Whack! Tack!

  ?Sounds of wood clashing echoed through the Citadel’s training hall. And amidst the cacophony of combat, sweat, and future bruises, in a more isolated corner of the place, Sorfeu was training Micah in swordsmanship.

  His unaccustomed muscles still burned from the morning exercises, but Dennisorfeu cared little.

  — Come on! Fix that stance, set your feet, Miquéias! — He teased, his advance upon the recruit relentless. — Do you think the enemy will give ya a snack break? Ha! What a joke!

  — I... I’m trying— Argh!

  Micah fell to the ground as Sorfeu lunged at his stomach. He groaned in pain, clutching the hit area.

  — Dead.

  — You could go easier on him, couldn’t you? — Lysa commented from the side while practicing her dagger throwing.

  — Soon he’ll be so sore he won’t even be able to get out of bed. — She concluded, hitting three pieces of wood that Felipa tossed into the air.

  The bard sighed, leaning against the wall while taking a sip from his canteen.

  — I know what I’m doing. I trained Gunther myself when he decided to enlist, remember?

  — Yes, I know. Even so... can’t you be a little less brutal? — She said in a worried tone.

  While they argued, Micah stood up with great difficulty, sitting on a small stool while sweat dripped from his forehead. He looked at his left arm; it had already been four days since he became part of the Awakened Platoon, and Sorfeu had given him an eye-armband this morning, the accessory that differentiates common soldiers from Awakened in Luther. Micah felt part of something, and he wasn't sure what to do with that feeling.

  It felt like something distant, alien even. It was the kind of thing he never believed would happen to him.

  So he closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on catching his breath. Until he felt something strange, like someone staring at him.

  He turned his head to the side and a robust man pulled his eyes away that very second.

  It was Bartkuma, training with his sword.

  Micah frowned.

  The man had looked away too fast.

  He stood still for a few seconds, observing out of the corner of his eye. Bartkuma trained alone, executing precise cuts against a reinforced wooden dummy. Each strike was identical to the previous one — same distance, same strength. The only difference was the constant change of angle, leaving an impenetrable barrier of cuts in front of him. There was no rush. There was no hesitation.

  Micah took a deep breath.

  “Okay. Paranoia. Heavy training. Recent trauma. Everything’s normal.”

  He looked away.

  Five seconds later, he felt it again and turned his head.

  Bartkuma was looking.

  And this time, he didn’t look away.

  The man’s gray eyes were fixed on him, too attentive, like one observing a crack forming in a wall.

  Micah swallowed hard.

  Bartkuma blinked.

  Then he went back to striking the dummy.

  Micah scratched the back of his neck, confused.

  — …Lysa? — he murmured, without taking his eye off the other Awakened.

  — Hm? — she replied, concentrated on balancing a dagger on the tip of her finger.

  — That big guy… is he staring at me or am I going crazy?

  Lysandre followed his gaze.

  Bartkuma, at that exact instant, was clearly looking at Micah.

  Expressionless.

  Undisguised.

  — Ah. — she said, far too calm. — He does that sometimes.

  Micah blinked.

  — He does that how so?

  — It’s like a cat watching an insect trapped in a glass. — She explained, spinning the dagger and sheathing it. — It’s not personal. I mean… it kind of is. But not in a bad way.

  — That didn’t help at all.

  Bartkuma tilted his head slightly.

  Micah felt a shiver.

  — Does he… — Micah lowered his voice. — Does he always stare like that?

  — Only when he’s interested. — Lysa smiled from the corner of her mouth.

  — Interested in what?!

  — In you, obviously.

  Micah choked on his own breath.

  — IN ME?! Look, I’m not of that sort! I like women!

  Lysa laughed like a horse, her eyes tearing up from laughing.

  — No... Hééé-ha-ha-ha! That’s not what I meant. He—

  She stopped suddenly, her smile dropping a bit.

  Sorfeu stopped testing his guitar.

  Felipa, who until then was throwing wooden discs into the air for reaction training, froze mid-movement.

  — …What? — Micah repeated, his voice thinner than he would have liked.

  Bartkuma delivered one more strike to the dummy.

  Whack.

  The wooden head split in half.

  He dropped the sword on the rack, wiped the sweat from his face with a cloth, and began to walk toward them.

  Each step was too heavy to be ignored.

  Micah went into a silent panic.

  — Lysa, please tell me this isn’t what I’m thinking.

  — Depends on what you’re thinking. — she replied, far too amused.

  Bartkuma stopped a few meters away.

  He stood there, looking.

  Micah stood up slowly.

  — I… can I help with anything?

  Silence.

  Bartkuma analyzed him like a butcher analyzes a rare cut.

  Sorfeu cleared his throat.

  — Gaited pitbull. — he said, seriously. — Stop staring at the bloke. You’re scaring him.

