On a continent to the west of earth, Republica, formerly USA, a towering fortress stood. Unaffected, unharmed, by the descent of the apocalypse, crispy to a T.
It looked and stood more like an ancient castle, atop a cliff on Mount Denali, in Alaska, making its existence even more baffling. Surely such large structure should not have survived the vicious tremors and fissures, remaining untouched even.
Its walls were bland and dark, and the castle itself looked like it was carved straight out of the mountain, if anything, that's what most who saw it would assume at first glance.
The air around the fortress seemed heavier, as if it carried the weight of countless secrets buried deep within the stone. Despite its imposing exterior, no signs of life were apparent. The surroundings were eerily quiet, save for the occasional howl of the wind that echoed below the cliff.
Contrary to expectations, there were people in the fortress. In a large hall, akin to a throne room, given that building was a castle, and there was a throne situated in the room, it is quite a fitting description.
"Father, the preparations are complete, should we proceed with the next stage. " A young man in his late thirties was kneeling on the floor in front of the throne. He had a head of white-grey hair, above average looks, and an athletic build that was reminiscent of a UFC fighter in old earth.
His visage was firm, with a square shaped jaw and eyes of a hawk that were green in color. The man he addressed, his father, was seated on the magnificent emerald throne.
The oppressive pressure bearing down on the whole fortress in general was being emitted from the awe-inspiring throne. Any regulars subjected to the pressure in the hall would be crushed beneath it. It was simply suffocating.
Considering how one was sitting on this mystery throne artifact, and how the other was rather calmly kneeling in front of it, that went to show and painted a picture of just how strong the father-son pair were.
"Mmmmmm. Has 'He' sent a message since then?" The man sitting in the throne, in simple terms, was very old.
He looked like he had half a foot in the grave. Like if a strong gust of wind were to blow in this room right now, it could finish him off right there and then. His eyes were closed and he had an elbow resting on the armrest, supporting his tilted head.
However, disregarding the old man because of how old he looked would be the death of you, and the last thought you had before you inevitably died, without ever knowing how you died.
His voice sounded as old as he looked. It was gruff and dry, grating to the ears even, the kind that told you how tired, and worn the person's throat was.
The old men wore a robe that resembled a kimono, but tighter on the body. His hair was similar to that of his son, except his was ash-grey and longer, reaching all the way to his waist. His build was also athletic in nature, which was surprising given how, old he looked.
"No, father. After all, he said he wouldn't be able to interfere once the ascension descended because of the barrier." The young man responded.
The old man finally opened his eyes. They were an ethereal blue color, looking directly at them, you would be lost in their swirling mysteries, they held such a depth to them that was suffocating in on itself.
He looked towards his son, causing the man to flinch under the scrutinising gaze. After a long silence that stretched for more than a few seconds he finally spoke.
"Let them in, set a strict hierarchy though, let them know, this is now a dog-eat-dog world. They shall work for every morsel of food, every drop of water, every piece of clothing, and every moment of sleep and comfort. The strong will reign over the weak. Weakness will not be coddled or carried; those days are buried alongside the world that crumbled beneath the rubble with those lost with it."
He paced his words slowly and deliberately, taking breaths between each sentence, making sure his son understood the meaning laced beneath his words.
He would be in the same boat as everyone, with no regard for his lineage.
He continued.
"No entitlement. No excuses. Here, you rise by your strength, your will, your cunning. A society forged in fire, where every man and woman understand their worth, because they've earned it."
The old man stopped talking after that. And remained silent, for good ten minutes. One would assume that was their cue to leave the hall. But Theron knew better than to leave without being told to, so he remained kneeling in his position.
"You may leave."
"Yes father." Theron, stood to his feet quietly and made his way out towards the huge, elegant double doors. But before he could exit,
"Wait. How is my granddaughter doing?" In rare showing of compassion, the old man's gaze softened, showing genuine affection on his face. "Have you had time to look at her system?"
Theron chose his words carefully. Even knowing how much his father doted on Lyssandra, Theron's daughter, he would rather not be straightforward, after all, it wouldn't be the first time the doting grandfather would punish Theron when Lyssandra was ignoring her grandfather or throwing a fuss for thing or the other.
"She is, displeased, specifically with how we 'abandoned' her friends even though we knew of the ascension in advance. And no, I haven't looked at her system, I will do so shortly."
