Chapter 1: The King of Gol

Thirty-two years later.

“He needs to be prepared, Hellen,” Mr Dimitri said in feverish, hushed tones.

“What for, Lor? He isn't sick. What could he possibly need to prepare for?” Miss Hellen wheezed.

“They took Dill, didn't they?”

“Dill was sick, he’s not!”

“What do you think they are going to do with him when we are gone? Just leave him here? Keep the outpost going for one kid?”

“What if they come down for him? Maybe that’s the best thing that we can do for him. He isn't sick, Lor. They could care for him, give him a proper upbringing, get him off of this gods-forsaken rock and hand him a future”

“Then why haven't they, eh?”

“I don't know, I am not friendly with them like you are, why don’t you ask them?” she accused.

“She at least knows that something has to be done, Hellen!”

There was a scuffle that told Meno that she had tried to stop Mr Dimitri from raising his voice, probably with the closest thing she could grab to threaten him with.

“Shhhh! You will wake him,” she hissed as Mr. Dimitri chuckled.

“He’s been listening to us this entire time, my dear. Haven't you, boy?”

Meno didn't answer. He didn't want to join the argument again. He always felt so childish explaining that he didn't want to leave. He knew it was coming, though. As much as he wanted to deny it, Mr. Dimitri was right.

“You see”, Miss Hellen whispered, “He sleeps strongly that one. He works hard, and he rests harder.” Meno could hear the smile in her voice.

“But really, Lor, I know that she might, but what if she can’t? If he leaves this place and they see that as a crime, then his entire life disappears before him.”

“There is not much that she is incapable of, Hellen, and what life is he preserving? Trust me.”

“She clearly can’t see that bloody kettle on my windowsill though, can she?”

The next morning, Meno sat cross-legged on the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on drawing in the energy and pushing it outward. He centred his breath, pulling the force into a single point within his body, feeling the faint tingling begin to stir beneath his skin. Then, slowly, he pushed it outward, imagining it flowing through his limbs, through every pore and then repeating the process.

“Concentrate”, Miss Hellen snapped at Meno. “You draw out the natural energy within yourself that is held in every cell in your body, you use this energy and push it out of yourself. Then ,once that energy alters the natural energies around you, you draw it back in and empower yourself. This gives you great strength, this is Resonance.” Meno tried not to swear to the fact that he was trying as she finished her mantra.

Meno opened his eyes and took in the room around him, a space that had been converted into his training room, classroom, and recreation space. Makeshift equipment sat alongside shelves lined with old, handwritten books. The green-tinged wooden walls creaked in the stillness, and pale light filtered through the ever-present mist that clung to the edges of the derelict town outside. Gol, the town, sat nestled in a valley, poisoned and cursed by disease.

He leaned back, placing his hands on the brittle wooden floor, and looked up at her.

“I swear I’m doing it, Miss Hellen.”

She looked at him, unconvinced.

He sighed and smiled up at her. She was next to his desk, placed in the middle of the room, her plump figure barely managing on the small wooden chair that Meno had repaired more times than he could count. She wore an old dress that had faded to a pale pink. Meno couldn't remember if it had always been that colour or if time had worn it down. Her skin was grey now, and cataracts dulled her once bright eyes. Her hair, like Meno’s, was rat-tailed and tied back with a strip of cloth cut from the very dress she was wearing. And yet, despite the disease, she was still a robust woman, strong, fiercely opinionated, and her ever-smiling face hadn’t changed one bit. She had the kindest face he had ever seen. Admittedly, he had only known just shy of forty people in his life, and now all but two were now gone.

“If you were doing it, I would be able to tell,” she admonished. Meno chortled at the familiar line. “You need to draw the energy into every cell, every fibre of your being, and then push it out”, she added, thrusting her hands in front of her. He nodded. He knew the concept by heart, but clearly, he still wasn't capable of doing it. His gaze drifted to the old handwritten books on his desk.

“They won’t tell you anything,” Miss Hellen said, catching his eye.

The books that had once belonged to Professor Swan. He had died some years back, but every volume remained. Handwritten, since nothing had been permitted in the town when they first arrived. Meno had read every one of them, some many times over. Especially the volume chronicling the last Sha-En and their battle with the Kryptea. Each book was a quiet testament to Swan’s own studies etched into every page.