  The man blinked, as if only now realizing he was being observed.

  — …Sorry. — he said, with a deep, low voice.

  Micah relaxed a little.

  — It’s okay. I just—

  — You died. — Bartkuma continued.

  Micah froze.

  — …Yes.

  Bartkuma nodded slowly.

  — Interesting.

  Micah opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

  — Interesting how?

  Bartkuma thought for a moment.

  — Still in one piece.

  Absolute silence.

  Felipa looked away.

  Sorfeu sighed.

  Lysandre bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  — That... that’s good, right? — Micah risked.

  Bartkuma tilted his head again.

  — We’ll see.

  He then turned, walked calmly back to his training spot, and picked up the sword.

  Before attacking the dummy again, he spoke, as if commenting on the weather:

  — If pieces start falling off, let me know.

  Micah stood there, pale.

  — …Did he just say that?

  — Relax. — Lysa gave him a pat on the back. — If he wanted to kill you, you’d already know.

  — THAT IS NOT COMFORTING!

  Sorfeu let out a short laugh.

  — Welcome to the club, Micah. — he said, returning to his training stance. — Now get up. I haven’t finished killing you today.

  Micah groaned in protest.

  In the background, Bartkuma raised his eyes for a second.

  And smiled.

  Very slightly.

  But he smiled.

  ?A while later they went to have lunch. Micah didn't have a lunchbox, and he would only receive his pay starting next week.

  Fortunately, Sorfeu thought of that and brought an extra sandwich.

  While they ate outside, sitting on the Citadel steps, Thona and Asáimon appeared behind them.

  — We’re back. — Said Asáimon, crouching down and holding his friends' shoulders. — Who’s going up now?

  — Mmhh! Let’s’ decide on odds or evens! — Replied Lysandre, her voice muffled by pieces of sausage.

  Sorfeu looked at her then upwards, compressing his lips in an arc of doubt.

  — Sounds good to me.

  Felipa sighed; she was more pensive than usual today.

  The five gathered in a circle.

  — Two or one! — They said in unison.

  The majority were twos; Lysa was eliminated.

  She scowled, leaving the circle.

  — Two or one!

  The majority were ones; Micah was eliminated.

  — Tsk...

  Sorfeu gave a mocking smile to Lysa... he got flipped off in response.

  — Okay, okay, now go quickly before Reblis notices there’s no one up there.

  The pair went up to the second floor. They roamed the luxurious corridors for a while, passing by doors that led to art galleries, music rooms, guest apartments, and even a greenhouse.

  When they passed the large balcony that gave an incredible view of the lake and the city, Lysa stopped, observing the horizon.

  Micah joined her, leaning on the parapet.

  — What did you mean that day? When you told me I died “twice”? — He asked, taking advantage of the quiet moment.

  Lysandre looked at him from the corner of her eye.

  — Well, I meant exactly that. My Image allows me to see traces, like when you see footprints on the ground and recognize what animal they are. And I saw death passing through you twice.

  — But... I only died once. — Micah looked at her, half confused, half scared.

  She shrugged, moving away from the parapet.

  — Traces sometimes aren't that clear. You might have simply experienced death twice. Like the death of someone close.

  Micah remembered something. Not with grief. But guilt, a deep loathing of himself.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, waking him up before that feeling could deepen.

  — Come on, our shift isn't over yet. — She spoke with a smile that was too small. Something that didn't match Lysandre.

  ?...

  ?Meanwhile, on the ground floor, Felipa was training martial arts with Asáimon.

  Her strikes were precise, fast, made to finish, not prolong the fight. However, endurance was not one of her strong points.

  — Break! — She exclaimed, making the agreed-upon gesture.

  Asáimon suspended his kick mid-air, stopping a few centimeters from her shoulder.

  — I need to use the bathroom.

  Felipa left the hall without looking back.

  The ground floor corridor was narrower than the upper courtyards, with a low ceiling and old stone walls that still carried marks of poorly done renovations. The air there was colder, and the metallic smell of training — sweat, leather, dust — took a long time to dissipate.

  She was walking too fast for someone who “just needed to go to the bathroom.”

  Asáimon stood still for a second longer than necessary, still with his leg suspended, feeling his own balance complain about the abrupt interruption. He lowered his foot slowly, crossed his arms, and observed the direction in which Felipa had vanished.

  She didn't usually ask for a break. And when she did, she didn't leave like that.

  — Strange… — he murmured to himself.

  Without drawing attention, he tied the top part of his outfit and left the hall a few moments later, keeping enough distance not to be noticed — or, at least, to appear casual.

  Felipa turned left, then right. She didn't go to the bathroom.

  The rhythm of her steps was irregular: two fast, one slower. As if she were counting. Or holding her breath without realizing it.

