Chapter 32: The Lies That Bind Them

After he took a moment to compose himself, Storm left the long-term care facility behind and entered a building a few streets over, greeting the angel at the reception desk for Myragos’s doorway: a formality only. Myragos possessed its own security without needing additional Valëtyrian technology.

Storm entered a room beyond the reception desk. This portal system didn’t resemble the AIDO’s method of travel between Valëtyria and Earth. Another door stood under a marbled archway embellished with gilt adornments. Bracing himself, he pushed the door open into a brightness nonexistent on this side of reality.

Storm blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted and closed the portal door behind him. A field of bright white flowers greeted him, the sky a soft gray. Wind ruffled the flowers, and bright emerald stems peeked out from underneath the white blossoms.

Storm made his way across the field. A faceted single tower glinted ahead of him, so tall it was impossible to see where it ended in the sunless sky. While the tower appeared miles away upon his entry into Myragos, Storm stood outside the entry less than five minutes later. Like in Valëtyria, the metaphysics here differed from other realms. An open archway led inside the tower.

Once upon a time, the Myragnar boasted numbers in the thousands. After the Ninthëvels betrayed them, and whatever happened after that, their numbers plummeted to only a few dozen. Now, those few remaining lived here. Spiraling levels of open-air rooms circled the outer wall. Peering up into the infinite tower always made Storm dizzy.

An androgynous bright form appeared before him. “Ilythison?” the figure asked, addressing Storm.

“Aramis,” Storm greeted the Myragnar with a bow of his head.

The immortal’s shining embodiment faded. Her silver eyes and platinum hair came into focus first as the light faded. A pair of gauzy, ephemeral wings manifested last. “It has been some time,” she welcomed the silverblood warmly. “I am so glad to see you.”

“You too,” Storm replied, observing the angel.

Aramis’s brightness differed starkly from Storm’s mother’s pallor. Her deep indigo outfit was tailored to the angel’s body with a high collar and folded cuffs adorned with silver embroidery. The tunic parted to reveal loose slacks. The clothing allowed for graceful, unhindered movement.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?”

“I’m hoping you may be able to shed some light on a few things for me, if you’re willing,” Storm ventured.

“Of course, anything you need.”

“I have some questions about the Fallen.”

Aramis tilted her head. “Such as?”

“Well, why so many texts referencing them are locked in Myragos, for one. One of our Sleepers learned Ostragarn may be after the Fallen for something. A friend of mine—a Historian—has tried to find more information about their origins and the Fallen formula, but there’s not much available in the AIDO. She’s theorizing the Fallen method was created to combat the Ninthëvels—like a weapon.”

The Myragnar clasped her hands behind her, her long silver hair falling forward over one shoulder. Her navy tunic fluttered in time with her ethereal silver wings as they walked toward the tower.

“The information you seek is in our archives,” Aramis said after a beat. “Which, I assume, is the reason for your visit—to request access to them.”

Storm kept his gaze level as they entered the Myragnar’s home, not wanting to get lost in the dizzying structure. “I—yes. It may shed some light on Ostragarn’s end goal and allow us to head off any unsavory outcomes. If I’m…permitted.”

The Myragnar regarded him for a long, tense moment, then sighed. “You are Ilythia’s son. That alone is enough. Come, I will show you to our archival floor.”

On that cryptic note, Aramis turned to traverse the Myragnar’s physics-defying building with Storm following close behind. She showed him into a warm, sumptuously-decorated room containing a single crystalline monitor standing on a mahogany desk.

Aramis swiped a hand over the desk’s surface, and a holographic keyboard appeared.

“This is our database,” she said. “Accessible only to authorized individuals.”

Storm side-eyed her. “And I’m authorized?”

“You are Ilythia’s son,” she said again, like that explained everything.

“Right,” he mumbled.

Aramis put a hand to his arm as he stepped forward. “I must warn you, the answers you seek may bring sorrow more than clarity. There is a reason—a good reason—we keep such records here. It is a burden, a darkness that once known cannot be forgotten. Are you certain you wish to proceed?”

Storm lifted his silver eyes to meet hers, uneasy. “Aramis, what aren’t you telling me?”

