Academy
Dormitory Wing — Cadet Lounge — 04:45
The lounge door clicks shut
behind the cluster of eleventh-year students as they spill inside,
murmuring sleep-soft chatter and rubbing the cold from their hands.
The fireplace hasn’t been lit yet; the room is dim, washed in early
gray light.
Cain Aurellius is still
there on the couch, curled beneath the blanket Lucille left him with.
His hair falls over one eye, chest rising and falling in the slow
rhythm of deep sleep. The open textbook has slid half-closed on his
lap.
A classmate spots him
first. “Aurellius,” the boy snorts, stepping over. “Fell asleep
studyin' 'gain? What, the prodigy runs outta steam?” He reaches
out and taps Cain’s shoulder.
Cain jolts awake, sharp
inhale, spine snapping straight. His first instinct is to turn left,
to the spot where Lucille should be sleeping beside him.
It’s empty.
He blinks. Once. Twice. The
blanket still carries her faint body heat, but the cushion is cold.
The classmate laughs.
“Lookin' for Domitian? She ain't here, man.”
Cain’s voice is still
thick with sleep, but instantly tense. “Where is she?”
The boy shrugs. “Ain't seen her. But,” he perks up, as if remembering gossip worth gold,
“two Praetorians were stompin' 'round the dorm earlier askin' for
her. Didn’t say why.”
That hits Cain like a
strike to the gut.
His blood goes cold.
He shoves the blanket off,
stands so fast the book crashes to the floor, and the sudden movement
wipes the smirk clean off the classmate’s face.
“Cain? Hey!”
But Cain is already moving.
He storms out of the lounge
barefoot, heart pounding, his mind racing through every possibility,
every nightmare, every threat Caepio threw at her the day before. The
corridor feels too long, too bright, too empty without her. His
breath fogs in the cold morning air.
“Lucille!” he calls as
he starts down the hall.
No answer.
Students turn to watch him
sprint past, murmuring among themselves.
Cain doesn’t care. He
doesn’t even feel the floor under his feet. Panic claws up his
spine. Because Lucille Domitian is gone, Praetorians are looking for
her, and after last night, Cain knows something is wrong.
The Academy
Courtyard – 04:55
Korvin
walks with slow, steady steps beneath the arcade, steam curling from
the rim of his coffee cup. The morning air bites, sharp, metallic, an
omen more than a chill. Leaves drift down in wide, lazy arcs, yellow
and red like soft embers falling from a dying pyre. The courtyard
murmurs with cadets stumbling through their routines, tying boots,
yawning, complaining under their breath.
But Korvin’s attention is
focused ahead, toward the training grounds. Every morning for two
months, Lucille Domitian has been there before dawn, blades out, hair
tied back, that stubborn fire in her eyes refusing to die.
He means to find her. To
speak with her. To make sure last night didn’t break her.
Renn catches up beside him,
matching Korvin’s pace with a tired but determined stride. His hair
is wind-tossed, his coat half-buttoned, he clearly didn’t sleep
much either.
“Korvin,” Renn greets
quietly.
Korvin gives a subtle nod.
“You spoke with 'em?”
“All of 'em,” Renn
replies. “Veyron. Quintis. Musa. Veil. Even Doctor Vrynn. Every one
of 'em is on our side. No one supports Caepio’s ruling.” He
breathes out hard. “It’s insane, even by his standards.”
Korvin allows himself a
brief exhale of relief. “Good. We’ll need every ounce of
influence we can get.”
Renn hesitates, then asks,
“How did the infirmary go? I didn’t get the chance to check in.”
Korvin lifts his coffee,
gaze narrowing slightly. “The exams confirmed everything Lucille
and Cain said. The bruisin' on her throat, the angle of the stab, skin under her nails… all of it supports self-defense.”
“That’s somethin',”
Renn says, though exhaustion still drags through his voice.
Korvin continues, tone low.
“The nurse wanted the medical files signed out by a guardian.
Couldn’t release anythin' otherwise.”
Renn turns fully toward
him, nearly stumbling. “Guardian? Korvin, are you telling me...?”
“Yeah.” Korvin doesn’t
look away from the training grounds ahead. “I signed the paperwork.
I’m her legal guardian now.”
