The Citadel’s ground floor functioned as Edel-Füllhorn’s military base. It was where training took place, equipment was stored, and decisions about the city’s defense were made — not in grand ceremonial halls, but in that wide, living space permanently steeped in tension.

  The environment felt more like an active construction site than a traditional barracks.

  The ceiling was high, supported by stone beams reinforced with ancient metal structures, marked by layers of improvised maintenance accumulated over centuries. Enormous windows illuminated the interior with calculated efficiency.

  The noise never stopped.

  Metal striking metal. Short orders being barked. The dull thud of bodies colliding during sparring. The distant hiss of mechanisms being adjusted. Everything overlapped into a continuous soundscape — too organized to be chaos, and too intense to be comfort.

  Micah smelled it before he managed to organize what he was seeing.

  Old sweat mixed with oil. Treated leather. Damp stone. And beneath it all, a faint metallic scent that reminded him of dried blood… diluted, as if it were simply part of the place. There was no disgust in it. Only function.

  Soldiers crossed the space along well-defined paths, as if each followed an invisible map. Some wore Luther’s black uniform; others donned less formal variations, tailored to their bodies, with repair marks far too visible to be decorative. These were not parade soldiers. They were used. Fixed. Reused.

  To the left, an entire area was dedicated to physical training.

  Groups rotated between brutal exercises and controlled duels. There were no shouts of encouragement — only dry, immediate corrections. When someone faltered, another took their place without ceremony. The rhythm slowed for no one.

  Micah noticed something strange.

  Among the combatants, some performed movements that didn’t seem entirely physical. A strike that lingered in the air for an instant longer than possible. An impact that reverberated too late. A dodge made before the attack even began.

  Awakened.

  One man in particular drew Micah’s attention.

  Everything about him was out of place.

  He didn’t wear a uniform or casual clothing like the others. Instead, he wore layered garments in earthy tones, blacks, and whites, filled with checkered patterns, eyes, and illustrated serpents — a nearly heretical blend of Buddhist monk and Orthodox priest. A worn wooden rosary rested around his neck, bearing the familiar figure of a serpent coiled around a vertical stake, a symbol Micah already associated with the Church of this land.

  His head was shaved, and he looked to be around thirty. His skin was so pale it bordered on albinism, though his black eyes refuted that notion. His ears bore a strangely cold discoloration.

  When Micah noticed he was barefoot, he saw that — like his ears — both his fingers and toes were bluish, as if blood struggled to reach those extremities.

  The other soldier was faster than the monk, yet somehow his strikes grew more precise over time. It wasn’t that he knew where his opponent would dodge, nor that he memorized patterns — but rather that the more he repeated the same movements, the more inevitable they became.

  His repetition led to perfection.

  The training ended when he finally disarmed his opponent. He sat on a nearby chair, panting in breaths that were too short. Low, nearly imperceptible groans hinted at lingering pain.

  As soon as the fight ended, Dennisorfeu approached the man, with Micah following close behind.

  — Yo, cue-ball head! Already done with your morning polish?

  — I already told you not to call me that, you stranded drunk! — the monk replied without hostility, greeting him with a smile.

  He then turned to Micah, pointing at him with his chin.

  — And who’s that?

  — Oh, this here’s the extraterrestrial zombie I told you about.

  The smile vanished instantly, replaced by a guarded, sullen stare.

  — Micah, this is Asáimon. Asáimon, this is Micah. We’re all part of the same platoon now.

  Asáimon raised an eyebrow at Dennisorfeu, half indignant, half offended.

  — Sorfeu, is this some kind of bad joke?

  The bard shrugged, sighing.

  — I wish it were, but those were the Duke’s orders. Not much we can do.

  The monk stared at Micah.

  It felt like he was pressing a knife against Micah’s throat using only his gaze.

  Sorfeu cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

  — Well then, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group—

  Micah glanced back several times before moving forward.

  Now he felt that same knife tracing the entire length of his spine.

  Further ahead, the space opened into a storage zone. Rows of tall shelves held weapons, armor, and strange artifacts, many without clear identification. Some pieces were partially dismantled, as if never fully completed.

  There were glass discs stacked in padded crates. Staves with worn inscriptions. Black blades whose surfaces seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

  Nothing there seemed designed to impress.

  Everything seemed designed to work.

  Micah felt that uncomfortable sensation in his chest again — the delay, the slight misalignment. Some people passed by him without noticing him at all. Others cast glances that were too quick, too calculated. As if he were… an unexpected variable introduced into a closed system.

  Deeper into the armory, a door led to a smaller room. Stone and iron weights, a bar fixed to the ceiling, and even crude pulleys filled the space. A slit near the ceiling let light spill in, revealing someone bench-pressing at the far end of the room.

  Rough grunts echoed off the walls with each repetition, punctuated by an occasional cough and the creak of the bar bending under the load. When the set ended, he racked the bar, still sweating as he sat up.

