Utopian System

As the flames consumed the bodies of Raelar and Varick, the smoke rising towards the sky in thin, wispy tendrils, Elio stood in silent vigil.

The crackling of the fire and the soft sobs of mourners created a solemn atmosphere, heavy with the weight of loss and the promise of a new beginning.

Suddenly, the reverent silence was shattered by a voice laden with fury and anguish.

"You!"

Elio and Lucien whirled around to find themselves face to face with Angela, Varick's mother. Her face was contorted with rage and grief, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, her whole body trembling with emotion.

"You!" she screamed again, jabbing an accusing finger at Elio. "You killed my son!"

Elio felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. The guilt he'd been trying to keep at bay threatened to overwhelm him, rising like bile in his throat. The memory of Varick's battered face flashed before his eyes, a cruel reminder of his own actions.

Lucien stepped forward, his voice calm but firm, a stark contrast to Angela's raw emotion. "Angela, listen to me. Varick made his own decision. He saved Elio of his own free will. He was a hero."

But Angela was in no mood to hear about stupid hero tales. Her grief was too fresh, too all-consuming. "I don't care!" she spat, her words dripping with venom. "He was my son! And now he's dead because of this... this upstart!"

Her cries drew the attention of other family members nearby. Some watched the scene with morbid curiosity, while others seemed poised to intervene, their bodies tense and ready.

Elio, regaining his composure, spoke softly but firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his newfound authority. "I deeply regret the loss of Varick. His sacrifice will not be forgotten. He saw something greater than the divisions that have kept us apart for so long."

Angela glared at him, her eyes pools of hatred and sorrow. "And what good does that do now?" she hissed. "What good is your regret? My son is dead, and you're here, ready to take everything that was ours!"

Before the situation could escalate further, two men approached Angela. With gentle but firm hands, they took her by the arms.

"Come, Angela," one of them said quietly. "You need to rest."

As they led her away, Angela continued to shoot hateful glances at Elio and Lucien. Her cries faded as they took her away, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence that stood in contrast to the earlier solemnity.

Elio put a hand over his face, feeling the weight of each death, of every decision he had made in the past few hours. The image of Varick's beaten face returned to haunt him, a constant reminder of the violence that had brought him to this point.

Lucien, noticing his distress, spoke in a low voice. "You can't carry the guilt of every life lost, Elio. Varick made his choice. We'll honor his memory by building a better future."

Elio nodded slowly, straightening his shoulders. He looked around, seeing the expectant faces of the people. He knew he had to be strong, for them and for the future they were trying to build. The burden of leadership felt heavier than ever, but he steeled himself to bear it… He wasn't made of regret.

♢♢♢♢

As the funeral pyres continued to burn, casting long shadows across the gathering, Angela slipped away from her escorts.

With the stealth born of desperation and fury, she made her way deep into the central building.

Later…

In a dimly lit room, far from prying eyes and ears, a dozen figures gathered: Fathoran's most loyal descendants. The mood was thick with tension and unspoken resentment.

"This is a farce," Angela hissed, her voice dripping with venom. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, now burned with a fierce determination. "That upstart murderer Elio has no right to lead."

Cassandra, a sharp-eyed young woman with an air of calculated cunning, nodded in agreement. Her fingers drummed on the table before her. "I concur. But we must be realistic. We've lost all our high-level summoners, except for the traitors Lucien and Selene."

"And Elio has the support of the soldiers, plus power comparable to the founder's," added Saren, an older man with decades of experience in mana management and city politics. "We can't confront him directly. It would be suicide."

"Elio has promised to give invocations to everyone," Cassandra said, her mind working rapidly, piecing together a plan. "But we're not so naive as to believe he'll give them to us without question, are we?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, heads nodding in unison.

"We need a plan to obtain those cores," Cassandra continued, her eyes glinting with malice. "And then, a plan to use them against him."

Angela frowned, her grief momentarily overshadowed by curiosity. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Cassandra moved to the center of the room, her presence commanding attention. "I propose we divide into three groups. The first will act as if they accept the new order. They'll earn the trust of Elio and his followers, gathering information from within."

"The second group," she continued, her voice low and intense, "will remain neutral. Neither for nor against. They'll be our eyes and ears among the general population."

"And the third group?" Angela asked, leaning forward with interest, her grief momentarily forgotten in the face of potential revenge.

"The third group will be us. Those who remain faithful to Fathoran's vision. We'll work on worsening Elio's image."

"How?" Saren asked, skepticism evident in his tone.

Cassandra smiled coldly, a predator eyeing its prey. "We still have family among the soldiers and workers. When Elio begins to implement his reforms, our allies will sow 'inequality'. Small whispers each time, nothing to raise immediate suspicion."

"And when he expands the city beyond the walls," Angela added, comprehending the plan, her eyes lighting up with dark anticipation, "we'll make sure things don't go as well as he hopes."

"Exactly," Cassandra confirmed. "Subtle sabotage, but constant."

"And once he distributes the cores," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, "we'll obtain them from some people no one will miss..."

"One more thing," Angela interjected, her mind racing with possibilities. "When we get our invocations, we'll use them to create a secret communication network. The salamanders can carry messages, Kairos told me that once."

Cassandra nodded approvingly. "Good. That will be one of our first tasks."

The room filled with murmurs of approval, the air thick with anticipation and dark promise.

"Then it's decided," Cassandra concluded. "We'll act with patience and cunning. We'll reclaim what is rightfully ours. For Fathoran. For our legacy."

"For Fathoran," the others repeated in a collective whisper, the name of their fallen leader a rallying cry in the shadows.

As the group dispersed, each with their assigned role in the grand plan, Angela remained in the room for a moment longer. Her eyes fell on an ancient painting of Fathoran hanging on the wall, its stern visage seeming to watch over them.

"We'll avenge you, and my son," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "And when we do, that boy Elio will wish he had never emerged from the sea of monsters."

The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across the room, as if the very darkness itself was conspiring with them. As Angela turned to leave, the weight of her grief and the fire of her vengeance burned within her, a dangerous combination that promised to cast a long shadow over Elio's bright new future.

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