Chapter 19
I'm nine, and our small dwelling is draped in predawn shadows. Mother shakes me awake, her face tight with fear.
“Veyra, we need to go. Now.” Her voice is hushed but urgent, her movements precise as she stuffs our meager belongings into a worn satchel.
“What's wrong?” I ask, still half-asleep.
“They're coming.” She doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. We've moved four times in the past three years, always one step ahead of something or someone.
I dress quickly, following the well-practiced routine. We travel light, leaving little behind. As Mother secures the satchel, I notice her hands trembling.
“Did someone recognize you?” I ask, recalling how careful she always is to keep her head down, her face obscured when imperial officials pass through our district.
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the window where first light begins to seep through tattered curtains. “Not exactly,” she finally says. “But I... felt something.”
I don't understand what she means, but I've learned not to question these sudden departures. Mother's instincts have kept us alive this long.
As we slip into the narrow alleyway behind our dwelling, she suddenly pauses, her head tilting as if listening to something I can't hear. Her eyes drift closed, and for a moment, her face relaxes into an expression I rarely see: something like communion.
“Mama?” I whisper.
Her eyes snap open, and she grips my arm with unexpected strength. “Change of plans,” she says. “We're not going east. We need to go north instead.”
“But you said the northern gates would be—”
“I know what I said,” she interrupts, her voice gentle despite her obvious fear. “But the path has... shifted.”
It's not the first time she's spoken this way: in riddles and feelings that somehow guide our steps through the city's labyrinthine streets. I've never understood how she always seems to know which patrol routes to avoid, which alleys offer safe passage.
We make our way through the waking city, staying to shadows and side streets. Mother moves with uncanny precision, sometimes changing direction moments before a patrol rounds a corner, other times pausing in doorways just as eyes turn our way.
We're almost to the northern gates when it happens. Mother freezes mid-step, her face draining of color. Her head turns sharply toward an unmarked building across the square—a place I've never noticed before.
“They're here,” she whispers, her voice hollow with dread.
Before I can ask who “they” are, she kneels before me, gripping my shoulders.
“Listen carefully, Veyra. You need to run. Take the third alley past the fountain, follow it to the end, then climb the wall with the red markings. On the other side, you'll find a dressmaker’s shop. Tell the owner I sent you.”
“No… wait,” I protest, panic rising in my throat. “W-Why can't you come with me?”
I notice the tears in her lilac eyes, and for the first time, I see my mother completely shattered, her hope gone.
“Because they can sense me, little bird,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“They've been hunting me for years, and I’ve run as far and as long as I could.” Her fingers brush my cheek, delicate and fragile, like she might break if she touches me too hard.
“But they can't sense you. Not yet. Not if I can stop it...”
A sharp click jolts me from sleep. My eyes snap open, heart hammering against my ribs. A rough stone ceiling stares down at me, lit by shafts of pale sunlight. It takes me all of three seconds to remember where I am.
“We have a problem.”
My head snaps toward the direction of the baritone voice, and I find Zeriel looming over me, already dressed in combat garb, but hair still damp from showering, a towel flung over one muscular shoulder. His arms are crossed as his gaze bores into me. Quite the sight to wake up to.
I grimace, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“Wh-What time is it?” I croak.
“Almost nine.”
I prop myself upright, staring back up at him. “Shouldn’t you be in training? What problem?”
“I believe I may have realized why Marrek’s visit to the pens coincided with ours last night,” he responds, ignoring my first question.
My breath catches in my throat. I rise from my makeshift bed, gripping the edge of the table. “What? Why?”
“Because of what we did: invoke your magic, deliberately and more deeply.”
His words hang in the air, blunt and jarringly direct. So even he’s calling it my magic now. Half of me has still been trying to deny it’s magic, not prepared to face the potential consequences. Hearing it spoken aloud sends a cold weight sinking into my chest.
“Last night, I was focused on testing if there was anything more to your stunt with the ashblood, and making sure we weren’t seen,” he continues.
“But I now suspect the Ironhold has implemented deeper means of detecting magical traces.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “Something I didn't consider before.”
