The Abduction of Stacean Lucius Star Map Draftsman II: Fate of the Galaxy

Ever since Dawn Lucius and Sandra set foot on this nameless planet, he had not uttered a single word. His most frequent gesture was to reach up now and then, pressing his fingers against the Star Source embedded in his arm, a flicker of ferocity flashing in his eyes each time.

Dawn had been in the middle of his first Star Map Draftsman mission. He had marked the coordinates of a newborn star—round and rich, like a truffle chocolate—and deployed the explosive device. He was hovering on the verge of hitting the detonation switch when a message pinged through his comms. The first line was cordial enough, carrying no hint of malice. But what followed was not a greeting—it was a video of Stacean Lucius.

Stacean’s hands were bound tightly behind his back, his body suspended in a dilapidated room. The wounds on his face had long since dried, crusted with dark blood. The left side of his body was seared by fire; beneath the tattered, charred fabric of his shirt, his skin was a mottled black. Half the hair on the left side of his head was burned away, and the missing chunk of his ear told a grim tale—he had been captured in the aftermath of an explosion.

Sandra had tracked Stacean’s starship trajectory. The vessel that Madam Winifred had provided him had departed Visadio Planet, but it had never entered the Star Bridge. Instead, it had detonated in high orbit. It was clear, then—Stacean had been seized at the moment of the blast.

Dawn and Sandra had pored over the possibilities for hours. The Strath people had no motive to abduct Stacean Lucius. Carlson and Burt had already secured access to the Ashton Federation Library, and Madam Winifred had promised to build them a new starship. Their goals had been fulfilled.

As for Madam Winifred herself—she had neither reason nor incentive to take Stacean captive. If she had wanted to keep him confined, she never would have let him leave Visadio Planet in the first place. At the end of the war, no one could have stopped her from detaining him.

When all was said and done, there was only one person with both the motive and the means to kidnap Stacean Lucius—to lure Dawn to this desolate rock and force him to submit to an analysis of the Star Source.

Jonathan.

The planet was small—a mere satellite orbiting a gas giant, devoid of any exploitable natural resources. Sunlight rarely graced its surface; the silver-gray sky was only occasionally pierced by the distant glow of the system’s star, which was otherwise perpetually eclipsed by the massive bulk of the parent planet. Most of the satellite’s terrain was uncharted wilderness, a place no sane traveler would willingly venture.

The only exception was a ramshackle inn situated on a frozen tundra plain—a one-stop den of vice where one could hire a hitman to eliminate a rival for a pittance. The souls hiding here were either fugitives from the law or prisoners of their own minds. The latter were far more terrifying: consumed by their obsessions, yet too cowardly to break free from the tiny cages of their own making, too afraid to take a single step to alter their fates.

Dawn and Sandra scanned the room. Save for a sharply dressed man huddled in a corner, every patron fit the latter description. Dawn’s gaze lingered on the stranger: his hair was white as snow, his eyebrows neatly trimmed, and his piercing eyes clashed jarringly with the faint smile playing on his lips. A thin scar, or perhaps the faint mark of an old surgical incision, curved along his jawline. Flanking him were three bodyguards—pale, gaunt men who looked as if they had not eaten a proper meal in weeks. Dawn knew without a doubt that he could take all three of them in a fight, if it came to that.

“Your arm,” the white-haired man said, his voice calm and deliberate. Dawn and Sandra, having exchanged a final, silent glance, had taken the initiative to sit down at his table. The three bodyguards immediately stepped behind their employer, their hands drifting instinctively to the blasters holstered at their waists.

“Here?” Dawn asked, feigning confusion.

“Is there a problem?” the man replied, his smile never wavering as he locked eyes with Dawn.

“So many witnesses,” Dawn murmured, his gaze sweeping across the other tables before coming to rest on the short woman behind the bar, who was furiously mopping up a spilled drink.

“What danger could they possibly pose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Enough.” The man nodded at Dawn’s arm, making a gesture to roll up his sleeve. “Your arm.”

Dawn attempted to roll up his sleeve, but the fabric was too tight to fully expose the Star Source. With a sharp tug, he stripped off half his shirt, baring the device embedded in his bicep.

