Martell observed the night-clad city of Hester through the smart-glass window of his office. Even from six hundred meters above ground, he could not see the edges of the vast metropolis spanning before him. Truly it had grown; there was no doubt about it.

Now it covered almost a fifth of the eastern continent and more than thirteen billion called it home. However, still in its centre was the palace of Janek the Great. A building over two millennia old was at odds with the colossal administration hubs and geo-locked floating luxurious complexes.

Those formed the capital city of Hester’s innermost ring – the Administration Zone. Bordering it was the Commerce Zone filled with immense skyscrapers protruding from the ground like the jagged teeth of some ancient behemoth. North of them was the Dominion Spaceport if it could even be called that anymore. Stretching on an area of over a hundred and fifty square kilometres it had grown beyond the limitations of normal crafts and was capable of accommodating the great transports and cargo-ships, which on any other world would have remained docked in orbit.

Around it and the Commerce, was the Residential Zone, the largest one in Hester. Buildings ranging from enormous hub-blocks to private houses, the size of mansions, dotted the landscape. Surrounding it was the Green Zone or the Parks as people called it. A large swathe of greenery trapped amidst a sea of titanic geo-plates and high-density concrete. Unlike the other areas, this one served a dual purpose; first, it provided a place for relaxation for the inhabitants of the metropolis, and second, perhaps more important, it separated the rest of the city from the Slums.

Actually, that was what everyone on the planet called the Temporary Housing and Industry Zone. A name one could only see on official documents. For the most part, it wasn’t a nice place to visit during daytime if one were not a “local”, and after dark, even the “locals” avoided to prowl the streets without at least a pair of shock gloves or a sturdy and reliable gun. It was this part of the city that stretched beyond the horizon. It was in those parts Martell felt most at home if he could be honest.

How long had it been since a person could pass through one end of the city to the other in less than an hour, Martell wondered. How much of the bloody history of the Hester dynasty was lost or simply forgotten for the greater good? How long had it been since the Godslayers helped the first Hester, Neg Letrou Hester, the bloody tyrant, conquer the proud and prosperous Fella and turn it into the capital of his expanding empire?

It was too long ago, but not long enough for Martell. After all, we were no longer human when we drowned the streets of Fella in blood, he thought. Once he might have been bitter and ashamed of his part in such slaughter, and for a long time, he truly was. However, even that was over two millennia in the past and it was nothing but a worthless memory.

He studied his reflection in the smart-glass window. He did not see the sharp and strong features of his face, nor the short black hair. All he saw in the reflection of his coal-black eyes with irises the colour of frozen water, was a stranger. Yes, his body was a masterpiece of healthy, though a little pale, flesh covering muscles honed over centuries. Yet, none of those were his, even the blood coursing through his veins was not his. His was spilt a long, long time ago over the dunes of Scoria, hundreds of kilometres from this city.

The colour hue of his active-fabric grey suit changes ever so slightly to capture the shift of light in the room. A change so minuscule, it was advertised as the next best thing in fashion, did not escape his eyes, he simply pretended to ignore it. The future had brought many great things. Many of them were a testament to ingenuity and stubbornness, while others were nothing more than pure announce.

In the name of the Hollow Gods, it had made his life a hell of a lot easy. No longer did he have to move from one country to another to hide the fact that he was not ageing and it made explaining his strange eyes a lot easier. All he had to do was forge a new cyber identity as some relative and claim cosmetic surgery bordering extreme arrogance, so common to the rich, and he could carry on with his life. There was also no need for him to neither hide his fortunes in caves and hidden bank accounts nor even to bury them. He had to simply rise a corporation, which did who knows what and transfer it all there.

However, a piece of clothing that changed its colour based on its wearer’s moods or the time of day was one of the most annoying things he had ever witnessed. But despite all that, he was satisfied with his life. He had it all. True immortality, a handful of loyal backstabbing companions and one of the most potent, dangerous and purely insane weapons since man had picked a stick, all at the palm of his hand.

