Our Possible Pasts
In a faltering empire built on lies, five lives collide as history unravels:
- A chancellor drowning in the blood of his compromises
- An archivist smuggling the truth in a nation that kills for fiction
- A soldier who discovers his orders are written in innocent blood
- A poet returned from exile to turn her execution into a manifesto
- A spy watching from the shadows as the first Molotov flies
The Dominion’s Flame forged an empire— now it could consume it all.
Part One: On Noodle Street
The Zuktal Synodic Monastery (1) had stood for over nine centuries, its black basalt walls scarred by siege and sanctified by blood. Chancellor Yalveth Ur-Zetani (2) traced a finger along the edge of the obsidian mirror in his chambers, watching his reflection warp in the volcanic glass. The ceremonial sash of the Eternal Flame lay heavy across his shoulders, its gold threads woven with the names of dead heroes— men he had praised, men he had betrayed.
How many compromises? The question coiled in his gut like a serpent. How many necessary sins to keep the Flame from guttering out?
Beyond the arched doors, the National Council (3) gathered in the Hall of the Ancestors. Their voices slithered through the cracks in the stone:
“The Izaakians circle our ports like vultures. Let them choke on our tariffs!”
“Fool. The foundries stand idle. We need their machines, their capital—”
“—or we purge the weak and reclaim what was taken!”
And then there was him— Veyla, his brightest protégé, now watching him with the careful stillness of a knife waiting to be drawn.
A sharp knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts. His aide entered, breathless and anxious. “Chancellor, the Archivist has submitted the draft. The Ministry of the Archives requires your immediate approval before the opening ceremony,” the aide announced.
Yalveth accepted the encrypted files stamped with the black seal of the Restricted Archives— even sanctioned histories were not free of hidden truths. Among them lay the damning Mitallduk Annexation: Casualty Reports (Field Commander’s Copy)
The true numbers glared back at him, unblinking. 3,842 confirmed executions. 17 villages pacified. 0 survivors.
Mass graves, he thought, where the histories speak of “peacekeeping and relocation.”
Ur-Zetani exhaled. Another lie.
Nerea Talvas had spent twelve years in the Ministry of the Archives, polishing the past until it shone with the luster of Dominion dogma. He knew which records to cite, which names to omit. But the file in his hands— stamped with the black seal of the Restricted Archives— felt like a live grenade.
Mitallduk Annexation: Casualty Reports (Field Commander’s Copy).
The numbers were a knife to the throat of the official narrative. “A swift liberation,” the ministries called it. “Minimal collateral.” Yet here, in dry military script, were the executions. The villages erased. The orders signed by men who now gather for the National Direction Conference.
Subcommander Droth, Nerea’s supervisor, appeared and loomed over his desk, his breath reeking of spiced tobacco. “The Chancellor requires a sanitized text ASAP. The past must serve the Dominion, not fracture it.”
Nerea nodded, “It’ll get done.” But that night, in the dim glow of his terminal, he copied the files onto a hidden drive. He had arranged a meeting at a safehouse with a contact who had promised the document would reach the international press.
If I vanish tomorrow, he thought, at least the numbers won’t. Let them burn me. Truth makes poor kindling."
Commander Kalr Guden’s fist struck the war table, scattering the tactical markers like frightened birds.
“They drill in our waters!” he roared, jabbing a finger at the map. The Gulf filled with red dots, representing Emeraldian and Izaakian vessels. “They arm the coastal rats and call it ‘aid’! And we—” His glare found Lieutenant Sol Ekreth. “—we kneel before bureaucrats, begging for permission to defend our own fucking shores!”
Lieutenant Sol Ekreth hesitated. The numbers were inflated. The “insurgents” in the coastal villages were likely fishermen, not rebels. And the orders he’d come across last night— black ops in Mitallduk, false-flag attacks to justify invasion— would ignite an unwinnable war.