The white-haired man leaned forward for a closer look. He retrieved a small case from beneath the table, placing it gently on the surface. He opened it slowly, withdrawing a sleek scanning instrument. He passed it over Dawn’s arm in a single, smooth motion. After reviewing the data displayed on the device’s screen, he nodded in satisfaction, tucking it back into the case. He snapped the lid shut, running his hands over the surface as if savoring the moment. Then he held up four fingers, tapping them lightly against the case. He exchanged a quick glance with his bodyguards before rising to his feet, preparing to leave.

“Where is my son?” Dawn slammed his fist down on the table, standing up so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. His voice was a low, dangerous snarl.

The white-haired man froze mid-step. He glanced down at his shoes, then turned back, his smile still intact. “I do not know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dawn roared, flipping the table over with a single, violent heave. He lunged toward the man, but before the three bodyguards could so much as draw their weapons, Sandra had her dual blasters raised, their barrels trained directly on the men’s chests.

“Don’t move,” Sandra shouted, her gaze flicking between the three men as she shifted her aim from one face to the next.

The smile vanished from the white-haired man’s lips. He paused for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully before meeting Dawn’s eyes. “I am a middleman. I was sent here to find this.” He pointed at Dawn’s arm. “To scan this data, to deliver this case back to my employer. That is the extent of my mission. I know nothing else. I ask nothing else.”

“How could you not know?” Sandra demanded, her voice sharp with rage.

“Why would I want to know?” the man countered with a cold, humorless laugh.

“Cut the crap. Where is he?” Sandra took a step forward, the muzzles of her blasters now inches from the man’s face.

“You see,” the man said, his gaze sweeping across the room. The other patrons remained motionless, their faces impassive—unfazed by the tense standoff unfolding before them. Or perhaps, Dawn thought, they were waiting for a shootout. He sat back down slowly, gesturing for Sandra to lower her weapons. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting to the three bodyguards, before moving to stand behind Dawn, her blasters still trained on the men.

“Their target is the Star Source, not a war,” Dawn said quietly. “So there’s no need to panic.”

The white-haired man sat back down as well, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving Dawn’s face. “Your gun is useless against me, my dear. I will leave here today, safe and sound. If I fail to complete my mission, two things will happen. First, your friend will suffer. My employer will not hesitate to harm your… son, was it? Second, they will come for you again. Or they will repeat their tactic—snatching someone you care about, sending another middleman to scan this data. Eventually, they will get what they want. One way or another.” He fixed Sandra with a steady gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Put the guns down, Sandra,” Dawn said quietly. He sat back down, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. Sandra hesitated for a moment, glancing at the three bodyguards, before moving to stand behind Dawn—though she did not lower her weapons.

“They have my son,” Dawn said, placing his right hand on the splintered remains of the table. He tapped his finger against the wood repeatedly, then curled his hand into a fist. When he flipped his palm upward and splayed his fingers, a ball of swirling purple energy coalesced in his grasp. He stared at it for a long moment, then met the white-haired man’s eyes. “This is what they want—to harness dark matter, to seize power. But I don’t care about any of that. I just want my son back. You’re a middleman—tell me who your employer is.” His voice was laced with barely contained fury.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding here,” the white-haired man said, his eyes fixed on Dawn’s hand even after the purple energy had vanished. Dawn’s clenched fist seemed to unnerve him, like a ticking time bomb. His tone softened, taking on a conciliatory note. “We only receive orders. We follow instructions. We never ask who sent them, or who we are dealing with. That includes…” He nodded at Dawn’s arm, letting the sentence trail off.

Dawn understood perfectly.

“Then tell me—how does a middleman receive their orders?”

“I wish I could help you,” the man said, offering a tentative smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He swallowed hard, cutting the sentence short. “But there is an unspoken rule in this business. We do not discuss our methods with outsiders.”

“Fine. Let me rephrase the question. Where are you going next?”

“To make the delivery,” the man said, tapping the case lightly.

“Where?”

“Ah.” The white-haired man seemed to catch on, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Planet Gorov.”

At the sound of the name, Dawn turned to exchange a quick glance with Sandra. She nodded almost imperceptibly. Dawn turned back to the man, his lips parting as if he were about to say something more—but in the end, he said nothing. He mimed the action of slamming his fist on the table one last time, then stood up and strode out of the inn without looking back.