Renn stops walking for a
moment, stunned. “You… that’s not somethin' instructors do,
Korvin.”
“No,” Korvin agrees.
His gaze hardens. “But leavin' her in the hands of this Academy,
under Caepio, ain't an option. Someone had to step up.”
Renn exhales, shaken.
“She’s lucky to have you.”
“Luck has nothin' to do
with it,” Korvin mutters. “She needed a shield. I provided one.”
Korvin and Renn walk
briskly beneath the arcades of the courtyard, their conversation low
but urgent. The air smells faintly of wet leaves and frost; morning
sunlight glints off the marble, but the shadows beneath the arches
are long, swallowing. They speak of strategy, of Lucille, of the
precarious situation with Caepio and the growing support from the
other instructors.
Without thinking, their
feet carry them past a dark corridor, tucked between two wings of the
Academy. It’s one of the halls they pass every day, dedicated to
the heroes of sacrifice, but today Korvin’s keen eye catches
something different. A flicker of light, faint, almost imperceptible,
dances deep within the shadows of the God of Sacrifice’s hall.
Renn is chatting and
doesn’t notice, walking right past it, but Korvin stops dead in his
tracks, instinct coiling tight around his chest. Something in the
flicker doesn’t belong. The hall should be empty; the torches, the
candles, almost never lit.
“Wait.” His voice is
low, deliberate. Renn stops, confused. “D'you see that?”
Korvin gestures toward the
corridor. The faint candlelight shimmers, subtle but insistent,
drawing him like a lodestone.
Renn squints, frowning.
“Candles?”
Korvin doesn’t answer
immediately, only steps closer, eyes narrowing as the shadows deepen.
The air grows colder, heavier, carrying the faint, coppery tang of
old blood. Smoke curls faintly from deep within, twisting in
unnatural patterns that seem almost… alive.
Renn shifts uneasily beside
him. “Korvin… should we—”
Korvin steps closer, moving
with the deliberate caution of someone trained to notice every
detail. His eyes narrow, tracing the faint flicker of light down the
corridor of the God of Sacrifice. The air here seems colder, heavier,
almost viscous, pressing against his chest.
“Candles,” Korvin
mutters, almost to himself. “They ain't normally lit.” His voice
is low, taut with caution. “No one comes here. No one touches this
hall, let alone the shrine.”
Renn frowns, shifting
uneasily beside him. “Do you think…?”
Korvin doesn’t answer
immediately. He steps toward the darkened hallway, the torches along
the walls casting uneven shadows that twitch across the marble floor.
The closer he gets, the more the air smells of ash and iron, faintly
coppery, like blood long settled into stone.
A curl of smoke drifts from
the far end of the hall, where the God of Sacrifice’s shrine rests.
The flames in the offering bowls flicker unnaturally, as if
breathing. Korvin’s gaze hardens. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t
need to. The silence of the hall, the weight of the shadows, the
scent of blood and smoke, it tells him enough.
Renn takes a hesitant step
forward. “Korvin… should we call someone?”
Korvin shakes his head
slowly. “No. Not yet. I need t'see it for myself.” His hand
twitches near the hilt of his sidearm, a reflex more than a
preparation. He feels the hairs on his neck rise, the faint pull of
something ancient, something alive in this place.
The two instructors
approach the shrine slowly, stepping over cracked tiles, careful not
to disturb the candles that seem to burn brighter as they near. From
deep within, the faint scent of iron and smoke intensifies. Korvin’s
breath hitches, a warning echoing through his mind: This is no
ordinary presence. Something has been here… and it waits.
Renn swallows audibly.
“Korvin… it’s… it feels… wrong.”
Korvin doesn’t answer,
only reaches the edge of the shrine and freezes. The offering bowls
are slick with fresh blood, dark and warm against the stone. The
smoke curls in unnatural patterns, forming shapes that defy reason,
half-masked faces, hands clawing skyward, eyes gleaming in the
firelight.
