In Malkiel, even the air tastes of judgment.

  Eunuchs line the path to the Sacral Enclosure, faces that mirror my fears, throats bearing the silver qilin of House Azure, wrists and necks marked with the dark stain of Nullification. Uncle Darius stands among them, the Mark stark against his pale skin, his platinum hair and pure Azure features a pointed contrast to my black hair and mixed blood. Each of them a warning. Each a prophecy of what failure means in this place where worthiness is measured in torqs or their absence.

  He failed the Veilstone once, years ago, and they sent him to the Crucible afterward, that brutal forge where boys are hammered into armigers or broken entirely, given a second chance to prove worth through blood and discipline rather than birthright. He survived the training and even the Blood Trials, watching other boys fall beneath his blade, but in the final test, the Pyric Rite, something in him broke.

  They brought him back to House Azure carrying the Mark instead of a weapon.

  Three steps away, Cousin Matthias keeps his vigil, three summers since his own trial with the Veilstone, three summers since he joined these ranks of the severed.

  Cyra moves ahead, slipping into the shadows of the Sacral Enclosure, her steps smooth and unhesitating as she draws me past our fallen kin. Their muted robes ripple in the ethereal light. Distant. Serene. Uncle Darius catches my eye. Violet-gray meets violet-gray.

  A prophecy, perhaps. A warning.

  His gaze holds no judgment, no mercy, only that perfect, hollow serenity that House Azure demands of its servants.

  The walls twist at impossible angles, pulling in directions that logic cannot follow. Geometry built by something other than human hands. Cyra does not flinch. I do, if only inwardly.

  Each step fractures me further into what they call tripartition, the feeling of being split in three, three versions of myself grasping for control. The first whispers of duty and House Azure's expectations, the second echoes with my mother's Netniem blood and its urge for perfection, and the third speaks only of survival, raw and desperate, each one pulling me in different directions with equal certainty.

  I focus on Cyra's back, on her steady stride. She is my anchor in this shifting space.

  Memory pulls me back.

  Minutes ago. The Dularch-Temple.

  Cyra's fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting the incense. Smoke curled upward, a pale offering to our father's statue. Sweet myrrh and bitter herbs mingled with the temple's ancient air. Prayers turned to scent, memories to smoke. The vast chamber echoed with whispered chants, an endless tide of devotion.

  "In the shadows of creation, where dimensions collide,

  The Great Autarch beckons, with arms open wide..."

  Leocian Ragnos. His likeness towered above us, carved from pale stone. That piercing gaze. Eyes within eyes, pupils doubled in a way that made him seem to see through flesh and bone, into the marrow of our ambitions. The Codicil marked his forehead, intricate patterns etched into stone that I could never quite decipher, no matter how many times I studied them. The soft brush of ceremonial robes against stone mixed with the rhythmic prayers.

  "The Ingress, a refuge, a sanctuary of grace,

  For those who seek solace, in the Autarch's embrace..."

  I stood there, uncomfortable in my own skin, marked by my mother's Netniem blood in more than just my veins. My black hair, my darker skin, my very presence. Everything announces me as other. Despite my height, despite my name, I am nothing like him. A dark shadow against his magnificence.

  I squared my shoulders. Pretended at strength. Cyra saw through it. She always does.

  "The water will be cold tomorrow," she says, adjusting the incense holder. "Uncle says the Dularch-Temple keeps it at precisely forty-one degrees."

  "Precise."

  "Uncle is particular about these things. Tradition. Accuracy." She pauses. "I am told it helps. To know exactly what to expect."

  The chants continued their eternal cycle.

  "In the heart of the cosmos, the whispers of the divine,

  Echo through the ages, a beacon for those who pine..."

  "They shave your head in the Crucible." Cyra adjusts the incense holder, not meeting my eyes. "Did you know that?"

  My throat tightens. "I have heard."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Uncle Darius kept his head bald for years afterward. He said the feel of it mattered, somehow. A reminder." Her fingers still among the incense smoke. "Do you remember when you asked me to describe the First Baptism?"

  "Yes."

  "I told you about the descent. The roots in the water. The eyes." She turns, finally meeting my gaze. "I did not tell you about the hour before."

  I wait. She moves closer. Not touching, but near enough that I feel her warmth. A shield against our father's cold judgment. The chants continue, eternal, indifferent.

  "The Veilstone shows truth," she says quietly. "Not worth. Truth."

  "And if the truth is that I am not enough?"

  "Then you will have company."

  "As a eunuch," I say.

  The word hangs between us like smoke.

  "As survivors," Cyra corrects. "Whatever the Veilstone shows, whatever judgment falls, you are still my brother. That does not change with a torq or a blade or a mark."

  I want to believe her. Want to hold onto that certainty like she holds the incense.

  "We should go," I say, though I do not move.

  Neither does she.

  We stand in the temple's shadow, beneath our father's doubled gaze, while the faithful chant their endless prayers. The smoke rises. The light fractures across stone.

  The present snaps back into focus.

  Around us, the edges of the Sacral Enclosure press in, watching, judging. I swipe at my eye. No weakness allowed here. Not now.

