Chapter Four – The Capital
Dawn had barely crested the jagged horizon when the Capital unfurled before them. Cleft felt his breath catch in awe as the city rose like a slumbering titan made of stone. Towers of pale granite spread upward. The outer walls were built high and laced with ruins that crawled across the surface like living scripts.
Elio gave a sharp whistle. A moment later, the capital’s gates groaned open. A pair of armed guards stepped out, one of them straightened when he recognized Elio. “Adeptus Marrowind, we weren’t expecting riders this late.”
“We were held up by a slight delay.” Elio replied, dismounting stiffly.
Cleft slid off his horse, his legs nearly gave away beneath him. Elio caught his elbow before he fell. “Easy.” Elio murmured.
Cleft jerked away, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”
Inside the courtyard, torches cast long shadows against the stones. Soldiers moved with purpose, though many glanced curiously at Cleft. One soldier hurried over, carrying two waterskins. Elio took them and handed one to Cleft. “Drink.”
Cleft did and nearly choked on the first gulp, but the cool water revived him.
As they crossed the courtyard, Cleft caught the low murmurs of soldiers whispering behind him.
“That’s the boy?”
“He’s barely older than my nephew.”
Cleft’s cheeks burned. He lowered his gaze, wishing Kaelith were there, wishing he knew how to carry all of this without feeling self-conscious.
Elio placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of grounding. “Ignore them.” He said quietly.
That was easier said than done. Cleft looked past the courtyard’s inner archway. The Capital stretched far beyond it, stone wards, towering walls and ward light running like veins through the entire city.
A cluster of teens paused in their tracks as they caught sight of Cleft, their clothes reeked of nobility. A brown head nudged a blond boy before nodding in his direction, they whispered something to each other and laughed.
Cleft was suddenly very aware of what he must have looked like to them: a stranger, bruised, bloodstained and obviously younger than a typical Adeptus. He was not new to mockery, the children in Veredale didn’t take much liking to him. In fact, they feared him. He was the fire-wielding monster that accidentally burned down the town fair one year, and it looked like things weren’t going to be any different here.
Elio must have sensed the shift in him. “Eyes forward.” He murmured. “They don’t know you.”
“Does it matter?” Cleft grunted.
“It does.” Elio replied sternly. “Now follow me.”
They climbed a short rise toward the inner rampart, where the corridor unfurled into a long, vaulted passageway lined with torches. As Cleft passed, the flames bent subtly towards him. Elio’s eyes narrowed in silent acknowledgement, though he said nothing
A turn in the hall brought them into the inner ward, where they halted before the tallest stone door Cleft had ever seen. It towered over them like a monument; its surface carved with the sprawling silhouette of a great oak. Upon closer inspection, Cleft notice the finer details. Delicate names etched into each leaf, hundreds of them, intertwined with the branch like a lineage woven into living stone.
Elio stepped forward and pressed his palm to the carved trunk at the door’s center. Mechanisms churned behind the walls in a slow, heavy rotation. Not a moment later, the massive doors shuddered open to reveal a chamber drenched in warm, amber candlelight.
A crescent table with eight seats stood at the end of the hall. seven figures occupied the seats, six men and a woman, each dressed in a different colored robe, some of whom watched him with thinly veiled curiosity while others tried to mask their distaste.
Elio gave him a subtle nod. “Move.”
Cleft stepped farther into the hall, boots brushing softly over polished stone. The doors groaned shut behind them, and the stillness of the chamber pressed in. Cleft forced himself not to fidget as the council members regarded him like scholars appraising an artifact.
The woman was the first to speak. “Master Thirteen, we may begin.” She commanded sternly.
The man beside her tore his gray eyes from Cleft and nodded once. He drew a parchment toward him and set his quill to it without a word. Cleft glanced at Elio in confusion. Elio didn’t meet his eyes. His posture straightened, shoulders squared, every trace of travel weariness was gone from his face.
