CHAPTER 9: CONFRONTATION
The mess hall was louder than usual. Voices clashed, trays scraped, the air thick with fatigue and the smell of stew.
John's lips almost curved … Almost. Peace in the Covenant was fragile, and he knew better than to trust it.
The boots came next — steady, heavy, each step cutting through the noise. The hall quieted, not all at once, but in ripples, until the silence enveloped the whole room.
A shadow stretched across the table.
Daren's squad — the Crimson Fists. They moved like they owned the floor, broad frames filling the space, their pace slow enough to make others wait.
John didn't turn. He didn't need to. The weight of their presence pressed against him like a shadow.
Around him, spoons stilled, arguments died, even the air seemed to hold back.
Daren stepped forward. He pulled a chair out with one hand, the scrape loud in the hush, then set it down as if the spot had always been his. He sat, leaning in slightly, not speaking — letting silence do the work.
John lifted his spoon, blew on the stew, and ate. The message was clear.
Daren's smile tightened. "Well, look at this," he said, voice smooth, venom-sweet. "The little miracle squad and their fun club. How cute."
Nico muttered, not even bothering to raise his voice. "Oh my, the great Daren has arrived. Someone roll out the red carpet made of donkey shit."
Lucian snorted. Orion didn't even hide his grin.
A muscle ticked beneath Daren's eye. "Still hiding behind jokes?" His grin curved, brittle. "Just what you'd expect from a clown."
Nico leaned back, casual, unbothered. "Aww, he practiced that one. Did you rehearse in the mirror? Bet you nailed the dramatic eyebrow lift."
A ripple of laughter broke out nearby, but was cut short when Daren's gaze swept the hall.
Daren turned towards Nico, his jaw locked. He let the insult hang, then forced himself to move past it. "I should have known better than to challenge a clown to a word battle. After all, their glib tongue is the sharpest and only blade they carry."
Nico smirked, victorious. "At least you know greatness when you see one."
Daren ignored him, though anger simmered beneath the surface. His gaze slid — slow, deliberate — toward John. "You know," he said.
John finally blinked and stopped eating. Daren took it as a win. He stepped closer, invading John's space. "Color me impressed… with your stupid luck. After all, it's the only reason you managed to get that score."
John's spoon tapped the edge of his bowl once. The sound rang in the silence. "It wasn't luck," he replied simply, as if stating a fact.
Daren leaned closer, voice low, face level with John's. "Keep telling yourself that. But everyone knows you're placeholders. Just until I take my rightful place at the top."
John stared — not at Daren's eyes, but through him as though Daren was the weather. A nuisance and something that passed.
The dismissal landed harder than any punch. Daren straightened too quickly. His squad shifted behind him, shoulders taut, eyes narrowing.
Amara's voice cut through the hush, cold and quiet. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but last I checked, that isn't happening anytime soon."
A ripple of shock cracked the tension.
Daren turned toward her, hostility sharp. "I wasn't talking to you, pup."
Her yellow eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
Daren, pleased with the reaction, pressed further. "Didn't know those ears were just decoration."
Amara's face twisted in anger as she rose from her seat. "You fu—"
But Nico caught her hand before she could finish, his eyes uncharacteristically cold.
Sylas let out a sigh, his vines curling like fists. "Why are you even here? Go bark at someone who cares."
Nyara tilted her head, studying Daren's face as if chasing a forgotten memory. "Hm." Then she looked down. "They look so alike."
Malric looked up — just once. His expression unreadable, scarlet eyes cold enough to frost steel.
Daren's jaw flexed as his gaze swept the group, finally locking on Malric. "It's funny," he said softly, "… seeing how the world seems to favor trash."
His eyes narrowed, voice dropping into a pit of hatred. "But most of all… it is disgusting to see someone of our proud race sitting among them."
Malric didn't even flinch at the jab.
Daren sneered. "We are bred for supremacy, to dominate. But you? Forget dominating — you are here mingling with … with insects."
Malric's reply was quiet, sharp. "Beats being with an idiot like you." He let the silence stretch before adding, "I really don't have time for this stupid play of yours. Grow up."
The silence that followed pressed down on the hall, suffocating.
Daren's stare burned. He wasn't used to being outmaneuvered — and certainly not this many times in succession. John could sense it: violence coiled beneath Daren's skin, straining to break free and ready to spill at any moment.
Thomas broke the tension, his gaze locked onto Daren, his voice shaky but determined. "Why do you feel the need to go out of your way to antagonize anyone who isn't with you? We're all the same here. We're just trying to survive."