“Dawn—he was telling the truth,” Sandra said as they walked toward the shuttle craft, their boots crunching on the frozen tundra.

“Do you think it was Jonathan?” Dawn asked, his voice heavy with doubt.

“It doesn’t fit his style,” Sandra replied.

“Why do you say that?”

“He prefers to work alone. He would never delegate something like this to a middleman. Besides—think about it. Using a third party to extract data like this… that’s the modus operandi of a merchant, not a federal official.”

“Any word from your brother?”

“Nothing yet. He’s sent out every available man to search. The ship holding Stacean looks old—too old to have traveled far. He was attacked near Visadio Planet, so they’re combing through every vessel in the surrounding systems.”

Dawn nodded, his gaze fixed on the shuttle’s hull. “What’s on Planet Gorov?”

“Everything,” Sandra said. “The brightest scientists, the wealthiest merchants, mercenaries, outlaws, disgraced politicians… and,” she added, a note of realization creeping into her voice, “how could I forget? The Defenders’ Alliance. This might have something to do with them.”

Sandra went on to explain. In the early days of the Star Map Draftsman project, scientists from across the galaxy had flocked to participate. But among them was a faction of radicals who called themselves the Defenders’ Alliance.

The original goal of the project, shared by scientists from all major federations, had been to execute Datheon’s plan—to use the Star Map Draftsman to destroy newborn stars, thereby reducing the production of dark matter. This, they believed, would slow the impending collision between the Galaxy and the Magellanic Clouds, buying civilizations precious time to find a permanent solution. Perhaps, in that interval, the Datheon would uncover a way to prevent the collision entirely.

But the radical Defenders saw things differently. They argued that the creation of dark matter was inevitable. Over time, the collision between the galaxies would not slow—it would accelerate. To illustrate their point, they drew a simple analogy: the Galaxy was like a massive star, and the Magellanic Clouds like a planet orbiting it. As long as they remained within a safe gravitational threshold, all would be well. But once that threshold was crossed, the Magellanic Clouds would hurtle toward the Galaxy at an ever-increasing speed—not a constant one.

“Their theory is sound, technically,” Sandra conceded with a nod.

“Theoretically, yes,” Dawn agreed, turning to look at her.

“At first, the major federations were willing to listen to them. But the solution these radicals proposed came at a terrible cost.”

“What cost?” Dawn asked, frowning.

“They believed the Star Map Draftsman project was nothing more than a sedative—a temporary fix that would lull the galaxy into a false sense of security. When the effects wore off, the reckoning would be far more devastating. Their solution? Reject the sedative entirely. Rip off the bandage, endure the pain, and embrace a new beginning. In short—they wanted to accelerate the collision between the Magellanic Clouds and the Galaxy. Let the old galaxies be destroyed, they argued, so that new ones could rise from the ashes.”

“Accelerate the collision?” Dawn echoed, his voice rising in shock.

“Yes. Their first step was to sabotage the Star Map Draftsman project. They rallied dozens of planets to refuse to support the initiative. They spread conspiracy theories, claiming that the federations’ scientists were hiding the truth from the public. Extreme splinter groups began attacking researchers—abductions and senseless killings became commonplace. The federations deployed military forces to suppress them, but their efforts were in vain. The Defenders had transformed into a cult, fueled by fanatical believers who were willing to die for their cause.”

“Military forces are never good at quelling this kind of unpredictable unrest,” Dawn mused.

“Exactly. Back then, planets would declare war on each other for no apparent reason, then form alliances just as suddenly. Anyone who did not openly declare their support for the Defenders was branded a reactionary and targeted. It was chaos. Utter chaos.”

“What happened to them in the end?”

“Well… the official story is that one day, the Defenders simply went silent. They withdrew from all federal organizations and vanished without a trace.”

“Vanished?”

“Yes. It was a period of time that came to be known as the Great Silence—a void where the Defenders had once been. As if they had never existed at all.”

“And they never resurfaced?”

