The year was 1242 Post-Severance. It was a detail that every student at Solvix III Academy knew by heart, even if few truly understood its significance. For many, it was simply a date scrawled at the top of their holopads, a dry number marking the endless march of time. But today, in Professor Lyra Varik's history class, it was more than a number. Today, it was a reminder.
Professor Varik stood at the front of the lecture hall, impeccably dressed in her formal attire. Every detail of her appearance was meticulously considered, from the precisely pressed folds of her uniform to the polished shine of her boots. She exuded an air of composure and discipline, her posture rigid yet graceful.
The only thing that seemed out of place was a necklace that hung openly around her neck. Instead of being crafted from precious metals, it was made of simple leather, with a small fragment of burnt metal resting at its centre.
"Can anyone tell me," Professor Varik began, her sharp green eyes sweeping across the lecture hall, "what humanity lost during the Severance?"
A murmur spread through the room. Students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some flipping nervously through their notes. History was not a popular subject here. The Academy prided itself on science, engineering, and the practical skills needed to maintain humanity's fragile existence in the Pocket. But history? That was a relic—just like the artifacts that littered the wastelands of Earth. Few could understand why it was a compulsory subject for every major.
Finally, a hand shot up near the back. It belonged to Coren Drax, a petite archaeology major known for her insatiable curiosity and knack for challenging assumptions. "About eighty percent of the population," she said, her voice steady but tinged with uncertainty as she glanced around the room.
Professor Varik raised an eyebrow. "Correct, but incomplete. Anyone else?"
Silence.
She sighed, leaning against the lectern. "What we lost, class, was everything. Not just lives, but knowledge. Culture. Identity. The very fabric of who we were as a species." Her voice dropped slightly, as if sharing a secret. "Only Twelve hundred years ago, humanity stood at the apex of its power. We spanned the stars. We built wonders—machines that could think, ships that could traverse the void of space in an instant. We were explorers, dreamers, creators. And then... we weren't."
Coren frowned, her curiosity sharpening. "I understand that, but what caused it? How could a civilization so advanced unravel so completely?"
Professor Varik's lips pressed into a thin line. "That, Ms. Drax, is the question that has haunted historians for over a millennium. The Severance is the great unanswered mystery of our time."
She turned and gestured at the massive holo-display behind her. It flickered to life, showing a map of three solar systems: Terra, Solvix, and Novatrix.
"This is all that remains of humanity's once-mighty empire: three solar systems, sealed away in the confines of our pocket dimension. Terra—the cradle of our species, where the ruins of our ancestors still whisper of what we once were. Solvix—our current home, as you know well, its twin suns meticulously engineered to sustain what's left of us. And Novatrix—a wild, turbulent system shrouded in mystery, untouched by any but the Enforcers since the Severance. These three systems are the entirety of humanity's existence in the universe, the sum total of everything we've known for over twelve centuries. Beyond the edges of the Pocket lies... nothing. An infinite void."
Another hand went up, this time belonging to Rhea Calder, one of the more studious members of the class. "Professor, the books say there was a war before the Severance. A 'Great War.' Is that why we... retreated?"
"A good question," Professor Varik said, nodding thoughtfully. "The records we have are... sparse. What we do know is this: a war was fought. Not just any war, but one unlike anything our species had ever encountered. Eighty percent of the human population—billions of lives—were wiped out in the span of a single generation. Cities fell, worlds burned, and our civilization teetered on the edge of extinction." She paused, her voice dropping slightly. "We don't even know if we decided to activate the device... or if our enemies forced it upon us. Either way, the result was the same—we were severed, locked away in this Pocket, cut off from the universe."
"But why?" Rhea pressed, leaning forward in her seat. "What were we fighting? Who did this to us?"
Professor Varik hesitated, and for a moment, the ever-composed professor looked weary. It was a question she had asked herself more times than she cared to admit—a question that never left her, no matter how many history books she pored over late into the night.
"We don't know," she admitted finally, the weight of those words hanging in the air. "Some theories suggest it was a coalition of alien races, united against us out of fear or jealousy of our power. Others claim it was a civil war, humanity turning on itself in a fit of arrogance, driven by greed or hubris." She paused again, and when she spoke next, her voice was softer, almost a whisper. "And then there are those who believe it wasn't a war at all, but something far greater. Something we couldn't comprehend—a cataclysm, a reckoning. Some say it was the wrath of the gods themselves, punishment for humanity's crimes against the galaxy."
The room was silent now, every student hanging on her words.
"Whatever the truth," she continued, "it has been lost to time. The Severance didn't just destroy lives—it destroyed our history. Our technology, our culture, even our stories were lost in the chaos. What remains are fragments: artifacts scattered across Terra's surfaces, ruins of cities too ancient to repair, and machines we no longer fully understand. Some of these machines still function, though only barely—transport gates that connect our three worlds in this system, and even the gates that reach Novatrix or Terra. Defence systems that pulse with an ancient power, keeping us safe from... well, from what, we can't be sure. But the truth is, they should not still work—and they wouldn't if we didn't have the Fieldwielders."
