The
Infirmary – The Next Morning
Morning light bleeds through
sheer curtains, thin and pale, doing little to chase the sterile
chill from the hospital room. Korvin sits in a straight-backed chair
by the window, posture rigid from hours without sleep. The chair
creaks faintly when he shifts, but he barely notices.
A few feet away, Cain sits
beside the heavy gurney. He hasn’t moved much all morning. One hand
grips Lucille’s, careful of the IV line taped along her arm, thumb
brushing slow circles against her knuckles like he’s afraid she
might slip away if he stops.
Lucille sleeps.
A blanket is pulled up to
her chest, the hospital gown loose against her small frame. A heart
monitor ticks steadily beside her, each soft beep a reminder that
she’s still here. Still breathing. Still alive. In sleep, her face
looks younger, softer, unburdened by fear, pain, or stubborn
defiance. Almost peaceful.
Korvin hasn’t slept. He
came in with her, never left her side until the medics forced him to
sit. Even now, he can still see it, her body going slack in his arms,
the warmth of her blood soaking into his gloves, the way the world
narrowed to the sound of her breathing slowing, thinning.
He’s cleaned himself
since. Scrubbed his hands raw. Still, flecks of dried blood remain
beneath his nails, a faint rust-colored reminder he can’t quite
erase.
A book rests open in his
lap. The same book Lucille had reached for in the Archives. He turns
a page without reading, eyes unfocused, thoughts elsewhere.
The room is quiet. Machines
hum. Monitors beep. Outside, the Academy stirs to life, unaware of
how close it came to disaster.
The door creaks open.
Korvin looks up.
General Tiberius steps
inside, presence filling the room without effort. 142 and 139 flank
him, silent as ever. Tiberius’ gaze goes first to Lucille,
lingering on her bandaged form, the IV line, the steady rise and fall
of her chest. Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes.
Then he turns to Korvin and
offers a small, controlled smile, the kind reserved for officers
who’ve survived worse nights than most.
142 steps forward, holding
a modest bouquet of flowers, starkly out of place in his massive
hands. 139 follows, carrying a small gift basket stocked with fresh
fruit, compact survival tools, and a handful of pocket-sized survival
manuals. At a subtle gesture from their Master, both Vardengard place
the gifts gently on the table beside Lucille’s gurney.
Korvin rises immediately,
snapping to attention despite the ache in his bones. He brings a fist
to his chest and bows at the waist. “General.”
Cain stands as well,
mirroring the salute, though he sits back down almost at once,
unwilling to release Lucille’s hand for more than a heartbeat.
Tiberius nods to both of them, then looks back to Lucille. “How is she?” he asks, voice low, even.
Korvin exhales slowly. “She’ll recover,” he says. “It was close. But she fought to the end. Did not give up, no sir.”
Tiberius studies the girl in the bed again, expression thoughtful, calculating. After a moment, he nods once. “Zat much was evident.”
Tiberius studies Lucille for a long moment before speaking again. “You have taught her well,” he says at last, voice low, measured. “I should have known she vas one of yours.”
Korvin’s mouth almost curves into a smile. Almost. He folds his arms across his chest instead, posture tightening. “She learns quick,” he says softly. “Too quick, sometimes. She wants to be better than she is, bless her heart.”
Tiberius nods once. “She is a Domitian,” he says simply. “Zat alone is a weight most never escape.”
His gaze drifts then, sharp and assessing, to Cain. He does not comment, does not acknowledge the title clinging to the boy like shadow, but the recognition is there—the way Cain sits close, refuses to let go of Lucille’s hand.
“She killed one of zem,” Tiberius continues, eyes returning to the gurney. “Clean cut. Severed artery. Clever.”
Korvin inclines his head. “She knows how to kill to survive,” he says quietly. “She’s real good with a blade, for her age.”
Tiberius hums, approval faint but present. “Her scores support zat. Three trained soldiers. She gave zem real fight. She vill make fine soldier when she graduates.”