The Professor had been a strange man, to say the least, always ranting and raving about political structures and the indecency of the House’s powers. He drove most of the town mad with it. But Meno knew better. He knew Swan as a man of deep compassion. His outbursts weren’t driven by some rigid belief in a perfect system. No, he spoke out because of the injustices he perceived and of the quiet ways they kept people small. Meno still remembered one of his favourite sayings:

‘’One should be very careful in agreeing to limitations, for it creeps up and tightens around you. Soon, your perceived freedom is at the permission of someone else’. Swan had left the books to Meno, knowing the writing would outlive him. Unfortunately, he had been right.

Swan had always seemed to long for some great debate with the people of Gol. Meno often wondered if the professor had written his books not just to record his thoughts but to arm his hoped-for opponent. Someone who could finally challenge him in the way he so deeply craved.

He had taught Meno, of course, but Meno had been young then, and many of the concepts had gone over his head. As he grew older, Mr. Dimitri helped clarify some of them, like Heimal, the Kryptean doctrine of absolute obedience. The Kryptea were known as the Silent Army, a military force that never questioned orders, never disobeyed. Meno had been fascinated by them, and in moments out of earshot from Miss Hellen, he would ask Mr. Dimitri about the Kryptea. Meno would be regaled by the legendary force that prided strength above all.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” came Miss Hellen’s familiar end to all their sessions.

She knew that if she claimed he didn’t have the talent for it, he’d only press on harder, refusing to quit. So, instead, she simply looked down at him with that kind, worn smile.

“Maybe tomorrow.” With effort, she rose from the chair, steadying herself. As always, she ignored the hand Meno extended to help her.

“I’m fine, dear,” she wheezed, waving him off.

The disease was taking its toll now, more with each passing day.

“Are you a master of Resonance yet?” asked Mr. Dimitri, entering the dilapidated room, his walking staff tapping against the floor.

“Almost”, said Meno, jumping up from his spot on the floor and stretching his arms into the air, “I really feel like I’m getting it.”

“Not even close,” Miss Hellen laughed.

Meno glanced over to Mr Dimitri. The disease had taken its toll on him, too. Once a proud captain in the House Hulfean army, sworn to the old war god Locne. He now stood hunched, his thin limbs wrapped in parchment-like skin. His hair had grown wispy, and every movement looked as though it demanded effort. Still, his eyes remained sharp, clear and analytical.

“I’ll get supper started for us,” Miss Hellen said.

Though it was only midday, the soup took time, especially now, as her movements had slowed over the past few months. Supplies were scarce in Gol, so supper was a modest mix of foraged herbs and mushrooms. Meno gathered them each morning before training. It was one of the many small things he did for the two who had raised him.

“Well,” Mr Dimitri wheezed, making his way to his usual corner, “let’s see if that so-called mastery has dulled the rest of your abilities.”

He laid his walking staff across his chest and gave Meno a familiar look. Without a word, Meno stepped into Form One.

“Begin and focus on Hellen’s training while you are doing it,” he said.

Meno, already lowering into a half-crouch, thrust his fist forward. It was always the first step before training, the soldier’s way. Meno didn't mind. He always enjoyed Mr Dimitri’s training, and it always seemed to Meno that the training was the highlight of the old soldier's day.

Lately, Meno had noticed a change in the old man, though. Mr. Dimitri had grown more prone to low moods. Sometimes, when he thought Meno wasn’t paying attention, he would watch him with a look that blended pride with a deep sadness. As soon as Meno caught it, he would turn away, retreating instinctively, unsure how to meet that look.

To Meno, Mr. Dimitri had always been more than a teacher. He was his first hero, a man who, despite his own pain and discomfort, still rose early each day to help those battling the final stages of the disease, offering them words of peace and reassurance in their final moments. Not because he believed he had to atone for anything, but because, like Miss Hellen said, he was a true man of service.

Meno endeavoured to learn as much from Mr. Dimitri as he could. He often felt a small, lingering guilt over the fact that he was grateful Mr. Dimitri and Miss Hellen had outlived the others. He had loved them all, even those who hadn’t given him much of their time. But Mr. Dimitri had been his mentor and trainer, and Miss Hellen was, for all intents and purposes, his mother, though she would never say it aloud.