“Sir,” he began trepidatiously, “if we provoke the Mitalldukish clans—”
Kalr laughed, a sound like grinding stone. “The Flame does not fear the wind, boy. It burns hotter for it.”
Sol said nothing. But he’d seen what happened to forests that burned too fiercely.
Ozákla (4) hadn’t changed. The city still choked on its own contradictions - sacred myrrh from swinging temple censers clashing with the iron stench of the armory forges, all undercut by the sour metallic tang of fear. Kalia Varn filled her lungs with the familiar poison. Home.
Twenty years. Twenty years since the secret police had dragged her from her apartment for a poem about “the Flame’s shadow.” The scars on her wrists itched—a gift from the interrogators who’d asked, Who taught you to write such lies?
Their hideout, the butcher’s cellar beneath Noodle Street (5), smelled of blood and damp earth. Above them, the rhythmic chop of cleavers masked whispered conspiracies. This unassuming alley had become the city’s rebellious heart - where coded messages were passed in noodle bowls, where strategies were exchanged over shared meals, where the scent of broth covered the stench of fear.
In the flickering lantern light, Dain - all sharp elbows and nervous energy - leaned closer. His breath fogged in the cellar’s chill.
“The Council’s split. The students are restless. They’ve started distributing your old poems near the university. If you appeared at the rally tomorrow—”
“I’d be dead by the second stanza.” Kalia flexed her hands, the old fractures protesting like poorly set type. A poet’s hands, never meant for breaking. “Perfect.”
Dain’s face drained of color. “You didn’t risk everything just to become another martyr.”
Kalia’s smile was a knife-slash in the dim light. “No, little brother. I came back to make sure my death is a verse they can’t erase.”
In the dim backroom of a diplomatic lounge, three figures exchanged glances over untouched glasses of amber liquor.
“The memo’s real,” declared the attaché, sliding a stolen dossier across the table. “They’re debating tactical nuclear tests. The old Silberkern facility.” (6)
The journalist— a Krauanagazan freelancer with a nose for blood— snorted. “And yet they’re also offering the mining rights to Amlod. Are they stupid or just suicidal? Do they understand who they’re dealing with?” (7)
The third figure, a former Mitalldukish intelligence officer, didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the live feed from Ozákla University, where a line of riot police advanced on a crowd of students. The first Molotov arced through the air like a falling star.
She had been Major Irina Vosk once, before the collapse. Before the purges erased her rank, her unit, her name. Now she was just another ghost in the wind, watching the live feed from Ozákla University on a stolen tablet.
“Both,” she said softly. “They’re both.” She didn’t blink. “They want an empire,” she said. “But all they’ll get is ashes.”
Footnotes:
-
Zuktal Synodic Monastery (1)
An ancient monastery that has stood for over nine centuries. It serves as a symbol of enduring faith and the historical legacy of the Dominion, as well as a gathering place for the powerful, as well as religious and political ceremonies. -
Chancellor Yalveth Ur-Zetani (2)
The high-ranking and enigmatic leader of the National Council, whose decisions and compromises shape the course of state affairs. Ur-Zetani is the chief policy architect in the Dominion. -
National Council (3)
The central governing body that meets in the Hall of the Ancestors during a National Direction Conference. This council plays an advisory role in the Chancellor’s drafting of state policies to be presented to the leader of Zuhlgan, the Arkava. -
Ozákla (4)
Zuhlgan’s capital city symbolizing the dual nature of the Dominion— a place where sacred traditions meet modern, often oppressive, state power. Ozákla’s atmosphere is one of stark contrasts, representing both the nationa’s enduring heritage and its contemporary contradictions. -
Noodle Street (5)
An unassuming street that has emerged as a vital hub for underground resistance. Known for its modest eateries where covert meetings take place over shared meals, Noodle Street has become a symbol of grassroots solidarity and defiance against oppressive authority. -
Silberkern Facility (6)
A highly controversial and secretive military research installation once used for tactical nuclear research and development inside Mitallduk following the Krauanagazan Civil War. -
Amlod (7)
A multinational mining conglomerate known for its cutthroat business dealings. The company is under investigation in Krauanagaz for racketeering and witness tampering, and in Okhoa for the alleged assassination of an environmental activist and his family in 2019.
