The journey to his ancestral home on the planet of Eldoria was a blur. Kaelen jumped on his warship on autopilot, his mind in state of disbelief and cold, creeping dread.
The Emperor's words echoed in his thoughts, a venomous statement of accusation and command. He tried to reconcile the image of his father a stoic, honorable man who had taught him strategy using carved wooden soldiers, the man whose letters were always filled with quiet pride isnot the same as the treacherous villain the Emperor described. The two images could not coexist. One of them was a lie and he is sure which one but still want answers and plan to do later on.
Eldoria was a world of rolling green hills, ancient forests, and crisp, clean air, a stark contrast to the metallic heart of the Empire.
The Kaelen family estate was nestled in a quiet valley, have a manor of stone an that had stood for centuries. It was a place of peace, of memory.
As his warship descended towards the private landing area, a knot of anxiety tightened his gut. He had sent no word of his arrival, wanting the element of surprise, though for what, he wasn't sure. To confront his father? To plead with him? To see the truth in his eyes? To protect him?
He landed on the warship and stepped out into the cool evening air. The estate was silent. Too silent. There were no servants bustling, no gardner tending to the grounds. The only sound was the rustle of leaves in the wind.A sound scream in his mind ' Something Wrong!!". His hand instinctively went to the sidearm grapping at his hip.
He entered the manor through the main doors, which were unlocked. The great hall was dark, the hearth cold.
"Father?" He called out, his voice echoing in the stillness. No answer. He moved deeper into the house, his military training was taking over. His senses were on high alert, every shadow of a potential threat, every creak of the floorboards, a warning. He moved towards his father's study, the heart of the house.
The study doors were slightly ajar. A single light was on inside, casting a warm, inviting glow. But the smell that wafted out was not the familiar scent of old books and woodsmoke. It was a coppery, metallic tang of blood.
Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs. He pushed the doors open and froze. The scene was one of nightmare. His father, General Theron, was slumped in his high backed chair behind his large oak desk. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A single, blackened scorch mark marred the chest a sign of a military grade laser pistol fired at close range.
On the desk, his father's own ceremonial sidearm there is a gift from Kaelen years ago that he lay next to his outstretched hand. In his other hand, a terminal communication watch was clutched, it show a screen displaying what looked like a confession.
Kaelen took a step into the room, his mind struggling to process the horror. His father was dead. But this wasn't suicide. The angle was wrong. The burn pattern was wrong.
This was an execution, carefully arranged to look like something else. And then he saw it, on the floor by the desk there is a single, fresh boot print in a smear of blood. A print that matched the standard issued boots of an Imperial General. A print that would match his own.
It was in that instant that the full, horrifying scope of the Emperor's plan crashed down on him, the summons, the proof, the secret mission. It was all a lie, it is a trap. The Emperor didn't want him to kill his father. He wanted his father dead, and he wanted Kaelen to be the one holding the knife. It was a frame, perfect and absolute.
He had to get out. He had to run. But before he could even turn, the soft click of a weapon being armed sounded from the doorway behind him. He spun around, his own pistol clearing its holster in a blur of motion. But he was too late.
Standing in the doorway, flanked by a squad of Imperial Guards in their stark white armor, was General Vorlag.
Vorlag was Kaelen's senior in age but far his junior in rank and accomplishment, a fact that had bred a bitter, festering rivalry. Vorlag's face, usually a mask of professional courtesy, was now alight with undisguised, triumphant malice. His pistol was aimed squarely at Kaelen's chest.
"Drop it, Kaelen," Vorlag sneered, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "It's over."
"Vorlag," Kaelen said, his voice a low growl. "What is the meaning of this? My father has been murdered."
"Murdered?" Vorlag feigned a look of surprise. "It looks to me like he took the coward's way out after his treason was discovered. Or perhaps… he was silenced before he could confess everything." He gestured with his pistol towards the scene. "A terrible tragedy. To be found standing over the body of your own father, a smoking gun practically in your hand. How does it feel, 'Hero of the Empire,' to be caught?"
The trap was prepared. The Emperor's order was the bait, his father's death was the mechanism, and Vorlag was the cage, slamming shut around him.
Kaelen realized with sickening clarity that the guards with Vorlag weren't from the local garrison. Their armor bore the order of the Imperial Third Army it is Vorlag's army. They had been waiting for him. They had likely been the ones to stage the scene.
Rage, pure and incandescent, surged through Kaelen. He could fight. He could probably take down Vorlag and half his men before they overwhelmed him.
But what then? He would be a fugitive, hunted across the galaxy with the full might of the Empire, what about revenge for his father if he did that he will give the emperor a knife as a gift while his name would be forever stained and his honor, the only thing he truly valued, would be shattered and most important his family name, he will not allow his father and ancestors to be labeled as traitors.
He looked from Vorlag's smug face to the body of his father, the honorable man who had been reduced to a pawn in a political game.
Slowly, deliberately, Kaelen lowered his pistol. He placed it on the floor and kicked it away, the sound echoing the finality of his decision. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Vorlag's smile was a predatory slash across his face. "Wise choice. General Kaelen, by the authority of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Valen, you are under arrest for the crimes of patricide and high treason."
As the guards moved in, their binders clicking shut around his wrists, Kaelen's reputation, his honor, and his entire world shattered into a million irreparable pieces, but mark a start up plan for revenge.