  The man was shirtless and covered in body hair. He was short but sturdy, boasting large muscles and a modest belly. His lightly bronzed skin clearly traced the outline of a tunic, and his cinnamon-brown hair, thick and heavy, was tied back carelessly — the sort of tie someone only fixes when it starts getting in the way of work. There were subtle gaps near his hairline, and a few strands near his temples were already turning white.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  He stood to put on subtle rectangular glasses over his amber eyes, allowing Micah to see his face clearly. The man looked to be in late middle age, with wrinkles that spoke of a full life and an absence of rage. His beard was thick but short, neatly trimmed out of necessity rather than care, with a mustache that merged into it, heavy and drooping.

  There were no ornaments — no braids, no rings. His posture conveyed responsibility and experience, with room for gentleness.

  — Well if it isn’t our musician. — he said in a deep voice, approaching the two.

  — Tell me, how can I help my old friend? Finally decided to lift some weight, huh? — he finished, clapping a hand on the bard’s shoulder.

  Sorfeu let out a nervous chuckle, clearing his throat as he dodged the question.

  — So, big bear, this here’s Micah. — he said, stepping aside. — Our newest recruit.

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise.

  — That’s a new one. Didn’t know we were taking in kaleorins.

  — He’s red-haired, but not kaleorin. He’s a Migrator. Same guy who freed that Soulless three days ago. — Dennisorfeu corrected, leaning against the wall while trying to scrub a wine stain from his uniform.

  — But didn’t they execute him? He’s not Soulless, is he? — the man asked, stepping back and raising his guard, wary.

  The bard gave a goofy grin and shook his head.

  — Nahhh… nothing like that. He just has a very different Image. What it does exactly, we don’t know, but somehow he cheated death. The farm owner the chief sent us to investigate says she “saw him crawl out of the ground with her own eyes.” — he quoted cynically, smirking.

  — I see…

  Still wary, he approached again out of courtesy. He extended his hand, which Micah shook.

  — I’m Thonathaniel Kuhnstahl, but you can call me Thona.

  His grip was so firm it nearly hurt.

  — Nice to meet you… I’m Micah.

  Dennisorfeu stepped in once introductions were done.

  — Thona, you know where the rest of the crew is?

  — If I’m not mistaken, the Captain just sent them on a mission. They’ll be away from base for a few days.

  — Got it, thanks.

  Thonathaniel returned to the bench press, and Sorfeu and Micah left the room.

  At the center of the ground floor, a long table held city maps, simple models, and movable plates marked with colored symbols. Officers spoke in low voices, pointing out routes, recalculating positions. No banners. No crests on display.

  Authority there didn’t come from titles.

  It came from visible competence.

  The bard peeked through the door crack before carefully closing it. He sighed and whispered:

  — Ugh… the meeting’s still going. Guess we’ll have to wait.

  He sat on the floor near a window, adjusting and playing simple melodies without his guitar.

  Micah sat against the opposite wall, hugging his legs in silence.

  — Ezra set you up, didn’t he?

  The recruit’s eyes widened as he pulled his legs away.

  — W-What?! How do you know that?

  He set the guitar aside, glancing down both sides of the corridor before leaning toward Micah.

  — I don’t trust that guy. — he whispered, low enough only the redhead could hear. — Every time I pass him, I get chills, you know? I’ve been watching him for a while. Sometimes I see him buying slaves, but when I checked the records, the only slave he owns is someone named Andora. And why would he even live here? He’s a royal advisor — logically, he should live in the capital. And the excuses he gives are the flimsiest I’ve ever heard! I know he’s plotting something, I just don’t have proof.

  He leaned back against the wall, his voice returning to normal.

  — Besides, you don’t look like a murderous psychopath at all — and trust me, I’ve met plenty.

  The door opened and Reblis stepped out. Dennisorfeu stood immediately, stowing his guitar.

  — Captain, can we start training now?

  — Change of plans, Dennis. There’s an emergency on the Northern Frontier. They need Awakened immediately. The recruit’s coming along.

  — Huh?! But he barely knows how to use his powers, hasn’t even touched a sword! — Sorfeu protested, confused.

  — The best training is practice. It’s not like he can die anyway.

  The Captain vanished down the corridors without further explanation.

  The bard sighed, scratching his head.

  — Well… you heard him. Let’s go.

  ...

  Somewhere in the Bronq’des Mountain Range, northwest of Luther…

  A round table of black marble stood at the center of an underground chamber, lit by a massive golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Three high-backed chairs surrounded the table, and in those chairs sat the leaders of the Three Revolutionary Forces:

  Former Prince-Regent Alarich von Luther, leader of the Neo-Monarchists;

  Heir of the Barcenian Consortium élise Blackfeller, leader of the Barcenian Libertarians;

  And Jean “The Butcher” Leroux dil Charbonpierre, leader of the Charbonist Republicans.

  The silence that followed as they sat was not respectful.

  It was hostile.

