The Chronicles

Edition III The Pirate King of Rafterburn

Standing at the threshold of fire and salt, the King chose the horizon over the hoard. This is the moment he decided to blow it all to hell…

Lucious and Koji shared the same blood, the sacred Cavalerian bloodline, but Lucious carried the skeptic’s burden. To him, being a Pirate King meant order, discipline, and the occasional indulgence decadent rum When the light flickered on his sill, a throbbing wave of pain permeated his skull. "Malarkey," he spat. Observations were not for everyone, and he had no time for the Tribune’s games.

But the Tribune do not negotiate, and they were neither impressed nor patient enough for insubordination. From the high crowns of the Seven—crowns worn not for status, but as symbols of their immense duty—the command was issued. These seven highborn tribunals of great age and intelligence sat at the apex of the Galactic Reporting Chronicle Team (GRCT), an organization spanning two mid-sized planets and a fleet of ships with a technological sophistication beyond most understandings.

The GRCT maintained the moon database: a vault of order, records, artifacts, and technology run by 1,000 high-elected officials. Their goal was galaxy resonance and equilibrium, a strict adherence to the Cavalerian code—a code of old ways to rule with integrity and discipline.

“Shall we intervene?” The wise one spoke in a cryptic, otherworldly burst of short creaks and grunts.

“We shall,” Tempedfyortlian responded. In their world, names were a formality; complex names represented complex duties, and the Tribune were the most complex beings in the galaxy. Order and control came at no expense.

The wise one spoke slowly, yet efficiently, to Tempedfyortlian: “Key. IT. IN.” Two or three characters were struck. The screen came to life almost immediately, sparking a board of LEDs to life. As Lucious nursed his headache on the deck of his ship, his world was about to break.

Lucious threw the device across the room in a fit of rage—for once in his life, could he get something to cooperate? He remembered his patience training, but in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t restrain himself. He was programming the logistics to raid the Pirate Cove, but the device kept suggesting meaningless tips: Will you be needing a survivor kit? Want me to show you how to start a fire? It was all unhelpful garbage—extensions to original questions that he just wanted a step-by-step plan for.

He needed to know the pirates' schedule. The pirates were hateful things—greedy, possessive, political, and opportunistic. Not all of them, but most. He had learned about them in training before his abduction.

The god-damned Tribune. He understood his role and what was required, but how could a group be so obsessed with controlling the fate of a planet—a timeline of souls? When he started questioning the third or fourth in command, he never got his answers. What would happen if you were compromised by a virus? What if I helped the pirates and decided to live with them? The Tribune had a way of deflecting his questions. Anything that had to do with them was met with: “When have you been wrong?” “Why did you pick me?” “Who watches the watchmen?”

If he ever got too pushy or tried to escape, he would suddenly fall asleep and wake up in his cabin, having dreamed of duty, order, and purpose. He’d remember everything, but he started to avoid sleep just to deal with their "dream lectures" and being treated like a child.

This went on for months: eat, sleep, study, exercise, train, question the Tribune, throw training devices across the floor. The Tribune provided him with an armband that held a translator, a computer, and a communication device for back home. They didn't always hand-hold him; they let him do some of his own training to keep him from becoming too reliant on beings that could take over a hundred planets if they wanted to.

The device was virtually indestructible, so it didn't break on the hard steel floor. Lucious was on board a ship called the Pirate King. It was critical to fit in with the timeline as to not risk altering the period. If one pirate knew he had advanced technology or figured out how to fly a spaceship, it would be disastrous. It would fall into the hands of men who could take over the planet and subjugate millions—or fly the ship like a missile into a castle and set off a nuclear explosion.

Months passed in the silence of the deep. Abduction. Study. Exercise. The relentless "dream lectures" that treated him like a child. Lucious had been trained, polished, and prepared by the Tribune until he was no longer just a man, but a sacrificial anchor for a timeline he didn't ask to lead.

The moment of the Great Choice arrived at the edge of the Sentinel.

Lucious stood high above the Pirate Cove, his heavy cape snapping in the gale like a funeral shroud. Below him, the pirates were closing in on the gold reservoir—greedy, opportunistic things that would burn the world for a chest of coin. He had a decision to make: be captured and let the hoard fall into their hands, or erase the board entirely.

He chose the horizon.

As the reservoir ignited in a blinding plume of fire behind him, Lucious leaped from the Sentinel.

For a moment, he doubted the physics of his own faith. As he plunged into the void, his cape caught the updraft, and he felt a brief, deceptive glide. He wavered, wondering if his training—his leg strength, his resolve—was enough to clear the jagged rocks. The glide held for a heartbeat, a suspended grace, until the air gave way.

Fifty feet from the surface, the glide stalled. The weight of his armor and the burden of his skepticism took hold. He fell faster and faster, a streak of gold and shadow against the spray. He hit the water with a great, violent SMACK, the impact knocking the very breath from his lungs and the Tribune’s voice from his head.

In the crushing cold of the deep, for the first time in months, there was finally silence.