would have been a small trophy anyway.

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

In that moment, Toren’s body flared with power, his true speed. His nerves glowed blue beneath his skin, azure crystalline shards blooming continuously along his arms, legs, and face. They framed his bright blue eyes, growing and evaporating again and again. The crystals were fragile like thin ice but sharp as razors. Lucan would never admit to the beauty of it. His pride would not allow it.

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 and accreting his skin like this took its toll, even for his legendary stamina. He staggered, frustration igniting into fury.

He could not increase his field further or make things accrete faster within it. Worse, he had to keep moving constantly or risk the field damaging his ship. Damn his limitations. He would just have to train harder.

For now, he had to reformulate a strategy or risk losing his quarry.

The moment he started to plan, the pain stopped. Toren was already gone.

With a final blur of motion, 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, hanging there for a moment before 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, his massive frame trembling with fury. He was surprised to see The Arcadia had slipped into position directly beneath them. 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 lay in ruin, its streets aflame at the Colossus's feet.

Meanwhile, the sky between them blazed with fire from the three Iverian Capital Ships 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 blood seethed, his rage barely contained beneath his still face. The mask he showed the world, the face of a royal, hiding the soul of a true killer.

Next time, he would not let something as trivial as an old friend 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. His attempt to speak was choked off by terror. He almost moved to grab Lucan’s hand but stopped himself. Lucan was not sure if that first reaction was based in fear or training, but credit to the man for mastering himself in the moment.

The other guards stepped back instinctively, dread etched into their features, as Lucan hurled the man over the railing.

“I order you to follow them.”

The guard’s scream was lost to the storm and battle.

Lucan’s expression remained impassive as the figure missed The Arcadia.

In a flash, he seized the other two guards. One after the other, they met the same fate. One landed on The Arcadia before slipping off the side.

Even at this distance, Lucan was not surprised he hit The Arcadia. He was mostly annoyed he missed it twice.

No matter. His men would survive the fall to the ground. True, it would not be pleasant, and worse, they would have to make their way back to a forward operating base on foot.

He would not demote them if they checked back within twenty-four hours. Any longer than that, and they would need to be made examples of. That was the likely outcome.

Good. That would have to be enough for now, he told himself.

Lucan turned back to the hatch, his anger simmering but once again under control. He felt a little better after indulging that side of him. He always did.

He stepped inside his skyship and paused.

What had started as a total triumph had become a bitter, mixed result.

It was not perfection.

And that, above all, was unacceptable.

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

“…and again it falls to me,” he muttered grimly before disappearing into the depths of The Inquisitor.