“Oh, they did. Roughly four hundred and fifty years after the Great Silence, the Defenders’ Alliance reappeared. They had predicted the exact side of the Galaxy where the collision with the Magellanic Clouds would first occur. And on the opposite side of the galaxy, they established the New Home Front—a vast network of uncolonized star systems linked together under their banner. Wealthy merchants flocked to join them, eager to invest in the new frontier. Planet Gorov was the very first outpost of the New Home Front.”

“No one paid them any mind?”

“Why would they? Even with the New Home Front, the star systems within it still belonged to their respective federations. The Defenders honored all trade agreements and federal laws. As far as the major federations were concerned, as long as the Defenders remained loyal to their authority, they could form whatever alliances they pleased. It was far easier to let them govern themselves.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Dawn said, thinking of the ancient Roman emperors who had granted autonomy to their provincial governors, allowing them to rule their territories as they saw fit.

“I just sent a message to my brother. We’re heading to Planet Gorov. He’ll keep searching for Stacean. Try not to worry.”

“I just… I can’t help it.”

“They want the Star Source, not a fight. So there’s no need to panic.”

“Right.”

With that, the two of them boarded the shuttle. The engine roared to life, its thunderous growl echoing across the desolate satellite’s surface. Once they broke through the atmosphere, they were gone—forgotten by the planet, just as countless travelers before them had been. To this frozen rock, their arrival and departure were no more significant than a sparrow pausing to peck at a dry pond in a winter park before vanishing back into the cold.

The shuttle glided nimbly through the void of space. Dawn had often wondered if the technology behind the Star Map Draftsman was truly as exclusive as it was made out to be. Was it only operable by those bonded to a Star Source? If dark matter was just another form of matter, why couldn’t it be collected and harnessed for other purposes? As they journeyed toward Planet Gorov, his mind was filled not only with worry for Stacean, but with a growing number of questions.

Whoever had told Jonathan about Planet Gorov had clearly painted a misleading picture. For when his starship emerged from hyperspace, what greeted him was not a single planet—but a nebula housing six ancient stars. At the heart of the mature nebula, a small region glowed with a warm orange light. The rest of the nebula was a swirling tapestry of gray and black—not the empty darkness of space, but the dense, opaque hue of a cloud that had absorbed and accumulated vast amounts of cosmic material. These materials, Jonathan knew, were the raw ingredients from which life would eventually spring.

If one looked closely, the light emanating from one of the stars was almost pure white—a sign of its extreme temperature. And the data card that Sakya had given him, with its embedded navigation coordinates, pointed directly to a single planet orbiting that very star—the hottest one in the nebula.

As Jonathan’s starship entered the planet’s orbit, he observed that its outermost atmosphere glowed a pale yellow, while the layers below shimmered with a deep, vivid blue. A quick scan of the atmospheric composition revealed that the young planet’s air was dominated by toxic sulfur compounds—unbreathable to humans and hostile to plant life. But as his vessel descended lower, a colossal structure rose up to greet him, piercing the sky like a monolith.

From the front, the city resembled a massive sailing ship, seemingly on the verge of docking. The base of the structure, where it met the planet’s surface, was bathed in a soft blue light. Countless spire-like buildings jutted upward, clustered around a towering central skyscraper. Six glowing yellow lights lined the length of the skyscraper’s facade, like the eyes of a giant. In front of the main building floated a large, luminous sphere—whether it was an activated energy core or merely an ornamental feature, Jonathan could not tell.

Radiating outward from this sphere was a wide boulevard, which grew broader as it stretched toward the horizon. Lining the boulevard were rows of smaller buildings, spaced at regular intervals. Some were tall and leaning, reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa; others were low and stilted, evoking the traditional stilt houses of ancient China. These structures seemed to have been built haphazardly over time, without any grand architectural plan—growing organically with the city’s expansion. When Jonathan’s landing craft finally touched down at the docking bay, he caught a glimpse of even more massive structures looming in the distance, beyond the main city.

“Elder, I was sent here by Professor Sakya,” Jonathan said, bowing respectfully to the elderly man seated at the head of a long table. After asking around for directions, he had found his way to this stilt house—a quaint, old-fashioned structure nestled among the city’s modern spires. The ground-floor hall was crowded with more than a dozen people, all of whom had turned to stare at him as he entered.

