Chapter 44: Promotions
I cursed under my breath, teeth gritted, as the stone-forged sword whizzed past my ear and
slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash. I backpedaled, trying to keep my footing
on the uneven floor of the training hall, my muscles already screaming from repeated swings.
Saint didn't give me a moment to breathe, each attack perfectly measured to push me just
past my limits.
The Azure Blade felt heavier with every block, my arms going numb from the constant
jarring impacts. Each strike from Saint sent a shiver through my bones, reminding me that I
was still sloppy, still slow. I could feel sweat dripping into my eyes, burning, but I didn't dare
wipe it away—every second counted.
The fourth swing caught me as I overextended my step, tangling my feet in my own
misjudged movement. Saint's shoulder slammed into me with a controlled force, and I hit the
ground hard, the sound echoing across the hall. My chest heaved, breath uneven, as I tried to
push myself upright.
Her stone sword rested against my throat, a perfectly precise pressure, as if to remind me just
how far I still had to go. I growled in frustration, and she tilted her head almost
imperceptibly, waiting for me to recover. With a sharp command in my mind, I felt her ease
the pressure and step back, the sword sheathing itself neatly.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sasrir leaning casually, clapping slowly, mockingly. Of
course he would. Of course someone had to be amused while I was reduced to panting like an
idiot. I scowled, glaring at him, but there was nothing to do but push myself upright and keep
going.
"Surprise, surprise," he said, voice low but dripping with amusement. "Saint takes the fourth
round again. Seriously, Adam… what are you doing?"
I grit my teeth, my pride prickling.
"I thought I was meant to be the frontline fighter," he continued, eyes glinting with a teasing
challenge, "and you, the manipulative mastermind. So tell me… why are you beating
yourself up like this?"
I flinched at the words. Not because he was wrong—but because he made me feel it. Each
strike from Saint had shredded more than my arms and legs; it had gnawed at my patience,
my focus, and yes, even my ego.
I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead, I let my jaw tighten and turned my
attention back to Saint, who was already shifting her stance, waiting for my next move.
Focus, I told myself, teeth clenched. Ignore him. Predict her. Adapt. Just survive this round
without looking like a complete idiot.I gritted my teeth and muttered under my breath. Come on, Adam. This isn't life or death.
This is training. You can handle this. My muscles screamed in protest as I tried to steady my
legs and refocus. Saint didn't stop—she was patient, but relentless, making sure every
misstep, every hesitation, punished me just enough to drive improvement.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of fatigue. The blows weren't fatal, but they weren't
easy either. My mind raced, running through angles, footwork, timing. I had to learn. I had to
improve. Every strike I blocked—or failed to block—was a lesson written in muscle ache and
stinging pride.
I rolled my shoulders, swung the Azure Blade experimentally, testing the range, the timing,
trying to anticipate her next move. Saint mirrored me perfectly, as if reading my thoughts,
and I felt that familiar pang of frustration. I hated being predictable, hated being outmatched
—even by my own creation.
Focus. Control. Patience. Don't let her teach me the hard way.
I inhaled sharply, tasting the copper tang of sweat in my mouth, and squared my shoulders.
The next round wouldn't be like this. I would anticipate better, move faster, strike harder.
Saint might be relentless, but she was mine to command, mine to learn from. And I would—
not could, would—get it right before the session ended.
------------------------------
I hit the ground hard, chest heaving, arms splayed out like I'd been wrung through a press.
Every joint, every muscle, every nerve in my body screamed in unison. Even breathing felt
like a task meant for someone else, someone stronger. My fingers twitched uselessly as I tried
to push myself up—and failed.
Saint hovered above me, her ruby eyes fixed on my prone form. There was that faint, almost
imperceptible flicker in her gaze—mocking, disdainful, the kind of distaste that only a
creature who knows it owns you can display. I groaned, every sound scraping my throat raw,
and waved her off with a weak flick of my hand. "Back," I muttered, my voice rough. "Soul
Sea. Now."
With a blink and the faint shimmer of her Essence, she dissipated, leaving only the lingering
sense of judgment. I swallowed a groan and lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if my
body would ever forgive me for this. Every bone felt like it had been twisted into shapes no
human should endure, and every muscle screamed as though I'd asked them to run a
marathon at the edge of a cliff.