Aramis paused, drawing in a deep breath before answering. “When you studied with us all those years ago, Ilythison, we swore to your father we would not discuss matters involving your mother in your presence. Our word is sacred, and I will not break that promise. Neither will I prevent you from seeking answers. But those answers may change the way you perceive the world, your mother, and yourself. There is no going back.”

Storm swallowed hard. For the briefest of seconds, doubt crept in, and he glanced down at the holographic keyboard.

“…whatever they’re hiding, it might change everything…”

Would he change in Kitara’s eyes if what he discovered about his mother— about himself—was monstrous?

“…I’m more interested in who you are—and who you might become…”

Kitara’s words echoed in his mind, leaving behind an unexpected serenity rather than a sea of uncertainty.

The calm to his current.

“I understand,” Storm said finally, his voice steady with resolve. “And I will accept whatever consequences come with that knowledge.”

Aramis nodded gravely. “Very well, Ilythison. Walk the path you have chosen.” With that, she left the silverblood alone in the room.

Storm flexed his fingers, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then pulled out his phone and initiated a call.

“Hey, Storm.”

“Hey, Dev.”

The Historian paused for a moment. “You made it to Myragos?”

“Yeah. They…gave me full access to their archives.”

She hesitated a beat. “Um, wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Storm shifted uneasily. “Me neither, actually. One of the Myragnar warned me what we’re looking for is…well, she didn’t say the word ‘dangerous’ explicitly, but that’s the vibe I got.”

“I think it’s safe to say we knew that anyway.”

Storm had to concede that point. “Fair. Still, I don’t know how…admissible it is to call from here, so we’ll need to work fast. You free?”

“Absolutely.”

Storm lowered his phone from his ear and tapped the screen to open video. Devika’s serious face appeared, and Storm balanced the device on the desk. “Where should I start?”

“Start a query for ‘Fallen’ plus ‘procedure.’ We’ll go from there.”

Under Devika’s direction, Storm searched. The Historian hadn’t lied: she excelled at her job. Storm would begin to read a passage, and within a few sentences, she’d tell him to move on.

“Wait, stop,” Devika said following Storm’s dutiful recitation of another excerpt half an hour later.

He canted an eyebrow at his phone screen. The passage hadn’t sounded relevant to him, given it concerned certain Technologists who stripped the Fallen of their immortality, not the Fallen themselves. “What is it?”

“Okay, just…humor me. Are there any references or citations attached to that one?”

Storm brushed a couple keystrokes, then nodded. “Yeah. Something about the formula.”

“What does it say?”

Storm leaned forward and scanned the screen, frowning. “Jesus.”

“What? I’m dying here.”

He glanced down at Devika’s anxious face on his phone screen. “It’s linked to an IBD.”

“IBD?”

“Interdimensional Biohazard Directive. Top Secret clearance.”

“And translated for the civilians present…?”

“Dev, I’ve only heard about this classification. I’ve never seen an active one. It’s something that could threaten an entire realm—they taught us about it in the Academy using Ostragarn as the example.”

“Are there more details?”

“I’m about to find out,” Storm replied grimly, tapping the next icon.

With growing horror, they discovered why, exactly, the Fallen origins remained so secret.

The citadel of Myragos was not the first Myragnar dwelling to bear that name. The citadel of Myragos represented a monument to the Myragnar’s home realm—a realm that no longer existed.

By the time Valëtyria developed the Fallen formula, the Ninthëvels had subjugated most of Myragos. To stand a chance of succeeding against the Ninthëvels’ strength—whatever it was, Valëtyria packaged the formula as an aerosolized biological weapon they could widely disperse: harmless to anyone but the enemy.

“But something went wrong,” Storm said, skimming through the next few lines. “Someone tampered with it. Someone…modified the formula. The Myragnar didn’t know until later they’d been betrayed.”

“And?” Devika’s voice trembled with a mix of dread and anticipation.

Storm grew quiet, devastation creeping into each word. “The formula didn’t just affect the Ninthëvels—it unmade the fabric of the realm. Myragos collapsed in on itself…” He swallowed hard. “And the formula Felled or killed all but a handful of Myragnar within.”

