Lein-Da wasn't afraid to admit to herself that she was a little sad to see her first student go, but she was proud of how far he'd come. He had been nothing but a scared little squirrel when she'd first found him, but now he had been summoned by his, and left for his father:
King Maxx Acorn.
She walked down the streets of Atlantinopolis—her boots clicking against chrome pavement as she looked at the ocean above them all—her cape flapping in the artificial wind.
But right now, Lord Loch had summoned her, likely to have his pacifist of a son; O'Nux as her primary pupil now. A cruel twist of fate considering how much she'd enjoyed molding Elijah into something sharper than his father's broken ideals. The thought made her smirk—her claws flexing against the hilt of her dagger—as she stepped into the obsidian lift, its doors quickly sliding shut with a whisper.
The descent was silent, save for the distant hum of Atlantinopolis' core reactors vibrating through the walls. She could already imagine Lord Loch's silhouette—broad shouldered and imposing—leaning against his throne of salvaged Overlander steel, his dread like quills slicked back like the spines of some ancient predator. He always made a point to look *untouchable*, even when discussing something as mundane as trade routes.
That was the thing about Lord Loch: every gesture, every word, every breath was a performance—one that made lesser echidnas remember that he was the current overseer of the Overlord Beryl itself.
Lein-Da stepped out into the receiving chamber, the scent of saltwater and ozone thick in the air. The ceiling pulsed with bioluminescent algae, casting shifting blueish green shadows across the faces of Lord Loch's attendants—echidnas in armor forged from the hulls of drowned Overlander warships.
Their expressions were unreadable beneath the jagged lines of their helmets, but their postures tightened as she approached, hands drifting toward weapons.
She smirked, letting her claws tap against the hilt of her dagger in a deliberate rhythm—*click-click-click*—like a countdown. The attendants stiffened further, but none moved to stop her. That was the unspoken rule of Lord Loch's court: hesitation was weakness, and weakness was a sin. The throne room doors groaned open on their own, as if the metal itself recognized her and bent to the inevitability of her presence.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of rust and brine, the walls lined with the skeletal remains of Overlander war machines repurposed into macabre trophies. Lord Loch lounged atop his throne—a jagged construct of blackened steel and coral encrusted plating—his massive frame draped in a cloak woven from the sails of conquered ships.
The moment Lein-Da crossed the threshold, his quills bristled subtly, not in threat, but in acknowledgment. "Lein-Da," he rumbled, voice like the grinding of tectonic plates beneath the ocean floor. The throne room's dim lighting carved shadows into the ridges of his muzzle, emphasizing the jagged scar that split his left brow—a souvenir from drowning an Overland general with his bare hands.
His fingers drummed against the armrest, each tap leaving a dent in the metal. "Your first disciple has been sent away, back to his father; King Maxx Acorn," Lord Loch mused, his voice dripping with the kind of amusement reserved for those who knew they held all the cards. "And yet, you don't seem half as bitter as I'd expected." His eyes—pupils slit like a shark's—gleamed under the flickering bioluminescence, dissecting her reaction before she could form one.
Lein-Da didn't flinch, didn't blink.
She just smiled, slow and sharp, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Bitterness is for those who've already lost," she said, stepping closer, her boots sinking slightly into the damp kelp fibers woven into the floor. The attendants shifted—ever so slightly—but Lord Loch remained still, his grin widening just enough to show the tips of his fangs.
Above them, the bioluminescent algae pulsed brighter, casting his face in fractured light—half shadow, half eerie glow—as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Then you've already won?" he asked, voice low enough that only she could hear it, the words curling like smoke.
Lein-Da didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she flicked her gaze to the mural behind him—a mosaic of shattered Overlander tech and Atlantinopolis' founding, depicting echidnas dragging their enemies beneath the waves by their spines. "Winning implies the game's over," she said, tracing the edge of her dagger along her palm—not deep enough to draw blood, just enough to sting. "Elijah's hatred for King Maxx Acorn is *ours* now.
And just like that, Lord Loch laughed—a sound like drowning men gasping for air—as he leaned back into his throne, his armored claws scraping grooves into the armrests. "You think hatred is currency?" he mused, his voice dripping with the kind of condescension only a ruler who'd drowned rebellions in their crib could muster.