At the foot of the shrine,
Lucille kneels in an almost fragile repose. One arm stretches over
the offering bowl, fingers brushing the cold stone, while her other
hand and her bowed head rest against the opposite rim. She sleeps,
the rise and fall of her chest slow, measured, peaceful, almost,
though the tension in her shoulders and the tremor in her fingers
betray a lingering unrest. Dark streaks of blood trace down the
outside of her extended arm, remnants of what she offered, glistening
faintly in the flickering candlelight. A new scar, red and angry,
cuts across the meat of her forearm, a deep slash wide and
deliberate, proof of her own hand’s desperate act. Her hunting
knife lies in her lap, the blade smeared with streaks of her blood.
The offering bowl itself is
empty, save for faint, almost imperceptible stains, her blood
absorbed, her sacrifice accepted, leaving only the ghost of what had
been poured into it. The stark contrast between the cleansed stone
and the crimson trailing her arm speaks of power, of ritual, of
something ancient acknowledging her. Even in sleep, Lucille radiates
a raw intensity, a silent testament to the depths of despair she has
navigated and the strange, unyielding favor she has drawn from the
God of Sacrifice. The scene is still, yet charged, as if the shrine
itself holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.
Korvin’s hands tighten on
her shoulder, his voice sharp, cutting through the lingering scent of
blood and smoke. “Lucille! Wake up! What're you doin' here?”
She stirs violently, eyes
snapping open, wild and unseeing at first. Her chest heaves, her
breathing ragged, as though she has run through a storm. For a
heartbeat, she is disoriented, panicked, whispering, “I… I don’t…
I—”
Korvin kneels lower, his
gaze sweeping her body, taking in the streaks of dried blood, the
scar now fresh across her forearm, the knife resting in her lap. His
jaw tightens, but his voice is measured, though undercut with the
edge of authority. “Lucille. Look at me. What happened? Why are you
here? Why this?”
The reality presses down on
her slowly, memory threading its way back through the fog in her
mind. The offering bowl. The shrine. Her own blood. Her desperation.
Her whispered promises to the God of Sacrifice. She swallows hard,
lips trembling. “I… I-I needed… I needed Him… I needed…
purpose.”
Renn leans against the edge
of the shrine, arms crossed, silent but not idle. His eyes trace the
ritual signs, the incense smoldering, the empty bowls, the faint,
lingering traces of her blood within the stone. His voice is low,
reverent almost, tinged with disbelief. “Korvin… she...she
actually did it. She...he answered her. Valroth Kyr… he accepted
it.”
Korvin’s gaze narrows,
scanning her face and body, searching for any hint of lingering
injury, of weakness, of reason to panic further. “You put yourself
here, Lucille. At this hour, alone, at the God of Sacrifice’s
shrine. You bled for it. Do you understand how reckless that is? How
dangerous?”
Lucille shudders, rocking
slightly on her knees, tears streaking her cheeks again. “I… I
had to. I can’t… I can’t… everything is—” Her voice
breaks. She trembles under the weight of her own desperation, the
raw, bare honesty of her plea. “I needed… someone t'see me. To
give me somethin'. Anythin'. I… I can’t… I can’t be nothin'.”
Korvin reaches and takes
the knife from her lap carefully, setting it aside. His tone softens
slightly, though the authority in his words never fades. “You ain't nothin', Lucille. But this… this is ain't the way. Not like this.
You’ve put yourself at risk. You’ve exposed yourself. But…”
He studies the scar on her arm, then her wide, desperate eyes,
“…somethin' has happened here. Somethin' I cannot fully explain.
But I see it. Valroth Kyr has… marked you.”
Renn exhales, his own
unease clear, a mixture of awe and fear in his eyes. “This is rare.
Too rare. Gods do not usually act with such immediacy. Not in
centuries. And yet...” His gaze flicks from the scar, to the bowl,
to Lucille’s trembling form. “…He has.”
Lucille flinches,
overwhelmed, the weight of what she did pressing down on her chest.
“I...what do I do now?” she whispers, voice small, lost. Her
hands clutch at her knees, at the rim of the offering bowl, as if
holding on will steady her.
Korvin exhales slowly,
letting the silence of the shrine settle over them for a heartbeat.
Then, decisively, he says, “First… you survive this mornin'. You
do not move until I say. Second… you tell me everythin'. Every
thought, every action, every promise you made. And then we figure out
what this means for you, and for the others who would come for you.”