She paced slowly, her tone taking on an edge of urgency. "It is the Fieldwielders who keep these remnants alive. Their ability to channel the mysterious energies that saturate our world—the same energies left in the wake of the Severance—has become our crutch. Gates won't open without them. Ancient machines falter without their touch. They are the only reason we can still travel between systems, the only reason we can defend ourselves. Without them, much of our ancestors' technology would simply… stop. And yet even the wielders don't know why their abilities work. It's another mystery left in the ruins of our past."
She stopped and let her words hang in the air, letting the revelation settle over the room.
"This is why history matters," Professor Varik said, her voice firm. "We are a species adrift, cut off from the universe, living on borrowed time. If we don't learn from our past—if we don't uncover the truth of what happened to us—then we are doomed to repeat it. The Severance was not the end, students. It was our wake-up call."
The bell chimed, signalling the end of the lesson. Chairs scraped against the floor as students gathered their things, but Coren lingered, his brow furrowed in thought.
"ah, Professor?" Coren asked, approaching the lectern as the room emptied. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her satchel, her tone hesitant but curious.
"Yes, Ms. Drax?" Lyra replied, her tone clipped yet polite, her sharp green eyes lifting from her notes.
Coren hesitated, the words tumbling in her mind before she finally spoke. "What do you think really happened? You know, with the Severance?"
Lyra paused, her gaze leveling on Coren with a measured intensity. She let the silence linger for a moment, as though weighing the question itself. Finally, she offered a faint, carefully constructed smile—one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That, Ms. Drax, is a discussion for another time."
She opened her mouth as if to say more but thought better of it. With a quiet nod, she slung her bag over her shoulder and left the room, leaving Lyra alone with her thoughts.
The classroom was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the holo-display, which flickered briefly as it powered down. For a split second, it showed an image of a crumbling cityscape on Earth, its jagged skyline silhouetted against a dying sun. Lyra watched it disappear with a heavy sigh.
It was a sight few ever saw in person—one of the countless relics of humanity's forgotten past. For most, Earth existed only as a story, a cautionary tale told through history books and grainy holos. But for Lyra, it was something else entirely. It was her goal, she had been there a few times but still hadn't uncovered the mysteries it held.
Once the room was completely empty, a soft glow appeared near her wrist. From the gauntlet attached under her sleeve, a small red orb emerged, hovering in the air. Its surface shimmered faintly, its edges indistinct, like a drop of molten light.
"You're brooding again," it said, its voice smooth and strangely melodic. Despite the lack of a face, Lyra could feel its gaze flick toward the now-blank holo-display. "I wish you could have seen it in its prime. Earth was... beautiful once. A jewel among the stars."
"You've said that before," Lyra replied, leaning against the edge of the lectern. Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she didn't apologise. Her companion had a way of pulling emotions from her she wasn't ready to face. "Sometimes I wonder if you say it just to torment me."
The orb drifted closer, its glow dimming slightly. "You think I enjoy tormenting you? I'm your companion, Lyra. We're bonded, remember?"
Lyra snorted. "Oh, I remember. Believe me." She crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the empty holo-display. "Why don't you ever just tell me the truth? You were there, weren't you? During the Severance."
The orb pulsed faintly, a sign of its discomfort. "We've had this conversation before," it said softly.
"And we're going to keep having it until you give me a straight answer." Lyra's voice hardened, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You claim to remember Earth in its prime, to know what we lost. So why won't you tell me what really happened? Was it a war? A reckoning? Or something else entirely?"
The orb remained silent for a moment, its glow dim and steady. When it finally spoke, its voice was quieter, almost mournful. "Knowing the truth won't change anything, Lyra. It's more important that humanity learns the correct lesson."
Lyra scoffed, pushing off the lectern and pacing the room. "The correct lesson? That's the kind of vague nonsense I expect from a history book, not from you. Don't you think we deserve to know why we're trapped here? Why we're living on borrowed time, scavenging pieces of a past we don't understand?"
Her companion followed her as she paced, its tone soft but firm. "And what would you do with the truth, Lyra? Would it give you comfort? Or would it break you?"
She stopped, turning to face the orb. For a moment, the anger in her eyes flickered, replaced by something more vulnerable. "I don't know," she admitted. "But isn't it better to know? Isn't that the whole point of this? To stop repeating the same mistakes? How can we learn the right lesson if we don't even know what went wrong?"
The companion hovered in silence, its glow faint. It didn't answer, not directly. Instead, it floated toward her, settling near her shoulder like a loyal pet. "You carry too much weight already," it said softly. "Sometimes, not knowing is a mercy."
Lyra closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly against the orb's surface. Despite her frustration, the bond between them was undeniable. It wasn't just a connection—it was symbiosis. She could feel the faint touch of its energy against her skin, a presence as constant and familiar as her heartbeat.
"Mercy or not," she said finally, her voice quieter now, "I'm not giving up. One way or another, I'll find out the truth."
The orb pulsed faintly, its glow warming. "And I hope that you don't, but I don't think I have a choice," it said. "That's what I like about you, Lyra. Stubbornness is both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness."
She gave a small, bitter laugh. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
The orb didn't respond, and for a moment, they simply stood in silence, the faint hum of the room enveloping them. The holo-display had gone completely dark now, leaving only the soft glow of the orb to light the room.
"Come on," Lyra said finally, brushing past the lectern and heading for the door. "Let's go. I've got another class to teach."