The roar of the students finally begins to recede, dropping from a deafening crescendo of chants into a buzzing, high-frequency hum of adrenaline. The chants still seemingly bounce off the stone walls of the Academy courtyard, fading into the twilight, but the energy in the air does not dissipate.
If anything, it thickens.
General Callum Icepelt remains standing in front of his audience, his chest heaving slightly, his red eyes scanning the ranks with a possessive, electric intensity. He is radiating power. It isn't just the natural charisma of a leader who has just delivered a rousing speech; it feels like something almost tangible.
I stand at the back of the formation, my hands clasped tightly behind my back in parade rest. I keep my face impassive, a mask of disciplined stoicism, but inside, I am reeling.
I feel it.
Deep in my gut, a fire is kindling. It is a warm, golden desire to draw my sword and scream until my throat bleeds. It is an itch in my knuckles to strike bone for the glory of the Empire. It is a swelling in my chest that feels suspiciously like patriotism, like a profound, tear-jerking love for the man standing in front of me and the everything he represents. I want to die for him, kill for him deliver glory in his name and the Kings.
For the Empire, the thought rises unbidden in my mind, sweet and seductive. For the King. He is the path. He is the light. The Empire brings good to chaos. He points the way.
I frown, the expression breaking my mask.
Good? The way?
I don't do righteous. I don't do blind loyalty to anyone or anything. I do what's necessary to make my life better and easier, sometimes I'll do vengeance. Never in my life have I ever had any love for this Empire or any of the authority figures inside it. All of them are responsible for the murdering of my parents in my mind.
So why do I suddenly want to die for him?
The feeling is alien. And unnatural.
I hiss internally.
I close my eyes, shutting out the visual stimulus of the General's imposing figure against the darkening sky. I turn my gaze inward remembering the sensation of coldness of Proctors Dengs room and her pale hand in my mind. Thankfully it works and I drop away from the physical world and plunging into the cold, oily depths of my Soul Sea.
The transition is instantaneous. The roar of the courtyard is replaced by the silence of the void. The humid air of the Academy is replaced by the chill of my own spirit.
I look at the expanse of my soul sea and I see the Wolf Constellation that represent my Fearmonger is erupt in planetary flame it's mouth snarling. But it isn't angry at me. It is agitated by something external. It is snarling above itself jaws open at what looks like flies, thrashing against an intrusion that seeks to pacify it.
What the fuck? I mutter.
I tap into the Mark. I don't just channel the strength; I channel the awareness. The Fearmonger is a sensory mark. It detects fear, yes, but it is also a predator's eye. It sees the emotional currents of prey.
I open my eyes in the physical world.
The world shifts.
The vibrant colors of the sunset, the red of the General's eyes, the white robes of the proctors it all desaturates. The world drains of its natural pigment, becoming a landscape of muted greys, charcoals, and deep blacks.
But overlaid on the grey is a web of blinding, pulsing light.
It is Gold.
It radiates from the General like a supernova, casting long, ethereal tendrils that hook into the chests of every student in the courtyard. I see the threads connecting to Lucian, to Vihaan, to the Fourth Years at the front. The threads pulse rhythmically, beating in time with the General's heart, pumping a synthetic emotion directly into their nervous systems.
Aggression. Loyalty. Fearlessness.
I look down at my own chest.
I see a thread hooked into me, glowing softly, vibrating with that sickening warmth.
My frown deepens into a sneer. The general has a fucking mark that attacks the mind.
The type of mark reminds me of Ja Hoon an ability to manipulate emotions. But he never even got the chance to develop them before he died. I remember his head being popped like a piece of fruit. What type of monster would Ja Hoon have become if he had lived? I wonder. I stare at General Icepelt. This strong perhaps? I watch the golden light pulse, feeling the artificial urge to scream "Hoorah" rise in my throat again, fighting against my cynicism.
He's playing us, I realize, a cold, hard anger washing over me. He's not inspiring us. He's reprogramming us.
It is a violation. It is a subtle, invisible hand reaching inside my ribcage and tweaking my heartstrings to play the song he wants to hear. He is turning us into meat puppets, ensuring that when he points at the enemy and says "go," we do it with a smile.
