Chapter 16 #2
His voice is devoid of inflection.
I glare at him through the tangles of my hair, not moving from the spot he sent me flying into the last time I saw him. “I’m not hungry.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
When I still don’t budge, he makes an impatient noise. Sparks burst around his fingers, and the shackles on my wrists and ankles yank me forward, dragging me across the flattened dirt until I’m slumped in front of the tray.
At this point, I’m willing to pick my battles, so I reluctantly bring the bowl to my lips. The oatmeal, if it can be called that, is lukewarm and tastes like sawdust. But contrary to my lie, my stomach is a gnawing void, so I choke it down.
Falcen watches impassively, arms crossed. As soon as the last spoonful is past my lips, he gestures to something out of view.
“On your feet, Initiate,” he orders.
I glower at him but clamber upright, chains rattling, though I notice the etched soul-glyphs aren’t protesting at my movements anymore. I glance up at Falcen warily. “Where are we going?”
“You don’t want to anticipate what’s coming.”
That’s precisely what I’m doing in this sparse square of a room, I want to argue. Picturing absolute nightmare scenarios that you are more than happy to oversee.
I’m stopped from prematurely opening my mouth when a figure shuffles in front of Falcen and bends down, collecting my empty tray by reaching his reedy arms through the small opening. The sconces highlight his face enough that I step back with a hand to my heart.
“His eyes—”
“White as snow,” Falcen blandly finishes for me. “He’s a Hollow.”
Falcen doesn’t elaborate, though I wait for him to.
The Hollow releases a straw-filled wheeze as he straightens with the tray, his gray tunic billowing around his skeletal form.
He’s bald, with no scruff or eyebrows, and has skin paler than the rare white rabbits I unsuccessfully tried to hunt one winter in Belgrave.
“Am I supposed to know what a Hollow is?” I ask as the poor thing shuffles away, slack-jawed and vacant.
“It’s the ultimate punishment for us. The complete extraction of a person’s soul, leaving them an empty, obedient husk. Those students who could not meet expectations but showed an affinity for wanting to please are the preferred subsection of the academy’s Hollows.”
I recoil, but Falcen’s not finished.
“They feel no pain, no emotion, no sense of self. The perfect servants, really.”
“So you brought him down here as a threat.”
“No, I brought him down here because he is charged with cleaning the catacombs daily.” Falcen shrugs. “If your chamber pot needs emptying, he’ll do that, too.”
“I knew you were cruel. I never thought you’d be hateful.”
Falcen unlocks my cell with a flick of his wrist, the door swinging open with an ominous creak. He gestures for me to exit, his features showing no signs of being affected by what I said.
I step out cautiously, keeping as much distance between us as the narrow corridor allows.
The shackles on my wrists and ankles have just enough give for me to shuffle forward without face-planting, but at least they’re not freezing my insides.
The opening gives me a chance to search for the ember, but there’s no warmth in my chest, indicating it has returned.
A mixture of relief, then panic, follows.
That ember would be super helpful right now.
Falcen sets a brisk pace, not even glancing back to see if I’m keeping up as he leads me deeper into the twisting network of passages that make up the catacombs. The air grows colder and damper the farther we descend, the light growing smaller.
“Is the ‘initiate stumbles around blindly’ part of the curriculum, or do I get an actual map at some point?” I ask, trying to inject some levity into the suffocating tension between us.
Falcen doesn’t respond. It’s like he’s become a completely different person from the arrogant, snarky, surprisingly altruistic man I trekked across Vehloria with.
This version of Falcen is mean, closed-off, and every inch the forbidding Resonant.
It kills me to admit that I miss my gruff, reluctant captor, though I’m not afraid to voice how much I despise this version.
As we wind through the labyrinthine passages, I catch glimpses of other cells, some with huddled figures inside, others eerily empty. Anguished moans and whimpers crawl up the walls, raising goose bumps on my skin.
“Who’s down here with me?” I ask the back of his head.
He answers without bothering to turn to the people being held behind these bars. “Those showing marks of corruption or waiting for the Hollowing.”
I stumble in my shackles, righting myself just before landing in a heap. “Corruption marks?”
“When a Soulren consumes too many Void souls, it begins to taint their magick,” Falcen explains dispassionately. “Black veins appear on their skin, spreading like a disease. If not purged, it will consume them entirely, turning them into a Void-touched abomination.”
Only the slight stiffening of his shoulders indicates that he’s realized his mistake.
“But that’s what happened to you.” I quicken my shuffle. “When we were in the Veil tear and I siphoned those creatures’ power, you had black veins, like glowing, volcanic ash dissolving your soul-glyph tattoos and—”
He rounds on me. “How are you not afraid of me yet?”
“E-Excuse me?”
“I tied you up and forced you to come here, I’ve left you in a prison cell, I lied to you, shot my power into your chest, and at this very moment, I’m taking you into a room to be tortured. Yet you insist on asking constant fucking questions.”
“But I—”
“You will not speak of that again,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. “What happened in the Veil tear is inconsequential. It changes nothing about your situation or what is expected of you here.”
I reel back instinctively, my cuffs clanking against my stomach.
“Falcen, please,” I whisper, searching his face for any glimmer of the man who chose to save me rather than let me be Void hound food, or drown, or fall off a nether drake. “I’m frightened. Help me understand what’s happening.”
He flinches, there and gone in an instant. A hairline fracture that is immediately mended.
“Get this through your head. There is no ‘we.’ There is only your duty to the academy and my duty to shape you into a weapon for its cause. Nothing more.”
Slowly, I nod.
Though I was wrong. His hairline fracture wasn’t mended. It just lengthened and traveled into my chest.