  The candle flames above flickered unevenly, casting distorted shadows across the faces at the table — as if each carried a second face, less inclined toward agreement.

  Jean Charbonpierre was the first to break the silence.

  — Funny… — he said, resting his elbows on the marble table. His voice was deep, coarse, like stone scraping stone. — Never thought I’d share a table with a Luther and a Blackfeller on the same day.

  His expression remained unreadable behind his comedy mask. Not even his closest allies had ever seen more than his gray-green eyes. Strangely, there was nothing visibly holding the mask in place, as if that black smile had become one with his face.

  — History has a cruel sense of humor.

  élise Blackfeller didn’t respond immediately. She crossed her legs with studied elegance and adjusted her fine leather gloves before speaking.

  — Cruel is calling “History” something that was, in truth, managed through hereditary incompetence. — Her gaze flicked toward Alarich for a moment too brief to be accidental. — But I agree: this table should not exist.

  Alarich von Luther remained upright, hands clasped atop the cold surface. His face showed no anger — only fatigue. Even so, his appearance was immaculate, his snow-white hair braided in a Nordic style, perfectly silky and combed.

  — And yet, here we are. — he said. — Because the current King leaves us no alternative.

  Jean let out a short nasal laugh.

  — Don’t play the victim now, Fallen Highness. Your blood still runs through the walls of Axiêna.

  — And yours through the mines of Charbon. — Alarich replied calmly. — We’re not here to count corpses.

  The air grew heavy.

  For a moment, it seemed Jean might rise.

  It was élise who raised her hand, stopping them.

  — Enough. — she said firmly. — If we’re here, it’s because we all agree on one simple fact: Luther will not survive another decade under this Crown.

  — The war with Kaelor drains the treasury. — she continued. — The Truce hangs by a thread. Cities are too armed, too hungry, too aware.

  Jean tilted his head, interested despite himself.

  — And the people are ready to slit throats.

  — Yes. — élise nodded. — But revolutions without structure become massacres. And massacres don’t govern.

  She looked straight at Jean.

  — You can burn the kingdom. But you can’t run it afterward.

  The Butcher’s eyes narrowed. Had his face been visible, he would surely have been smiling.

  — That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, contract princess? To sell the rope and the knot.

  — To ensure that when the Crown falls — she replied — this country doesn’t descend into anarchy.

  Alarich inhaled deeply before speaking.

  — And I am here because Luther will need legitimacy the day after the King falls. — he said. — The nobles won’t follow a negroid. The clergy won’t follow bankers. But… they might follow someone of the Prophet’s bloodline.

  Jean narrowed his eyes.

  — You want the Crown back.

  — No. — Alarich replied immediately. — I want to prevent it from existing as it does now.

  Silence returned, different this time. Thoughtful.

  Jean drummed his fingers on the table.

  — Then let’s be clear. — he said. — My terms.

  He raised one finger.

  — End hereditary monarchy. The people elect their representatives.

  Second finger.

  — Full amnesty for Charbon prisoners. No exceptions.

  Third.

  — The dismantling of the caste system.

  élise raised an eyebrow slightly.

  — Idealistic. — she remarked. — But acceptable… in part.

  She raised her own list.

  — Full autonomy for the Barcenian Consortium within the kingdom. — she said. — Property rights for all citizens. An end to the Crown’s arbitrary taxes. And a guarantee that no new Republic will seize assets “in the name of the people.”

  Jean laughed.

  — You want a revolution that doesn’t touch your wallet.

  — I want a revolution that survives the following winter. — élise shot back.

  All eyes turned to Alarich.

  He took his time before speaking.

  — My term is simple. — he said at last. — The current King must be publicly deposed. Tried. Not martyred. Not sanctified.

  Jean nodded slowly.

  — Agreed.

  élise did as well.

  The heir then drew a small ceremonial dagger from a hidden sheath in her green dress and placed it at the center of the table. Her butler followed by placing an open medallion beside it, its interior displaying nine symbols carved in a circle, all connected by slightly slanted channels leading to the center.

  — An alliance like this exists only through blood. — she said. — Not as a threat. As a guarantee.

  Jean took the dagger without hesitation and made a shallow cut in his palm, letting blood drip into the grooves.

  — For the oppressed people.

  Alarich did the same, his gesture restrained.

  — For the end of the Crown as it is.

  élise was last.

  — For individual freedom.

  The blood of the three mingled, filling each symbol with scarlet liquid.

  She then held the medallion with both hands and declared:

  — From this moment on, the Revolution will be one. And under the judgment of the Archons of the universe, this alliance shall endure until the end of the Revolution.

  “Whether that end comes in victory… or in death.”

  With a sharp snap that echoed through the chamber, the medallion closed on its own.

  Outside, above the mountains, the wind began to howl stronger.

  And somewhere far away, very far away,

  Something that was still called the Kingdom of Luther

  Shuddered —

  Not yet knowing it had already been condemned.