(Rhea — Western Continent, Drake's Teeth, The Vale of Eternal Night, Sphere of Noir.
September 23 — 3rd Cycle of the I.C. 1730)
Three days remained until the Exodus Trial.
The sky above the inner sanctum of the Vale churned with quiet atmospheric storms—unseen yet heavy, like breath held too long.
Two Mantle-bearers moved down the Obsidian Walk in silence. Their steps whispered against polished volcanic glass as the corridor stretched toward the Hall of the First Nyx, where the Patriarch would deliver his final address before casting them into the world as weapons of legacy.
The first was Violet, ranked Fourth in the Spiral of Blood.
Dusk-threaded armor cloaked her frame. Veins of violet light pulsed along its seams, converging at the chest plate where her Mantle had been etched. She walked with the steady confidence of someone who had endured agony and survived it.
The other was Chion Nyxvalis. Ranked Eighteenth.
Twelve years old.
He was untouched by the scars of the trials—untouched by anything, it seemed, except suspicion. They walked side by side, yet a chasm of space stretched between them. Not until they were deep in the shadows of the corridor did Violet break the silence.
"You know they're on to you, don't you?"
Her voice wasn't sharp; it was steady. Too steady. Chion didn't look her way, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead.
"It doesn't really matter," he said.
A pause.
"Not if they can't prove it."
Violet scoffed. The sound echoed softly against the obsidian walls.
"For now, perhaps. But fear fades. Soon the rest will start talking, and even if they don't, the fact remains."
She glanced at him.
"They'll come for your life the moment you step out of the Vale."
A breath passed. He didn't pause. He didn't blink.
"They can try," he said quietly.
Violet turned toward him sharply, her eyes searching his for a flicker of fear.
There was none.
Her expression hardened.
"You're mad," she muttered. "A deranged child."
That earned a smile.
Small. Crooked. Certain.
"And you," he countered, "are overly concerned with blood that is not your own."
He slowed his pace, letting the distance between them grow. "Just as I owe you nothing, you owe me nothing in return.
The runelight above the corridor flickered faintly across his pale features.
"For your own sake,"he said quietly "I suggest you pull ahead—before the whispers of the Devil of the 39th decide you're a co-conspirator."
They reached the archway of the Hall of the First Nyx. The carved doors loomed above them, etched in runes of the Origin Blood—symbols older than any written history, burning with a faint, sickly light under the encroaching storm.
Violet sneered in frustration, adjusting her pace and surging forward,vanishing into the crowd of gathered other Mantle-bearers without a single backward glance.
Chion lingered in the shadows of the archway. He watched her go with a curious, detached fascination. She was the only person in the Vale willing to approach him—the only one brave or foolish enough to speak to the boy they already called a Devil. It was, he decided, a very curious thing indeed.