Korvin lifts a brow. “You looked into her dossier.”
A soft chuckle escapes the General. “Of course I did,” Tiberius says. “I vanted to know more about the child who stopped traitor cell from walking avay vith something I have been hunting for months.”
Korvin’s expression sharpens. “So that’s why you came to the Academy.”
“Yes,” Tiberius’s eyes darken slightly. “Artifacts. Documents. People. Zey have been disappearing for some time. There is more, but not for this room.”
He steps closer to the gurney, lowering his voice as if Lucille might hear him even in sleep. “This Academy holds records zey are after. Old ones. Dangerous ones. I came to secure zem before traitors could.”
His gaze lingers on Lucille’s bandaged arm, the slow rise and fall of her chest. “I did not expect zem to already be here.”
Korvin hesitates, then presses, “The documents. The traitors. Are there more of them? What exactly were they after?”
Tiberius strokes his beard, thoughtful. “Zere are always more,” he says calmly. “As for vat zey vanted… control. Leashes. Old safeguards meant to bind tings zat should never be owned.”
He straightens, the weight of command settling back into his posture. “Everything zey attempted to take is now in my possession,” he says. “Where it vill remain.”
The monitors continue their steady rhythm. Cain tightens his grip on Lucille’s hand just slightly.
Tiberius looks down at her one last time. “She has good instincts,” he says quietly. “Dangerous ones.”
Korvin doesn’t argue.
“Vhat vas she doing in ze Archives,” he asks, voice calm but edged vith authority, “at zat hour? She should have been asleep in her dorm.”
Korvin exhales heavily through his nose. “She had this on her when we found her.” He lifts the book from his lap, holding it out so Tiberius can see.
Tiberius steps closer,
reads the title, and a slow smile creases his face. It is not amused,
more knowing.
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“A good read,” he says.
“I’ve gone through it a dozen times myself.”
Korvin blinks. “I ain't sure I’ve ever read it,” he admits. “It ain't part of the curriculum. Was archived, sealed with the rest of the restricted material. Don’t know how she even knew it existed.”
Tiberius’s smile widens
just slightly. “Curious minds find curious tings. You should read it too, vhen you have ze time,” he adds, nodding toward the book.
While the two men speak,
142 and 139 remain standing beside Lucille’s gurney, silent as
statues. Their attention shifts, not to her face, but to her arm.
139 gestures subtly, two
fingers indicating Lucille’s exposed forearm.
142 leans closer. Slowly,
carefully, he reaches out and turns her arm just enough for the light
to catch the old scar etched into her skin. His hand stills.
The two Vardengard lock
eyes. They know it.
Tiberius notices the pause
from the corner of his eye. “Vhat is it,” he asks without turning. “Vhat do you see?”
Both Vardengard step back
from the gurney, hands folding behind their backs. There is
hesitation now, something rare and unsettling.
After a moment, 142 speaks.
“She bears a scar of Valroth Kyr.”
Korvin feels the blood
drain from his face.
Tiberius finally turns
fully toward them, one brow lifting. “A scar of Valroth Kyr,” he
repeats quietly. His gaze returns to Lucille. “On someone so
young.”
Cain looks up sharply.
“What does that mean?”
Neither Vardengard answers.
Tiberius does. “It means,” he says, voice low, measured, “zat she has been chosen.”
Korvin’s jaw tightens.
“Chosen by a god,” he says flatly. “That’s never meant
anything good.”
“Not always,” Tiberius
agrees. “But not always bad.” He studies Lucille for a long
moment. “It means doors will open for her. Perhaps even a House.”
Korvin stiffens.
Tiberius continues casually, “I have a son, only a year younger zan her.” His eyes flick deliberately to Cain. “And yet… it seems another House already has its eyes on her.”
Cain says nothing. He does
not look up. But color creeps into his cheeks, slow and unmistakable,
as realization sets in. His grip on Lucille’s hand tightens by a
fraction.