“Stars,” Devika rasped, shell-shocked. “A whole realm? I’ve never heard of a Myragnar realm—not even a reference—outside of their Valëtyrian citadel. How did they end up there?”

Storm tapped another file. “There’s a link to a charter here, classified. Valëtyria naturalized the remaining Myragnar, and they lived in Valëtyria until—fucking hell, there’s another IBD.”

“Another one?” Devika’s voice echoed faintly through his phone.

“A few centuries later, there was an explosion at the facility where Valëtyria housed the formula,” Storm said, looking a little green. “The blast aerosolized it, it dispersed into the air and…stars. It Felled dozens before they got it under control.”

“What?” Devika gasped.

Storm kept reading. “The Myragnar didn’t want to remain in Valëtyria after that, there were already so few of them left, so Valëtyria constructed the pocket realm for them. The High Council relocated the formula to Earth because the compound can’t be aerosolized there—the atmosphere is incompatible and will burn it up.”

“And that’s why the AIDO keeps it.”

“Right. But…there are environmental test results here. It didn’t destroy the realm like it did Myragos, but Valëtyria found traces of it for years after—” He broke off, unease churning in his gut. “I’m going to send you this.”

“O—okay,” Devika faltered, caught off guard by the interruption.

The Myragnar’s technology couldn’t connect to Storm’s Valëtyrian device, so he risked opening a Myragos messaging console to send the files first to himself, then Devika.

As Devika waited for the documents to load, Storm swiped through various reports as dread formed a knot in his chest. “Dev?”

The Historian had her eyes glued to her own tablet now, the color draining from her face even through Storm’s phone screen. “Valëtyrians ingested this,” she whispered. “In trace amounts for decades. Not enough to do permanent damage; at least…they didn’t think there was, but—but if these numbers are accurate, artificial gestation numbers began to decline at the same time. They don’t tie it directly to the formula, but the correlation is too strong to ignore. They spent years trying to purify the remnants of it, but it took too long—it was too late. There are indicators it affected most of the existing Valëtyrian population.”

Storm’s voice was hoarse. “Dev, tell me I’m misinterpreting what that means.”

She looked as sick as he felt. “I can’t. There’s another analysis—look up MYR-P3055MQ9.”

Storm did as she instructed, scanning through the preliminary introduction. “This is—”

“The Myragnar couldn’t procreate even artificially after what happened in Myragos,” Devika said flatly. “After the explosion, Valëtyrian Technologists looked into it. Again, they didn’t directly link it, but…it’s implied the Fallen formula made the Myragnar genetically incapable of artificial procreation, and… it affected Valëtyrians the same way. In scant amounts…the formula causes infertility and renders any embryos too unstable to develop. It can destroy at both the cosmic and molecular level.”

“This has to be why Ostragarn is after the Fallen,” Storm muttered. “In a large enough quantity, the formula can destroy worlds, realms.” He blinked as realization struck. “Stars, it’s why me and Phoenix are so important—somehow, we were naturally-born despite the Myragnar’s inability to procreate.”

“You’re proof there’s hope,” Devika rasped. “You may be the key to the survival of the race. Hell, you may be the key to a solution if the Valëtyrians end up the same way.”

“So why would they continue to keep it, much less use it?” Storm asked, bile rising in his throat. “How could they possibly justify this?”

“We need to figure out why everyone was so terrified of the Ninthëvels,” Devika said grimly. “Because if they weren’t capable of something more horrifying than this, the Fallen formula is overkill, and we’re all at risk.”

“Unspecified, inconceivable power,” Storm grunted. “Enough for the Myragnar and the Valëtyrians to resort to…this?” He gestured towards the screen. “What kind of power are we talking about here, Dev?”

“Send me everything,” she replied, her expression severe. “Anything you can find about them. Where they came from. What they were. Were they angels or something else? How did they end up in Myragos—the realm—at all?”

Storm nodded grimly and began to type. “I’ll send them to myself and share with you when I get back. If I’m gonna violate a dozen security protocols and maybe commit treason, I don’t want your name associated with it. Stars, this means my dad must be in on this. My mom may have been in on this…and she was supposed to be a protector. She fought the Ninthëvels…” He hesitated as he skimmed a document, then frowned as he read it again. “Wait, this can’t be right.”

