Occupying the Ruby was hardly the triumph that Marcus wanted. The heavy casualties severely dampened his elation at the victory, and the way that the local elites almost fell over themselves to surrender to him was neither endearing, nor did he have enough of an ego to be so easily buoyed.
‘At least they won’t be rebelling,’ he’d thought as he led his troops in occupying the plane’s largest city. He was careful about planar deploynts as he was sure quite a few among the legions would want revenge, which left him with few options regarding consolidating control.
Thankfully, the Ruby’s local elites were largely officials either elected or appointed by the Monarchos, and while those in the latter category received extra scrutiny, Marcus thought he could leave them in power. The nobles and Kings of the plane, too, received leniency. If he had to replace them, after all, it would require resources that he didn’t necessarily have.
So, those few Kings beca Princes, and all provided the needed resources when he requisitioned them.
For several weeks, Marcus stayed on the plane, replenishing supplies, repairing what could be repaired, and salvaging what could be salvaged. Even so of the most thoroughly destroyed arks still had a few surviving crew mbers, and their wrecks could be torn apart to fix their damaged sister arks.
As for the Monarchos, neither hide nor hair had been seen of him since he was put to flight—assuming, of course, that he’d even been on that ark in the first place, which Marcus had to admit was no guarantee. No one on the Ruby could confirm anything, and neither could the hordes of prisoners taken. Apparently, all communications among the Monarchos’ fleet were filtered through several layers of officers, which made confirming these things nigh-impossible. And that wasn’t even touching on the rcenaries…
---
“Have they identified themselves?” Marcus asked as he inspected the impromptu prison camps hastily erected in the hinterlands of the plane’s capital city. The magical engineers hadn’t done anything fancy, leaving the prisoners all in long stone rectangles, but given how much damage had been done to his fleet, Marcus considered that lenient compared to what he could’ve done.
Most of those who’d fought against him had been the Monarchos’ n, those drawn from the Jewels of Rhea. But those fifty fla-shaped arks had so clearly been other people that he wasn’t surprised that none of the Monarchos’ n claid them as kin. What he found more surprising, however, was their complete lack of communication outside of their surrender; within the prisons, few of them spoke more than a few words, though what few were spoken ca in perfect Nexus common with the most standard, banal accent Marcus had ever heard. None of them were post-Apotheosis, but that didn’t rule out being led by a potential Lord who’d died on one of the other arks.
Compounding the mystery, Marcus had asked around as the local elites rushed to the city to pay homage and surrender themselves, but no one had any actionable information on those arks. The vast majority of them didn’t even know the fla-shaped arks were present, let alone who was in them.
‘If they truly were rcenaries, then they’d be more willing to talk, wouldn’t they?’
Such were his thoughts as he waited for a response from the Praetor he’d left in charge of the prison.
“Not yet, Sir,” the Praetor replied, speaking particularly formally with him. Though Marcus wasn’t Leon’s Chief Inspector anymore, he’d been in that position for so long that he didn’t even blink at these kinds of reactions; many in the Kingdom regarded a visit from him to be quite dreadful.
“Have they done anything of note?” Marcus asked.
“A bit of practicing,” the Praetor replied. “They’ve spoken amongst themselves in an unknown language, though most remain silent. Despite this, we’ve identified many of their leaders. They are disciplined and ordered.”
‘Probably not rcenaries, then…’
“I want to speak with their commander,” Marcus said.
The Praetor nodded and led him inside one of the expansive prison blocks. As with the outside, it was largely bereft of decoration within, save for the occasional Thunderbird, or the rarer depiction of other Tribal Ancestors, graven into the walls. The interrogation room was likewise unadorned, and though small, it was large enough for Marcus to bring a pair of his retainers with him, and to have the Praetor watch from an adjacent room.
He didn’t have to wait long before the commander of the fla-shaped arks was brought in. He was a fairly average man, all things considered: brown hair and eyes; a fit, if slight, fra; olive skin tone; and a seventh-tier aura. Marcus was surprised that he was so weak, but he supposed arks didn’t need mages of particular strength to crew them.
The man was practically dragged in, having a neutral and completely uncooperative look on his face even as he was forced into his seat opposite Marcus.
“Your na?” Marcus asked as the door shut behind the legion soldiers who’d brought him in. “My na is Marcus, and by the trust and grace of my King, Leon Rai, I hold the rank of Paladin.”
The man averted his gaze, choosing instead to stare at the floor.
“You surrendered to , yet you won’t even give your na?” he pressed, his aura settling around the man lightly, though insistently. “How are you to be ransod if we don’t even know who you are? How are we to keep you if you remain naless?”
The man’s eyes remained locked on the floor.