Part Two: Before The Eyes Find Him
The obsidian mirror showed Yalveth Ur-Zetani what his advisors would never say: You are an old man running out of time.
The purified copy of the report burned a hole through his desk—3,842 executions reduced to 3 unavoidable casualties. A neat lie. Outside, the chants of students echoed through Ozákla’s streets, louder than they’d been in decades.
Veyla entered without knocking. “The Archivist is missing,” he said, his voice smooth as a whetstone. “The Eyes say his terminal was wiped clean.”
Yalveth’s fingers tightened around the falsified report. Nerea, you fool.
“Find him,” he said. Then, softer: “Before the hardliners do.”
Veyla moved through the Restricted Archives like a ghost, his fingers dancing over encrypted terminals. The Archivist’s disappearance had sent the Ministry into a tailspin as they worked to uncover what files, if any, were missing.
Nerea Talvas was no fool. He wouldn’t have risked everything without a contingency.
A flicker on a nearby screen caught his eye— a deleted access log, clumsily erased. Veyla’s lips curled. Amateur, he thought. With a few keystrokes, he pulled up the recovered data.
RA File Transfer Terminal 37A: Mitallduk Annexation – Field Commander’s Copy → External Device.
Veyla exhaled slowly. If that file reached the international press before the National Direction Conference, the Dominion’s carefully constructed narrative would crumble before it had even been presented.
And the Chancellor’s enemies would seize the moment to strike.
Chancellor Yalveth Ur-Zetani stood before the obsidian mirror, his reflection fractured in the volcanic glass. The reports piled on his desk:
- University riot escalating.
- Archivist missing, files compromised.
- Mitallduk operations at risk.
And now, Veyla’s latest message: “The hardliners are moving. They know.”
Yalveth closed his eyes. For nine centuries, the Synodic Monastery had stood. Through war, through betrayal, through the slow erosion of faith.
How many more compromises?
The knock came again— urgent, insistent.
“Come.”
The aide’s face was ashen. “Chancellor…" The aide let out a nervous gulp before continuing, "The Arkava demands your presence. Immediately.”
Yalveth straightened the gold-threaded sash across his shoulders and sighed. “Of course,” he said. “Of course he does,” he finished sarcastically as his thoughts turned to the future. His future.
It was late, Nerea pressed himself against the damp brick inside the Noodle Street safehouse, really just a sympathetic noodle restaurant. The stolen drive burning a hole in his pocket as he pushed noodles around with a spoon in the bowl in front of him. He looked at the clock, 23:04, his contact was late.
A scream cut through the night— not from the apartments above, but closer. Nerea could hear boots clamouring on cobblestone through the open windows of the restaurant. The Eyes had tracked him.
He slipped the drive into the noodle bowl just as the door exploded inward followed by at least six masked agents. The last thing he saw before the rifle butt struck his temple was a waiter’s trembling hands lifting the bowl, carrying the truth away in a swirl of broth and noodles.
In a dim safehouse on the outskirts of Ozákla a Krauanagazan journalist known only as Ryn stared at the stolen drivethat had been handed to her. The noodle shop waiter had delivered it with shaking hands, his face pale with terror.
“The Archivist— they took him,” he’d whispered before vanishing off into the night.
Now, as Ryn plugged the drive into her secure terminal, the screen flickered to life.
Mitallduk Annexation: Casualty Reports (Field Commander’s Copy).
The file glared back at her. 3,842 confirmed executions. 17 villages pacified. 0 survivors.
Her contact—the former Mitalldukish intelligence officer, Irina Vosk— leaned over her shoulder, her breath sharp.
“This will burn them,” Irina murmured.
Ryn’s fingers flew across the keyboard, encrypting the files for transport. “Not if we burn first.”