“What?”

“I’m pulling the earliest references to the Ninthëvels I can find. But…it’s not…” He trailed off as his eyes moved over the lines on the screen with intense concentration.

“It’s not…what, Storm?”

“It’s a Myragnar genealogy, I think, labeled as ‘The Triad of Major Houses.’ My mom is listed here with the Avensäels—”

“Wait, your mom’s the Avensäel?”

Storm nodded absentmindedly. “My dad assumed her surname when they were avowed. Myragnar culture is highly matriarchal. My parents named me Storm, but the Myragnar call me ‘Ilythison.’” He paused frowning. “I don’t understand this. Avensäel, Liviríel…Ninthëvel.”

“To hell with security,” Devika said fiercely. “Send it to me.”

In a daze, Storm complied.

“The Triad of Major Houses…” Devika murmured as she opened the new document. “Any idea what this is?”

Storm shook his head, bewildered. “No.”

Devika’s eyes flitted across her screen as she read. “‘Syrilla Avensäel, Feyër Liviríel, and…Rysina Ninthëvel,’” she said, jaw dropping. “‘Ninthëvel’ isn’t a race. It’s a surname.”

Bewildered, Storm read a handful of names aloud. “Rysina Ninthëvel. Melina Ninthëvel. Cadfael Ninthëvel—”

Devika looked up. “But Storm, your family’s names—including your mom—are on this document too. So what is it?”

“Seriously, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it before today.” Storm randomly opened a document here and there to skim, then paused. “Dev.”

“Hm?” She was still studying the genealogy.

In silence, he sent her another file.

The Historian opened it, read the first few lines, then looked up at him in shock. “Storm…”

“The Triad of Major Houses was the Myragnar’s aristocracy before Myragos’s collapse,” he rasped. “Headed by…my grandmother, Syrilla, and two other families. Including the Ninthëvels.”

“What the hell, Storm?”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other through the video call for a loaded moment.

Finally, Devika ventured, “Then…what does that make you?”

Storm didn’t speak for another moment before finally whispering, “I don’t know.”

Devika’s expression changed to one of concern. “Send me what you can, then come home. This is…a lot.”

Storm nodded, beyond words.

“We’ll figure it out,” the Historian tried to reassure him. “I’ll find out what this means, okay? It’s literally my job. Ninthëvels, the Triad, Myragos…I’ll put all this together and make sense of it.”

“Sure,” Storm replied numbly.

“I’ll call Kitara,” she went on. “Don’t worry about that—I’ll tell her everything we found. She may want to come in after this. If nothing else, we may have a lead on what Itzal’s after.”

“Right.”

Devika eyed him warily through the screen. “See you soon, then.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dev.”

The call ended, and Storm slumped back in his chair, rubbing his face wearily with both hands.

“…those answers may change the way you perceive the world, your mother, and yourself…”

“…I’m more interested in who you are—and who you might become…”

In a daze, Storm selected documents at random to forward to himself, then began closing out the dozens of files he had opened. He hesitated at the genealogy and the associated files listed in a second tab.

Eyes Only - Dark Star Directive (AIDO): High-Risk Intake and Personnel Monitoring

The word “AIDO” may have caught his attention in the list, but the file date kept it. The Dark Star Directive was the most recent file he’d seen…by about a millennium.

He might not have encountered a classified IBD incident in person before, but he hadn’t even heard of this one.

Storm selected the file, a feeling of unease settling in his chest. When the document appeared, he leaned forward to read. The directive contained protocols for the intake and monitoring of individuals identified as “high-risk” by the High Council.

The Dark Star Directive seemed to be an all-encompassing document allowing for the monitoring, apprehension, and even elimination of individuals deemed a threat. The document specified items far beyond what any one angel could be Felled for. No, this was something else entirely. Something worse.

Who—or what—could possibly meet such criteria?

“…Unspecified, inconceivable power. Enough for the Myragnar and the Valëtyrians to resort to...this? What kind of power are we talking about here, Dev…?”

With an overwhelming sense of foreboding, Storm scrolled to the end of the document.

What he saw there turned his veins to ice.