Then, the shadow of a familiar presence fell over me. Sasrir. His boots scraped softly against
the floor as he came closer, and my stomach twisted involuntarily—not from fear, but from
the realization that he was perfectly composed while I looked like a wrecked puppet.
He crouched down, producing the Rejuvenating Bloom from somewhere beneath his cloak.
The single drop he squeezed onto my tongue felt like ice-cold water to a man on the brink of
death. My chest eased, my lungs opened, and the dull ache in my limbs faded slightly,replaced by a trembling, grateful warmth that spread through my veins like sunlight through
frost.
"Relax," Sasrir said softly, voice steady and calm, yet carrying the faintest edge of
amusement. I let the words wash over me, letting them anchor me as I tried to stop trembling.
He dropped the Memory on my chest, its passive healing thrumming against my skin. I could
feel it seeping into me, knitting torn fibers, calming stressed nerves, coaxing life back into
my limbs. It was almost… blissful. My eyes closed, relief crashing over me in heavy waves,
and for the first time since training began, I allowed myself to feel just how completely
wrecked I'd been.
But even as I lay there, still trembling under the Memory's hum, I couldn't help but glance at
the spot where Saint had been. Her presence lingered in the air, like the faint scent of iron and
cold fire, reminding me that even under Sasrir's watchful care, the lessons she'd hammered
into me would stay—and that I'd never be allowed to forget them.
I exhaled shakily, letting the healing bloom do its work. Every part of me still ached, but at
least now I could sit up without screaming. At least now, I could survive to fight another day.
I groaned again, letting the Memory hum against my chest as I tried to focus on something
other than the screaming ache in my muscles. And as much as I wanted to just lie here and
pretend the world didn't exist, my mind couldn't stop replaying the last hour of training.
Saint… Saint had been relentless. And I had seriously underestimated what "training with
Saint" meant.
I had gotten the idea from Sunny, back in the original novels, who had insisted on trying to
learn the discipline, precision, and brutality possessed by the Echo. Sunny had made it sound
almost… fun, even though the novel was crytsal clear Sunny got his ass beat
But Saint wasn't fun. Saint was a force of nature wrapped in ice and judgment. Every swing,
every feint, every flick of her wrist felt like it carried centuries of calculated intent. And I was
flailing around like a rookie who had barely survived the Academy's basics.
I was training with Effie too, learning her wolfish and reckless style of fighting,
compounding itwith Saint's cold efficiency and killing-machine mindset. If I could pull it off,
I was confidant I could become one of the greatest swordsmen of my generation.
And, I was on my way, sort of. Maybe. At least, that's what I told myself, gasping and
swearing under my breath. Because while Sasrir had been standing there like he'd invented
combat itself, absorbing every move, every trick, every pattern of Saint's assault like he was
a sponge made of steel and shadow, I had been bleeding metaphorical—and sometimes literal
—bullets. Where Sasrir got that talent, I had no idea. It sure as hell didn't come from me. If
anything, my instincts were still the equivalent of a kitten learning to pounce, clumsy and
often painful.
And yet… despite all the bruises, the aching muscles, and the humiliation of constantly being
bested by my own Echo, I had made progress. I had actually learned something. I could
anticipate her swings a little better now, adjust my footwork with slightly more grace, reactwith slightly less delay. For a complete novice who had only survived the Academy's basic
training, that was… not terrible. Not Lost from Light level, Changing Star level, or War
Princess level, not by a long shot. But it was a start.
I let out a shaky laugh, bitter and tired, letting my hands twitch over the floor. Sasrir made it
all look effortless, as though he had been born with a memory of every strike, every parry,
every nuance of combat already etched into him. Me? I had to wrestle with it, claw at it,
wrest every lesson out of my brain and body with sweat, blood, and pain. My brain felt fried,
my body felt betrayed, and yet, in the midst of all that misery, there was a flicker of
satisfaction. I was learning. Slowly. Cumbersomely. But I was learning.
And right now, surviving, breathing, letting the Memory knit me back together—that was
enough. For today.