Oh, how he would love to have grind it all in fine dust and scatter it near a solar flare, however he could not do that. It had nearly conquered him when he... no when they made their escape. Deep red cracks spread through his suit in reflection of his anger. He had to get a hold of himself; he mustn’t allow anger to cloud his mind.

“Mr Regis, you have a visitor. One Mrs Nicole Regis, claims to be your ex-wife? Should I call security, sir?” The image of his secretary popped in a small rectangular section on the smart-glass window in front of Martell.

She was a lovely creature for an elf. One of the few ancient species, humanity hadn’t managed to wipe off the face of the earth. It was not for a lack of trying; the history books were full of instances of devastating genocidal wars. But during the start of the space age and early steps of space exploration, the elves, dwarves, including some of the other handful of surviving races, and the domesticated orc slaves had proven themselves as invaluable components to humanity. Under the guiding iron fist of humanity of course.

Some of the races had even taken things a step further and through rigorous genetic manipulations and invasive operations had even assumed a semi-human form. However as much as they wanted to, they could never be true humans, they just became a part of an ever-expanding minority that fit nowhere. Ostracised and despised by both sides in equal measure.

His secretary was a prime example in that regard. She had a doll-like perfect face with the bark-like growths removed from her cheekbones. Slightly larger and rounder orange eyes shaped to look more human, instead of the natural black pits common for her species and to top it all, she had had skin alterations done, which changed the original moss green hue to a light bronze one. 

“Visual,” Martell uttered the command to the voice sensors of the quantum computer hidden in the window.

A fraction of a second later it showed a young woman, barely in her twenties, standing near the front desk at the bottom of the building. She was as beautiful as she was deadly. Martell did not need to look at the slick chrome cased collar she wore, to know that she was a Psychokinetic and a potent one at that. For the love of the Hollow Gods, Martell could not see why the Dominion had to change mages to Psychokinetic or some other strange and difficult word. No, instead this day’s society thought itself better than using archaic terms born out of superstition and lack of understanding. In the process, they forgot the importance of such words.

“There will be no need for that Viin. Although she has a very poor sense of humour, she is welcomed. Please send her in.”

“As you wish, sir,” Viin replied with the tone of a professional, before closing the connection.

A few minutes later the padded door to his office opened and the woman came in with a graceful and somewhat seductive stroll. Despite her efforts, such a show was not enough for Martell to turn away from the window. He had seen all there was seen and more, where she was concerned. For now, he was more than content to look at her reflection and study it, waiting for the inevitable question. And as soon as the door closed and a small indicator on the handle blinked amber, indicating that the room was sound secure from the outside world, the woman asked it.

“How did you know it was me, Martell?” Her voice was that of a singer, soft and lyrical.

A perfect addition to her light tanned skin, and the oak hair that framed her gorgeous face. Her purple eyes locked on a spot between his shoulder blades and a dark flame sparked around the two of them a moment later. She was a bit over cautious or most likely paranoid, erecting a mental barrier around the room, without so much as warning him. Someone else would have considered this to be rather disrespectful, but Martell knew better to argue on this.

“From the moment I saw your hairstyle.” His voice was rough and sharp in comparison to hers. “No woman would wear her hair in such a way unless she had picked it up in Scoria-Tria, which would mean she is over two thousand six hundred and seventy-four years old. Why are you here Cylin?”

“Huh. You are no fun as usual. Guess the fake skin pigmentation was not good enough.” Cylin sounded genuinely disappointed, but to believe that would be a mistake, one Martell had learned from bitter experience.

“You know, no one has used my real name in over a century, and also it is not polite to comment on a young girl’s age like that, you old fart!” The hint of mischief in her voice was the real thing now and it drove a slight smile on Martell’s face.

“So, you’ve come in peace this time.” Although he relaxed a bit, he was still not ready to show any hint of emotion to her. It would only spell further misery for them if he did. He had lost count of how many times he had fallen in love with her over the centuries, but he knew it was equal to the number of times they had killed each other in a moment of most pure hate, only to come back alive and repeat the same cycle. Not this time, though. No, today he was putting an end to it for good, or at least until he was bored enough to repeat the same mistake.

“In all fairness, you did chop my head off and shove it on a spike in the middle of nowhere!” A girlish giggle followed the gruesome statement.