She kept out of the way during Mr. Dimitri’s training sessions. Meno had the impression that she disapproved of it, though she never directly intervened. Meno suspected she understood its importance, perhaps more for the old soldier than for himself. The two forms of training were meant to complement each other. Drawing in the energy, as Miss Hellen taught, and then channelling it to enhance the body’s strength and reflexes, as Mr. Dimitri insisted. But Miss Hellen never liked the fighting aspect of it all.

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Meno finished his first form and dropped to the floor to begin push-ups with flat rocks stacked on his back.

“What are you finding difficult in Hellen’s training?” Mr Dimitri asked, circling.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” Meno said between breaths. “I feel like I’m doing it... But I am not pushing any energy out.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“Internally,” Meno strained, “I feel everything Miss Hellen says I should.”

Mr. Dimitri pushed down with his walking stick on the stack of rocks on Meno’s back. Meno let out a breathless laugh and nearly collapsed.

“It’s just… it doesn’t reflect outwardly.”

“It’s a complex training she offers,” Mr. Dimitri said thoughtfully. “One that not everyone is capable of…”

“I am!” Meno barked through gritted teeth.

The old man chuckled. “Then tell me how you’ll accomplish it.”

Meno paused, muscles trembling under the weight. With Mr. Dimitri, there was no such thing as ‘unable’ or ‘inability’. He would never allow for such a thing to be said. Only the challenge and the plan to overcome it.

“I will,” Meno said, not as an answer, but as a commitment.

“Good. You need more rocks. You’ve outgrown this weight. Before dinner, bring back three large ones from the stream.”

Meno swore under his breath.

“Language,” Mr. Dimitri said gently. “Don’t let Miss Hellen hear you saying things like that.”

“Yeah… sorry.”

After training, Meno cleaned the room, gathered his things, and tucked one of Professor Swan’s books under his arm before setting off toward the river. He flipped it open as he walked, reading the way he had since he was a child.

He opened to the story of the last Sha-En, Jinn. The boy who had faced the Kryptea at the Battle of Bloods. The story of how he had taken revenge on the people of war for the destruction of his own civilisation. Later, he had joined the Autarchs' forces in their war against Bel, the god-emperor. It was the same war that Mr. Dimitri had fought in, though he had never spoken about his own experiences then.

Meno gathered the rocks from the stream and placed them outside his training room for Mr. Dimitri to inspect in the morning. Then, he made his way back to the river. It was quiet, cold, and eerily still. Nothing survived on Gol. The disease infected even the wildlife and the trees. All but him.

He looked into the cold water and caught his reflection. His skin was a sickly grey colour, untouched by the light of their star, and his earthy brown eyes stared back at him. Meno was seventeen, maybe eighteen. No one really knew. He had been left at the outskirts of the town as a baby, wrapped in a rag with nothing else. The town had taken him in, cared for him, and raised him. They had taught him to read, to write, to do arithmetic and more importantly, to think.

The town of Gol, named after the moon it sat on, was made of old timber and slowly crumbling structures. Meno walked its creaking paths with familiarity. The residents had been placed here some nineteen years ago. All within the boundaries of the great fence that circled them. Beyond that, deep in the surrounding forest, sat a hidden military outpost, small, quiet, and guarded by no more than three or four soldiers at any one time.

Dot, the old crow, had once told him that the fences had gone up first, and then the mists had descended. Meno smiled at the memory of her, sharp-tongued, bone-thin, with a cackle that could startle birds from trees, if there had been any left. Dot had hated everything in a way that was almost endearing. She had been Miss Hellen’s closest friend while alive, always ready with a sharp word and a crooked smile for anyone she deemed worthy of her attention.

After washing off, Meno made his way home. The water in the shallow stream had been freezing, but he had long since stopped reacting to the chill. There were no fish, no frogs, no signs of life at all. Just the still, cursed water of a dead moon.

“That one again?” Miss Hellen said as she placed his soup in front of him.

“He’s the one, isn't he? The best,” Meno said, trying to find any clue on the pages that would lead him to a possible answer in Miss Hellen’s training.

She gave him a pointed look. “By they, you mean Swan.”