The War Room stank of ionized air and panic. Lieutenant Sol Ekreth watched the feeds from Mitallduk in horror— film of burning fishing villages, the work of Zuhlgani operatives in Free Takaran Army uniforms. Operation Cinder had begun.
Commander Kalr grinned at the chaos. “Now we show them the Flame’s wrath.”
Sol’s hand hovered over his sidearm. One bullet. One betrayal. Could he do it?
The radio at the end of the room crackled: “Unrest at Ozákla University. Riot Police overwhelmed.”
Kalr turned. “You,” he declared, looking directly into Sol’s eyes. “Take a squad and crush it.”
Sol saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Kalia Varn stood on the university steps, her voice slicing through the acrid smoke. Around her, students joined hands, their determined faces illuminated by the flicker of two overturned patrol cars.
“You can burn every book,” she cried out, “but the ash will still spell the truth!”
In that charged moment, the sharp crack of a sniper’s rifle shattered the air— a bullet tore through her chest. Kalia staggered and managed a defiant, pained smile as she fell.
Before she could fully hit the ground, Dain lunged forward and caught her, his furious cry mingling with the chaos. As the impassioned crowd surged like a tidal wave, uniformed security forces descended on Kalia and Dain. Riot shields rose, obscuring them from the crowd, and arrests were made. Despite robust resistance and the raw energy from the protest, both Kalia and Dain were swiftly taken, their cries echoing in the melee as the riot line reformed under heavy-handed control.
Dain’s wrists were becoming raw from the zip-ties, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the masked, black-clad officers dragged him through the labyrinthine corridors beneath Ozákla’s Security Ministry. Beside him, Kalia was limp in the grip of two riot troopers, her blood seeping through the makeshift bandage pressed to her chest.
She’s still alive. The thought was the only thing keeping Dain going.
A heavy door slammed open ahead, revealing a sterile interrogation room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps. Kalia was dumped unceremoniously onto a metal chair, her head lolling forward.
“You should’ve stayed in exile, Azvir,” sneered the officer in charge— a square-jawed man with the insignia of the Internal Security Directorate. “Now you’ll learn what happens to those who think words fight bullets.”
Kalia coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Funny,” she managed, her voice hardly above a whisper. “I’ve heard that before.”
Dain thrashed as two other officers forced him into an adjacent room. Through the one-way glass, he watched as the interrogator leaned in, slipping gloves onto his hands before gripping Kalia’s chin.
Looking into her eyes, the interrogator asked, “Who organized the rally?”
Kalia smiled.
The interrogator stood up and struck her face with the back of his hand, splitting her lip.
Part Three: The Chancellor’s Last Transmission
The room is tense. Aides are frantically scrambling between ancient stone columns and sleek digital displays. On some screens were police cars set ablaze by angered Zuhlganis, while riot police retreated from the smoke-filled streets.
Varel, the Arkava’s Chief of Staff, sat at a long wooden conference table in the center of the room. On each side of the table are seven chairs, one for each Autark on the Divine Committee, and one for the Chancellor. At the head of the table sat an ornate handcrafted hardwood chair, adorned with gold-leafed flames along its backrest— the Arkava’s seat, now glaringly empty. Varel drummed his fingers against the table’s lacquer surface, the rhythmic tapping echoing like a countdown.
To no one specifically, Varel stated, “We’re not managing the narrative anymore. We are chasing it.” Commander Arak Tozhal looked up from a file he was quite intently reading to offer Varel a bemused expression. “Then run faster,” he said dryly. “The Arkava wants options on his desk before he goes live tomorrow night.”
Before a clearly irritated Varel could quip back, an aide stepped up to the table. “Most of the Autarks are delayed,” he muttered, scrolling through a tablet. “Three are expected within the hour. The others…” He paused abruptly to choose his next words carefully, “Well— communications are spotty.” Varel nodded and thanked the aide, who promptly scurried off to his next task.