“Cleft Vanderval of Veredale, you stand before the Council of Adeptus today and we are here to evaluate you.” The woman announced sternly.
The man with the quill, Master Thirteen, didn’t look up. His strokes were neat, precise, and almost too controlled. Each scratch of ink dug under Cleft’s skin. It felt as though every breath he took, every flicker of doubt across his face was being captured on that parchment.
Cleft’s gaze shifted to the woman at the center of the table. Her amber hair was tied into a tight knot, held in place by a single wooden pin that looked more like a weapon than an ornament. Her stare was sharp, stern, unwavering. And when her eyes locked onto his, Cleft’s chest tightened. She was reading him, peeling back the parts he kept hidden, stripping him down to the truth he wished he could bury forever.
“State your age.” She began, her voice almost mechanical.
Cleft hesitated. “Sixteen.”
A soft murmur passed between the robbed figures. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Master Thirteen peer at him from behind his glasses. “Tell us, when did you first exhibit signs of elemental affinity?”
“When I was six.” Cleft said quietly.
“Describe the event.”
Cleft didn’t need to recall it, the memory rose on its own. Thick smoke pooled along the ceiling, sinking lower until it smothered the tiny room. The reek of burning flesh turned his stomach. His mother’s voice, her screams. Cut through the roar of the fire. Then Kaelith’s arms wrapped around him, wrenching him back just as the flames surged forward, claiming the last of their home.
“The wolves attacked us,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Inside our own home.”
There was a dead silence in the room. The only sound was the sharp scratching of Master Thirteen’s quill across parchment.
“And that is when Kaelith found you.” Master Thirteen continued. Not a question, just a statement, delivered with the precision of someone cataloging a story in his manuscript.
“Correct.” Cleft responded.
Master Thirteen’s quill halted mid-stroke. He added a few clipped, calculated marks to the parchment before raising his head. Those pale eyes, framed by half-moon glasses, slide over Cleft with clinical detachment.
“Tell me,” He said, voice leveled but edged with scrutiny, “did Kaelith of Veredale instruct you in the use of the sigil?” Each word landed like a probe, testing for fractures.
Cleft’s stomach tightened. His fingers curled at his sides, and for a moment, he couldn’t find his voice. The chamber felt impossibly still, as if the air were holding its breath. Cleft could see the council members lean forward. This was the reason he was brought in for questioning; he was sure of it.
“No.” he said finally. “I saw it in a dream.”
The council members exchanged subtle, almost imperceptible glances, their curiosity sharpening into something keener, judgement, perhaps, or disbelief. Master Thirteen raised his pale eyes, studying Cleft over the rims of his half-moon glasses. With a faint, almost dismissive flick of his hand, he signaled Cleft to continue.
“I saw myself performing the same magic in the dream.” Cleft said slowly, each word measured, as though the chamber itself might judge him for speaking. “I…I had revived someone.”
A flicker of movement rippled across the council. A raise of eyebrow, a tightened jaw. Master Thirteen’s quill hovered for a heartbeat, then resumed its deliberate scratching, slower this time, as if savoring the significance of the words.
“And what price,” Master Thirteen probed. “did you pay for that exchange?
Cleft’s throat tightened. His pulse thudded loud enough that he wondered if they could hear it too. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words, but the memory, if it was a memory, rose like a bruised touched too soon. Cleft opened his mouth to answer Master Thirteen’s question, but the air shifted, subtle at first, barely more than a cold draft curling along the floor. Then the candles guttered as a deeper shadow spilled across the chamber.
A presence settled behind him.
The council members straightened; one stiffened so sharply, his chair scraped the stone.
Cleft turned.
Selene stood framed in the doorway like the ghost of a winter storm, pale skin gleaming in the candlelight, icy blue eyes fixed on him. She didn’t move, yet the room seemed to rearrange itself around her. She stepped forward, smoothly and controlled, each stride landing like a verdict. The council parted without a word, chairs shifting back just enough to let her pass. She didn’t look at them; her gaze never left Cleft.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, but it cut sharper than any blade. “Tell me, Cleft,” She said, “what did you pay for the life you restored?”