Korvin clears his throat.
“What do you plan to do now,” he asks, “now that you have what
you came for?”
Tiberius straightens. “Vhat happened here is part of something larger. A pattern still unfolding. There is more to investigate.” He pauses, then adds, “But you should not have to worry about further trouble here. Not from zis.”
As if in quiet defiance of
that reassurance, Lucille stirs.
Her fingers twitch. Her
breath catches, then steadies.
Tiberius stands at the foot
of her gurney. All eyes turn to her at once.
Lucille’s lashes tremble.
Her brow creases faintly, as if the world is pulling her back against
her will. She inhales sharply, breath hitching, and her eyes finally
open.
Light hurts. The room
swims.
Her fingers tighten
instinctively, finding Cain’s hand already wrapped around hers. The
pressure grounds her, anchors her, but her gaze drifts anyway, slow,
unfocused, until it lands on the tall figure standing at the foot of
the gurney.
General Tiberius.
Even half-conscious, she
feels it. The weight of him. The gravity. He is not armored now, not
marching, not surrounded by ceremony, and yet he fills the room more
completely than the machines, the Vardengard, the instructors. His
glowing blue eyes meet hers.
Tiberius smiles. It is not
unkind. Not warm, either. It is the smile of a man who has seen wars
begin and end and learned to measure people in moments.
“Vell,” he says calmly.
“Zere you are.”
Lucille swallows. Her
throat feels like sandpaper. “Did… did I—”
“Live?” 139 mutters
quietly, arms folded. “Ja.”
Cain leans forward
instantly. “Easy,” he murmurs, voice tight with relief. “Don’t
talk yet.”
Lucille blinks at him, then
back at Tiberius. Memory crashes in fragments, black cloth, knives,
the burn in her side, blood on stone. Her free hand twitches,
drifting weakly toward her bandaged torso.
“They didn’t—” she
starts.
“They didn’t get away,”
Korvin says firmly from her other side. He steps closer, placing
himself just within her line of sight. “Because of you.”
Her eyes widen, just a
little.
Tiberius studies her eyes
with open interest now. One blue. One green. Polychromatic, striking
even dulled by pain and exhaustion. “Pretty,” he says at last,
almost idly. “Eyes like zat do not belong on children vho bleed
on stone floors.”
Lucille swallows. Her lips
press thin. “It isn’t the first time,” she says quietly. “I’ve
had to fight like that.”
Something shifts in the
room. Korvin’s jaw tightens. Cain’s fingers curl around hers just
a little more.
Tiberius inclines his head,
as if that answers more than it should. “I know,” he says,
without explaining how. “Und I vould not pretend zat comforts me.”
His gaze sharpens. “But dose instincts? Dose reactions? Zey should be honed. Disciplined. Refined. You vill make fine soldier one day. One any House vould be proud to claim.”
Color creeps into Lucille’s
cheeks despite herself. She looks impossibly small against the white
sheets, wires, and bandages. “You… you really mean that?”
Tiberius laughs, low and
brief. “I am a General. I do not lie.” He gestures faintly toward 142 and 139. “Ask zem. Zey are harder to impress zan I am.”
139 huffs. 142’s mouth
twitches, almost a smile.
Lucille hesitates, then
asks the question that’s been gnawing at her since the blood loss
dulled the edges of fear. “What were they after?”
Korvin answers immediately.
“That isn’t something you need to concern yourself with anymore.”
Tiberius lifts a hand.
“It is all right. Zey vere after old tings. Dangerous tings. Ancient methods meant to control, restrain, or erase beings like my men. Tings zat should never fall into wrong hands.”
Lucille’s fingers curl
weakly against the blanket. “The Vardengard…”
“Ja. And because of you, dose methods are secured. And because of you, zey vould not be used.” Tiberius says.
He steps aside slightly and
gestures to the table beside her bed. The flowers. The basket. “Now you rest. Heal. Enjoy ze gifts.”
