I am being led by a Proctor I have never seen before. She wears the standard white robes. She is taller than me at least five-nine, with a cascade of curly brown hair that spills over her shoulders like tumbled earth. Her eyes are striking, a bright, piercing yellow that reminds me of a hawk.
She doesn't introduce herself. She doesn't offer a name, or a word of encouragement. She simply looks me up and down, her yellow eyes lingering on the sword at my hip and the relaxed posture of my shoulders.
"Follow," she says. Her voice is flat, devoid of the theatricality Evanora loves or the cryptic riddles Julian speaks in.
She turns and walks toward the blinding light at the end of the tunnel. I follow.
We step out onto the arena floor, and the world expands.
The Colosseum is a bowl of heat and light. The sun is directly overhead, turning the red sand into a shimmering haze. The sheer scale of the place hits me again the rows of empty stone seats rising up like cliffs on all sides, the massive pillars casting long, hard shadows. The colosseum had no speactros for today and the silence is heavy.
We walk toward the center. The sand feels odd underneath my boots shifting, loose, and yet compacted in places where heavy impacts have fused the grains. It feels like walking on the skin of a dormant beast.
In the center of the vast expanse, a small group awaits.
Our Honored Guests I smirk. The Judges.
As we draw closer, the heat haze clears, and I see them.
My breath hitches. It is a small, involuntary spasm in my chest, a traitorous reaction from a heart that still remembers if only subconsciously.
Cecilia.
She is standing there and she is draped in the heavy, block ceremonial robes of a Inquisitor, the silver embroidery catching the sun. Her hood is down, revealing her face.
She is looking at me.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, the mask of the Inquisitor slips. I see joy. I see relief. I see a soft, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, a silent greeting across the sand that screams, I found you.
I wait for the rush. I wait for the surge of affection, the panic, the longing the cocktail of emotions that nearly drowned me when I saw her a few days ago for the first time in months. The normal emotions I had when I looked at her, the first girl who ever gave me that type of attention.
But it doesn't come.
I feel... nothing.
Or rather, I feel a distant, muted echo of what I should feel. It is like watching a fire through a thick pane of frosted glass. I know the heat is there, I know I should be burning, but the connection is severed. I realize almost immediately why this is the case.
Taking control of the Fearmonger mark, binding that power fully to my will had a price. Power is never free after all. My emotions are stunted, dimmed, filtered through the predator's indifference. To the wolf, affection is a weakness. To the Wolf, she is not a lover; she just is. I wonder if I will ever be able to love. Because I hate this feeling of emptiness. I consciously realize that I am feeling nothing, and that lack of feeling makes me furious. I want to smile back. I want to feel my heart race. Instead, there is no passion. I sigh and force my gaze away from her, punishing myself, and study the others.
Next to Cecilia stands Headmistress Seraphine Voss.
I have seen her portrait in the halls, but the painting did not do her justice. She looks like she was carved out of ice and left in the sun, polished to a terrifying sheen. Seeing her up close it's shocking because this woman she be in her late sixties at least she has been running the Academy for like 15 years at this point if I'm remembering correctly but she doesn't look much older than forty. Her skin is unlined, pale and smooth as a baby. Her hair is her most striking feature. It is a river of pure white, flowing down her back in a straight, shimmering sheet that almost reaches past her hips. It moves slightly in the wind, like spiderweb silk. Her eyes are blue not the warm blue of a summer sky, but the deep, crushing blue of a crevasse in a glacier. They study me as I approach, dissecting me layer by layer.
To her right stands a mountain of a man.
General Callum Icepelt. And by the Gods is he damn massive. He stands easily at 8 feet tall making me feel tiny in comparison and for the first time in awhile I curse my height, his shoulders are seemingly broad enough to block out the sun. He is wearing a perfectly polished black military uniform, the gold buttons gleaming. His black robe drifts across one shoulder, pinned with a silver snakes head. He radiates power. It isn't magical power or killing intent, though I'm sure he has plenty of both; it is the power of authority. The power of a man who can order people to die and sleep like a little baby afterwards.
His eyes are red. Dark, blood-red, piercing and intelligent. They lock onto me with a weight that feels physical.
And finally, to his left, the Second Lieutenant.
He looks young. Maybe twenty-four. He seems almost out of place among these titans of authority. He has messy blonde hair and wears a standard officer's uniform that looks slightly too big for him.
But it's his eyes that catch my attention.
They are light yellow.
I glance at the Proctor leading me the tall woman with the curly brown hair. Her eyes are the exact same shade of striking yellow.
I narrow my eyes slightly. Eye color doesn't correlate to specific marks in any of the studies that I have read about. Eye color is random and there are theories about what eye color means. But coincidences are something I do not particularly believe in.
We reach the group. The unnamed Proctor stops and steps back and bows her head moving multiple feet away to not ease drop and stands at attention.
I stand alone before the four of them.
There is a moment of awkward silence. Protocol dictates respect, but the hierarchy here is messy. Do I bow to the Headmistress, the ruler of this school? Or do I salute the General, one of the highest-ranking military officials of the Empire?