But Lein-Da didn't flinch; she knew better.
Hatred wasn't currency—it was *leverage*. Lein-Da's smirk deepened as she watched Lord Loch's fingers twitch toward the Anarchy Beryl shards embedded in his throne's armrest, the faint glow beneath his claws betraying his tell.
She'd spent years studying the way the power pulsed beneath Atlantinopolis—how the Overlord Beryl veins throbbed in sync with Lord Loch's temper, how the city's reactors hummed louder when executions were broadcast. Lein-Da knew the rhythm of control better than her own heartbeat, and right now, the Anarchy Beryl's glow flickered like a dying ember against Lord Loch's claws.
That was the thing about leverage: it wasn't about the weight you carried, but it was about the angle at which you applied pressure.
Lein-Da did not stop walking when the laughter ended.
That was the first thing Lord Loch noticed.
Most people paused when he laughed—flinched, tensed, recalibrated themselves like prey unsure whether the sound meant triumph or hunger. Lein-Da simply continued forward, boots sinking deeper into the woven kelp flooring, the faint wet sound echoing through the throne chamber like something being dragged ever so slightly beneath the surface.
Her cape brushed against rusted Overlander plating mounted along the walls. She didn't look at it. She didn't need to. She already knew which battles each fragment came from. She'd watched half of them happen.
"Hatred as leverage," Lord Loch repeated, amusement curdling into curiosity as his laughter faded. His claws flexed again, idly tracing the Anarchy Beryl veins laced through the armrest of his throne. The glow brightened, then dimmed, like a pulse misfiring. "You sound like someone who's forgotten how easily leverage snaps."
Lein-Da stopped just short of the lowest step of the throne dais.
Close enough that the attendants stiffened.
Not close enough to be disrespectful.
She tilted her head—not submissively, but appraisingly, like a jeweler turning a flawed gem to find the fracture that would split it cleanest. "Leverage snaps when it's crude," she said calmly. "Chains break. Blades dull. Fear erodes itself if you use too much of it at once."
She tapped her claw lightly against her dagger hilt.
"But resentment," she continued, eyes lifting to meet his, "ferments."
Lord Loch leaned back, quills rustling beneath his cloak. The bioluminescent algae overhead pulsed brighter, casting warped shadows across his throne. "You taught the boy to resent his father," he said. Not accusing. Observational. "That was always your intention."
"Yes, although it's not like I had to teach him all that much in that department."
The simplicity of her answer drew a low murmur from the attendants.
Lein-Da did not turn to look at them.
"He arrived here terrified," she went on, voice smooth, precise. "Not of you. Not of Atlantinopolis. Of disappointment. He believed that failing King Maxx Acorn was the greatest sin a person could commit."
She smiled faintly at the memory.
"I corrected that misunderstanding."
Lord Loch's eyes narrowed slightly. "You sharpened him against his blood."
"I sharpened him against idealism," Lein-Da replied. "King Maxx Acorn is a man who mistakes mercy for virtue and restraint for wisdom. He taught his son that goodness is something bestowed from above—by crowns, by councils, by destiny."
Her claws flexed again.
"I taught Elijah that goodness is a weapon," she said. "And that weapons don't ask permission before being used."
The Anarchy Beryl glowed brighter.
Lord Loch noticed this time. He always did.
"And now the boy is gone," he said. "Returned to his father's orbit. Whatever poison you've seeded may be diluted."
Lein-Da shook her head once.
"No," she said softly. "It's been activated."
She turned, gesturing toward the distant wall where a vast viewport revealed the crushing dark of the ocean beyond Atlantinopolis' domes. Massive shapes moved in the depths—ancient things, half seen and fully felt.
Lord Loch's claws scraped against the throne's armrest again, slower this time—deliberate, savoring the screech of metal on metal like a predator tasting blood. His gaze flicked toward the chamber's secondary entrance, where shadows pooled thicker than the rest. "O'Nux," he rumbled, the name less a summons and more a command woven into the very air, the Atlantinopolis reactors shuddering in response.
The attendants didn't turn, didn't breathe—they knew better than to acknowledge the heir until Lord Loch permitted it. And walking in the room, seemingly doing his best to hide his contempt for this arrangement was the current heir of the title of Overseer of the Overlord Beryl: O'Nux the Echidna.