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Lucille nods weakly,
overwhelmed, her lips trembling as she takes in the enormity of her
actions and their consequences. The God of Sacrifice’s hall hums
faintly with the residue of her offering, shadows flickering as if
alive, as if waiting. And she knows, deep down, that nothing in her
life will ever be the same again.
Renn shifts slightly, voice
low. “Korvin… whatever comes of this, we keep her safe. That is
the first law here. Everythin' else can wait.”
Korvin’s gaze softens for
the first time that morning, resting on Lucille. “Yeah. That is all
that matters, for now.”
Korvin steadies her as she
rises, his hands firm but gentle beneath her elbows. Lucille wavers
for a moment, the world tilting, but he keeps her upright. Without a
word, he shrugs out her jacket, left folded neatly beside the shrine,
and drapes it over her shoulders. She fumbles with the sleeves, still
dazed, and he helps guide her arms through.
“Keep it covered,” he
murmurs, eyes flicking to the stark red scar beneath the fabric. “For
now. Until we understand what this is.”
Renn nods sharply, tension
clinging to his posture. “Don’t show it to anyone. Not until we
know the implications.”
Lucille only nods,
clutching the jacket closed with shaking hands.
They guide her out of the
shrine hall, torchlight fading behind them. The morning air hits cold
against her damp skin, and Renn huffs softly.
“You’re lucky we found
you,” he mutters, still shaken. “Lucky the temperatures haven’t
dropped yet, you’d have frozen out here.”
They walk beneath the long
stone arcade, leaves drifting down in lazy spirals, the chatter of
students returning to their routines echoing distantly. Korvin
glances down at her, his brow taut with unspoken worry.
“Where’s Cain?” he
asks quietly. “I thought he’d stay with you the whole night.”
Lucille hesitates. Just a
breath, but enough for both instructors to notice. “He fell
asleep,” she says softly. “I… couldn’t think straight. And I
didn’t want to wake him. So I went for a walk.”
Korvin opens his mouth,
Renn draws breath to question her further, but pounding footsteps
thunder across the courtyard.
Cain.
He’s running full speed,
hair disheveled, breathing hard, eyes wild with panic. He skids to a
stop in front of the instructors, not even noticing Lucille
half-hidden behind them.
“Instructors Korvin,
Renn, have you seen her?” he blurts. “Lucille. Have you—?”
Renn holds a calming hand
up. “Easy, Aurellius. We found her not long ago. She’s right
here.”
Cain blinks. Then he sees
her.
His entire body shifts,
fear to relief, anger to something softer, as he steps forward and
grabs her shoulders, hands tight enough to tremble. He scans her,
gaze darting from her face to her posture to the way she holds her
jacket closed. His scent rolls off him in a wave, fear, worry,
desperation, so strong she almost reels.
“I was worried about
you,” he breathes, voice cracking despite the effort to steady it.
“Why did you leave? Where did you go?”
Lucille blinks at him.
Hesitates. “I… just needed fresh air.”
“You should’ve woken me
up.” His voice is firm, then softens. “You should’ve just…
told me.”
Lucille looks up at him and
gives a small, warm smile.
It strikes him like a blow,
disarming, gentle, achingly Lucille. His shoulders drop, the breath
he didn’t realize he was holding leaving him in a sigh. He squeezes
her shoulders once before straightening, pulling himself back
together.
Then he swallows, glances
up at Korvin and Renn, and says, “Praetorians have been looking for
Lucille all mornin'.”
Korvin and Renn exchange a
look, grim, unsurprised, resigned. Of course the Praetorians are
looking for her. Judgment never waits long in this place.
Renn exhales sharply
through his nose. “Then it’s begun.” His jaw tightens, though
his voice stays steady. “I’ll go speak with someone who may…
temper the fire.” He turns to Korvin and the cadets. “Instructor
Alera Voss, the theology master. If anyone can argue divine
precedent, it’s her. And we’re goin' t'need every weapon we can
get.”
Korvin nods once, sharply.
No time to waste. “Go. I’ll take them.”
Renn claps Korvin’s
shoulder, shoots Lucille a lingering look heavy with worry, and
strides off toward the west wing.