“I know that you can understand ,” Marcus said as he leaned forward, his aura growing heavier. “Surely identifying yourself and your people isn’t so great an ask?”
Silence was the man’s response.
Marcus sighed. “If you do not identify yourself, then I’ll have little choice other than to regard you as a rcenary force. I don’t trust rcenaries, and I don’t particularly want to waste resources on housing and feeding your people if you deny even your nas.” He put more strength into his aura, forcing the man to turn his head to him, and the man, unable to help himself, finally locked eyes with him. “I’ll throw your people into the local sun, and your arks too, if you remain obstinate.”
He paused a mont to let that ntal image marinate in the other man’s head. He thought he detected a slight tremor in the man’s face, so slight shaking in his hands, and he pushed forward in that vein.
“I know so other people in my legions who would like to try… other tactics to get your people to talk. I’m generally against such treatnt, but when answers are needed, then anything is valid.”
The man averted his eyes again, though instead of remaining locked on the floor, they instead darted around in a blatant show of fear and rapid thought.
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“If, instead,” Marcus continued, his tone lightening, “you give the reasonable information I’m asking for, then I’ll see to it that your people are pardoned. I don’t want to kill your people, though I have every reason to. All I want is information. Is that so great an ask?”
The man froze again, visibly warring within him. But, finally, his eyes returned to Marcus. Marcus pulsed his aura slightly, reminding the man of the gulf between their respective powers, and he noticed a shiver in the man’s spine.
‘A man like this would’ve been a Paladin back ho,’ he idly noted, reveling for the swiftest of seconds in just how far he’d co, and in how weak this man was compared to the likes of the Bronze or Brimstone Paladins.
Finally, the man turned his eyes back to Marcus. “I am Captain Turion, the senior-most ark commander within the Fleet of Justice in Fla.”
Marcus smiled warmly, committing the na of both the man and his fleet to mory. “Well t, Captain Turion. Your people fought well in that battle.”
Turion remained quiet, though Marcus thought he saw a slight upward twinge in his lips.
“So, Turion. What brought such n of valor to this part of the universe? I am not given to understand that the Monarchos of these planes had many allies, nor have I heard about any ‘Fleet of Justice in Fla’ operating in this Voidspace before our arrival.”
“Such concern over fifty arks?” Turion asked, his voice wavering slightly, as he wore for a mont a nervous smile.
“Fighting my enemy was to be expected. Fighting against you was not. Do you believe I should just ignore your presence? Let my assumptions run without checking them? If I did that, you and your people would’ve been thrown into the black before now, or perhaps I would’ve rejected your offer to surrender and destroyed you beyond the terminus line.”
Turion stiffened. “I am… grateful that you did not do that.”
“I am… not,” Marcus said, and Turion’s eyes flashed with montary fear. “Not yet,” Marcus clarified. “Give what I want to know, and I’ll revise my opinion.”
Turion sighed deeply before taking a chance. “I’ll tell you… if we are allowed to leave. and my people. All the rest of the n from my fleet.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “That will depend on your information. You go nowhere until I have been satisfied. I’ll also be verifying everything that can be verified, and speaking with others in your fleet, so if your tongue is given to dishonesty, get a hold of it. If I’m happy with what you give , though… I’ll disarm several of your remaining arks and send you on your way.”
Despite looking conflicted and taking several long seconds to think Marcus’ offer over, Turion relented and gave him everything he wanted to know.
---
As he watched his scouts making their way to him to deliver their reports of the remaining Jewels of Rhea, Marcus contemplated what Turion had told him. The Fleet of Justice in Fla was one of several fleets operated by Strategissa Amalasuentha, a relatively powerful Lord for the eleventh-tier. She wasn’t sworn to anyone Marcus was familiar with, and by Turion’s recounting, her dispatching this fleet to aid the Monarchos was… unusual. She was a Lord of a more rcenary bent, lending out her forces to those that asked, but Turion noted that as far as he was aware, the Monarchos hadn’t asked.
Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately given the victory, Amalasuentha hadn’t been present for the battle, and the fleet’s appointed commander had been killed early in the battle, leaving Turion as the fleet’s commander, by the assent of the other remaining Captains. Regardless, Marcus was disturbed. Whether for money or for sothing else—especially for sothing else—he didn’t want other Lords butting in on these conquests. Having a Burning Lord get involved, no matter how limited, did not bode well for the rest of the campaign.
When the scouts finally reached him and his other fleet and legion commanders, they gave him their reports. As far as they could tell, the bulk of the Monarchos’ fleet was now scrap above the Ruby, and the rest of the Jewels were relatively undefended. The Monarchos’ flag ark straddled the terminus line of the Diamond, flanked by a hundred arks and a handful of small Void fortresses. This was the last great obstacle to overco before the Jewels were fully in his grasp.