  Grandmother Elethra emerges from shadow, silver hair cascading, her sharp face carved with wisdom and authority. Her robes absorb light, making the darkness deeper. Her eyes cut like blades.

  "You are late." Her voice cracks like stone against stone.

  Cyra meets her gaze. Unflinching. "We are here now, Grandmother. And we are going in."

  Something flickers across Grandmother's face. Surprise? Annoyance? It vanishes before I can name it. She shifts. Just enough to let us pass. Her judgment follows like a blade at our backs.

  The chamber opens wide. Cold stone beneath my feet. Light fractures across polished floors. My cousins wait, all six years old, drowning in oversized regalia.

  I stumble. A phantom force jerks my ankle, but there is something else, a flicker at the edge of my vision, a sense of déjà vu so strong it steals my breath. For half a heartbeat, I could swear I have lived this exact moment before, will live it again.

  No. Not now. Not here.

  I shove the sensation down into the Inner Hell, where all dangerous feelings go to die.

  Laughter echoes from across the chamber.

  My eyes find Talon and Enna, the golden twins of House Azure, their matching angular faces and pale golden hair a testament to pure bloodlines. Where Talon carries our grandfather's grace, Enna wields her semblance like a knife, each small torment a reminder of my place. Or rather, my lack of one.

  She smirks at me, another tug at my ankle, another show of her power and warning.

  Enna's semblance manifests through invisible threads only she can see. Powers like hers should not appear before the First Baptism, as they are gifts granted by Nenuphar's waters, drawn from the dimensional fabric of the Hells when a child earns their torq at age six. Each semblance is unique, rare even among those who successfully bond with the waters, and most who receive a torq never manifest any power at all.

  Yet Enna's ability bloomed two years ago, at age four, making her one of the rare few who manifest early. It has been happening more often since the Second Shattering. Children displaying powers they should not possess, abilities flowering before they ever touch Nenuphar's depths.

  The Exarchs call it a blessing. Mother calls it a symptom, though she will not say of what. Enna uses her threads to puppet flesh like a master controls marionettes, and she wields this unearned power with the casual cruelty of someone who has never known limitation.

  Sometimes, I wonder if the visions that plague me are my own early manifestation, the future bleeding into the present, time folding back on itself like Malkiel's impossible geometry. But that thought is dangerous. Hope is dangerous. Mother says I imagine things, that Netniem blood carries dreams as vivid as prophecy but just as false. Easier to believe I am broken than to believe I am blessed with something no one else can see.

  I cannot afford to hope. Hope makes failure hurt worse.

  Cyra stands with the Chatelaines now. Their hushed voices carry across stone. Chatelaine Kassandra's auburn hair does nothing to soften the burning hatred in her gaze, a mother's fury directed at me, though I cannot remember why. Each time her eyes find mine, something dark and painful stirs in the locked corners of my mind.

  They watch. They wait. They wonder if I will fail.

  I will not.

  The Veilstone waits on its pedestal. Dark as a starless sky.

  It is the final test before the First Baptism, a relic from the First Shattering that peers into the soul's deepest truths. Tomorrow we will descend into Nenuphar's waters to earn our torqs, but today the Veilstone judges whether we are even worthy of that chance. Those who fail its scrutiny are turned away, deemed too weak, too corrupted, too dangerous to risk bonding with the Hells' power.

  High-Exarch Oshen stands beside it, masked and terrible. The hollowed eyes of his mask seem to hold the Autarch's judgment, ancient and absolute. His presence turns the air heavy with ceremonial weight, each movement deliberate as though the Autarch himself watches through those dark sockets.

  His staff strikes stone. "Talon of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone."

  My cousin moves with practiced grace, every step precise, as though he has rehearsed this moment a thousand times. His pale golden hair catches the light as he approaches the stone. No hesitation. No fear. Pure Azure blood flows through his veins, unmarred by foreign weakness.

  His palm meets the Veilstone's surface. For a moment, nothing. Then, light. Pale blue ripples across the stone's dark face. Talon's eyes close, his expression serene. When they open again, there is triumph there. Pride.

  High-Exarch Oshen's voice carries the weight of ceremony. "The Veilstone accepts. You may take your place among the worthy."

  Talon steps back, head high. Enna's smirk grows wider. Their eyes find me, measuring, judging.

  The staff strikes stone again. "Step forward, Janus of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone, and let it weigh your worth."

  I move. Each step measured. Deliberate. Cyra's warmth fades from my back as I approach the stone. Its surface shifts with symbols I cannot read but feel in my bones.

  My palm presses against the Veilstone's surface. The cold seeps through my skin, but there is something else, a resonance that hums through my bones, pulling me deeper. The stone's darkness spreads before my vision like spilled ink, and suddenly I am falling, though my hand has not moved.

  The chamber around me blurs. High-Exarch Oshen's masked presence fades into shadow. Even Cyra's steadying presence dims, replaced by something vast and ancient. The Veilstone is not just testing me, it is drawing me into itself, into a place between reality and dream.

  My last coherent thought is of Cyra's words: Whatever judgment falls, you are still my brother.

  Then the darkness takes me completely.