His gait was slow—deliberate—like he was measuring each step against some invisible ledger of debts owed. Unlike his father's jagged silhouette, O'Nux moved with a fluidity that suggested he'd spent more time slipping between shadows than standing in them. His armor—lighter than Lord Loch's, forged from the same drowned Overlander steel but etched with glyphs of pacifist scripture—gleamed dully under the bioluminescent glow.
It was clear he only made the armor because he was forced to; he was known for his hatred of fighting after all.
"You have summoned me father," O'Nux said flatly, his voice carrying none of the deference expected—each syllable clipped like a blade testing its edge against stone. His quills, dyed indigo with the ink of deep sea cephalopods, bristled faintly as bioluminescent algae light refracted through them, casting fractured teal patterns across Lord Loch's throne.
The attendants still didn't move—didn't breathe—but the tension in the room thickened like spilled blood coagulating in saltwater. Lord Loch's grin didn't waver, though his claws sank deeper into the throne's armrests, the Anarchy Beryl veins pulsing erratically beneath his grip. "Lein-Da," he said, his voice a low, tectonic rumble, "meets your newest pupil."
O'Nux didn't react—not visibly—but his fingers twitched. His gaze flicked to Lein-Da, assessing, dissecting, then back to his father, utterly unimpressed. The glyphs on his armor pulsed faintly, reacting to his suppressed irritation. He had no interest in war, no patience for scheming; he was the reluctant heir who'd sooner drown himself in pacifist doctrine than raise a fist in conquest. But Lord Loch hadn't called him here to ask. He'd called him here to *inform*.
Lein-Da's smirk sharpened. She knew O'Nux's reputation—his disdain for violence, his quiet defiance—and she *reveled* in it. Because defiance was just another kind of hunger. And hunger, when starved long enough, turned even the gentlest creatures into something ravenous. "Pupil implies I'll be teaching," she mused, stepping closer, her claws trailing along the edge of her dagger. "But I think you'll find I'm more of a *corrector*."
Lord Loch chuckled—dark, wet, like water filling lungs—as he watched his son's jaw tighten. O'Nux had spent years carving his own path, refusing the mantle of violence his bloodline demanded. But blood didn't care about ideals. And neither did the Overlord Beryl humming beneath their feet. "You'll train," Lord Loch said, not a request, not a suggestion—a *fact*. The Anarchy Beryl veins flared in response, casting jagged shadows across O'Nux's face. "Or you'll drown."
The heir exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—as if expelling the last traces of oxygen from a drowning man's lungs. His fingers curled, glyphs flaring crimson in warning, but Lein-Da was already circling him like a shark scenting weakness. "Oh, don't look so *tortured*," she purred, flicking her dagger's edge against his armored pauldron with a *ting* that echoed louder than it should've.
"I won't make you swing a sword. I'll just teach you how to hold one," Lein-Da murmured, her voice carrying the deceptive softness of waves lapping against a corpse littered shore. Her claw lingered near O'Nux's shoulder, not touching—never touching without permission—but close enough for him to feel the phantom pressure.
The throne room's bioluminescence flickered, painting his indigo quills in shades of drowned violet, and for a heartbeat, his fingers uncurled—not in surrender, but in something quieter. Lein-Da saw it before he could hide it: the tremor in his wrist, the way his glyphs dimmed from crimson to bruised purple. She tilted her head, not mocking, but measuring, her claws retracting just enough to blunt their edge.
"You don't want to fight," she observed the obvious, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial. "But you *need* to survive." Her claw hovered near his pulse point, not touching—never touching—but close enough for him to feel the phantom pressure of what she *could* do. The throne room's bioluminescence pulsed again, casting O'Nux's face in fractured light—half shadow, half drowned glow—as his glyphs flickered uncertainly between crimson and violet.
Lein-Da smiled, slow and knowing. "And survival, dear heir," she murmured, her claws tracing the glyphs on his armor with predatory delicacy, "is just another kind of violence." The glyphs hissed under her touch, the ancient pacifist scripture flickering like dying embers, resisting the truth in her words. O'Nux remained rigid, his breathing shallow, but his pupils dilated—just enough—betraying the conflict beneath his carefully curated calm.