Korvin motions for Cain and
Lucille to follow. The three begin the long walk toward the
Praetorian Hall, their footsteps echoing across the stone. The
morning light slants through the arcade arches, cold and indifferent,
painting the ground in pale bars. Students pass them, whispering,
casting glances at Lucille as though they sense something; something
wrong, something changed.
Korvin keeps his voice low
as they walk. “Renn spoke with several of your instructors
yesterday,” he says, eyes forward. “Veyron, Quintis, Musa, Veil,
Vrynn, every one of them agreed to challenge Caepio’s decision.
Formal reports should already be on his desk.”
Lucille doesn’t look
reassured. Her hands are shoved deep in her jacket sleeves, shoulders
tight, eyes fixed on the ground. The faintest tremor runs through
her. “Reports won’t matter,” she mutters, barely audible. “He
made up his mind already.”
“That’s where you’re
wrong.” Korvin’s tone sharpens, not unkind, but firm. “Caepio
is many things, but he follows precedent. Evidence. Testimony. He
won’t ignore a wall of instructors standing between you and a
sentence.”
Lucille keeps walking, but
her pace falters for half a step. “You don’t know him.”
Cain glances at her, worry
etched across his face again, but Korvin answers first. “No,” he
says. “But I know the Order. And whatever he decides today, it ain't the end of the line.”
Lucille swallows. Her
throat works, tight and tense. “It feels like the end.”
“It ain't,” Korvin
says. “Not while you have people fightin' for you.”
But his words do little to
ease her expression. She doesn’t argue, she just walks, small and
silent between them, the weight of the shrine, the scar, and the god
still heavy in her blood. The Praetorian Hall rises ahead like a
fortress waiting to swallow her whole.
And she steels herself for
whatever waits inside.
Instructor Alera Voss’
Classroom – Advanced Theology - Continuous
Alera
Voss’ classroom hums with low ritual murmurs when Renn steps
quietly inside. The room is vast, almost cathedral-like in its
layout; arched ceiling, polished stone floor, rows of darkwood desks
carved with old sigils. Incense coils lazily from bronze burners in
the corners. Statues of the Astral Pantheon line the walls: The
Supreme God, Caelum Prime, seemingly watching the cadets, Maera
Elune, the Goddess of Fertility, cradling a beautiful bouquet, The
God of War, Valkarion, standing valiantly with his spear pointed
towards the ceiling.
Shrines run along the
periphery, small altars of stone and brass laden with bowls of salt,
bundles of dried herbs, polished bones, carved feathers, ancient
coins. Workbenches beneath the tall windows are cluttered with ritual
tools: mortar and pestles, votive knives, pigments for
sigil-painting, fragments of old scripture.
At the front of the room
stands Alera Voss.
She looks every inch the
master theologian; tall, composed, with sharp silver hair braided and
wrapped at her crown. Her long indigo robes shimmer with embroidered
constellations. Her voice is calm, resonant, carrying the authority
of someone who speaks not about the divine, but for
it.
“Intent,” she says,
tapping a finger to her chest, “is the breath of worship. Offerings
without intent are hollow. Power is not in the object, but in the
will that guides it.”
Thirty students sit or
kneel at their desks, each with a small offering bowl before them.
Some burn incense. Some crush herbs between trembling fingers. A few
trace sigils into wax tablets, brows furrowed in concentration. The
air is warm with candlelight and the faint hum of holographic
diagrams drifting above Alera’s sleeker-than-average whiteboard:
constellations shifting, symbolic runes rotating, diagrams of shrines
and their proper orientations.
Renn closes the door behind
him softly. Even so, Alera’s eyes flick toward him, sharp,
assessing, but she does not pause her lecture.
He keeps to the side of the
room, hands folded behind his back, a respectful student despite his
rank. He waits. He watches. He listens.
Her presence is commanding.
Not harsh. Not gentle. Something older, something carved from faith
itself.
A student in the front
murmurs an invocation. The candle before them sputters, then rises
into a narrow blue flame. Alera gives a nod of approval.
“Good,” she says.
“Remember: clarity of prayer produces clarity of result. Again. All
of you, focus.”
Renn inhales the scent of
lavender, ash, and warm wax. He glances at the statues, the God of
Sacrifice’s effigy largest and most shadowed near the back, and
feels a ripple of unease.
Not fear. Awareness.