Power respects power so I make a choice.
I snap my heels together, the sound cracking in the silent arena. I bring my right fist to my chest, over my heart, in a crisp, military salute. I face the General.
General Icepelt's lips twitch slightly into a smile. Which I take as approval.
He returns the salute casually, a lazy flick of his hand that nonetheless carries immense weight.
"At ease, Awakened," he rumbles. His voice sounds like grinding stones.
I drop my hand to my side, standing at parade rest. My eyes are fixed on a point just above his shoulder, purposely avoiding Cecilia's gaze. I can feel her eyes burning into the side of my face, questioning, searching.
"Awakened Ayato Daath, correct?" the General asks but his tone implies this question is a formality.
"Yes, sir," I reply instantly. My voice is steady, flat.
The General nods, stepping forward. He circles me slowly, like a buyer inspecting a horse.
"And you," he says, coming to a stop in front of me, looming over my frame, "are the infamous three-mark bearer. First and only of your kind?"
I pause at the word infamous.
I feel a curl of irritation in my gut. Infamous implies criminality. It implies I am a problem. I resist the urge to sneer at the implication.
Infamous, the voices in my head laugh, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. Better to be infamous than unknown. Better to be feared than loved.
They do not try to force a reaction. They are content to mock the General and I feel a rush of gratitude that I do not need to fight them and their sadistic urges anymore.
"That is correct, sir," I say, keeping my perfectly neutral.
The General smirks.
"Well, young Daath," he says, glancing over his shoulder at the others. "I think this is a waste of time. The King wants you deployed. He told me personally to see to it. He believes you are a someone who is a great benefit to be used."
My heart skips a beat. The King of Couse he did. That man had basically told me in his own way that he owned me.
"But," the General continues, his voice dropping an octave as he looks daggers at Cecilia, "the Church is not particularly convinced. They have forced this matter."
Cecilia speaks now.
Her voice is cold. It is the voice of the Inquisitor, stripped of the warmth I heard in Lont. It is professional, detached, and sharp as a scalpel.
"We believe it is only fair he be tested like any other student," she says. "Divine favor does not equate to competence. If he is to serve the Empire, he must prove he is stable enough to do so without becoming a liability."
I hear the subtext. Liability. She means Threat. What the hell I think bitterly.
But I also I wonder... is she protecting me? Is she here trying to delay being sent to war as a way to protect me.
The General sneers, barely disguising his disdain. "Sure. Sure. 'Fairness.' Because the Church is known for its fairness."
He waves a hand dismissively.
"Whatever. Let's get on with it."
I narrow my eyes at the exchange. The tension between the Military and the Church is palpable. They are allies of convenience, nothing more. They exist in a certain paradox of influence because the King does not want one faction to gain to much power or leverage over the other. And I am the bone they are fighting over.
I recall the King's words after I did his dirty work for him. "You are powerful and some do not like that. Be thankful that I am the one who does"
Headmistress Voss speaks for the first time. Her voice is calm, cool, and utterly devoid of emotion. It sounds like water flowing under ice.
"Enough chit-chat," she says. "We have a schedule to keep. Lieutenant, if you would please."
The Second Lieutenant, Viges, starts in surprise. He had been staring at the clouds, seemingly zoned out of the entire conversation.
"Oh! Right. Yes, Headmistress," he stammers.
He steps forward, his face flushing a bright, embarrassed red. He looks completely incompetent. He mutters something under his breath, fumbling with his belt.
And then... Pop.
He disappears.
There is no flash of light. No smoke. No sound of rushing wind. Just a sudden, vacuum-like pop of displaced air, and the space where he was standing is empty.
My eyes widen.
Teleporter.
I concede, internally, that the awkwardness might be an act. Or maybe it doesn't matter. A Teleporter Mark is one of the rarest, most strategically valuable abilities in existence. The king even keeps the strongest of them at Lusa on standby. I resist the urge to smirk thinking about how Cain told me he calls them his pigeons.
"The headmistress continues, ignoring the Lieutenant's flashy exit.
"We have two tests for you, young Daath," she says, her blue eyes boring into mine. "This is the first one."
A few minutes pass in silence.
The sun beats down. The sand radiates heat.
I stand at attention, sweat trickling down my back. I purposely ignore looking at Cecilia. I can feel her gaze on me trying to catch my eye but I refuse to meet it.
My original enthusiasm for seeing her has been dulled by the my apathy, and now, it is saddled by a heavy, grinding suspicion.
How is she here?
The last time I saw her, she was a low-ranking Inquisitor in Lont. Now less then a year later, she is a High enogu ranking Inquisitor to be deployed with a general to access young Awakened to determine if they can be pulled early for combat?
That kind of promotion doesn't happen normally. It happens because you have leverage. Or because you are being used. And what does Cecilia have that other Inquisitors don't? A personally connection to me, she knows and was romantically involved for a second with the only three mark bearer in existence. I'd be a fool if I did not think the Church would utilize that especially considering half of them think I am a direct threat to the Kings divine right to rule
So again what the fuck is she doing here? The doubt tastes like ash in my mouth.