Lein-Da leaned in, close enough for her breath to ghost across his ear as she whispered, "You don't have to *like* war to win one, I can certainly attest to that." Her claw pressed ever so slightly against his glyph-etched pauldron—not enough to puncture, just enough to remind him of the blade's edge he'd been balancing on his whole life.
The Anarchy Beryl veins beneath the throne pulsed erratically, casting jagged shadows that slithered across O'Nux's face like serpents scenting blood. His fingers twitched again, the glyphs flickering between condemnation and surrender, as Lein-Da's smirk widened. "Tell me, heir," she murmured, her claws drifting to the dagger sheathed at her hip, "do you still pray to those pacifist gods of yours? Or have you realized they drowned with the rest of the weak?"
The throne room's bioluminescent algae dimmed as if recoiling from the question, the faint hum of Overlord Beryl veins beneath their feet stuttering into uneasy silence. O'Nux's glyphs flared once—bright as arterial spray—before guttering out, leaving his armor as dull as a corpse left too long in the depths. He didn't answer Lein-Da's taunt. He didn't need to. The way his pupils dilated—just a fraction too wide—betrayed him better than any confession.
Elijah would've laughed if he were here.
"Well then, O'Nux, let's get going for your very first training session—or would you prefer 'correction'?" Lein-Da purred, her claws flexing around the hilt of her dagger as the glyphs on his armor flickered in erratic pulses. The throne room's bioluminescent algae dimmed further, plunging them into a murky half light where shadows slithered across the floor like eels scenting blood.
O'Nux exhaled sharply through his nose—less a sigh, more the sound of a blade being sheathed against its will. His glyphs flickered once more, a dying pulse of crimson against the drowned violet of his armor, before going dark entirely. He didn't look at Lein-Da. He didn't need to. The weight of her smirk pressed against him like a knife between ribs.
"Correction implies I require it," he said flatly, turning his head just enough to catch the bioluminescent glow fracturing across Lein-Da's smirk. His voice didn't waver, but the glyphs along his collarbone pulsed once—weakly—like a dying man's heartbeat.
Lein-Da's claws clicked against her dagger's hilt, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. "Oh, but you *do*," she murmured, leaning in until her breath fogged the scripture etched into his chestplate. "The moment you inherited that throne, you inherited its debts. And debts—" Her claw traced the outline of a glyph that once read *mercy*, now warped by Overlord Beryl corrosion into something sharper. "—always come due."
Behind them, Lord Loch's laughter rumbled through the throne room like distant thunder, the Anarchy Beryl veins in his throne flaring violently as attendants scrambled to steady overturned braziers. He didn't intervene. He didn't need to. The heir's education was long overdue, and Lein-Da had always been such a very *thorough* teacher.
O'Nux's fingers twitched toward the dagger sheathed at his hip—not to draw it, but to press against the glyphs etched into its hilt, their once luminous scripture now dulled by years of disuse. The glyphs didn't flare. They didn't react at all. That was the thing about pacifist scripture: it only worked if you still believed in it.
And belief, like mercy, was a luxury drowned (no pun was intended while writing this, but do laugh if you want to, dear readers) beneath Atlantinopolis centuries ago. Lein-Da stepped back, her smirk widening as O'Nux's fingers lingered on the dulled glyphs—hesitation made flesh. The throne room's algae pulsed once, weakly, as if gasping for air, before dimming into near darkness.
Only the erratic glow of the Anarchy Beryl veins remained, casting jagged shadows across O'Nux's face as he finally lifted his chin—not in defiance, but in quiet recalibration. The heir's fingers left his dagger's hilt, curling instead into loose fists, his armor's glyphs darkening to match the abyssal hues of the throne room's lowest trenches. Lein-Da watched, rapt, as his pupils constricted—not from fear, but from the cold arithmetic of survival.
This wasn't submission.
O'Nux knew the difference—had spent his childhood learning to distinguish between kneeling and biding time, between flinching and recalculating angles of attack. His fingers uncurled slowly, deliberately, the glyphs along his forearms flickering back to life not with their former pacifist gold, but with the murky teal of Overlord Beryl runoff. The scripture twisted in real time, corroding into something sharper, hungrier, as Lein-Da's smirk deepened into something almost *proud*.
Perhaps with time, he could match Elijah.