51. Nameless Vigil
Nameless Vigil
Lu’ma moved through the Jade Lattices like tidewater at night, ebbing and flowing between tasks with steady cadence.
The Lattice halls buzzed like a tuning fork with the aftershock of what Her Radiance had done.
Polis crystal caught light as if the Witness itself had breathed new vigor into its limbs.
Even Attendants who tried to hide their awe moved dazed, trays unsteady, eyes averted.
Lu’ma kept her head lowered, her steps swift and efficient. She wore her shoes today. Proudly. Where she normally hid her footfalls, she now flaunted them.
Let them see This Nameless, and in turn let This Nameless see the awe in their eyes for Her Radiance.
The Sokar had walked the Path and had not bowed, had loosed an arrow, and lies had broken where it flew. Lu’ma’s chest swelled until it hurt. She signed in the folds of her shawl as she walked—small, quick motions only she would see. 'Bright. Brave. Adored.' Then another, sharp as a vow. 'Divine.'
But the Lattices did not hold awe and piety for long.
Here, the shadows fed on secrets and information traded for in blood or Gleams. Less than two days had passed since the Rite and already gossip lingered like smoke after a fire—rumors about the Companions, about Zeera.
Stories already spread; that Zeera had thrown her cup, snapped a pin in her teeth, cursed the day the Sokar was named.
Believable.
Zeera’s smiles always showed her sharpened teeth.
And then there was the other thread; the message from the Unspoken Choir.
Lu’ma had found it under a washing basin, scratched in crooked shorthand.
‘Witness blinded. Hallowing advances. The jewel draws wolves.’
Nonsense until placed in order and translated with the ring on her thumb. Then the meaning surfaced. ‘A ritual is moving early. Attention is on the Sokar. Danger in the Lattice.’
Lu’ma had crushed the slip in her palm until it went soft. Then tucked it away. She told herself, as always, 'You will not have her. Not while This Nameless breathes.'
Her vow made, Lu’ma returned to the Resh’Agar’s wing. Her Radiance would go there once the noise faded. She had prepared the bed herself, smoothed linens, set honeyed tea at the bedside, folded Her Radiance’s glowshawl under the pillow as a ward against cold.
The Reskala did not stop her as she slipped through the halls leading to the Resh’Agar’s quarters.
They never did. A limping shadow with a tray was all they saw.
She lifted her hand to pass through the ward—then stilled.
Through the carved stone door came His Quintessence’s voice, softer than the one that made the city tremble. Her Radiance’s lilting reply followed.
Lu’ma smiled.
Then faltered.
Silk hissed along the corridor behind her. The scent of perfume lingered—flowers gone to rot.
Zeera.
Lu’ma turned, but saw nothing.
First the missive. Now this? None of this sits well with This Nameless.
She set the tray aside, stepped back out through the ward, and turned toward the Servitor.
The kitchens were all steam and bustle. Lu’ma slipped through, unseen until she wanted to be.
A touch on a shoulder here, a glance there, and people shifted aside.
She filled her arms: bread, marrow stew, mint, salt, honey.
Comforts for later. Her Host had earned far more, but this would do.
Before leaving, her eyes lingered on a plain door hidden in shadow.
To most, a supply closet. To Lu’ma, a throat into a stomach that ate souls.
Beyond stretched the passages to the Null, and Lu’ma passed into them unseen.
Within the eerie chamber, the forge was silent.
The cradle where the Godblind rested stood empty.
Not unusual. Rituals. Inventories. But unease gnawed at the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Too many strange things happening lately.
Zeera’s rage, the Choir’s warning, and now this?
She lifted a lantern. Ash smeared the floor.
Dust scuffed where the cradle had sat. Fresh prints.
Harmless, circumstantial—if one wanted them to be.
From her shawl, she drew a twine with a pale hair tied within.
She had plucked it from Auryn’s brush that morning, trembling.
Another shed hair. Another sign that something wasn’t right.
She held the hair above the coals and dropped it. Emerald flame took it at once.
When she returned, the Servitor had quieted. She gathered fresh linens from the Dripstone, snagged some scented oils from the stores without signing for them, balanced her tray from the kitchens, and returned to her Host.
At His Quintessence’s door, she paused. The voices within were softer now. Lu’ma straightened and pressed her hand to the glowing golden ward. It pulsed, the magic unraveling as it recognized her.
Footsteps approached, slow and reluctant.
His Quintessence stepped into the archway from his chamber.
Filled it like a shadow at dusk. He never looked quite human at first glance with his glowing blue eyes and the way everything moved around him, as though his every motion determined the outcome of the world’s next breath.
