A dull, persistent throb was the first thing to pull Captain Valerius from the blackness of sleep. Not the clean, sharp pain of the wound itself, but the deep, aching protest of the muscles around it, tightly bound and screaming with every slight shift of his body.
He was in the citadel's infirmary. The scent of antiseptic and dried blood filled the air. Weak morning light filtered through a high, narrow window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the cots of other wounded soldiers. Their low groans were a constant, grating chorus of weakness.
A physician's apprentice, a boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen, was carefully peeling back the bandage on his waist. Valerius watched with detached coldness as the boy's face paled at the sight of the angry, stitched-up gash, the skin around it still an ugly palette of purple and blue.
"The poultice needs changing, Captain," the boy mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "The master said there's signs of festering. You lost a lot of blood. You need rest."
Valerius said nothing. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the fire that lanced through his side. The movement made the room swim, but he clenched his jaw until the dizziness passed. The physical agony was an anchor, a familiar sensation he could focus on. It was better than the other thing—the seething, hot humiliation that coiled in his gut every time he closed his eyes and saw it again: the flash of black flame, the shards of Sealer's Iron exploding outwards, the cold, assessing gaze of that white-haired woman as he was forced to retreat.
Inefficient.
Roric's word echoed in his skull, taunting him.
"Leave," Valerius's voice was a rasp, but it held absolute command.
The apprentice flinched. "B-but, Captain, the master's orders—"
"The only orders you need to follow are mine," Valerius cut him off, his gaze like chips of ice. "Get out."
The boy scrambled away, relief and fear warring on his face.
Valerius swung his legs over the side of the cot. The stone floor was freezing against his bare feet. Each movement was a calculated effort, a battle against the betrayal of his own body. He reached for his tunic, stiff with dried blood, and pulled it on over the fresh bandages. The coarse fabric grated against the wound, a punishment he accepted.
He was just buckling his sword belt, the weight of the frost-touched blade a familiar comfort, when the infirmary door swung open. Not the apprentice, but a guardsman in the immaculate livery of the inner citadel. The man's eyes swept over Valerius, taking in his pallor, the obvious pain, with cold disinterest.
"Captain Valerius," the guardsman announced, his voice devoid of respect. It was a simple declaration of fact. "The Duke demands your presence. Immediately. He awaits you in the Gulliver Chamber."
"Understood."
The Gulliver Chamber. The name alone changed the air in the infirmary. It wasn't a war room; it was a place for secrets, for the kind of power that operated from the shadows. This was not a summons from a military superior. This was a summons from the empire's hidden heart. Only few people among his ranks knew of it's existence and even fewer dared to speak of it.
Valerius finished fastening his belt, the heavy buckle a final, cold weight against his hip. He did not look at the guardsman again as he walked past him, out of the infirmary and into the stark corridor. His stride was measured, each step sending a jarring ache up his side, but his posture was rigid. He would not show weakness. Not here.
The journey through the citadel's upper levels was a study in shifting power. The common areas, filled with the clatter of soldiers and servants, fell away as they ascended a wide, marble staircase guarded by men whose armor was more ornate, whose stares were more penetrating. The air grew stiller, colder. Tapestries depicting the empire's history gave way to stark, polished stone and doors of dark, heavy wood.
The guardsman stopped before one such door, engraved with the image of a towering figure—Gulliver, the mythic giant—subduing a host of smaller figures at his feet. He knocked once, a sharp rap that echoed in the silence.
From within, a calm voice answered. "Enter."
The guardsman opened the door and stepped aside, his duty done. Valerius walked into the Gulliver Chamber.
It was a circular room, domed and windowless, lit by a pale, sourceless light that seemed to emanate from the stone itself. The air was cold enough to make his breath mist. Duke Henry stood near the center, his back to Valerius, studying a massive, glowing map of the continent that was etched into the floor.
But Valerius's attention was immediately, irrevocably, drawn to the three figures who stood waiting in the shadows along the curved wall. They were as still as statues, and infinitely more dangerous.
There was no warning.
A flicker of movement from the lean man in black leather. A whisper of steel cutting the cold air.
Valerius's body moved before his mind could process the threat. He jerked his head to the side. A searing line of fire bloomed across his cheek. The dagger, black as obsidian, hissed past his ear and thunked solidly into the doorframe behind him, vibrating with the force of the throw.
A single, warm trickle of blood traced a path down his jaw. The cut was shallow. The message was deep.
Silence stretched for three heartbeats, thick and heavy.
The man, Silas didn't even shift his stance. His expression remained one of bored indifference. He simply flexed his fingers, and the dagger wrenched itself from the wood and flew back to his hand as if on an invisible thread.
The woman, Lyra, a mage, didn't look up from the crystalline data-slate she was studying. Her voice was cool "Restrain yourself Silas."
From the corner, a snort of amusement. The massive, wolf-like man, Garm, grinned, showing a flash of sharp canines. "Let the pup have his fun. The Captain's reflexes are still sharp, for a man who smells of sickbed and defeat."
Lyra did not acknowledge Garm either. The silence that followed her command was more potent than any retort.
Duke Henry finally turned from the map on the floor. He glanced at the thin line of blood on Valerius's face, then at Silas. A faint, approving smile touched his lips. It was more chilling than any frown.
"It seems you've been assessed, Valerius," the Duke said. "They find you... sufficient. For now." He gestured to the three figures. "This is the instrument of the Emperor's will. The Inquisition. You will lead them. They will ensure you do not fail me again."
Valerius did not wipe the blood away. He met Silas's empty gaze, then turned his attention fully to the Duke, his own expression as unyielding as stone. The terms were clear. This was no longer a hunt; it was a penance.
Duke Henry stepped closer to Valerius, his gaze dropping to the man's bloodied cheek. "To hunt a prey, one needs more than a sharp sword. One needs a colder heart."
From within his robes, the Duke produced a small, pulsating crystal. It was the blue of a deep glacier, and mist coiled from its facets, causing the air around it to shimmer with cold. It was the source of the chamber's chill.
"The Iceheart Crystal," the Duke announced, his voice dropping to a ceremonial hush. "It will amplify what is already within you. Focus your will through it."
Without another word, he pressed the crystal against the back of Valerius's right hand.
A searing, agonizing cold, far beyond anything his own magic had ever produced, shot through Valerius's arm. It was not the clean cold of frost, but the brutal, invasive cold of absolute zero, of a dying star. He gritted his teeth to stop a cry as the crystal seemed to melt, fusing directly to his skin and bone, its light pulsing in time with his suddenly racing heartbeat. The pain was immense, a branding.
Just as quickly as it began, it was over. The light faded, leaving behind only a intricate, faintly blue mark on his hand, like a tattoo of frozen lace. The cold, however, remained—a new, permanent core of ice nestled within him.
Valerius flexed his hand. A wisp of frost curled from his fingertips without any conscious effort. The power was terrifying, seductive, and he knew, absolutely, that it had a price.
The Duke watched him, his expression unreadable. "The trail is cold. Make it colder. Do not return without my property."
The command was given. The hunt was on.