Senator Dorian Kessler sat at his desk in the Senate chamber, surrounded by the grand architecture of Eden's political heart. Marble pillars lined the chamber, and the glass dome above let in soft daylight, casting shimmering patterns across the polished black floor. Yet the light felt cold today, drained of warmth by the ominous presence of the Supreme Leader Mark Lantrun—a man who now attended every hearing in person. His throne sat high above the Senate floor, like an executioner's platform, leaving no one to doubt who truly controlled the room.
The political landscape of Eden had changed drastically after the Dome Baby incident. It was the kind of crisis that forced a hard reset on power, reshuffling allegiances, silencing opposition, and redefining what it meant to rule. Many high-ranking members of both the Sacred 69 and the new money elite had been purged in the aftermath. Some disappeared quietly, their faces erased from public memory. Others were sent to reeducation camps, where they either returned as meek shadows of their former selves or vanished entirely.
The centrists, however, had weathered the storm without much damage. Their party was too small to be a threat and too neutral to earn anyone's enmity. This survival had left Dorian with mixed feelings: gratitude for escaping the purge but also a sense of frustration at their irrelevance in the new order. They were like a leaf caught between two roaring rivers—pushed and pulled by forces far beyond their control.
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The Senate was in session, and today's debate revolved around the budget allocation for the Westerosi revolution campaign. It was a thorny issue, one that highlighted the deep ideological rift between the two dominant factions. On one side sat the Sacred 69, eager to expand Eden's influence through conquest and cultural domination. On the other sat the new money elites, wary of overextending Eden's resources and focused more on economic growth and stability.
The Sacred 69 wanted a larger budget to fuel the revolution in the Seven Kingdoms, presenting their cause as a mission of enlightenment and liberation. The Seven Kingdoms, they argued, were shackled by outdated traditions and primitive power structures. Eden had a responsibility—a divine mandate, even—to lead these backward people toward modernity.
"We must act decisively," one senator from the Sacred 69 declared, his voice filled with righteous fervor. "The world will not change on its own. If we delay or falter, chaos will fill the void. The Seven Kingdoms need guidance—our guidance."
On the other side, the new money elites presented a more pragmatic argument. They insisted that the Jeddah buffer zone, a defensive line being constructed along Eden's border with Dothraki territory, should take precedence. Stability at home mattered more than revolution abroad, they argued. Besides, pouring too many resources into Westeros could leave Eden's infrastructure projects underfunded and delayed.
"We must be careful not to spread ourselves too thin," a representative of the elites said calmly. "The revolution will not succeed if Eden itself is weakened in the process. The buffer zone is essential for our long-term security."
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Both sides delivered their arguments with polished diplomacy, each faction careful not to overstep or appear too forceful. The Supreme Leader's presence loomed over them like a silent judge, weighing every word. No one dared to raise their voice too loudly or make bold accusations; everyone in the room knew that Mark Lantrun's mood was as volatile as a coiled spring.
Dorian sat quietly in the middle, his hands folded in front of him as he watched the political theater unfold. His Centrist Party had no strong opinion on the matter, and he saw no reason to force one. Aligning with either faction would only draw unnecessary attention to his bloc, and attention was the last thing they needed. Survival in Eden's political arena meant knowing when to speak—and when to remain silent.
His gaze drifted upward toward Mark Lantrun's throne. The Supreme Leader sat perfectly still, his expression a mask of cold indifference. A thick bandage covered his right eye, stained with dark patches of viscous black liquid that occasionally seeped from the wound. Every time a drop leaked out, the Inquisitor standing at Mark's side would swiftly dab it away with a black silk handkerchief, as if it were the most natural task in the world.
No one knew how Mark had lost his eye. Theories ranged from an assassination attempt to a failed experiment with forbidden technology. Some even whispered about dark magic, though such rumors were spoken only in the quietest corners of the city. Whatever had caused the injury, it had clearly affected Mark's temperament. His mood had grown darker and more unpredictable, and even the most powerful senators now spoke with measured caution in his presence.
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The debate continued, dragging on in circles as both factions restated their points in slightly different terms. Dorian tuned most of it out, only half-listening as the senators tried to outmaneuver each other without crossing the invisible line that would trigger the Supreme Leader's displeasure.
At one point, a senator from the Sacred 69 became a little too passionate, his voice rising above the usual polite murmur. "The revolution must be funded now, not later!" he declared, slamming his hand on the table. The sound echoed through the chamber, and for a moment, the entire room fell silent.
All eyes turned to the throne. The Inquisitor leaned in and whispered something into Mark's ear, and the Supreme Leader's fingers began to drum slowly against the armrest. It was a soft, rhythmic tap, but it carried a weight that silenced the entire room. Everyone knew what it meant: someone was dangerously close to crossing the line.
The Sacred 69 senator paled and quickly sat back down, muttering an apology. The debate resumed, but now it was even more tense and cautious than before. Fear was thick in the air, a silent reminder that no one—not even the most powerful factions—was safe from the Supreme Leader's wrath.
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Dorian allowed himself a small, bitter smile. So much effort, just to avoid offending one man. The Dome Baby incident had shattered the old political system, leaving behind a world where every decision revolved around Mark Lantrun's whims. Power was no longer about policy or ideology; it was about staying on the right side of the throne.
As the debate dragged on, Dorian glanced around the chamber, studying the faces of his fellow senators. Some were nervous, others exhausted, all of them trapped in the same game. No one knew what the future held—only that one wrong move could mean the end of their career, or worse.
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When the debate finally came to a close, the room exhaled as one. The vote was postponed—as it often was—leaving the issue unresolved for another day. Dorian gathered his papers and prepared to leave, grateful to have survived another session without incident. But as he rose from his seat, he couldn't help but glance one last time at the black liquid seeping from Mark Lantrun's bandaged eye.
What was it? And what did it mean for the future of Eden?
Dorian didn't know—and he wasn't sure he wanted to. All he knew was that the game had changed, and the only thing that mattered now was survival. Let the others chase power and prestige; Dorian Kessler would be content to stay alive.