When the moment comes, when
her sentence ends and she turns gracefully toward her desk, Renn
steps forward. Still silent. Still patient.
But Alera Voss meets his
gaze at once, as though she’s known he was coming since dawn. Her
expression tightens by a fraction. She knows something is wrong.
Alera Voss finally creates
a natural pause in her lesson. She sends her cadets into the next
phase of the exercise, mixing consecration salts and setting them
before their chosen shrines, then steps away from the holographic
board, dusting crushed incense from her fingers. Her eyes, sharp and
eerily calm, find Malco Renn waiting at the edge of her classroom
like a shadow.
She approaches him slowly,
voice low and careful, ensuring none of the thirty cadets nearby
hear. “Malco,” she murmurs, folding her hands in front of her.
“You would not interrupt class without reason. What weighs on you?”
Renn leans in slightly, not
to show secrecy but because even speaking this aloud feels dangerous.
“I need your expertise,” he says. “On somethin'…
theological.”
Alera raises one brow. “The
vague kind or the dire kind?”
He inhales, steady.
“Hypothetically,” he begins, choosing each word like stepping
over glass, “if a god answered a prayer, directly, what would that
signify?”
Alera tilts her head,
studying him. “That depends entirely on the god, the nature of the
plea, and the state of the supplicant. Some gods whisper. Some grant
omens. Some only watch. A direct answer is…” She searches for the
word. “…rare. And never arbitrary.”
Renn hesitates. His jaw
flexes. Then he commits.
“It is Valroth Kyr,” he
says quietly, the name tasting like iron and smoke on the tongue.
“The God of Sacrifice.”
Alera Voss gasps,
audible, sharp, unguarded. “VALROTH—!” Her voice cracks
through the classroom like a whip.
Thirty cadets jolt, several
knocking over bowls or dropping incense sticks. Every head snaps
toward the front.
Alera slaps a hand over her
mouth, eyes wide, horrified with herself. She coughs, forces
composure, and shifts her tone to the class.
“Continue your work,”
she instructs tightly.
They return to their tasks,
murmuring.
Alera steps even closer to
Renn now, her voice a razor-thin whisper. “Malco,” she breathes,
“you’d never invoke him. Not for yourself. You’re far
too sane for that.” Her eyes narrow, burning with urgency. “Who
prayed to Valroth Kyr? Who dared to kneel at his shrine?”
Renn doesn’t answer
immediately.
And Alera Voss, master of
theology, scholar of the Astral Pantheon, the woman who has studied
every god’s wrath and mercy, looks truly afraid.
“Tell me,” she presses,
voice tightening. “Tell me who.”
Renn licks his lip as his
eyes fall to the floor. He hesitates to even answer, but soon musters
the name barely audible. “Lucille Domitian.”
Alera Voss goes still.
Utterly, terribly still.
Her eyes, normally soft,
patient, eternally warm with scholarly curiosity, sharpen into
something razor-edged and fearful. She does not breathe for a moment.
Her jaw flexes once before she forces it still, and her fingers curl
around the edge of her desk as if to anchor herself.
Then she inhales through
her nose, stiff and controlled. “Lucille?” she whispers, not a
question, but a realization sliding into dread.
Renn nods once.
A fraction of a second
later she snaps upright, her entire demeanor changing. Her voice
rises with sudden force, too loud, too sharp.
“Cadets,” she calls
across the classroom, and every head snaps toward her. “Continue
the exercise. Page one-seventy-four, offerings and invocations. No
speaking.”
The class goes dead silent.
She doesn’t wait to see
if they obey. She turns, takes Renn by the arm, not roughly, but
urgently, and pulls him toward the door.
The moment it closes behind
them, her veneer cracks.
Her voice is a hiss, barely
contained panic beneath iron discipline. “Where is she?”
Renn straightens. “With
Caepio. Korvin took her. She wasn’t harmed—”
“Harmed?” Alera
repeats, incredulous, almost laughing. “Renn, the God of Sacrifice
does not answer without taking something. He does not notice
without intent. He does not mark without purpose.” She
presses her palm to her chest, grounding herself. “And he certainly
does not accept offerings from children.”
Renn shifts uneasily. “We
found her in the hall. At his shrine. She—” He stops. He doesn’t
have to continue.