I stare at him, fear and confusion clawing at me. “What do you mean 'deeper means’? And why are you only realizing this now?”
Zeriel's mouth tightens fractionally. “Because a guard was just at my door, asking to see you specifically.”
My heart lurches into my throat. “What? A guard? Here?” The implications hit me like a physical blow. If they've detected my magic, if they know I used it last night...
“He's waiting outside right now,” Zeriel says, his voice infuriatingly calm, as if he's merely commenting on the weather rather than what could be my imminent execution.
I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping over the blankets tangled around my legs. “And why wasn't that the first thing you told me?!”
“To give you less time for what you’re doing now: panicking,” he replies, rubbing his dark-stubbled jaw.
Bastard. I shove hair out of my face, heat prickling my skin. “What did he say? What did he say he wants?”
“He didn't specify. Only that you're to accompany him to the processing chambers.” Zeriel moves to the small chest at the foot of his bed and retrieves a clean tunic. He tosses it to me. “You should change.”
I catch the garment, my fingers trembling.
The processing chambers. The same place they brought me when I first arrived. Where they scanned me for magic. Where they passed that strange detector over my body, searching for any trace of outlawed power.
“This could be it, you know. They could be taking me to Voss right now.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Zeriel shrugs. “Possible. But panic rarely wins a fight. Better to keep your head and put that sharp tongue of yours to use. If you can’t talk your way out of it, at least go down saying something memorable.”
I freeze, staring at him. Who talks about execution like it’s strategy practice? Oh, right. A man who’s already had his wings carved from his back and survived the arena besides. A man who plays at cruelty so easily it’s impossible to tell where the act ends.
Besides, we’re not talking about his potential death.
If nobody was watching us, all they’d have is evidence that some kind of magic took place, but that’s no evidence to impugn a champion.
Zeriel could argue I used it out of defiance, or even accidentally, thus the need for his continued “taming” of me.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging the tunic over my head. My pulse hammers, but his words stick—like they seem to have a habit of doing. Losing my composure won’t help. And damn him, he knows it.
He stalks to the door, hand closing on the handle. “Ready?”
I straighten my shoulders, summoning whatever courage I can find. “No,” I hiss. “But open it anyway.”
With a faint nod, Zeriel pulls it wide, revealing a uniformed guard waiting in the corridor. The man’s face is impassive, his posture rigid.
“Four-Three-Seven,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “You're to come with me.”
“May I ask why?” I keep my voice steady, channeling a confidence I don't feel.
“Handler Selen has requested your presence.” The guard's eyes flick briefly to Zeriel, then back to me.
The world seems to slow around me. Handler Selen. Requesting my presence.
“Champion Caelith may accompany you if he wishes,” the guard adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Of course I'll accompany my ward,” Zeriel says smoothly. “I want to know what this is all about.”
As we stride with the guard through the now-empty barracks—I can only assume the other men are already at training, while the venerable champion is allowed to choose his own hours—my mind races.
What would Selen want with me? After our strange conversation in the baths?
After her warning about people watching me?
Is this even connected to what happened last night?
Did Zeriel get his assumptions wrong? But why call me to the processing chambers?
The guard leads us downward, through passages that grow increasingly familiar.
My stomach knots as I start to recognize the route to the processing area.
Zeriel moves half a step behind me, close enough that I can feel the prickle of awareness along my spine—no reassurance from him, just added tension.
The reminder that he’s watching me, weighing, waiting.
The processing level feels colder than I remember, the air heavy with the scent of cleansing agents and fear.
As we round the final corner, I spot Selen standing in the corridor outside the main chamber.
Her posture is rigid, her silver-cropped hair gleaming under the bright lighting.
But it's her face that sends ice through my veins—a mask of cold professionalism, utterly devoid of the subtle empathy I'd glimpsed in the baths.
She looks like she's here to do her duty, nothing more. Like I'm just another recruit to be processed. Or eliminated.
Before we reach the main chamber doors, Selen raises a hand to halt us. “Thank you, guardsman. You're dismissed.”
The guard nods and retreats. Selen's teal eyes flick to Zeriel.