Falcen scrutinizes me for a long moment before releasing me with a slight shove. He turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving me to scramble after him, the shackles biting into my ankles.
We round a bend and step onto a metal walkway suspended high above a sunken chasm.
The floor vibrates with the rhythm of hammers and the shuddering bellows of a dozen forges, their flames licking at the dark like tongues of some cave beast. Heat hits me like a physical blow as we step inside, a stark contrast to the dank chill of the tunnels.
Dozens of forges line the rectangular chamber, their flames casting an eerie orange glow across the space.
The air reeks of brimstone and molten metal.
What I assume are students in soot-stained, simple black uniforms stand at each forge, their faces slick with sweat as they work the billows and pour glowing, ethereal substances from crucibles into molds of various weapons.
Swords, daggers, even a wickedly barbed flail.
As I watch, one student upends a canister over his mold, a stream of glimmering liquid pouring out.
I don’t have to ask Falcen what these students are doing, lest I summon his dark side again.
It’s obvious these are people pressed into labor, soot streaking their faces as they pump billows and pour glowing essence into molds.
Weapons for men and women who will never have the gift of resonance, but still fight for our realm.
Vehloria’s armies can only battle the Void with magick-forged steel. The academy supplies it.
One boy with pale-green eyes set against smooth brown skin tips a crucible, and blue essence spills like molten dusk into the waiting mold.
My stomach flips.
That glow doesn’t come from the flames.
It comes from souls.
He catches me staring. His lips curl.
“Leftovers belong in chains,” he sneers over the clamor.
Anger rises under my skin, worse than the heat of the forges. The insult, as vague as it is, is meant to cut me, and it does.
I risk a sidelong glance at Falcen, who’s come to a stop at the ledge and is looking down at the bustling forge. Falcen’s mouth tightens like he heard what the boy said, too, and that my instincts are correct. It was an insult.
“Call her that again, and I’ll show you what’s left of you when I’m finished.”
The boy’s crucible doesn’t tremble despite him hearing what Falcen said. The molten soul-metal runs smooth into the mold, not a drop spilled. He knows exactly what he is and what I am not.
When Falcen’s hand flexes at his side, the boy grins wider, as if he enjoys the thought of antagonizing an Elite.
But then Falcen raises a single finger, and the boy’s crucible begins to shake, the molten soul-metal inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
The boy’s smirk breaks. The crucible tips, molten liquid spattering across the stone with a hiss and barely missing his hand.
A hush falls over the chamber. Students freeze mid-swing, turning to stare.
“Soul-metal worth months of tithing,” Falcen continues, “spilled because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”
I shuffle beside Falcen, the sound of my chains much too loud in a place like this. Every student’s eyes flick between us, the Elite Render and his manacled sidekick.
“Forgive me, Resonant,” the boy says, but his tone lacks sincerity.
“Name,” Falcen demands, his voice carrying across the now-silent forge.
“Davren Koll, Resonant.” The boy bows his head, but not before I catch the flash of defiance in his pale eyes.
“Initiate Koll, you seem confused about your place here.”
“No, Resonant.” The boy keeps his head down. “My deepest apologies.”
Falcen is silent for a beat, then adds, “Watch your tongue, Initiate. One insult too many, and you’ll learn what it means to be forgotten.”
Falcen turns away. The warning doesn’t need to be repeated.
My mouth falls open at this whole exchange. Did Falcen just ... defend me?
“Hurry up,” Falcen snaps at me without turning around. “And close your mouth before something flies in.”
“Leftovers?” I ask under my breath as I scurry behind, though I’m hiding a secret smile.
“Late awakeners like you,” Falcen explains without breaking stride. “Officially, you’re called a remnant, a Soulren that comes into power long after they should. The Keepers call it rare. The rest of them call it wrong.”
I keep my gaze steady, even as hurt clogs my throat.
Wrong. Dangerous. Both truths in one. What does Falcen think of me?
I refuse to linger on the idea that Falcen deems me a mistake that shouldn’t survive.
I say to him instead, “So this is the start of my training? Chain me to forges until my hands blister like the rest of the students down there?”
“No,” Falcen says, his voice clipped. “Your training begins elsewhere.”
We exit the forge, leaving the scorching heat behind for the chill of yet another stone corridor. This one slopes downward, each step taking us deeper beneath the academy.
“Wait,” I protest, craning my neck to look back at the students. “Are they really making weapons imbued with souls?”
A humorless laugh escapes him. “It’s Vehloria’s salvation, according to the academy. They no longer care what laws the monarchy tries to pass.”
We walk beneath a stone archway where a massive iron plaque catches my attention. It depicts the royal crest of Vehloria, a crown encircled by three stars, but the crown has been split down the middle by a sword.
“Why is the royal crest defaced?” I ask, stumbling down the steeper slope. I would really love the full use of my legs right now.
“Because kings don’t rule Vehloria anymore. The academy does.”
My jaw drops. Again. “Since when?”
“Since King Thalamew failed to protect the realm when the first rifts opened thirty years ago.”
I stop so suddenly my chains clank. “But the monarchy has stood for eight centuries! My village still pays royal taxes. We celebrate the king’s birthday every spring.”
Falcen’s shoulders stiffen. “Your village pays academy tithes, not royal taxes. And those celebrations? Just pageantry to keep peasants in the far reaches of the realm from rioting.”
“I...” My voice turns to ash coating my throat. Falcen’s revelation isn’t just unsettling. It’s world-shattering. “That can’t be right.”
“Welcome to your first lesson, Initiate Holbrook.” Falcen’s gotten so far ahead, he’s but a sliver of darkness against the mouth of a looming archway. “Everything you think you know is a lie.”