  Asáimon recognized that pattern. People about to do something they shouldn't.

  She climbed a short flight of stairs and stopped before a discreet door, without a coat of arms, without a permanent guard: the private room of the watch office. The place where Reblis always spends his time to have his afternoon coffee alone.

  Felipa raised her hand. Hesitated.

  Her gloved fingers trembled slightly.

  She closed her hand, knocked twice.

  — Come in. — Reblis’s voice came almost immediately.

  The door opened, and Felipa entered too quickly to seem calm. Asáimon stopped in the middle of the stairs, leaning against the opposite wall, pretending to adjust his arm band while he listened.

  — Captain. — Felipa said, in a respectful but tense tone. — I need to speak with you. Alone.

  Reblis raised his eyes from the window, putting his cup on the table. It took him half a second longer than normal to respond.

  — About what?

  — About… a witness. — She swallowed hard. — Information that didn't go through official channels.

  Silence.

  Asáimon felt a slight shiver go up his neck. Witness. Not report. Not suspicion. Witness.

  — Close the door. — said Reblis, finally.

  The click of the door echoed louder than it should in the corridor.

  Asáimon moved away a little, but he didn't leave. He leaned his shoulder against the cold stone, staring into the void like someone who isn't listening — and hearing everything.

  He used his Image to repeat the sound waves through the walls. Focusing on maintaining the spell.

  On the other side of the door, Felipa took a deep breath before continuing.

  — Gunther… — She began, and the pause was almost imperceptible. — Said he saw Duke Wanderson talking to a rebel representative. Not a common agitator. But Danton Marat himself.

  The silence that followed was not empty. It was heavy.

  — When? — Reblis asked, his voice far too controlled.

  — Three days ago. On the second floor of the Citadel. According to him, it was fast. Discreet. But… clear enough. He... — She hesitated for an instant, as if considering omitting the information. — He also said he heard something about the three rebel factions having joined forces.

  Asáimon's eyes widened for an instant.

  — And why is this reaching me now?

  Felipa looked away. For an instant, Asáimon had the impression she was going to back down.

  — Because… — she squeezed her gloves tightly. — Because he asked me not to tell. Said it was dangerous. Said he wasn't absolutely sure.

  — And you thought you were. — Reblis concluded.

  — I thought that… — Felipa stopped. — I thought that, if it were true, silence would be worse than the mistake.

  Another pause. This time, longer.

  Asáimon felt something click — not a certainty, but a direction. Felipa wasn't acting like someone just passing on information. She was… paying a price.

  — Do you trust him? — Reblis asked.

  Felipa took a while to answer.

  — I… want to trust. — she said finally. — But that day he lied to his own brother. And that made me think that maybe it wasn't the only thing he was hiding.

  Outside, Asáimon closed his eyes for a second.

  So that's it. It's not just politics. It's personal.

  — Very well. — said Reblis. — This does not leave this room. Yet. But I will verify. And you…

  He interrupted his own sentence.

  — You did the right thing by coming here. — he concluded, in a tone that allowed no discussion. — But know that, from now on, you are also inside this.

  Felipa nodded, tense.

  — I know.

  The door opened a few seconds later. Felipa came out with the same fast pace — but her face was different. Paler. More closed off.

  She almost bumped into Asáimon.

  — Ah— — she stopped, surprised.

  — Forgot the way to the bathroom? — he asked, in a tone too light to be innocent.

  Felipa held his gaze for a second. Then she looked away.

  — Just needed some air.

  Asáimon tilted his head, watching her walk away down the corridor.

  She was trembling. Not from exhaustion.

  — Right… — he murmured. — Very interesting.

  ?...

  ?Voices and distant music echoed through the upper corridors of the Citadel. And the closer Micah and Lysa got to the Great Hall, the more the sound intensified.

  Slaves came and went carrying boxes of wine, silver trays, fine fabrics, and floral arrangements yet to be assembled.

  — It’s more crowded than usual. — Micah commented, dodging a hurried servant.

  — Guests. — replied Lysandre. — People who came from far away for the wedding. The Duke wouldn't leave these people stranded in cheap inns.

  The corridor opened into the Great Hall.

  The place was unrecognizable.

  New tapestries covered the stone walls, displaying ancient Luther coats of arms and ceremonial banners. Chandeliers, still unlit, hung from the high ceiling, and musicians tuned instruments in a corner, testing low chords that echoed through the space.

  Some nobles were already circulating through the hall, accompanied by advisors, whispering over glasses of wine. Others observed everything with that critical air of those who measure power by the luxury of others.

  Micah felt a strange tightness in his stomach.

  — I… shouldn't be here, right? — he murmured.

  — Relax. — Lysandre replied. — As long as you look lost enough, no one notices.

  They walked along the side of the hall, trying to go unnoticed.

  That was when Micah heard it.

