CHAPTER NINETEEN

The night air was thick with the scent of iron and oil, the hum of distant machinery a constant, grinding reminder of Aether's relentless progress. Ivan walked the streets alone, his footsteps echoing against the cobblestones as he made his way back to the Rozzlyn estate. The meeting with Liora Erasmus had left his mind reeling, her words echoing in his head like a haunting refrain. The world won't wait for you. The envelope she had given him felt heavy in his pocket, a tangible symbol of the choice he had yet to make.

As he walked, Ivan's gaze swept over the city around him, his observations sharp and unflinching. The streets were alive with activity, even at this late hour. Aethan citizens moved with their usual precision, their pale faces expressionless, their movements mechanical. They were a sea of blue and silver, their Voluran staffs held like scepters of unquestioned authority. Ivan had grown up among them, had been taught to emulate their cold efficiency, but now he saw them for what they truly were: hollow, lifeless, devoid of anything resembling warmth or humanity.

A group of Aethan elites stood on a corner, their voices carrying over the hum of the city. They were laughing, their laughter sharp and condescending, as they discussed the latest developments in Millinggarde. Ivan slowed his pace, his ears catching snippets of their conversation.

"Did you hear about the latest shipment of phildrons?" one of them said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "The Millinggardans are finally pulling their weight. It's about time they contributed something useful."

"Useful?" another scoffed. "They're barely capable of that. If it weren't for Aether's guidance, they'd still be wallowing in their own filth."

Ivan's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The arrogance in their voices was palpable, their disdain for Millinggarde and its people a reflection of everything he had come to hate about Aether. They spoke of Millinggarde as if it were nothing more than a resource to be exploited, its people mere tools for Aether's prosperity. And yet, they were blind to the irony of their words. Aether's prosperity—its very existence—was built on the backs of Millinggardans, on their ingenuity, their suffering, their stolen resources.

He quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and their toxic rhetoric, but the sound of their laughter followed him, a bitter reminder of the society he had been born into. As he walked, his mind drifted back to the Erasmus estate, to Liora's sharp gray eyes and her quiet, unyielding resolve. She had seen something in him, something he wasn't sure he even saw in himself. Potential, she had called it. But potential for what? To challenge Aether? To fight for a better future? Or to simply become another cog in the machine, another pawn in a game he didn't want to play?

The sound of a phildron drill reached his ears, a low, rhythmic thrum that seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath his feet. Ivan stopped, his gaze drawn to the source of the sound. In the distance, he could see the towering structure of a phildron refinery, its iron walls gleaming under the pale moonlight. The drill was a monstrous thing, its massive arm plunging into the earth with relentless precision, extracting the precious mana-rich crystals that fueled Aether's magic and industry.

Ivan's chest tightened as he watched the drill at work, his mind racing with thoughts of Millinggarde. The phildrons were Millinggarde's greatest resource, buried deep beneath its soil, a gift from the land that had sustained its people for generations. But now, they were being ripped from the earth, their energy siphoned away to fuel Aether's insatiable greed. The irony was not lost on him. Aether's prosperity—its technological advancements, its magical innovations, its very dominance—was built on the suffering of Millinggarde. And yet, the Aethans saw themselves as superior, as the rightful rulers of a world they had done nothing to earn.

The sound of the drill grew louder, a relentless, grinding noise that seemed to echo in Ivan's skull. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but the sound only grew more oppressive, a constant reminder of the injustice he had been complicit in. His father's face flashed in his mind, cold and unyielding, his bottle-green eyes filled with the same arrogance Ivan had seen in the Aethan elites. Brent Rozzlyn was the architect of Millinggarde's downfall, the man who had turned a thriving nation into a machine of servitude. And Ivan was his son, the heir to a legacy built on exploitation and oppression.

A wave of anger surged through him, hot and unrelenting. He hated his father. He hated Aether. He hated the society that had raised him, that had taught him to see the world through the lens of cold, unfeeling logic. But most of all, he hated himself—for his complacency, for his silence, for his inability to act.

"Is this what you wanted?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of the drill. "To turn the world into a machine, to strip it of everything that makes it alive?"

The words hung in the air, unanswered. Ivan opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the city around him. The streets were still bustling with activity, the Aethans moving with their usual precision, their faces expressionless, their eyes dull and insincere. They were a society of cogs, each one playing its part in the grand machine, blind to the cracks forming beneath their feet.

But Ivan could see the cracks. He could see the resentment simmering beneath the surface, the growing unrest in Millinggarde, the whispers of rebellion that echoed in the shadows. And he could see his own reflection in the polished steel walls of the buildings around him—a young man standing at the crossroads, torn between the world he had been born into and the world he wanted to create.

The sound of the drill faded as he continued walking, but the weight of his thoughts remained, pressing down on him like a physical force. He thought of Fent, of his quiet defiance, of the way he carried himself with a sense of purpose that Ivan envied. Fent had chosen his side, had aligned himself with the resistance, with the people who were fighting for a better future. And Ivan? Ivan was still hesitating, still clinging to the safety of the life he had always known.

But safety was an illusion. The world was changing, and if Ivan didn't act soon, he would be left behind. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the envelope Liora had given him. The address inside was a lifeline, a chance to take the first step toward something greater. But it was also a risk, a leap into the unknown.

As he approached the Rozzlyn estate, the weight of his thoughts grew heavier, the anger and frustration boiling inside him until he felt like he might burst. He stopped at the gates, his gaze sweeping over the cold, lifeless structure that had been his home for as long as he could remember. It was a monument to Aether's vision of supremacy, a place where warmth and humanity had no place. And Ivan? Ivan was a part of it, whether he wanted to be or not.

But not for long.

He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would meet Skyla Mellow. He would hear what she had to say. And then, he would choose. Not for his father. Not for Aether. But for himself. For the future he wanted to see.