Lucille turns her head
slowly, taking them in. The fruit. The compact survival manuals. The
pocket tools. Her gaze catches on the knife, small, balanced,
beautiful. The wolf’s head sigil stamped into the hilt gleams
softly.
Her breath hitches. “Thank
you,” she whispers. “I… I haven’t read two of these books.”
“Zat vill change,”
Tiberius says.
Her eyes flick toward the
book Korvin still holds. “The one I took…”
Tiberius nods. “The
Silent Forms of War,” he says. “An old treatise. Footwork.
Breath control. How to fight when you are smaller, slower, or
bleeding.” His mouth curves faintly. “It’s been buried in
archives for a reason. People forget what it teaches.”
Korvin exhales slowly. “I
don’t recall seeing it on any syllabus.”
“You wouldn’t,”
Tiberius replies. “But you should read it.”
Then, to Lucille’s
surprise, he reaches into the inside of his coat and produces another
book. Smaller. Well-worn. The leather is creased, the corners
softened by years of handling.
He sets it gently atop the
blanket within her reach.
“Zis one is mine," Tiberius says, " I carried it through three vars. I think it is time someone else learned from it.”
Lucille stares at the book
as if it might vanish. Slowly, reverently, she curls her fingers
around the cover.
“I….” Her voice
catches. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then do not speak,”
Tiberius says simply. “Read. Heal. Grow.”
He straightens, already
turning away, the weight of command settling back onto him like
armor. “Ve vill speak again someday, Lucille Domitian.”
Her heart stutters at her
name on his tongue.
As he moves toward the door
with his Vardengard, Cain leans closer, forehead nearly touching
hers. “Told you,” he murmurs softly. “You ain't a mistake.”
Lucille exhales, clutching
the books to her chest as the pain dulls and the world steadies.
Korvin steps closer to the
gurney once the door seals shut behind General Tiberius and his
Vardengard. The room exhales with them gone, the weight easing just
enough to notice it.
Only then does Korvin
speak.
“You have good eyes on
you now,” he says quietly, looking down at Lucille with something
close to pride, something close to concern. “Men like him frighten
the weak of heart. But Tiberius is… a good man. As much as one can
be, at his level.”
Lucille swallows, nodding
faintly.
Cain squeezes her hand,
unable to help himself. The relief is still written all over his
face, raw and unguarded. “I’m just glad you’re alive,” he
says, then adds, softer but firm, “You should’ve woken me up. I
would’ve gone with you.”
She lets out a small, tired
chuckle. “You would’ve tried to stop me.”
His mouth twitches. He
doesn’t deny it.
Korvin watches the exchange
with a faint smile. “Next time,” he says evenly, “just ask me.
Cadets aren’t allowed in the Archives, but instructors are. I’d
be more than happy to retrieve any books you want, without knives and
blood being involved.”
Lucille gives a weak nod.
“Yes, sir.”
Outside the room, the
corridor feels colder.
Tiberius turns down the
hall and nearly collides with Captain Caepio, who stops short, helmet
clutched under one arm, its surface shimmering faintly under the
sterile lights. Caepio straightens instantly, clears his throat, and
salutes; fist over heart.
“General,” he says. “I…
I wanted to ask how Cadet Domitian is doing.”
Tiberius does not answer
right away. He simply looks at Caepio.
It is not an angry stare.
Not overtly threatening. It is the look of a man reading a ledger
written in flesh and consequence. Everything Caepio has done,
everything he has failed to do, sits plainly between them, unspoken,
but understood.
When Tiberius finally
speaks, his voice is calm. “She vill be a grand varrior one day,”
he says. “Remember that.”
Nothing more.
Tiberius steps past him.
The Vardengard follow in silence, their footsteps fading down the
corridor like the echo of marching boots long after a war has ended.
Caepio remains where he is,
helmet heavy in his grip, the words settling into him like a warning.
