Page 11 of The Sovereign, Part One (The Sovereign Saga #1)

The Skith whirred to a smooth stop, and as I stepped onto the walkway leading toward my Sablestone, I drew in a deep breath.

My walk home from the Skith port spanned roughly ten minutes, a tranquil stretch of time I welcomed.

The evening air was thick with the scent of Hyperion’s perfectly calibrated greenery, a crisp, engineered freshness that never wavered, no matter the season.

The gentle glow of the HaloGrid reflected off the immaculate walkways, its uninterrupted bands of embedded light casting a serene stillness over the district.

The illumination adjusted subtly to movement, responding with a soft pulse as I passed, neither harsh nor obtrusive, but a quiet presence, an unseen hand ensuring the city remained bathed in perfect, effortless clarity.

In contrast, the old world was a clash of sound and shadow, gas-powered engines rattling in protest, coal-fueled trains shrieking along rusted tracks, and the relentless percussion of hurried footsteps striking against concrete.

Car horns barked in frustration, sirens wailed through choked streets, and somewhere, always, there was the echo of a distant argument or the sharp laughter of strangers packed too closely together.

Cities had pulsed with life, a chaotic symphony of industry and impulse, full not of Sovereign, but of people, who shouted across intersections, slammed heavy, wooden doors, and let music bleed from their open windows, all existing under vast stretches swallowed by darkness, a haven for the self-serving and subversive.

I knew this not from experience, but from history lessons, archived footage, and the indirect warnings woven into Hyperion’s lore. The old world had been unpredictable, inefficient, and untamed.

Knowing what came before—Hyperion Proper and its ethos of order—felt like an undeniable sanctuary.

As you walked its well-kept streets, you would hear only the faint hum of passing transports, their power cores and kinetic propulsion barely disturbing the air.

The Skith glided along its tracks, a whisper of motion that never jarred or jolted.

Conversations blurred into a distant murmur, only for the simple fact that there were fewer voices to carry.

Hyperion Proper’s population was growing, but the Birth Crisis had left its mark, an echo of absence woven into the city’s streets and the hollow spaces where life had yet to return.

Children’s laughter still rang through the air, but even that felt tempered, contained, as if joy itself had been trained to fit neatly within the city’s sky-reaching walls.

The breeze swept through the leaves in an almost secret dance, its movement the only truly ungoverned thing in sight, weaving through perfectly manicured courtyards, a faint reminder that control was never absolute.

My residence was all clean lines and intention, a seamless marriage of transpane and ultralite composite, softened just enough by carefully placed vertical gardens and terrace greenery.

Floor-to-ceiling transpane panels stretched across the front of the Sablestone, designed to maximize natural light while maintaining privacy when needed.

The fluid integration of composite and smart materials gave the structure an almost weightless presence: modern, efficient, and perfectly in tune with Hyperion’s aesthetic.

Inside, the air would be calibrated to my comfort, the system anticipating my needs before I even voiced them. But standing there, looking up at the place that had been mine alone for so long, I wondered if a home was ever truly complete without the presence of someone else to share it.

I spotted my neighbor’s young daughter, Ibith.

She was perched on the edge of her landing, her feet idly tapping against the lumestra panels lining the steps, their delicate glow subtly swelling like a breath in the deepening dusk.

Her caramel curls were pulled into tight twin braids, pulling any loose strands away from her cherubic face, the fading light catching the warmth in her amber-brown eyes.

She wore a loose, plum-colored softshell that fell past her knees, the sleeves a little too long for her small frame.

“Isara!” she called, her voice carrying the unguarded enthusiasm of childhood. “You’re home early!”

I smiled, adjusting the strap of my tresset over my shoulder. “Am I? Or are you just stalling before going inside for violin lessons?”

She scrunched her nose. “We had a guest speaker today in class! A real Vanguard! She talked about how they designed the first integration protocols for the Supplicants. Did you know the earliest models didn’t even have autonomous preference?”

I nodded, though I let her enjoy explaining it to me. Ibith had a way of talking that turned facts into discoveries, as if the world were unfolding before her in real time. She was about to launch into another excited thought when movement across the street caught our attention.