That was how the world saw him. Powerful. Frightening. Controlling.
Lu’ma recalled how Her Radiance had asked her once— do you fear the Resh’Agar?
Nearly a year has passed since then, yet the answer remains unchanged. This Nameless fear him as the Arm of the Void, but not because of his stature or his magic. Only because, even now, This Nameless does not understand this thing he shares with Her Radiance—their love.
“Lu’ma,” he greeted.
Tonight, his hair was unbound, shadows light under his eyes. His mouth had softened, and he looked less a warrior and more like a man finally content.
She swallowed thickly.
His Quintessence must know. Not just a piece, but all of the truth. It is time.
Lu’ma touched her knuckles to summon his gaze. When his eyes found her, she bowed her head and signed, 'Your Quintessence, This Nameless begs leave to speak treason, to be forgiven only by truth.'
The contentment in his eyes withered. Wariness flickered. “Speak.”
She signed, 'At birth, This Nameless was marked for the Unspoken Choir. For years, This Nameless carried whispers to them of the Sokar. Blunting them. Lying. Cutting knives to ribbons. For Her Radiance.'
Did he know the Choir? Not many did, but if anyone had heard of it, His Quintessence would have. And if he did not, she would explain. Piece by piece, she would help him see her shame.
'Now, there is danger,' she continued. 'Whispers of the Companions’ anger at the outcome of the Rite. Of how Her Radiance did not fall on the Path of Fire. Strange signs and gossip among Attendants. And— '
She pulled her braid forward and gestured to it, fingering a hair to show him what she meant.
His eyes grew stormy, but he did not interrupt. His gaze stayed fixed on her hands.
'This Nameless accepts any punishment,' she finished.
Silence. Then he stepped closer and knelt. Lu’ma balked, taking a step back, but he caught her wrist then lowered his head until his brow touched her scarred fingers.
“Lu’ma,” he murmured. “You have been a wall in a city that forgot how to build them. There is no punishment here. Only gratitude.”
She pressed her other hand to her heart, hands shaking as she signed. Gratitude—service—forever. Then told him of the message, of Zeera, of the empty cradle, of the coals that still breathed.
His jaw set. A rune at his collar brightened.
“Who else knows?”
She signed, 'This Nameless has not spoken of it.'
He nodded. “Then we watch. Lu'ma, you are not as invisible as you believe. Too many would target you to hurt the Sokar."
Lu'ma blinked, tilting her head, 'Target This Nameless? An Attendant?' She shook her head.
"You know Zeera's proclivity for unjust punishment. She cannot reach Auryn, but she can reach you."
Understanding dawned, and Lu'ma tensed. 'The Godblind?'
His Quintessence nodded. "From now on, please take care. You are under my protection, but all Zeera needs is a reason, no matter how small, to strike." His brow furrowed. "Zarrek must know as well. I will speak with him. No more messages to the Choir. If they reach for you, they answer to me.”
Relief struck sharp. She signed, 'Yes, Your Quintessence. This Nameless belongs to Her Radiance, and so to the Arm of the Void.'
He took the tray and linens. Their fingers brushed. And she thought, 'He is tired. Not from battle, but from carrying love the world wants to twist into a weapon.'
At the threshold to his chambers, he paused. “Wake me if anything feels wrong.”
She nodded. An easy promise.
When he was gone, she sat in the alcove. The chamber breathed around her, the fluxhearth warm and bright. She remained still in the silence until the Polis lanterns dimmed. Thinking. Lost in wonder. Disbelief.
Safe to report: Nothing. No more reporting.
And somehow, that thought left a hollow in her chest. A restlessness. A splintering until her thoughts turned strange. Unfamiliar.
This Nameless…
I…
I expected to be killed. Or punished. Reassigned at the very least. Yet His Quintessence kneeled instead. Kneeled to a nameless pair of Hands that could have taken the thing most dear to him. Once.
She rose, smoothed her shawl, and walked back to her chamber in the Resh’Agar’s wing.
The smell of flowers gone to rot still lingered on her tongue.
And so Lu’ma lifted her chin and began her watch.
Sleep would not come.
Lu’ma lay in the large bed in her chamber, staring at the curtained canopy.
Her hands moved, restless, against her stomach.
Twining, wringing, sometimes signing small things.
Unable to stay still, she rose on bare feet.
Adjusted her shawl. Then moved down the hall, silent, certain.
The training courtyard smelled of stone, loam, and sap from the trees surrounding it.
