Oblivion's Throne

Orion sat in the Analytic Chamber, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the glass table before him. The room was sterile, bathed in soft white light that pulsed faintly from the walls. The holo-displays flickered, casting ghostly blue reflections across the polished surfaces, their data scrolling too fast for the eye to follow.

Across from him, Valeria and Marek stood side by side, their postures rigid. The central projection, an array of genetic sequences, shifting figures, and pulsating anomalous markers.

Marek finally broke the silence, his voice clinical. "This is the threshold." He extended a hand, tapping a specific point in the projection, which expanded under his command. The numbers sharpened into clarity. "Every subject after this point exhibited either fatal instability or complete rejection of the Infusion Phase." He swiped again. The data reconfigured, showing a stark contrast. "I think it's safe to assume that each human have a Genetic Threshold." He trailed off, letting the implication linger in the air.

Valeria folded her arms, her gaze unreadable as she studied the display. "This is no longer just an experiment," she said, her tone measured, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper—certainty, perhaps.

Orion straightened. "Why is that?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

She turned to him, her blue eyes locking onto his. "The Confederacy has agreed to recognize the Pythea Trials as a formalized system—on one condition."

"They want the Academy involved. They will oversee the next phase in the academy.."

Orion stared at the projection, his stomach knotting. His fingers twitched against the glass as his mind turned over the implications.

Marek scoffed. "They presume dominion over it." His voice carried an undercurrent of mockery.

Orion's expression shifted as the pieces fell into place. "But wasn't this what Father wanted from the start?" he murmured, his voice tightening. His gaze hardened."

Marek's grin was sharp, predatory. "Now you understand."