Alera’s face drains of
color anyway. “How much blood?” she asks.
“Enough.” Renn’s
voice is tight. “Far more than she should’ve survived. She healed
overnight. Entirely.”
Alera closes her eyes with
a pained exhale. “Divine response,” she murmurs. “Visceral,
direct, unmistakable.” A beat. “Valroth Kyr hasn’t intervened
in mortal affairs in… gods know how long.”
She lifts her head sharply.
“I need to see her. Now.”
Renn steps back, surprised
by the sheer intensity in her tone. “Alera—”
“No.” She shakes her
head viciously. “This is not a theological curiosity, Renn. This is
a crisis. If Valroth Kyr has placed a mark on that child,
then she stands on a blade’s edge between ascension and oblivion.”
Her hand lowers, trembling
slightly.
“And if Caepio mishandles
this… it will not be only her who pays the price.”
She starts down the hall,
her fine academic robes whispering behind her in frantic urgency.
“Take me to her,” she
orders.
Renn falls into step beside
her.
“Then pray the God of
Sacrifice is finished with her for now,” Alera says quietly, eyes
fixed ahead, cold dread in every syllable. “Because if he isn’t,
every second we waste may cost her more than her blood.”
They walk faster. Toward
Caepio’s office. Toward judgment. Toward whatever Valroth Kyr has
already begun.
The Praetorian Hall -
Continuous
The Praetorian Hall yawns
before them like a stone throat, swallowing sound, swallowing hope.
Korvin’s stride remains steady, but Lucille feels the tension
coiled in him, like a blade sheathed too tightly. Cain stays at her
other side, every breath tight, every small motion betraying the
frantic worry he’s barely keeping contained.
The hall is alive with
armored bodies and low voices. Praetorians move with purpose: a pair
heading out on patrol, another pair returning, armor still slick with
morning mist. Some lean over maps, others speak with instructors or
anxious parents. But as Korvin guides Lucille and Cain deeper into
the hall, the quiet shifts. Heads turn. Voices lower.
Lucille hears all of it.
“…that’s her; the
orphan girl…”
“…Caepio won’t go
easy on that one…”
“…too unstable… a
liability…”
“…shame, she’s got
potential, but potential ain't enough…”
“…doesn’t belong
here…”
A few whispers cut through
the murmur like a shard of light.
“…poor thing… she
tries harder than most…”
“…maybe Korvin sees
somethin' no one else does…”
But they are swallowed
quickly, overshadowed by doubt, by judgment, by fear.
Lucille lowers her gaze.
The polished floor blurs beneath her shifting eyes, blue and green
like fractured glass. Each whisper feels like a stone thrown against
her ribs. She feels small again. Smaller than she ever has. Smaller
even than when she knelt in blood last night.
Cain glances at her, jaw
working, but he’s helpless to silence the voices she hears and he
doesn’t.
Korvin stops only once,
just briefly, his gaze slicing toward a group of Praetorians who
refuse to look away quickly enough. Something cold moves behind his
eyes, a silent warning. They flinch, breaking their stare. The
whispers dampen.
But the damage is already
inside her.
The walk feels endless. A
corridor that stretches with judgment and expectation, with every
failure she has ever carried strapped to her spine. At the very end
stands the heavy oaken door to Commander Caepio’s office, dark,
imposing, carved with the Praevectus seal.
Korvin stops before it.
Lucille stops breathing.
He turns to her first, not
to Cain, not to the door.
His hand settles on her
shoulder, warm, steady, grounding. His voice softens, gentles, a tone
he rarely uses with any student.
“Lucille,” he murmurs,
“look at me.”
She forces her head up. Her
eyes tremble, but meet his.
“You ain't alone,”
Korvin says. “Not in this. Not anymore. Remember that.”
He gives her a small,
reassuring smile. It doesn’t chase away the fear, but it lights a
crack in the dark.
Then, with a slow breath,
Korvin pushes the door open.
“Go on,” he tells her
quietly.
Lucille steps inside first,
her heart hammering in her throat. Cain slips in right behind her,
protective even in his trembling, and Korvin follows last, closing
the door behind them with a heavy, final sound, like the sealing of
fate.