Get out, I hiss again this time outloud, channeling the freezing cold of the Soul Sea.
I concede, grudgingly, that a Mark of Power capable of directly affecting the emotions of an entire student body of hundreds of Awakened is a terrifying weapon. It can turn cowards into berserkers. It ensures that the army before him moves as one organism, devoid of hesitation. It is the ultimate commander's tool.
But I am not a tool. I am better than that.
I focus on my power and the cold just like proctor deng taught me and I take deep's breath slowly increasing my bloodlust.
Snap.
I visualize the golden thread severing. I command the Wolf Constellation to engulf the flies buzzing around inside my soul sea.
Instantly, the warmth in my chest vanishes. The desire to die for the Empire evaporates like mist in the sun, replaced by my usual cocktail of cynicism, self-preservation, and a newly vindicated dose of paranoia.
The General is still standing there, looking majestic. But now, stripped of the influence, I just see a large man in a fancy uniform shouting about war. He is dangerous, yes. But no longer do I think he's some type of gift from the Gods.
I look around at the other students. Their eyes are glazed with zealotry. They are high on his supply. Even Vihaan, who loves killing for its own sake, looks strangely disciplined, his chaotic bloodlust channeled into a focused beam.
I think that the effectiveness of his power relies heavily on the subject being unaware. It relies on the subject believing the emotion is their own.
Because the General is broadcasting this influence over hundreds people, the hold on any single individual is wide, but thin. It is a blanket, not a shackle. Once I realized what it was once I rejected the emotion as foreign it slid off me like water off oil.
This realization makes me pause, the sneer fading into a look of deep concentration.
Mental defense, I think.
The implications are terrifying.
If I can break this... can someone break mine?
My entire combat style is based the illusions of the Veilshaper, the paralyzing aura of the Fearmonger relies on messing with the enemy's head. I rely on the Fearmonger to freeze their muscles with terror. I rely on the Veilshaper to feed them lies that they accept as reality.
But what if I face someone who has accessed their Soul Sea? What if I face an Elite who knows how to guard their mind?
If they can recognize the fear is artificial, will the Fearmonger fail? If they can see the logic flaws in the illusion, will the Veil shatter?
I watch the General, watching how easily he manipulates the crowd, and I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the wind.
Mind marks are the most insidious. They don't break your bones; they change who you are. They rewrite your reality. I need to shore up the walls of my own mind. I need to make sure that no one can walk into my head and rearrange the furniture again. And I need to test my own powers against strong minds, to see where the flaws in my own powers lie.
I look at the General again.
Our eyes meet for a split second across the distance. He is scanning the crowd, feeding on their adoration.
I have a moment of begrudging respect.
I was able to break out of the power so easily because the General was using it on every student in formation. He is diluting the potency to cover the mass. If he focused that golden light solely on me? If he poured that ocean of influence into a single cup?
I might not have been able to cut the thread. I might have been his slave.
I shift my weight, the gravel crunching under my boot. I close my eyes for a blink, reaching for the silver thread in my mind that connects me to our bond.
Lucian.
The connection snaps open. I feel his mind it is buzzing with the same golden static the General is projecting. He feels hyped. He feels invincible.
My goodman! Lucian thinks, his mental voice loud and energetic. Good speech eh? Did not think that old man had that in him, make's me want to kill federation soldier en mass to be honest.
Lucian, shut up and listen, I cut across his enthusiasm with cold precision. You're under his mark.
What?
The General, I project, sending him the image of the golden web I saw with the Fearmonger's sight. He is influencing your emotions. He is making you aggressive and more loyal to the Empire then we both know you are. Most of the emotion you are feeling is not real!
I feel Lucian pause. I feel him mentally stumble as the information hits him.
Correct yourself, I command. Is that your anger? Or is it his? I force my memories of recognizing the mark and myself breaking it.
There is a moment of silence as he retreats from our mind link. Then he comes back and I feel Lucian's natural cynicism reassert itself through our bond, pushing back the golden haze.
...Son of a bitch, Lucian thinks, his mental tone seething. That fucker he's doping us.
Try and warn the others, I order. Don't make a scene. Just wake them up.