The question landed squarely on him. Cleft felt the council’s attention slide back in his direction, their gaze sharp and expectant, too expectant, as though they were ready to devour whatever truth he offered. He looked at Selene instinctively. Their eyes met for a split second, and she gave the slightest shake of her head, so subtle he could have missed it.
Don’t
The message rippled through him.
He tore his gaze away, pulse hammering in his ears. The council was closing in with nothing more than their silence, a slow construction that demanded answers he wasn’t sure he could give or should have.
Master Thirteen watched him calmly, fingers resting atop the parchment as if ready to record whatever truth tumbled out of his mouth.
“Well?” The scribe murmured, his tone patient, but edged like a knife dulled only on one side. “Speak.”
Cleft swallowed hard. “The dream stopped there.” He lied through his teeth.
The words settled over the chamber like a spreading shadow, heavy, inescapable. A faint murmur rippled through the council, muted and disbelieving, though none of them dared to voice it.
Master Thirteen’s quill hovered in midair, still for the first time, before he slowly lowered it. A thin smirk tugged at his lips. He cast a sidelong glance at Selene, as if convinced the truth now lay plainly before him. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands and watched the rest of the scene unfold.
Selene’s gaze didn’t move. She remained perfectly still, hands folded, expression unreadable. But there was a flicker, a tightening at the corner of her eyes that told Cleft she had heard the lie as clearly as if he had shouted it. The council members waited, their silence wasn’t patient, it was predatory.
The emerald robed woman leaned forward, the metal rings on her sleeves clicking softly. “Dreams of revival.” She murmured. “And conveniently incomplete.”
A few of the others exchanged glances, sharper this time, no longer masked. Cleft’s pulse thudded beneath his skin.
Master Thirteen’s smirk deepened. “Dreams reveal much, even when the dreamer chooses not to.” His tone was light, almost conversational, but every syllable felt like the slow tightening of a snare. “Especially when they end abruptly.”
“Dreams are unstable by nature.” Selene said evenly, her voice cutting clean through the murmurs. “Fragments do not always choose to align. What matters is what remains consistent.”
The council’s attention shifted toward her, and she used that moment, just a breath, to let her eyes flicker toward Cleft. Not a warning this time, a reminder. He wasn’t out of danger.
Master Thirteen tapped the end of his quill against the parchment, thoughtful. “Then perhaps,” he said, “we should test what remains consistent.”
Cleft’s stomach dropped, because he knew by the look in Thirteen’s pale eyes, that whatever came next wouldn’t be a question. It would be proof. A long, deliberate silence followed Master Thirteen’s words. The council seemed to shift in unison. Chairs creaked, robes rustled. No one spoke, yet the air grew taut, humming with anticipation.
“In a month time, the Acolytes will undergo the Ascension Trial to claim their first weapons.” Elio’s voice cut through the chamber at last, measured, resonant, impossible to ignore. The sudden sound made Cleft jolt, he had nearly forgotten the man was even there, silent as carved stone until now.
“Given the irregularities in this boy,” he continued, his gaze sweeping the council before settling on Cleft. “I will take responsibility for his oversight.”
Several council members shifted at that, some surprised, others displeased, but none willing to challenge him. Master Thirteen’s pale eyes lingered on Cleft for a moment longer, as if committing every detail to memory, then flickered back to Selene.
“Until the Ascension Trial,” Selene declared, “he shall be under Elio Marrowind’s supervision.”
Cleft let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The weight pressing down on him eased slightly. Elio’s hand brushed against his shoulder, grounding him. Selene’s icy gaze softened just a fraction, offering the smallest nod of reassurance. For the first time since he entered the Capital, Cleft allowed himself to feel, if only briefly, a glimmer of something like safety.
Master Thirteen only smirked, quill once more scratching across his parchment, as though everything had unfolded exactly as he predicted.
ns216.73.216.204da2
and then Add to home screen.