"So, in other words, she's not happy." The air in the room went dry, " Tell her I want to see her if you would. And do the usual to please her. "
"Yes father, " Theron left the hall right after, and went off to do his duties.
Theron walked briskly through the dimly lit corridors of the fortress, his heart calm. He occasionally came across servants and some of his distant relatives going about.
It was quite surreal, watching them laughing and acting normal, even though most of the people they knew were most likely dead.
A few of the people in the fortress had turned into mindless beasts during the first few days of the ascension, but they were swiftly taken care of. The meticulous manner in which his father seemed to be dealing with the collapse till now amazed Theron, but he knew most of the credit went to the envoy, who was also responsible for the barrier around the fortress, that had protected them for some of the effects of the apocalypse.
Theron decided to make his way to Lyssandra's room first, before going off to address the populace begging for rescue down the slope of the mountain. The weight of his father's expectations rested heavily on his shoulders.
He reached a point where the cold stone walls opened into a grand atrium, decorated with remnants of an opulent past. Tapestries once vibrant now hung faded, telling tales of a grandeur lost to time and tragedy.
He approached a door adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures — a private chamber reserved for his daughter. He knocked softly, hearing only silence in response. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the heavy door open.
A lone petite figure occupied the room. With beauty beyond words, and a pale white complexion. She looked like she was in her mid-teens, and her she looked rather short for her age, at 5'2".
Everything about her looked delicate and ample, like holding her too firmly or hugging her too tightly would squeeze the life out of her. Her face, looked like a porcelain doll carved by the goods themselves, adorned by plump, pink, soft lips.
The petite figure seemed almost otherworldly, as though she had stepped from the pages of an ancient tale. Her pale skin glistened faintly under the gentle light of the room, reminiscent of moonlight on a still lake.
Her blue, almond-shaped eyes sparkled like jewels, glimmers of silver and violet blending seamlessly along with the blue. Thin lashes framed her gaze, casting delicate shadows that danced on her porcelain cheeks.
Her presence, though quiet, commanded the room. It was not loud or imposing but drew you in with a soft magnetism that was impossible to resist. It felt as if she were the embodiment of serenity and vulnerability, a fragile yet captivating beauty that made the world seem to stand still.
Lyssandra sat cross-legged on a plush cushion, surrounded by an assortment of parchment and sketches. Her long, snow-white, cascading hair glinted like gold in the low light, each strand caught the light, shimmering faintly. But her blue eyes, mirroring her grandfather's, were clouded with frustration.
'Of course, she's still pouting'
Theron did not know whether to laugh or cry. Given how the envoy had instructed and stressed how important it was for the father-son duo to not notify anyone in advance about the ascension, he could not even tell his own daughter.
However, given how smart she was, the preparations they had made in advance were bound to give away their knowledge. Moving to this castle hours before the apocalypse descended sealed the nail in the coffin.
She hadn't been speaking to her family about anything past normal greetings since. Well, calling her cold responses to their enquiries a greeting was quite a stretch. And now a week had already passed.
"Father," she greeted, tone flat as she continued to sketch, ignoring his presence. "I didn't answer the door, that was quite rude of you."
"Lyssandra," he replied carefully, stepping further inside. "Your grandfather wishes to see you."
At the mention of her grandfather, she finally looked up, her expression a mix of defiance and resentment. "Why should I? He abandoned my friends when they needed us the most, you included!" She exploded in anger.
Theron ran a hand through his white and grey hair, feeling a headache coming "I understand you're upset, but you know the situation was beyond our control. You know we couldn't even tell you."
Lyssandra's gaze hardened, and she snapped the sketchbook close. " Oh so you do admit to knowing in advance. Is that really all you can say? The fortress is safe, but we left them to fend for themselves. It's not right!"
True, the fortress stood untouched, Credit to the envoy resurrecting a barrier around the mountain.
"Your grandfather—"
"Is more concerned with power than family! He doesn't care about what we lost, only about making a point!" Lyssandra interjected, her voice rising.
"Lyssandra," Theron said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your grandfather has fought to keep us safe, to keep you safe. But he does want to see you. This could be an opportunity for you to share your feelings, acting stubborn about won't help anyone."
Eventually, Lyssandra's defiance softened. "Fine. I'll go. But only because I want him to hear me." She stood, brushing off the dust from her garments.