  — …they say the Duke has been far too distracted lately.

  — Distracted? I would say imprudent.

  — Shhh. Not here.

  Micah slowed his pace, pretending interest in a statue.

  — I heard he’s been talking to… inconvenient people.

  — Rebels?

  — I wouldn't dare say that out loud.

  A low laugh.

  — With a wedding like this at the door? It would be political suicide.

  Lysandre didn't turn her head. But Micah noticed the change in her body — sharp attention, reading the room. The trace beginning to form.

  — Is this… — Micah whispered. — Is this normal?

  — No. — she replied, dryly. — Rumors planted too early always have a finger behind them.

  They moved a few more steps forward.

  Another group of nobles, further away.

  — Wanderson was always a flaneur disguised as a ruler.

  — A man who likes to observe more than to act.

  — Well, perhaps he has observed the wrong side of the city.

  Micah felt a shiver.

  — Lysa…

  — I know. — she interrupted. — And it’s going to get worse.

  And then Micah saw.

  Leaning against a marble column, élise was talking to Rebbeka, Reblis’s sister and future Duchess. A waiter had passed by to offer them glasses of wine. élise swirled her glass a bit, savoring every aspect of the alcohol, but Rebbeka hardly paid attention to her drink. Her vision was glued to élise in a strange way, while she fidgeted with her emerald necklace restlessly.

  They were too close, as if whispering something, but far enough not to raise suspicion.

  — What is she doing here? — Micah asked, looking at the heiress.

  — The one in red? She isn't noble, but her family has a history with this city. So it’s somewhat expected that she’d be invited to parties like this. — She replied, subtly picking up a ham snack.

  — Honestly, I think she’s a bit of a snob. — She continued commenting while chewing. — But who am I to judge, right?

  As if the hall itself had heard the omen, a louder murmur began near the entrance.

  ?The main doors opened.

  ?Captain Reblis entered the Great Hall with the firm step of someone who doesn't belong to the decoration but commands it.

  The uniform was impeccable, the dark cloak contrasting with the light fabrics of the imminent party. Two guards followed right behind, but Reblis made a short gesture, dismissing them before even fully crossing the doorway.

  The hall reacted immediately.

  Conversations diminished. Some nobles straightened up. Others smiled with a cordiality that was far too rehearsed.

  Micah felt his body freeze.

  — Oh no… — he murmured.

  Reblis saw them almost immediately.

  ?Not by chance — he always saw.

  ?— Awakened Micah. — he said more formally than usual, approaching. — Investigator Tabaco.

  — Captain. — Lysandre replied, slightly bowing her head.

  Micah tried to imitate her, a second late.

  — I didn't know you had been stationed here. — Reblis continued, his gaze sweeping the hall over them. — Wasn't your shift external?

  — Change of orders. — replied Lysandre. — Internal supervision while the guests arrive.

  Reblis nodded slowly.

  — Makes sense. — he said. — Crowded places are… fertile.

  His gaze rested for an instant longer on Micah.

  — Are you adapting?

  — I-I think so, sir.

  — Good. — Reblis replied. — Then pay attention.

  He leaned in a bit, lowering his tone.

  — I have reason to suspect there is a traitor among the nobles.

  Lysandre narrowed her eyes.

  — Do you want us to observe someone specific?

  — I want you to observe everyone. Especially those who seem to just be enjoying the party.

  He straightened up.

  — Ah. And Tabaco?

  — Yes?

  — If your traces start to get… too strange, let me know before drawing conclusions.

  She held his gaze for a second.

  — Of course, Captain.

  Reblis nodded and moved on through the hall, immediately surrounded by greetings and fake smiles.

  Wanderson was already descending from the mezzanine with open arms, ready to greet him.

  Micah released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

  He looked around again.

  The wine, the laughter, the musicians tuning, the nobles whispering.

  ?Three days remained until the wedding.

  ?...

  ?A few hours after the sun went down, at the North Gate, two guards were on duty.

  — Man, I'm gonna take a piss. Be right back. — One of them said, yawning.

  The man went to a dry bush, holding his spear with his shoulder while he relieved himself.

  He cleared his throat, pulling up his pants, until...

  — Don't move. — A woman said behind him, holding a dagger against his neck. — Drop the spear. Now.

  He obeyed, mortified.

  — Where is the Royal Alchemist?

  — I-I don't know—

  She pressed the blade against his jugular, drawing a thread of blood.

  — You live on Believers’ Street, don't you? Number 262. Married, three children and another on the way. Do you want to try lying to me again?

  He turned pale.

  — N-no... Please, they're all I have—

  — I won't ask again. Where is Ezra?

  — H-he went to Zenith three days ago to attend the Conference. It's to the southwest of here, I think.

  ?There was a blow to the back of his head, and the guard blacked out.