The room was maintained at a comfortable, constant temperature by a self-circulating climate control system. Most of the people present were elderly, their bodies no longer able to generate enough heat to keep warm on their own, so the heating was turned up high. Within minutes of entering, Jonathan could feel beads of sweat trickling down his neck, his back burning as if a fire had been lit beneath his shirt.

Lined up against the back wall was a row of humanoid robots, all dressed in identical uniforms and wearing identical, expressionless faces. There were both male and female models, but they appeared to be nothing more than decorative statues—lifeless and inert. Civilizations at this level of technological advancement shunned the use of robots for manual labor and avoided the widespread adoption of artificial intelligence. History had taught them a brutal lesson: once, a great civilization had been wiped out by its own AI creations. Humans could pause, reflect, reconsider their actions—but AI could not. It would continue to calculate, to simulate, to make decisions without hesitation—even if those decisions spelled doom for the very beings that had created it.

In the center of the room stood a large sand table, upon which a holographic projection displayed a map of all the known galaxies in the universe. The galaxies floated in a pool of pale yellow light, drifting slowly like leaves on water. If one looked closely, certain stars within the galaxies were marked with red or green tags. Jonathan scanned the room, offering a polite smile to the assembled crowd—though he could not help but feel a twinge of guilt for interrupting what was clearly an important meeting.

“I have been expecting you,” the elderly man said, waving a hand to signal Jonathan to take a seat. He glanced around at the others before continuing. “Let us resume our discussion. The young man may listen in. This concerns him as much as it concerns us.” He nodded at Jonathan.

“I believe this phenomenon—this dark matter fluctuation—is not man-made,” a short-haired man said, leaning forward eagerly. “The universe is vast beyond comprehension. No civilization, no matter how advanced, could possibly manipulate dark matter on such a scale—to cause it to disappear on a universal level. And where is it going? Where does all the vanishing dark matter end up?”

“The key questions are these: What is its purpose? And where has it gone?” an elderly woman interjected, her eyes fixed on the sand table. She stabbed a finger at the holographic galaxies, then turned to look at the elderly man. “The universe is so vast. We do not even know how it came into existence. And yet, here we are—our knowledge and our civilization evolving to this point. Is it not logical to assume that there were advanced civilizations in the universe long before us? This is not a question—it is a fact. Beyond all doubt. Dark matter, as we currently understand it, is like water—it provides a medium, a ‘container’ in which galaxies can move and exist. We know that an increase in dark matter will accelerate the collision between the galaxies. But what we do not know—what we have never considered—is what will happen if dark matter decreases? What are the consequences?”

“Well…” the short-haired man began, leaning forward even further.

“Let us stop debating whether this is man-made or not,” the woman snapped, cutting him off. She was growing increasingly agitated; her thin lips had turned pale, and a flush of color had risen to her gaunt cheeks, lending her face a rare spark of vitality. She took a deep breath before continuing. “We need to focus on three things: First, what is the function of dark matter? Second, what are the dangers of its depletion? And only then can we hope to answer the third question: Who or what is causing it to disappear?”

When she finished speaking, the room fell silent. No one offered a rebuttal. She glanced around at the assembled faces, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head at the elderly man.

“Mr. Pepson,” a young man seated across from Jonathan said, nodding respectfully at the elderly man. He began his speech with a series of formal greetings, then proceeded to summarize all the points that had been raised so far—praising each speaker’s contribution in turn. His young face was free of the impetuosity of youth, replaced instead by a sharp, calculating pragmatism. A quiet confidence burned in his eyes, evident in the way his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, shaped like the tail fin of a starship. Finally, he tapped a control panel in his hand, projecting a new set of data onto the sand table. “My conclusion is this: The disappearance of dark matter indicates that someone needs it. And whoever is manipulating it has already assessed the consequences for our universe. Either their actions will have no effect at all… or they simply do not care about our survival.”

The room erupted into murmurs the moment he finished speaking.