Suddenly however Pop.
The Lieutenant pops back into existence ten feet away.
The air displaces violently, kicking up a small cloud of red dust.
He stumbles slightly as he lands, regaining his balance. But he is not alone.
With him, gripped by the collar of a ragged tunic, is a man.
The man looks like shit. He is draped in heavy, rusted chains that bind his wrists and ankles. His clothes are filthy rags. His face is gaunt, covered in matted hair and grime. He smells of rot and despair.
He falls to his knees in the sand, blinking blindly in the harsh sunlight, coughing as the dust settles.
I stare at the prisoner.
Then I look at the General. He is starting at the man with hate.
I look at the Headmistress. Her face is a mask of ice.
I look at Cecilia. She has looked away. She is staring at the ground, her jaw tight.
I sigh, a long, weary exhalation that leaves my chest feeling hollow.
I know what this is.
I resolve myself for the order I know I am about to get.
I laugh internally, a dark, cynical sound that the voices echo with delight.
Vihaan was right. They want soldiers who kill on command.
Headmistress Voss steps forward. She points a pale, manicured finger at the trembling wretch in the sand.
"This man is a captured Federation soldier," she says, her voice carrying no judgment, only cold fact. "He was part of the vanguard that sacked the outer villages of Verion. He was captured two days ago.
She looks at me, her blue eyes icy.
"Your test, Cadet Daath, is simple. Prove your loyalty to the Empire."
She doesn't need to finish the sentence.
"Execute him," General Icepelt finishes, leaning forward with a cruel grin, his red eyes gleaming.
I look at the prisoner he clearly had been tortured for the better part of the two days he had been captured.
He is shaking, his eyes darting between the General and me, filled with a pathetic, watery terror.
I sigh.
I look up at the General, tilting my head slightly.
"Forgive me," I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the silence of the arena. "But is this really a test?"
The General raises his eyebrows, looking mildly amused by my insolence. "Yes?"
I shrug, looking back down at the shivering man.
"I suppose," I say dryly. "But you should know, General, I have already killed my fair share of people. You did speak to the King did you not?" This?" I gesture vaguely at the bound man. "This is nothing."
I step forward.
The soldier looks. He can't help it. The aura of the Fearmonger grabs his chin like a vice and forces his gaze to lock with mine.
I dive into his mind.
It is a sewer. A dark, wet place filled with panic and adrenaline. But beneath the surface fear of dying, there is something else. Something darker. A rot. I see his deepest fears and sins.
I see his memories tinged by the shame of his crimes. He's in Nasia. A coastal city in Verion, recently taken by the Federation.
I see smoke rising from burning thatch. I see the Federation soldiers laughing as they drag civilians out of their homes.
And I see him. I see what he did.
He isn't just an invader. He is a monster. I see the faces of the women he hurt. I see the blood on his hands. I see the brutality, the rape, the murder of innocents who begged for mercy.
But more importantly, I see his fear that's what allows me to see what he did.
He is afraid of judgment. Deep down, in the part of his soul he tries to drown with drink, he is terrified that one day, the scales will finally balance and he is terrified that someone will do to him what he did to them.
I pull back slightly, a look of utter disgust crossing my face.
"You are filth," I whisper.
The soldier's eyes widen.
"Please," he croaks. "I was following orders—"
"No," I cut him off. "You enjoyed it."
I unleash Veilshaper but I control the output now not the voices, they just watch slithering around with europe as I dish out justice.
I take that specific fear; the fear of retribution, the fear of being the victim and I turn it into a reality loop. I drag his mind into a simulation constructed entirely of his own memories, but I flip the roles.
"Feel it," I hiss.
The soldier screams. It is a scream of soul-shattering horror.
In the fraction of a second that passes in the real world, he lives a hundred lifetimes in his mind.
He is back in Nasia. But he is not the soldier. He is the different civilians. He is the woman dragged by the hair. He is the helpless victim surrounded by laughing monsters wearing his own face.
I force him to experience every act of violence he committed. Every rape. Every murder. Every moment of terror and it every act loops in his mind over and over as I fracture his time perception. I make him experience it again. And again. And again.
Hundreds of times.
He screams until his throat tears. He thrashes in the sand, clawing at his own face, trying to gouge out eyes that are seeing things only he can perceive.
"Stop!" he shrieks, his voice breaking into a gurgle. "Stop! Please! I'm sorry! I'm s—"
He arches his back, every muscle in his body seizing in a violent spasm of pure, concentrated trauma.
Then, he collapses.
He hits the sand with a dull thud. His eyes are wide open, frozen in a rictus of eternal terror. Foam bubbles at his lips.
His heart simply stopped. His brain couldn't handle the stress of a hours of torture compressed into ten seconds. I stand over the corpse, looking down with zero emotion.
The General is staring at me, his smirk gone, replaced by a look of calculating assessment. The Lieutenant looks like he's going to be sick. Cecilia has a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
Even Headmistress Voss looks slightly unsettled.
I shrug again, adjusting my robe.
"Done," I say.