Varel cast his gaze to Arak, “What kind of options?” He asked, returning to the pertinence of their conversation. “The streets are on fire. The Chancellor is missing, and if we can’t find Talvas—” Varel finished as he shot Arak a knowing look. The doors fly open at the far end of the room as a screen flickered to show live footage from the Promenade of Martyrs— riot police in retreat, their transparent shields splattered with red paint. On one side of the Promenade a banner unfurled from a shattered window: THE FLAME LIES.
Autark Periba Ibinete rapidly descended on the Varel and Arak’s position next to the head of the table as the pair acknowledged his arrival. Before either of them could get a word in Periba blurted out, “The Chancellor is gone.” Arak and Varel looked at each other then back to Periba.
“Gone?” A bemused Varel asked. Periba made a gesture with his hands, paired with the expression on his face, he thought his statement was very clear. “Gone,” he responded, “his private terminal was wiped. The Eyes found traces of an old Mitalldukish encryption protocol.” A murmur rippled through the room.
Defection? Kidnapping? No one dared voice the third possibility: Betrayal.
The doors swung open again, this time to reveal Autark Vek Wkallete, visibly at his wit’s end. An unusual state for the Dominion’s top intelligence official. Vek made his way to the table, nodding to greet the men already gathered, and plopped down into a chair letting out an exasperated sigh. “Have we found Yalveth yet?”
“No,” Periba and Varel answered in unison. Vek took a deep breath, looking down at the lacquer tabletop before looking to Varel. “I feel as if now is a good time to share—” he was cut off by a shrill tone terminating from every screen in the room. All of the screens went black before switching to the same feed.
A face appeared, gaunt and bloodied, but unmistakable. Nerea Talvas, the missing archivist. Behind him, the blurred figures of two armed individuals. “People of Zuhlgan,” he rasped. “You have been fed lies. But the truth is—” Every screen in the room abruptly cut to static.
The room was utterly still as the static hissed like a living thing, filling the room with its eerie white noise. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as if on cue, the screens flickered back to their previous feeds— burning streets, retreating riot police, the defiant banner: THE FLAME LIES.
Vek Wkallete was the first to break the silence. “That was not a broadcast hijack,” he muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop. “This came from inside our own network.” Arak’s jaw tightened. “Talvas is alive. And he’s not working alone.”
The doors burst open a third time, and two more Autarks strode in—Kula H’kara, his ceremonial robes singed at the hem, and Apovi Ibinete, his usually immaculate uniform splattered with soot. “The Promenade’s gone dark,” Apovi reported, his voice sharp. “Protesters have overrun the security grid. And someone’s jamming our comms.”
Kula tossed a folder onto the table. “Worse. The Eyes just intercepted chatter from our absent friends. Seems we may have yet another coup on our hands.”
Arak’s gaze snapped to Vek. “You were about to share something before Talvas decided to haunt us.”
Vek exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Yalveth’s last transmission wasn’t just encrypted. It was doctored. The Chancellor hasn’t disappeared— he was extracted.” Silence again flooded the room for what felt like ages before Periba demanded, “By who?”
Vek cast a grim smile. “That’s the question, isn’t it? But if I had to guess—” Before he could finish, the central screen flickered again. This time, the image was clearer: Talvas, his face now illuminated by a shaky handheld light, his voice steadier despite the blood trickling from his temple.
“People of Zuhlgan,” he repeated, his eyes burning with conviction. “The Flame you worship was never divine. It was a weapon. And the Arkava knows.” The screen cut to black once more— but not before a final, glitching frame flashed: a symbol, ancient and jagged, etched into the wall behind Talvas.
Varel went pale. “That’s—”
“—the Old Orthodox Militia sigil,” Arak finished, his voice like gravel. “The real Zuhlgani resistance.” The room erupted into chaos. Autarks shouted over one another, aides scrambled organizing damage control efforts, and through it all, Varel’s mind raced.
They had been outmaneuvered. And tomorrow night, when the Arkava addressed the nation, there would be no options left. Only reckoning.