On it, Lucian replies. The connection closes.
I glance to my left where he's standing next to me. I see Lucian nudge Vihaan. He whispers something into his ear. Vihaan blinks, shakes his head and goes back to staring at the general.
I frown annoyed at the failure. Sadly I do not have time to deal with the others' because up front however things were changing.
General Icepelt steps back, allowing the Proctors he came out with and Cecilia to move forward to the front to stand next to him. He crosses his arms, looking satisfied.
Proctor Evanora steps into the light. She looks as pristine and terrifying as ever, her white robes fluttering in the evening breeze. Her pink eyes are sharp, dissecting the crowd. Proctor Julius stands beside her, looking grim, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Cecelia in her black robes and hood up remains behind the general.
And then, another figure joins them.
She is small. She wears the standard white robes of a Proctor. She has blonde hair tied back in a messy, utilitarian bun and teal eyes that are currently scanning the horizon, looking bored and slightly annoyed.
I frown.
Did she come out with the others? How did I not see her?
She must of been standing there with them the whole time. I am sure of it. But my eyes just... slid off her. It is as if her existence has a lower render priority than the rest of the world.
It takes me a full twenty seconds of concentrated effort to even recognize her features.
Hila.
That goddamn Teleporter who dropped as all off thousands of miles away from the Academy. She is the logistical backbone of the Academy's external operations. A permanent teleporter or Pigeon as the King would call her stationed at the Academy.
Her features are remarkably unremarkable. She has a face that you forget the moment you look away. She is the human equivalent of a beige wall in a room full of white ones. How could an Awakened be so... bland? Every one of is objectively beautiful to mundane standards. We are literal Demi Gods. Her however she was the expectation apparently, not ugly but not as good looking as the rest of us.
Evanora steps forward and her presence commands silence.
She smirks, her pink eyes scanning the crowd that was now hushed, waiting for the next command.
"We will be departing immediately," she announces.
Her voice is calm, casual, as if she is announcing a change in the lunch menu rather than a deployment to a war zone.
"Prepare yourselves."
She raises her hand.
I expect a portal. I expect the ground to open up. I expect the Lieutenant to start popping people away one by one.
I do not expect the world to fold.
Evanora waves her hand in a sharp, complex gesture.
"Establish," she whispers, the word carrying over the wind.
Around us, the air ripples.
A collective gasp goes up from the students as the stone of the courtyard seems to stretch.
The ground rumbles.
From the edges of the parade ground, stone walls erupt from the earth. They shoot upward with impossible speed, groaning and grinding like tectonic plates shifting. The sky above us begins to disappear, the twilight blue bleeding into the grey of a stone ceiling.
"What the hell?" Dominic whispers from down the line.
It is disorienting. It feels like being swallowed by a giant stone mouth.
The architecture constructs itself around us in seconds. Pillars twist out of the air. Windows form and then seal shut. The open space of the courtyard, replaced by the interior of a massive hall.
I blink, fighting the vertigo that spins in my inner ear.
One second, we were outside, two seconds later, the walls settle, the dust clears, and bright lights flash from the torches on the walls.
I look around. We are standing in the same massive building that was near the train station where we first arrived months ago in Lusa. This is the same hall the sorting took place in.
I blink in shock, my mouth slightly dry.
What type of fucking Mark does that sadistic bitch have? I wonder, my mind reeling.
But before I can question it, before I can analyze the mechanics of what she just did.
Lieutenant Viges, steps forward. He looks excited and Hila, the small blonde Proctor with the teal eyes, steps up beside him. She looks bored even now. Evanora steps between them. They reach out and grab each other's hands.
A pure, blinding white light pulses from where their hands connect. The same white I remember from last time, a blinding white so bright it physically hurts to look at.
The air pressure in the warehouse drops. My ears pop painfully. The hair on my arms stands up so straight it hurts.
Evanora speaks again. Her voice has that strange echo, almost as if three people are speaking through her throat at once a chorus of power.
"With a combined effort," she intones, the light growing brighter until it consumes my vision.
Hila and the Lieutenant finish the incantation, their voices straining under the load.
"Life Step."