-----------------------------
The mess hall smelled like roasted meat and fresh bread, the warm scent mingling with the
faint tang of polished stone. Sunlight streamed in through high windows, glinting off the
polished table surfaces and illuminating the occasional flicker of dust in the air. I sank into
the bench beside Sasrir and Kai, letting the comfort of routine wash over me for the first time
in hours. Lunch here wasn't a battlefield, and for now, that was enough.
We ate in silence at first, the clinking of utensils and the soft scrape of plates on wood filling
the empty spaces between us. I chewed slowly, savoring the simple meal, letting the food
give my body something it desperately needed after the morning with Saint. My muscles still
ached, every limb reminding me of the blows I had taken.
Kai finally broke the silence, his voice casual but laced with genuine curiosity. "So… training
going well?"
I shot a sideways glance at Sasrir, who was quietly slicing his meat with precision, his
expression neutral as ever. "Great," I said quickly, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach my
eyes.
Sasrir's voice cut in, calm and measured as always. "Terrible," he said, and the deadpan
delivery nearly made me choke on my bread.
I groaned, dropping my fork back onto my plate. "Which is it, then?" I muttered.
Kai shrugged, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. "Sounds about right," he said, smirking.
"Classic you two."
We bantered quietly, trading small jokes and observations about the hall, the food, and who
had been slacking during morning duties. The silence was easy and comfortable, the kind that
comes from long familiarity, where no one felt the need to fill every gap with words.
And then—like a storm rolling in from nowhere—Gemma appeared.He plopped down on the bench beside me with the subtlety of a catapult, glaring in my
direction like I had personally offended him in some unimaginable way. His brown hair was
slightly tousled, his uniform tight across his shoulders, and his eyes—bright, sharp, and
clearly unimpressed—locked onto me.
I swallowed, trying not to smile. Sasrir and Kai didn't even flinch; they simply continued
eating as if a thundercloud hadn't just taken a seat next to me.
Gemma's glare softened—not in kindness, but into something more like simmering, barely-
contained irritation. He picked up his fork, stabbing the meat on his plate with almost violent
precision before shoving it into his mouth. Chewing angrily, he made it clear that he was
thoroughly displeased with… well, everything, including me.
Since Tessai, since the nightmarish aftermath that followed, Gemma had been… unpleasant.
Polite on the surface, yes, but with a deep, constant undercurrent of fury that made the air
around him seem colder. And I didn't blame him; we had put him in an extremely tight spot,
possibly at risk of being ousted as a traitor and executed, and he still hadn't forgiven us for
acting without thinking about his side of things. Still, I didn't particularly care about
Gemma's sttitude to me-while he didn't seem to engage in it himself, he protected rapists and
murderers in his group.
As far as I was concerned, he was scum deserving of death. But since he was also useful, and
hadn't actually been too hostile to me, I was willing to cooperate honestly with him.
Still, I couldn't help but feel a little amused as I watched him attack his food, cheeks flushing
slightly as he mumbled under his breath about inefficiency, recklessness, and a whole list of
things I was pretty sure didn't actually exist.
Kai, of course, smiled at the display, leaning back with a chuckle. Sasrir, ever the picture of
stoic detachment, barely twitched an eyebrow. I, on the other hand, had to bite my lip to stop
myself from laughing outright.
We ate quietly for a few moments, Gemma's scowling energy hovering over me like a storm
cloud, and yet somehow, despite it all, it felt… familiar. Comfortable, even. Life in the mess
hall had a rhythm to it: eat, breathe, survive, and maybe tease each other just a little. For now,
that was enough.
And somewhere beneath Gemma's anger, I could see the faint trace of obligation, the
recognition that his loyalty—to Gunlaug, to orders, to duty—was absolute. Especially after
what had happened with the last Lieutenant. There was no choice but to follow. Rage or no
rage, he obeyed. And I, for one, was relieved.
I chewed my last bite, glancing around at the two men beside me. Sasrir, calm as a shadowed
river. Kai, warm and teasing. And then Gemma, glaring at me like I'd just insulted the sun
itself. For all the tension, all the history, all the exhaustion… I couldn't help but feel that, at
least for a moment, we were exactly where we were meant to be.
