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Planet Ignis | Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-02-10 12:08:03 +0000 UTC...the history of our people has shaped many of the truths.
In hindsight, the Third Truth was the first embodied by the Ignian people. When the Phoenix crew decided to split into four separate settlements, it wasn’t solely to reduce the risk of Schneider detecting us. It was about ensuring redundancy—a greater chance of survival if we weren’t all gathered in one place. If disaster struck and one settlement was lost, the others would endure.
I propose we change the order of the truths and elevate the Third Truth—“A flame spread is never dead”—to become the First. When we consider its historical significance, it’s only fitting. Additionally...
From “A Proposal for the Review of the Nine Truths” by Trother, the Wise
Trother looked up at the starry sky. He couldn’t recall how he’d come to the surface, yet here he was. His hands felt different—stronger, younger. He studied them, noting their unfamiliar firmness. I’m dreaming again, he realized.
A beautiful woman stood before him. Her ebony skin glowed under the starlight, her lean neck graceful, and her dark hair braided and pulled into a ponytail. Trother tried to call her name, but his voice failed him. He wanted to move but was frozen, able only to listen.
“My love, you know I have to do this,” she said gently, her voice like warmth echoing through the still night.
“But I don’t want you to go,” he tried to say. No sound came out. Even so, she seemed to hear him.
“I know, I know,” she replied. “But they have children, too. This,” she said, pointing to the sled behind her, “will make a difference for them. Besides…” she placed a hand on his clean-shaven face, her touch warm but fading, “we always knew I would be the first to go.”
“I’ll go instead,” he wanted to say, his throat aching with the words. He felt tears roll down his cheeks.
“Take care of our baby.” She took off her oxygen mask, handed it to him, then activated her mutation. Her muscles swelled, her figure growing taller and stronger. A harness bound her to a sled loaded with metal ingots, each a weight she bore willingly. She set off, pulling the sled behind her. Her form became smaller, fading into the distance until she was gone.
“Naiara!” Trother’s scream shattered the silence as he jolted awake, his hands frail and aged once more. His room in the Burrows came into focus. Sweating and panting, he looked around, finding Sywel beside him, her hand steadily Bursting. She nodded in silent acknowledgment, respectfully ignoring his recurring nightmares, and returned to her task. He was grateful for her understanding.
Sywel, now nineteen, had been a child when Trother first taught her. He had watched her grow, marry, and even welcome her own children, twins born just last year. Despite her love for them, her hand burned with determined strength as she poured her life for him, the thick cable connecting her to Trother pulsing with her energy. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to repay her, he thought. Maybe I’ll guide one of her children—if I live long enough.
Sylar slept in the corner of the room, his tall, lumbering figure barely stirring. Trother knew, though, that his nightmare had woken Sylar, too. The couple had been keeping watch in shifts, Sylar through the early morning hours, then Sywel. Their arrangement was efficient, with the Burrows only needing minimal sleep, while Trother required a full eight hours to function. Most Batteries stuck to the usual six hours; those nearing Termination often managed just four.
As Trother rose, Sywel stood and Sylar followed. Together, they walked to the cleansing tube at the room’s corner. Trother approached it with mild embarrassment. He’d always stumbled over words like “sheepishly” or “self-consciously,” but the feeling was the same. He stepped inside, closing the door as the tube glowed and hummed. The pair poured orange-grade energy into it, burning away impurities from his skin that, if left, would create a smell unpleasant enough to seep through the Burrows. The impurities—molecules in the wrong configuration—would later be filtered and repurposed, down to the very last useful particle.
Stepping out of the tube, refreshed, he motioned for Sywel and Sylar to have their turns. Some might argue that a bath was a waste of Longevity. Still, the tribe had learned that a slightly shorter, cleaner life was preferable to the reek of “porks” or “pigs,” or whatever the word was. That was how his Lit had taught him, and how he taught his students.
Trother began his morning walk to the Collegium. Although an optimal route would take him directly from his chambers to the mess hall and then to the Collegium, he preferred choosing a slightly different path each day. He believed the small shifts in routine lent a subtle freshness to the otherwise familiar tunnels. Mental clarity, he often said, is worth the extra calories and oxygen. Sywel and Sylar, accustomed to his quirks, silently followed.
“Let’s go through the Plume Gate and the Throne Room,” he said. Sylar twitched his mouth in slight disagreement, and Sywel sighed.
“I know, Sylar, I know,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll pass the mess hall on the way down.” She turned to Trother with a smile. “Trother, have I told you the twins twitch their mouths just like Sylar when they’re unhappy? It’s the cutest thing.”
The group moved through the upper level, where the sleeping chambers lay, and soon reached the gate to Howner Avenue. Trother felt a chill as he looked at the door and what lay beyond it. Memories of Naiara returned, vivid and painful.
They began the descent, passing the rooms where his students slept. He remembered being a child himself, lying awake with excitement, eagerly awaiting his first evaluation. He wondered if any of his students were awake with the same anticipation.
They paused outside the Womb, where new Reds like those he’d taught had been born. He rested his hand on the door for a moment before glancing at the adjacent Throne Room. He’d visit the king soon.
After passing the Vault of the Golden Guard, the Chemist’s Lab, and the empty Hearth, they reached the Forge. The chambers were ablaze with activity. Tribe members stoked the flames, pouring unprocessed ore into cauldrons and pounding metal with massive hammers, each movement steeped in heat, fire, and purpose. Trother waved to familiar faces, recognizing some former students among the workers.
“Hi, teacher!” called a soot-covered student named Welion, flames dancing over his arms as he worked.
“Welion, you seem to be doing well.” Glancing at the glowing cauldron, he added, “No need to burn that hot for that alloy, Welion. Cool down before the bronze smith catches you wasting your Longevity and tosses you into a cauldron!”
“Yes, sir,” Welion replied, sheepish as he adjusted his Burst. Sywel giggled beside Trother.
They continued to the mess hall, where Trother felt Sylar’s intense gaze on him, as if burning a hole through his back.
“All right, all right. Let’s go in, Sylar,” Trother chuckled. “No need to look at me like that. I want to eat too, you know?”
*
After breakfast, Trother and his Batteries left the mess hall and made their way toward the Collegium. It was almost time for class, and Trother prided himself on always being the first to arrive. Punctuality, he believed, was a reflection of discipline, and he approached it with the same seriousness he gave to every aspect of teaching. It was no accident that he had coached five other Lits, three Yellows, and even the Blue King himself.
As Trother and his entourage entered the Collegium, they were greeted by the familiar architecture of the Burrows—a perfectly spherical chamber. Benches at staggered heights encircled the center, each crafted to ensure every student had an unobstructed view of their instructor, and vice versa. All seats were vacant; no one had arrived yet. Trother took a deep breath, feeling a sense of calm settle over him as he prepared to instruct a new generation. He headed to the adjacent room to finalize the preparations for today’s lesson.
While mentally reviewing the AI reports, a small metal ball rolled into his office. The nanite’s silent arrival meant it was time. Standing up, Trother straightened his robes and stepped out, where a line of children awaited him, standing at attention in the Collegium’s large amphitheater. This class consisted of twelve students—five boys, seven girls. Trother scanned their faces, assessing each one with a practiced eye.
It’s time to feed these flames.
