01.13 - Thrones of The Old Republic

Almost a week had passed since the first makeshift firework experiments. The development of the necessary spells and the fine-tuning of their parameters was now well underway.

Luc had not reduced his regular training regiment, opting to spend what little free time he had, around noon and in the evenings, focused on the new project.

Uriah had helped almost every evening, despite slacking in other departments and giving Hannah some additional makeup advice once or twice.

But today was different.

Mirai, Gabe, and their parents had been away for almost two weeks now, on a journey to fetch new training Thrones. They were lucky enough to catch an early transport vessel, shortening their trip duration by more than a week.

Their vessel had arrived at the capital's spaceport in the early morning. The heavy transport vehicles, with the highly anticipated cargo, were scheduled to arrive around noon. The only ones not awaiting their arrival were Sascha and her brother Rafe, who had left on a hunt with their parents before the news made the rounds.

Everyone else had gathered on the training grounds near the still-empty Throne hangar when three heavy transporters appeared behind a small hill, on the street leading up to the training grounds.

Their number alone was strange enough.

Every heavy transporter had enough capacity to carry three regular Thrones, but, for all Luc knew, the group had only set out to replace their five old models. Yet all three transporters were filled to capacity.

They came to a halt next to the hangar.

Mirai and Gabe emerged from the passenger seats of the second and third heavy transporters their respective mothers had driven, while their father left the driver's cabin of the first and began to unload their cargo.

The two half-siblings showed no sign of exhaustion, despite the long journey.

Both had inherited their tall, slender physique and long, pointy ears from their Silva and Noblesse mothers, who were technically members of the same race, though strongly divided by culture and philosophy since time immemorial.

Mirai’s appearance was close to her mother’s, except for the long ebony hair whose shade of black seemed to almost perfectly match their Terran father’s, while Gabe’s long silver hair was the same shade as his mother’s.

Their father finished unloading the first of the nine Thrones. It stood about 19 meters tall and had no armor attached to its black frame.

“Those don’t look like training Thrones,” Luc said, instead of greeting them. “But they aren’t Mark IV or V either.”

“Hoho,” said Mirai. “Looks like your eyes are still working.”

“They don’t look like it because they’re not,” said Gabe. “Those are genuine Mark I models. Real Thrones of the Old Republic. Forged by a contemporary of or maybe even Lucius Artorius Castus himself.”

“Mark I? Are you kidding me?” asked Luc.

It seemed unlikely. Yet their design didn’t match any of the modern models. If those were real, they were part of the first order of Thrones, dating back to the Great War.

Superior in almost everything: strength, speed, response time, and regeneration. To top it all off, they were more Aura-efficient and easier to control.

Except for one downside. Mark I Thrones were soul-synchronized, directly linked to the users' very consciousness.

“They don’t build them like that anymore,” said Mirai. “And for good reason.”

“If they get damaged, it hurts like hell,” said Gabe.

“But there is an easy solution…” said Mirai.

“Like what?” asked Luc.

“Don’t get damaged, just…” Mirai and Gabe began in unison.

“...add enough armor and some defensive spells,” said Gabe.

“...bet on speed and mobility,” said Mirai at the same time.

“Huh?” said Mirai and Gabe in unison.

“That’s stupid; even with the best armor, you’ll be a sitting duck,” said Mirai.

“But if you just go for speed and run around like a headless chicken, a stray projectile or a wide-area spell will hit you for sure,” said Gabe.

“Are you saying my plan is bad, stupid turtle?” asked Mirai while crossing her arms.

“Are you implying my defenses won’t work, idiot hare?” asked Gabe while mirroring his sister's pose.

After a short exchange of stares, both assumed a fighting stance.

Mirai’s fist went for a punch right to Gabe’s gut.

It hit the dead center of his abs as he steeled himself.

Without flinching, Gabe went for a counter karate chop against Mirai’s neck.

She moved back and dodged by a hair's breadth.

“Looks like another draw,” Luc said as he watched in bemusement. “How many does that make?”

“That one doesn’t count!” said Mirai and Gabe in unison.

“Fine,” said Luc, “Have it your way. But you were supposed to fetch five training Thrones; why the change of plans? Especially if you knew about the downsides?”

“We could have gotten the five training Thrones as planned…” began Gabe.

“...but it would have taken another week of refurbishing until they would have been ready…” continued Mirai.

“...and after a long talk with the Throne repair and maintenance officer, he offered those nine beauties to Dad…” continued Gabe.

“...at a huge discount,” finished Mirai.

Luc’s father, Aurelius, stepped out of the crowd, his head shaking visibly.

“It might have sounded like a good deal to your father at the time,” said Aurelius. “But what happens next will depend on your ability to handle the pain. What about a little two-on-two warm-up match to see if you can handle it?”

They hesitated. Fatigue during training was one thing; having the feeling of a limb ripped off, even without the bodily consequences, was another thing altogether.

“...you mean right now?” Luc asked.

The expectation of searing pain was less than persuasive… but it was a chance to pilot a real Throne, a Mark I model at that. They might have even been used at the decisive war at the Gates of Heaven and encountered battles ever since, until they were finally put out of service.