Daren's head snapped toward him. His smile was cruel, but beneath it burned a restless fire of ambition and hunger. "Ah… you see, that is where we differ. The Crimson Fists aren't content with survival. We aim to rule. To stand above all. To be the best."
Thomas shrank inward. Sylas's jaw tightened instantly.
Elowen's voice followed — gentle but sharp as a knife. "You're mistaking cruelty for strength."
The air thickened. Daren's squad bristled. Hands hovered near concealed blades. Muscles coiled, ready.
John tapped his spoon on the table once. That got everyone's attention.
He finally looked up, eyes steady.
"Fuck off."
Daren froze. For a heartbeat, confusion replaced anger. His teeth ground together. "You dare—"
He didn't finish before John cut him off. "I said," he repeated, "fuck off."
Daren stepped back as though shoved — not physically, but by the weight of being dismissed. He struggled to regain control, a mocking grin returning like a cracked mask. "This isn't over," he spat. "When the real trials begin, you will break. Your little team will shatter. I'll make sure of it."
John's expression didn't change. Daren hated him for that.
He opened his mouth again—
DING—
The sound hit like thunder. A clear, ringing bell.
The entire hall froze.
Then a voice — everywhere and nowhere — filled the air:
"All squads — report to the Grand Hall immediately."
No footsteps.
No projection crystal.
Just a voice that existed because it decided to.
Some kids shivered.
Others stood up, faces grim and wary, but no one disobeyed.
Daren exhaled, forcing a smirk back onto his face. "Till next time."
He turned sharply, stride clipped with anger, and headed toward the Grand Hall. His squad fell in behind him, boots striking in rhythm — a war drum pounding a path forward.
John's table stayed frozen for a beat, the silence lingering like smoke after fire.
Then Nico leaned back with a grin. "Well… someone just got an ego check."
Lucian's ears drooped as he nodded. "That was pathetic."
Orion stretched, tail flicking lazily behind him, smirk tugging at his lips. "You got that right, bro."
Amara allowed herself a smirk. Even Thalia's lips twitched, betraying the faintest smile.
John lifted his bowl, voice steady. "Eat faster," he said. "We'll need the energy."
The Covenant's fortress was carved into a mountain — an iron skeleton wrapped in ancient stone. Every hallway felt like a rib cage. As John's squad stepped out of the mess hall along with the other children, the walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
The Grand Hall waited ahead — a looming gate of black metal marked with glowing runes. They slid open soundlessly at their approach.
Inside…
It was like stepping into a temple built by gods who had replaced faith with dominion.
Towering obsidian pillars reached into a ceiling lost in darkness. Veins of blue light pulsed through the stone like lightning trapped in rock. Holoprojectors flickered overhead, displaying maps of worlds John couldn't recognize — floating continents and shattered stars.
The floor was polished metal — so reflective the children seemed to stand on the edge of a void. Symbols spiraled outward beneath their feet, shifting faintly, as if alive.
Rows of Covenant Soldiers in black armor lined the outer walls. Their helmets hid any trace of humanity — faceless enforcers of obedience.
John's squad moved into formation, as trained. They weren't the first group here — the hall filled quickly, voices falling into silence piece by piece.
Nico leaned closer, whispering,
"No matter how many times I see it, I still get surprised."
Amara didn't even argue. "Stay alert."
Kaelen's group drifted near, joining them naturally — instinctively — like two smaller boats trying not to be swallowed in a storm.
Daren's squad took a position near the front. Daren straight-backed, chin lifted, expression smug — as if he believed this entire hall existed for him alone.
Sylas's vines twitched, ready and alert. Thomas subtly pressed closer to John. Elowen kept her wings tightly compressed.
Then a familiar figure entered.
Bill.
The same man who had struck John on day one, making his memories fade into darkness. His presence oozed authority and violence. The whip at his belt wasn't a decoration — it was his voice.
Daren's squad straightened automatically at his approach — synchronized, trained into obedience.
'Of course.' John's stomach tightened. 'Birds of the same feather flock together.'
Bill smirked as he surveyed the hall, passing his gaze over the children like hunting knives. When it finally landed on John — a flicker of recognition, then annoyance.
John stared back, unflinchingly cold.
Nico whispered, "Ugh. Captain Whiplash is back."
Lucian added, "You know if they weren't from different races, I would say they were father and son."
Orion nodded very seriously. "Maybe Daren was adopted by him."
Bill's eyes snapped toward them — even without hearing, he sensed mockery like a predator smells blood.