The ring waited in chalk and black sand. Above, the hum of the Shields droned.
She drew her dagger and stepped into the ring, Zarrek’s voice echoing in her mind as she moved through the forms he’d been teaching her for months.
First Measure. Hollow Palm. Still Fire.
Her shoulders resisted. Uncertainty gnawed at her ribs.
But the rhythm found her as she pushed through anxiety into movement.
Sweep, place, lift, breathe. Old habits chewed her anger thin.
The sand whispered. Her jaw loosened. Her wrists remembered carrying bowls, laying shawls over thin shoulders. She moved again.
Tide’s Edge. A backward cut, pulling threat off-balance.
She finished the form. The Shields hummed. The night craved stillness.
And then a voice, so unexpected she whirled around.
“You cut clean.”
Zarrek stepped into the half-light. Tall. Broad. Quiet as a hunter. The amber glow of his runes visible at the gaps in his armor. His battleaxe hung over his back.
“Nameless, but not powerless,” he said. Almost a smile. Not quite.
Lu’ma touched her knuckles in greeting, then brushed the back of her hand to her brow. He nodded. She lifted her knife again. Kept moving.
Two Feathers Crossing. Phantom counter. Ghost throat cut.
Zarrek did not interrupt. He paced the edge of the ring, watching her stance and weight. A commander’s eye. Measuring without contempt.
When she lowered her blade, he stepped closer. Heat from him cut the chill.
“Not sleeping?”
She signed, 'The Lattice does not sleep. This Nameless keeps its hours.'
He watched her hands. “Your shoulders are tight. Not just from the forms.”
She signed, 'Unease.'
He sighed. “You feel it too. The city's tilting. Auryn threw it off balance.”
She wanted to tell him everything, and so she did, repeating all she’d said to His Quintessence. Zarrek’s golden eyes read between her words, much like the Resh’Agar’s blue gaze.
'This Nameless fears the Companion the most.'
“Zeera,” he said. Flat as iron.
Lu’ma dipped her chin. Zarrek looked past her to the trees, bark silver even in weak light. Then stepped forward. His thumb pressed her wrists, not to restrain but to correct. “Your grip is good. But your weight runs to your toes. In a fight, that’s where you die.”
She shifted. Correcting herself, resetting her stance. He nodded. Drew his knife—not a threat, but a mirror.
“Again.”
They moved. Blades touched, redirected. Not sparring for points. Touching, testing, yielding. Their breath found rhythm together. The knot in her shoulders eased. His face softened from its grimace.
They stopped together. Lowered blades. The night steadied.
“We’ll see something shift before long,” Zarrek said. Simple fact. “If I were a coward with a title, I’d strike right after a miracle.”
Lu’ma signed, 'This Nameless told His Quintessence what could be told.' Then added, 'Trust.'
He accepted without question. “Good. Resh will stand. But that’s not the problem. It’s who thinks they can reach past him to get to you.”
Heat pooled in Lu’ma’s chest. Not fear. Not anger. Purpose. She sheathed her knife. 'This Nameless will stand.'
Zarrek nodded. He reached into his belt and pulled out a strip of leather. Step by step, he showed her how to tie it to her wrist and arm it with a dagger.
“Carry a second blade high. Here.” He tapped under the sleeve of her robe.
She looked at him for a long beat. Instruction from the Choir had always carried pain. But Zarrek always gentled the natural power in his hands when teaching.
Safe to report: Nothing. No more reporting.
Safe…
Safe to feel…
She signed, 'Gratitude.'
“None needed. You’ve guarded more of this city than its walls.” His voice dropped, wistful. “It’s heart, maybe.”
'Will the Scarred One stay?' The words made her want to smile.
He shook his head. “Long enough to train. And leave a message.”
She dipped her head. Added Reskala signs, 'Rune. Watch. Together.'
If it startled him, he didn’t show it. He gave a soldier’s sign in return—acceptance, vow, enough—and looked back towards the Resh’Agar’s wing.
Lu’ma moved through the forms until sweat slicked her temples. When she stilled, light trickled through the Mirror Shafts. She returned to the Lattices. At His Quintessence’s door, she touched the stone. Signed low and fierce, 'Watch—guard—always.'
No sound past the ward. Just rest. At last.
But Lu’ma still could not sleep.
The corridor breathed. The night carried its dread forward.
She sat again in the alcove. Drew her dagger and laid it across her knees like an oath. The Lattice hummed.
The memory of flowers gone to rot echoed its stubborn scent.
Restless, Lu’ma kept her watch.