CHAPTER 31: Fractures and Foundations

The atmosphere in the Dome was deceptively quiet.

Outside, storm clouds gathered beyond the translucent Dome walls, casting warped shadows across the white courtyard floor. A hum lingered in the air, not from machines or electricity, but from tension—simmering, sharp, and heavy.

The aftermath of the meeting still hung in the air like smoke after a fire. The truths spoken—about Jace, about Malrik, about the breach—rattled the foundations of the Dome and echoed relentlessly in the minds of those present.

Down the east wing, within one of the private recovery chambers, a lone figure stirred.

Michael sat shirtless on the edge of the Azulon gate, bandages wrapped taut around his ribs and forearms. He could still feel a sharp pain across his back, but it wasn’t the worst pain he felt. His mind was fractured, full of jagged memories.

He hadn’t seen Phobe, Emma, or Jace since the meeting. He’d asked Jace’s father to give him his regards, but somehow that felt distant, like a letter sent across a battlefield. The week was nearly over, and in the next few days, they were all expected to return to the Glades for intensified training.

He exhaled, eyes lifted to the artificial sun above, simulating daylight. No warmth radiated from it but there was some hopeful feeling, like it was the beginning of a new journey.

A soft metallic creak broke the silence.

The massive gate hissed open with mechanical grace, its sides lined with engraved sigils of the Founders. Two guards stepped in, clad in obsidian armor laced with violet trims. Their helmets covered parts of their face and mouth, leaving a gap where the eyes were. They moved with synchronicity as they accompanied a man.

“Didn’t think I’d find you awake already,” came a voice.

Michael looked up.

Standing between the guards was Arlon—his brother, his white coat flaring behind him slightly from his stride. The guards saluted as the gates slowly slid shut behind them. Arlon whispered something to one of them, who jogged ahead of them. Arlon then walked toward Michael and without a word, wrapped him in a brotherly embrace, patting his back firmly.

Michael winced slightly. “Watch the ribs.”

Arlon grinned, stepping back. “Didn’t expect you to be out here brooding. Why’d you sneak off?”

“I didn’t sneak off,” Michael muttered, grabbing the folded shirt beside him and tossing it over his shoulder. “Just… needed space.”

Arlon studied him. “Is Dad awake?”

“Don't know, but Mom is.”

Arlon’s smile twitched into a wince. “Uh-oh.”

Michael chuckled. “Why do you think I’m not inside?”

The two exchanged a glance, the kind only siblings could read. They walked side by side through the inner gardens of the Dome’s eastern zone, a path only a few were permitted to walk freely.

The Founders House loomed ahead—grander than any other structure in the Dome. Thanks to the Azulon family’s ability to manipulate space, it was a masterpiece of dimensional architecture. The sleek exterior shimmered with a subtle lavender hue, reflective of the family’s crest. The structure could expand or contract on command, adapting to the family’s needs. The outer walls were made of the same translucent alloy used in the Dome itself—unbreakable, self-healing, and laced with sentient energy lines that glowed faintly with life.

Only seven families lived in the Founders House, and each home reflected its inhabitants. Massive crests were etched into the walls near the gates—symbols of heritage and legacy. Of those seven, four were deeper in, secured more tightly. The Griffin household—Michael and Arlon’s family—was one of those.

As they approached the Griffins’ quarters, two guards at the pillars snapped into motion. They strode ahead silently, forming a flanking escort. Michael rolled his eyes. These were scouts—part of Arlon’s routine protection detail. As the next in line to become the Founder’s Head, Arlon’s safety was paramount. Michael, fortunately as the second son, didn’t receive such treatment.

If he had, he and Jace would never have gotten away with half the trouble they used to when they were younger.

Silver tiles stretched into a staircase, cascading like a waterfall toward the entrance archway. Bioluminescent vines of silverwood curled up the frames, glowing faintly like stars trapped in branches. They shimmered with a pulse, as if alive.

The doors opened before they could knock.

Janet Griffin stood tall in the archway, arms crossed. She wore a white silk robe, laced with ivory trim. Her long auburn braid rested gracefully on one shoulder, and her presence carried the grace of nobility with the sharpness of a blade.

“You’re both late,” she said.

Michael and Arlon froze mid-step like children caught sneaking in.

“Morning, Mom,” they said in unison.

She stepped aside, letting them in. The interior was pristine. White floors reflected intricate floating sigils of their family crest- the Eagle. Massive windows curved outward, giving a panoramic view of the Dome skyline. Light bounced across every surface.

She had spent the morning as always, polishing it herself. Despite the house having citizens from the Regens House assigned to cleaning duties, Janet never left it to them.

“Is Dad in the office?” Arlon asked, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.

“Yes,” she said. “But he’s with a guest. Don’t disturb him until he’s done. Now...help me set the dining table.”

“Yeah, Mom, we got you,” Arlon replied, smacking Michael playfully on the back of the head.

“Ow! You set the table,” Michael shot back.

“Nope. You’re the spare son.”

They bickered all the way into the kitchen. They were careful removing the plates and utensils from the drawers. A recent accident led to them cleaning the room for a whole day.

A few minutes passed.

A thud echoed from the spiral staircase near the back of the sitting room —one that descended deep below the surface.

Their father emerged.

Axel Griffin was dressed in pristine white robes embroidered with their Eagle crest, his presence silent but commanding.

His eyes scanned the room briefly, calculating and exact.

Behind him followed a man in a gray coat, adjusting his spectacles and rebuttoning his jacket with absent-minded grace.

Alaric Jamerson.

Michael’s eyes lit up.

“Mikey!” Alaric called out, smiling. “How are you?”

Michael smiled, walking over and clasping the man’s hand firmly. “I’m great, Mr. Jamerson.”

Their handshake clapped with weight and warmth. Michael caught his father’s expression—stern and unreadable—as Axel moved toward the dining table.

Alaric turned to Arlon, hands in his pockets.

“And how are you, Arlon?” he asked casually.

Arlon gave a small nod. “Fine, Alaric.”

Janet approached, her gaze flicking between the three of them. “Alaric, will you be joining us for breakfast?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Janet replied, motioning for him to sit.

As they gathered around the polished silverwood table, Michael leaned slightly toward Arlon and whispered, “Did you know he was coming?”

Arlon shook his head. “He’s usually in the Archives.”

Michael frowned slightly. Something about Alaric’s presence didn’t sit right, though not in a bad way. Just… unusual.

Axel took his seat at the head of the table, folding his fingers.

“Let’s begin,” he said.