Meno smiled. Mr. Dimitri, sitting nearby, just chuckled.

“He filled your head with too much nonsense, that one,” Miss Hellen said as she sat down with a tired sigh. She’d never had time for philosophy, theory, or anything that didn’t yield immediate results. Swan had always struck her as a lunatic. She was pragmatic and believed only in hard work as the measure of a person's worth. She would work herself to exhaustion, then sleep with a smile that night.

She had children once, children taken from her when she was brought here. She’d been a House Maid, though she never told Meno which House she had served. Dot had told him once that she had been sent here for a crime she had committed against the family that she served.

‘They twisted her mind, you see, little thing. She still feels beholden to them, even though they threw her in with us. Rotten little stinkers, the whole lot of ‘em’, she had said in secret while they were out foraging. Meno had decided back then never to ask, and that Miss Hellen’s story was none of his business and not something he would ever press for.

“That thing caused nothing but trouble,” she said, laying her tattered napkin across her lap.

Meno had asked many times whether the story was real. Miss Hellen always said, “No, of course not.” Professor Swan claimed, “Yes, of course, though it’s been embellished somewhat.” Mr. Dimitri would only offer, “There were always rumours.” And Dot? Dot had once claimed, with a wicked grin, that he had been a former lover.

The story was widely known and frequently discussed in town, often used to highlight the horrific legacy of the Kryptea. It was a fact that they had destroyed House Sha-En, and for that, they had been punished by the Autarch, condemned to eternal service to the throne.

But the tale of Jinn? That was still debated. A young boy arriving on a battlefield and defeating the galaxy’s most powerful army? Even Meno knew there were limits.

The story was only some thirty years old or so, though Professor Swan had often said that it was reminiscent of many stories from memoriam. A boy, taking revenge for the crimes committed against his people. Meno knew it was probably some retelling for modern-day purposes.

“Eat up, I added extra herbs in this one for you,” said Miss Hellen, pulling the book away from him with a wink. “You can worry about all of that another time”.

It was four days later when Meno stabbed the shovel back into the ground. His hands no longer bleeding from the labour of digging graves. They had calloused over now.

He looked down at the freshly packed earth and exhaled deeply. His gaze drifted to the stones marking the graves near Miss Hellen Milton’s. No names were carved into them. There was no need. No one would ever return for them. But Meno knew who lay in each one. He remembered their names, their stories, and their lessons. Sixty-two in total now. They even dug graves for those taken by the guards, empty graves, but graves nonetheless. Everyone knew they weren’t coming back. Meno hadn’t dug all of them. He’d been too young when many had passed, but thirty-seven of them were laid to rest by his hands.

He placed his hands together and offered a quiet prayer of thanks to Miss Hellen. The woman who mothered him. The one who showed him how to wash clothes properly and, more than anything, how to care for others. She had looked after all of them. For so long, she held off the worst of the disease, always with a smile on her face and a gentle “I have it, dear,” for anyone who tried to help. She had been strong, so strong, for everyone. And especially for Meno.

“I’m sorry, my boy”, Mr. Dimitri’s frail voice broke the silence.

“What do you have to be sorry for, Mr. Dimitri?” Meno asked, turning toward him with a hint of a smile. “We both lost her. I’m just glad she didn’t suffer too long in the end.” They both knew that wasn’t true. She had been in pain for years, just as Mr Dimitri was now. He was trying to stand straight, as he always did when they buried one of their own. In respect. Like a soldier. But it was getting harder for him now.

“This will be your last grave, my boy,” Mr Dimtri said. The words made Meno’s heart sink. He knew that Mr. Dimitri would force him to escape soon.

“Yeah, I heard there’s a lovely resort around the corner. Or are you planning on living forever?” Meno teased. Mr. Dimitri gave him a stern look.

“Come on, I’ll make you some supper,” Meno added quickly, before Mr. Dimitri could respond. He glanced at Miss Hellen’s grave, feeling her loss more deeply now, wishing he’d had a chance to say goodbye last night. In the shadow of the forests, Meno saw three shadows, guards in dark blue exo-suits, watching the small funeral.

He turned back to the old man, resting a hand on his bony shoulder. “Honestly, how do you plan to survive without me, old man? You can’t even make soup.”