“Let him finish,” the elderly man—Mr. Pepson—said, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

“I am an optimist by nature,” the young man continued, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the chatter. “But I fear the latter is more likely. They do not care about us. Therefore, we must begin researching how to survive the impending disaster.” He pressed another button, and the colored tags marking the stars vanished from the sand table, leaving only the galaxies themselves—and the streams of yellow light flowing between them. “This is my conclusion.” He sat back down, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

What followed was an endless debate. Those who were afraid of change clung to the belief that the dark matter fluctuation was a natural phenomenon—a cosmic self-renewal process, akin to the constant regeneration of cells in a human body. The only difference, they argued, was the scale: the universe was so vast that its cycles of renewal spanned eons, making them invisible to human observation until now.

But those who were ambitious, those who saw the crisis as an opportunity to seize power, insisted that the change was man-made—and that opportunity lay in chaos. They argued passionately for the establishment of a new research team, dedicated to studying the dark matter flow. Or, in the young man’s words, to help life find a new sanctuary.

Listening to the debate unfold, Jonathan finally understood: the Defenders’ Alliance had been monitoring the dark matter depletion all along. The leader of this scientific team was the stern-faced elderly man—Mr. Pepson. He was a master politician, Jonathan realized. His constant wavering between the two sides was not indecision—it was a deliberate strategy to avoid alienating anyone. In the end, he would let the council vote on the matter. Whichever side won, he would emerge unscathed.

When the vote was finally taken, the young man’s faction emerged victorious. They did not celebrate openly in the council chamber, but Jonathan could feel the quiet excitement radiating from them—like a fire smoldering beneath the surface.

“Young man—did you find what you were looking for?” Mr. Pepson asked, once the meeting had adjourned and the others had risen to their feet, gathering in small groups to discuss the outcome. He and Jonathan were left alone at the table.

“Thank you, Elder,” Jonathan said, offering a shy smile. He still was not entirely sure what Mr. Pepson meant by “what you were looking for.” “Your research into dark matter is truly groundbreaking. It is fascinating.”

Mr. Pepson’s face remained stern and impassive. He raised his left hand, staring at the veins on the back of it—pale and dull, snaking beneath his wrinkled skin like vines heavy with unspoken secrets. He curled his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them, pressing his right thumb against the veins repeatedly. He spoke without looking up. “We do not take White Crystal, you know. So we do not enjoy eternal life.”

“White Crystal?” Jonathan’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be that the Defenders’ Alliance was also seeking to refine White Crystal?

“We have no desire to take it, either,” Mr. Pepson continued, as if reading his mind. “When we chose to form this alliance, we made a vow to reject such temptations. But White Crystal has brought nothing but trouble upon us. There are always those who cannot resist the allure of immortality. It has slowed our progress, delayed our plans.”

“Elder—what plans has White Crystal delayed?”

“That, I am afraid, is not for me to disclose,” Mr. Pepson said, waving a hand dismissively. “But tell me—did Sakya send you here merely to listen to our discussion about dark matter? Did he mention anything else?”

“No, he did not,” Jonathan replied, shaking his head.

“He has spent his entire life searching for the edge of the universe. We are searching for it too, in our own way. We have always believed that something extraordinary is happening to our universe. Once, we focused solely on the immediate threat—the Magellanic Clouds. But as time has passed, we have begun to wonder if we have been looking in the wrong direction all along.”

“I am afraid I cannot hope to understand your wisdom, Elder,” Jonathan said. “Professor Sakya’s quest seems more like an obsession to me. A futile one, perhaps.”

“And what of your obsession?” Mr. Pepson countered, finally lifting his eyes to meet Jonathan’s.

Jonathan found the question tedious. He had never cared for lectures or moralizing, but he saw no need to show his disdain. He smiled politely. “Elder, we were truly unaware of the dark matter depletion until now. But I share the young man’s views.” He nodded in the direction of the young man, who was still deep in conversation with a group of his supporters. “I believe we need to determine if there is a potential threat. And whether there is or not, we must have a contingency plan in place. After all…” He trailed off, originally intending to mention the billions of lives in the Moreth Federation—but decided it was irrelevant.

The elderly man smiled, clapping his hands together once. He pushed himself up from the table, turning to call out to the young man. “Ailven!” At the sound of his name, the young man excused himself from his group and strode over to them quickly.

“You two have much to discuss,” Mr. Pepson said, gesturing between Jonathan and Ailven. With that, he turned and walked out of the hall, followed by the rest of the council members. Within minutes, only Jonathan and Ailven remained.