But before he could act, the air shifted.
Torches along the upper wall ignited simultaneously — dark purple flames twisting like smoke underwater. The obsidian pillars glowed brighter. The metal floor hummed.
The hall darkened — except for the center.
Light gathered there… forming a shape.
A silhouette appeared first.
Then a cloak of deep navy fabric.
Then silver armor etched with runes that crawled like living ink.
He descended as though gravity itself bowed for him.
Lord Roan. The head of this branch. The man who decides destinies.
He was tall — shoulders straight — like a tower carved into flesh. His hair was metallic silver, reflecting the pulsing lights. His eyes…
His eyes were wrong. Pupil-less and white. Glowing faintly, like stars staring back.
He did not speak at first. He simply observed. The silence felt like pressure tightening around lungs, like the hall itself feared to breathe.
When he spoke, his voice was neither loud nor commanding.
But everyone heard it.
"Your first month is finished."
The echo that followed didn't belong to his voice — the hall itself repeated his words, like a prayer forced upon the walls.
Roan stepped forward, hands clasped behind him.
"Stamina. Endurance. Obedience. Pain tolerance."
His gaze swept them like a blade.
"You have survived the foundation."
Survived. Not completed. Survived.
"And now," Roan continued, "we begin the Second Phase."
The flames doubled in size — casting monstrous shadows across the walls.
"Combat."
His eyes scanning everyone.
"Killing."
Lucian's throat bobbed.
"Intelligence gathering."
His gaze fell to Elowen and Nyara.
"Infiltration, deception, information extraction."
Thalia flinched.
"Knowledge."
Liora's eyes narrowed, as if already preparing for the burden.
"You will learn the structure of our covenant — and how to break those who oppose it."
John's fists clenched slowly. The Covenant didn't train protectors. They trained with weapons.
Roan lifted a hand—and a hologram snapped into existence above the hall.
Projected there were images of:
— Children stabbing targets
— Kids choking one another in trenches
— Bodies of those who failed
— Screaming
— Applause from unseen elites
The message was clear:
Success was survival.
Failure meant ending up as a corpse or worse.
Roan continued without emotion:
"When the next month ends, you will face your first test."
John's heartbeat stumbled.
Roan added:
"Almost half of you will fail."
Half.
Of 130 children remaining.
Nico swallowed loudly. Sylas's vines wrapped tighter. Thomas trembled.
Roan moved again — slow and precise — like his body was made to command armies.
"But before that, you will receive the tools that will be a major part of your path."
A gesture.
The walls hissed — and sections of stone rotated, revealing weapon caches sealed in black crystal and bound with glowing locks. Strange shapes rested behind them — swords with energy cores, daggers that purred faintly like beasts, bows threaded with silver veins, spears that shimmered unnaturally.
Roan looked down upon them like a god assigning destinies.
"Weapons are the extension of your will.
They reflect your blood. Your nature.
They will grow with you — or consume you."
A silent wave of awe flowed across the hall.
Even Daren looked overwhelmed for a split second before he masked it again.
Roan spoke one final time:
"Your instructor for weapon discipline will be the one to facilitate the process. His word is law. Disobey him… and you will find out what happens."
From the side door, footsteps approached — slow but echoing like hammers against steel.
A broad-shouldered man emerged; his armor forged from a black metal that shimmered like oil over a star. His right arm was not flesh — but a glowing machine, gears humming beneath rune-etched plating. His left eye glowed faint red beneath a metal socket.
A giant sword rested across his back — taller than he was.
He stopped before the children and spoke:
"I am Varric Ironbrand."
His voice rasped, dry and burning, the kind of sound that left marks even after silence returned.
"You will choose a weapon."
The murmurs turned confused.
"The weapons are the ones who will choose you."
Nico whispered, "Okay, now that's kinda cool."
Amara elbowed him to shut up.
Varric slammed his mechanical fist against his palm — a metallic boom resounding.
"If a weapon rejects you — it means you have no future with it and … it might just end you."
Gulping could be heard from multiple rows.
Nico paled a little." Ok, not cool."
John didn't look away.
Every nerve in his body was alert — not from fear, but instinct.
Varric pointed to the exit at the far side of the hall.
"Follow me. Stay in formation. Keep your voices down, I don't like useless chatter."
Roan faded into the darkness like a dream ending abruptly.
Bill stepped forward, whip already drawn.
"Move."
The soldiers along the walls shifted — reminding them of consequences.
John inhaled once.
Then he stepped forward, leading his squad toward the Armory.