It took time to walk Mr. Dimitri back into the misty town, where the houses had started to decay with the moisture that clung to this town. Some days, the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the house across the street, though it was only a few meters away. There was no point in maintaining the homes, so Meno hadn’t bothered. The three of them had been the last to remain for the past five months, so they’d all moved into one house. Miss Hellen’s. It had felt right.

“You’ll need to continue your training,” Mr. Dimitri said, his voice hoarse.

“I will,” Meno replied, doing his best to hide the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Meno glanced back fondly at his ‘school’ as they passed. He removed the doors years ago, inviting anyone who wandered by to share their stories. He loved learning about the worlds beyond Gol, hearing tales of distant peoples and the history of the universe. It all seemed so vast compared to his small town.

He smiled, reflecting on those they’d lost while walking back from the graves.

‘Always making excuses, always causing a stir to escape,’ Frederick, the old politician, had often complained.

‘He’s got no potential, can’t even sit through a lecture on how to behave, and he called me a bitch!,’ Erica, the zoologist, had said.

‘Obstinate, never listens,’ Dot had muttered, who wanted to teach him how to sow and gossip.

‘So, stands up for himself, resourceful and no pushover?’ Meno smiled. Miss Hellen had always supported him, even when he was being obstinate, dismissive or a know-it-all.

Gol had lived in stasis his entire life. Guards in helmets patrolled the fence. Gliders hovered above. All to keep out the poisonous fog.

The losses always hit Meno hard, though he tried to hide it. Mr. Dimitri often comforted him with stories, the legendary Kryptea, the triumph of the Autarch and the War King over the old god-emperor, of the great empire of Sha-En and the last living child who would set war into motion. The Empire on the other side of the galaxy who favoured poetry and peace above all things, and the undying child who held the secret histories.

Mr. Dimitri always gave particular attention to his favourite subject of the old Hulfean War King Locne and his triumphs from millennia before. Stories of how his armies swept through systems and triumphed over great evils and injustices. Some even called him the god of war. Miss Hellen, however, had always wanted him to focus on how to take care of himself and be a good citizen, not the violence of the galaxy.

‘War is for tyrants and bastards,’ she would say, ‘You be a good lad and you take care of your own. Don't worry about people who fight, it’s all they will ever do.’

Their dinner was quiet, just what they both needed. They gave each other space to reflect on Miss Hellen’s passing.

Afterwards, Meno helped Mr. Dimitri to his room and cleaned up as Miss Hellen would have. The old man’s belongings were few, with a small bed, a wooden chair with folded clothes atop. He refolded them as Meno moved the cloth across the windowsill. Neither spoke.

Meno wished him good night and retreated to his own room. He didn't want to leave the old man, but knew hovering would do no good. He was scared now. Meno had always known Gol was doomed, that it would one day come to an end with only him left. He just hadn't expected it to come as fast as it had.

Once in bed, Meno prepared himself for the conversation he knew was coming the next morning. Mr. Dimitri would tell him that it was time to leave. He knew deep down he had to go but Gol was all he had ever known.

The next morning, Meno woke with the sunrise, though he hadn’t slept well. Tears had quietly fallen through the night, and he lingered in bed longer than usual. Miss Hellen would want him to move forward, not run away. He knew that.

He grabbed the woven basket Miss Hellen had made, heading outside to forage. Mr. Dimitri was already there, standing in the street, staring up at the hill through the fog. Meno joined him, about to wish him a good morning, until he too looked up at the hill, and dropped the woven basket.

“What is that?” He asked in terror. The old soldier didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the massive black ship hovering above the hill. It was smooth and elongated, a towering oval shape that hung vertically in the sky, not quite touching the ground below it.

Meno’s body went cold. “Is that a Pillar?”

Mr. Dimitri didn’t answer, but Meno knew. From every description he’d ever heard, this was a House Pillar, a warship, a symbol of power and occupation. These ships were the chosen weapons of the Houses, their instruments of war. One of these ships could control entire planetary regions. A number of them strategically placed around a planet, could disrupt enough with their subtle weapons that they could render planets uninhabitable.

The ship hung there, defying the winds, defying physics itself, casting its shadow over their small, fog-bound town.

“It’s time we start making a plan for your escape, Meno,” Mr. Dimitri said quietly.