There were no other signs of other Lords lending the Monarchos their aid, nor of the man himself. Marcus almost started to believe that he’d fled, abandoning these planes to their fate, but until evidence of where he was presented itself, he actively prevented himself from making assumptions.
Looking around the room at his commanders, Marcus asked a simple question. “Are we ready to proceed?”
Nearly five weeks they’d stayed at the Ruby, licking their wounds and getting as many arks back into operation as they could. By the reports of his commanders, the fleet was back at roughly seventy percent capacity.
So, knowing what the Monarchos had at his command, Marcus decided to quash him before he could try anything more. He took six hundred arks and departed the Ruby, leaving just over three hundred of the more damaged arks behind to keep an eye on the plane and to continue salvage and repair operations.
It was ti to bring this phase of his campaign to an end, though the Monarchos lay dead at his feet, he thought he might have to wait for reinforcents if he were to continue…
---
The Diamond of Rhea, despite being the locus of the Monarchos’ remaining defenses, fell quickly. Unlike the Ruby, there wasn’t any kind of ‘natural’ defense like an asteroid field or a magical cloud to give the Monarchos’ arks cover. So, Marcus and his arks jumped in at a standoff distance and then used their superior range to crush the Monarchos’ remaining arks.
It was almost unfair in Marcus’ mind, but that didn’t make him stop. What did make him stop was the speedy offers of surrender that those arks started putting out as their comrades died around them. In the end, of the Monarchos’ roughly hundred arks, only about thirty were destroyed or crippled, and the rest surrendered with almost no fight. Even the Void fortresses and the Monarchos’ own flag ark gave up.
Surprised, Marcus almost kept going, but in the end, he allowed the surrender. He ordered those arks to land on the Diamond before taking control over the local Voidspace and pursuing the surrendering arks down to the plane’s surface.
As befitting the capital of his little planar Kingdom, the Diamond was the most splendid of the Monarchos’ possessions. Almost every road glead like silver from the sky, and the cities were travertine and white marble. The gilded roof tiles glittered as he brought Star of Aventino in to land near the Monarchos’ palace, and when he stepped out, he was greeted by a part of n and won who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“We… are to escort you, My Lord,” the one in charge said, his voice trembling almost as much as his knees.
Marcus said nothing, but assembled a strong force to seize the palace before following the servants.
Once inside, he found the Monarchos himself, having not fled despite Marcus’ suspicions. Instead, the man sat upon his golden throne, dressed not to surrender but instead in thick, shining armor. There were no guards or servants around him, leaving the rest of the expansive room bereft of people.
“I have been betrayed,” he bemoaned as Marcus entered the throne room. “All the power in these planes, and at the first sign of trouble, my people have abandoned . Tell : did my people at least put up a good fight up there?”
Marcus smiled humorlessly. “Surrender, and you may live. Given your ambush and how difficult you’ve been, however, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
The Monarchos snorted in derision, then rose from his seat. His aura, calm when Marcus entered, suddenly raged, and Marcus felt the air around him fall under his control.
“I will not bow,” the Monarchos stated.
Marcus, already in his armor, drew his sword. The Adamant was bright and glowed from within. Motes of light appeared like flickering stars around it as Marcus channeled his magic into the blade.
“Then you’ll die,” he promised.
The Monarchos smiled before a helt concealed his face. Then, he charged at Marcus, and Marcus charged back. No one else interfered in their duel, leaving them to fight between themselves.
In contrast to their fight during the Monarchos’ ambush, this duel was over quickly. The Monarchos fought recklessly, taking hits that he should’ve been able to block or dodge, with not even his armor adequately explaining his behavior.
But Marcus understood what the man wanted, and he brought it to him swiftly. The Monarchos overextended a vicious swing that might’ve taken Marcus’ head had he been a split-second slower. Instead, it was his riposte that ended the duel, piercing the Monarchos’ armor at his neck and nearly severing his head from his shoulders.
The Monarchos fell, his blood gleaming on Marcus’ sword. With him fell any more resistance within the Jewels of Rhea. Marcus would have to oversee the capitulation of the rest of the plane’s elites, but for all intents and purposes, the Jewels of Rhea had been successfully conquered.
He just hoped that the presence of forces sent by Burning Lords wasn’t going to be a habit; nor did he look forward to any more battles that saw twenty percent of his fleet destroyed and another thirty to forty ravaged.
‘Only one solution, then: I’m going to have to get better.’
Without hesitation, he vowed that he would get better. A victory like that was not going to happen again, not if he had anything to do with it…
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