“You poisoned me and my wife, you jealous harpy!” This time his emotionless facade cracked for a brief moment and his words carried far more spite than he intended to use. But her actions had truly pained him. There was no point to apologise; they had used far harsher language in the past. “Why have you come here?”

After a moment of silence, she finally spoke, but there was no trace of her soft voice, instead, she used the guttural dialect of the Scorian tribes. No leaving soul would be able to understand a word of the dead language, since there was no trace of it left. They had made sure of it.

“Regis will be awake soon.” That simple phrase sent spikes of icy chill down Martell’s spine.

“What of the Hollow Gods? Has any trace of them been found?” He asked in the same guttural speech, which suited his person far better.

“You are the most paranoid person I have ever met! We killed the Gods! We spilt their blood on the sands of Scoria for what they did to us!” There was anger in her, not only in her words; the very air around her head was split by eldritch lightning.

The chrome collar around her neck fell on the ground in a melting heap, burned out by the magical overspill. Even the strongest of limiters was far too weak to contain her powers. 

In a flash of movement, he stood before her and jabbed a finger in her chest as he bellowed.

“And did we not kill Regis!? Did we not slay him three times over the last two millennia?” His suit was now the colour of molten lava. His anger had consumed him. “And yet, it is our numbers that have diminished after every battle! Barely a handful of the Godslayers are left in this world!”

With a force beyond what her small frame should have been capable of, she threw him at the window, which covered the entire outer wall of the office. The smart-glass, which could withstand a small atomic blast, cracked in a delicate spider web and Martell’s ribs speared his flesh and suit as he landed broken on the floor. It gave Cylin the time to catch her breath and calm her mind. The rage twisted visage of her beautiful face returned to normal and a moment after that a shadow of guilt and shame passed over it.

A minute later Martell rose from the ground as his bones re-knitted themselves with sharp cracking sounds. Visibly calm he went to his desk and poured a healthy dosage of coppery liquor in a pair of glasses. The beverage was borderline toxic in its alcohol content to most life forms, but to those who used to be a part of the Godslayers, it was the sweetest elixir. Without a word, he gave one of the glasses to Cylin before returning to his desk and the comfort of the padded chair behind it.

They sipped the drink in silence for a short while, when Martell finally spoke. “How long before the seal brakes?”

“Four months. Six if we are lucky.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I am sorry, Mar. I did not come to pick up a fight with you. However, your hypocrisy really pisses me off. You blame Regis for all that has happened after Scoria and yet, you use his name as your own.”

“I do it to remember my captain, the man he was... before the Hollow Gods used us...” He could not finish his sentence.

“Oh, please!” She snorted. “It’s either Regies or the Hollow Gods with you. When will you accept the past? When will you get it through your head, that the Hollow Gods are no more?”

Cylin paused, trying to compose herself and prevent another outburst, from either of them.

“You made a mistake. We all did.” Before she placed the empty glass on the edge of the desk. “There’s no need for you to continue to shoulder all the blame. Enough is enough…”

“Because it was my call. My responsibility.” Martell felt the anger take shape inside him, but at the same time, he felt detached and tired.

Shaking her head, Cylin dropped back into the chair and let out a sigh. Her eyes studied him, asking him to continue with the same argument, he had used millions of times. They were going in circles, as they always did. It was because they cared for each other, they respected each other and hated each other.

There was one thing he could agree upon. They all had made mistakes in that damned place. The memory of what had happened in the desserts of Scoria too raw so many centuries later flashed inside Martell’s mind. He wanted to forget and let it all behind him, but he could not. None who belonged to the Godslayers could, their minds simply did not allow it.  He downed the content of his glass in one last gulp, before speaking again.

“When will the others arrive at the Facility?”

“Not this time,” Cylin shook her head, annoyance marring her face. With a flick of her wrist, an envelope appeared in between her index and middle fingers. “We talked it over, and decided to gather here, in Hester.” She waved the letter meaningfully, a smile mischievous smile taking root on her face. “I mean, this shouldn’t surprise you, after sending out these.”