Three Hyperion Reg transports approached in perfect formation, their sleek, black exteriors absorbing the glow from the HaloGrid. I felt Ibith shift closer to me, her small fingers brushing against my arm.

“What’s happening?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

The Regs were rarely seen, their presence a silent reminder of Hyperion’s stability, enforcers who maintained order so efficiently that they were almost never needed.

And yet, here they were, and the atmosphere obeyed, control rendered in motion.

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

The transports came to a halt in front of Mr. Nyland’s home.

He was a solemn man, maybe fifteen years older than me, always polite but distant, his presence more of a shadow in the district than a fixture.

I’d only exchanged a handful of words with him over the years, brief pleasantries when passing on the walkway, a nod of acknowledgment at community meetings.

He worked in data refinement, a sector that suited his detached, methodical nature.

Whatever had happened inside that home, I knew it had to be grave.

Neither The Citadel nor the Tribitheon erred in judgment.

The moment the slipgates of their transports hissed open, the Regs emerged, exceptionally tall and intimidating Hiven, service Supplicants with identical features, each an exact replica of the next, but the Regs’ size and obsidian uniforms set them apart, almost organic in the way they adhered to their bodies.

Though their faces were expressionless, the thin, illuminated bands over their lowered helmets pulsed faintly, veiling their eyes, serving as a silent reminder of their function.

They were not individuals, but a singular force, serving as the enforcers of The Citadel’s order.

They stormed inside, only hesitating the few seconds it took to override the Nylands’ home system.

Moments later, the panel to the Nyland residence burst open, and Mr. Nyland was dragged out, barefoot, clothed only in an undershirt and striped base shorts.

He struggled, his protests raw and ragged, but the Regs held him as if his resistance were nothing more than an afterthought.

Mrs. Nyland appeared a moment later, wrapped in a blanket, her golden blonde hair falling in wild, tangled strands.

Some clung to her damp skin, pressed against her cheeks in places, revealing glimpses of flawless skin and high, sculpted cheekbones, beauty that had once turned heads with ease.

But now, mascara streaked beneath her eyes like smudged ink on delicate paper, and her lipstick blurred at the edges.

She stood still, her features carefully composed, but the faint downturn of her lips and the heaviness in her gaze betrayed her debilitating sorrow.

She had been forged to love Mr. Nyland, bound to him in a way that was written into her very existence, but no design, no devotion, could alter the course he had set for himself.

“Isara?” Ibith whimpered, pressing against my side. “Where are they taking him? Beyond the walls?”

I swallowed. “Eventually, yes.”

Ibith hesitated, then tilted her head to look up at me. “What’s out there?”

The question coiled through me like a slow, creeping dread.

I refocused my gaze toward the towering walls of Hyperion Proper, their smooth surfaces faintly reflecting the HaloGrid, standing so impossibly high that they loomed like mountains on the horizon, visible from every vantage point, an ever-present reminder of our world’s boundaries.

“I don’t know, Ibith,” I said, still in a state of shock and confusion.

She tugged on my blouse. “You don’t know?”

“I haven’t been beyond the walls.”

“ Never ?”

I shook my head, still lost in a fog of confusion, struggling to piece together my thoughts enough to respond. “It’s not safe.”

“It’s not?” she asked, her voice strained. “Why? What’s out there?”

“Don’t worry, Ibith. The walls are… very high.”

I guided her back to the landing and crouched down to meet her gaze, offering a smile strained with regret, sorry that someone as young as Ibith would be burdened with such an unsettling, formative memory. “You should go inside. Tell your parents what you saw so they can help you understand.”

She hesitated but nodded, slipping through her threshold without another word. I turned toward my own home, my eyes fixed forward, refusing to look back at the commotion. The Regs were efficient, but I didn’t want their eyes on me. No one did.

Inside, my home was a sanctuary of order and light, untouched by what was happening outside. Calyx, my home’s adaptive interface, activated as soon as I stepped in, adjusting the ambiance and temperature to my usual preferences.