Gemma finished the last bite of his meal with a sharp crunch and slammed his fork onto the
plate. Without another word, he stood, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. Hepaused briefly, eyes narrowing at the two of us, and spoke over his shoulder.
"Gunlaug wants a meeting. All of the Host will be there," he said flatly, voice clipped and
cold, before pivoting and marching away, the hem of his cloak swishing with each purposeful
step.
The mess hall seemed to hold its breath after he left. The only sound was the fading echo of
Gemma's boots against the stone floor, retreating into distance.
Kai shifted nervously, wringing his hands in his lap. "Should we… be worried?" His voice
was tentative, hesitant, the edge of unease clear. His eyes flicked between Sasrir and me,
betraying that he didn't like the sound of this at all.
Sasrir shook his head slowly, dark eyes calm and unwavering. "No," he said evenly. "The
matter is settled for today. Gunlaug has no reason to openly condemn us—not when it would
risk shattering the Host itself." His tone was absolute, precise, like a blade cutting through
doubt.
I frowned, scratching the back of my neck. "True, but… we haven't gotten full control over
the Guards yet. That faction is still resisting my influence. They're stubborn, unpredictable.
Until we bring them in line, we aren't completely safe."
Sasrir's eyes glinted coldly. "Then we just need to hang a few troublemakers. Settle the rest
by example. Fear works faster than negotiation."
Kai flinched so violently he nearly dropped his spoon. His pale face blanched, lips pressed
into a thin line, but he didn't speak outright objection. Instead, his voice trembled softly,
more a whisper to himself than a command. "I… I don't know if… hanging people really
solves anything…"
Sasrir's gaze met Kai's, dark and unyielding, and the Reaper's voice remained unruffled. "It
does. And it is not my concern whether it is comfortable to hear. Results matter."
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to reconcile the words with what I knew of our situation.
Sasrir's methods were terrifyingly effective, and I had learned long ago that questioning them
openly did nothing but slow things down. Still, Kai's unease gnawed at me.
"I—" Kai swallowed hard, voice still quiet, "I understand… but it just feels so harsh.
Maybe… maybe there's another way?" His eyes darted to me, almost pleading. He wanted to
argue, but didn't want to push too far. Mira's condition was still fresh in his mind.
I offered him a small, strained shrug. "We don't really have another choice, Kai. Not if we
want the Guards to actually fall in line. Sasrir's right—sometimes the lesson has to be brutal
for the rest to learn."
Kai's shoulders slumped, a soft exhale escaping him. He glanced down at his untouched
bread, quietly picking at it with nervous fingers, murmuring, "I just… wish it didn't have to
be this way."Sasrir leaned back slightly, expression unreadable, as if he hadn't heard a word. His presence
alone seemed to anchor the room in cold calculation. The lesson had been delivered; it was
only a matter of execution.
I exhaled, feeling tension creep along my spine. Having the entire Host gathered in one room
was never casual, and knowing Gunlaug's tendencies, I had a sinking feeling that today's
meeting would test more than just our authority over the Guards.
Kai let out a small, uneasy whistle, muttering softly, "I just hope… hope nothing goes
horribly wrong."
I shot him a glance, half amused, half worried, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility
settle over me. With Sasrir standing beside me like a living weapon, and Kai quietly
moralizing from the sidelines, we were about to walk into a room where power, fear, and
politics collided—and I had a sinking feeling it was going to be worse than anything I'd
faced so far.
The mess hall was emptying when I realized it was time. Lunch was over, and the meeting—
Gunlaug's meeting—was about to begin. I felt the familiar tightening in my stomach, a mix
of anticipation and that prickling sense of being measured by a thousand eyes. Sasrir fell into
step beside me, silent as always. I glanced at him briefly; his dark eyes didn't betray a flicker
of emotion. Typical. Calm as ever.
Kai wasn't allowed in. I tried not to think about it, but the absence of his gentle presence
made the tension in the air heavier. He would have whispered his worries, probably fidgeting
with his sleeves and softly objecting to the idea that we were walking straight into the den of
the Bright Lord and the Host. Instead, it was just us, and that made every step feel louder,
heavier.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the hall last. Immediately, a wave of authority hit me,
thick and suffocating. The entire Host was assembled, each member seated or standing with
that careful poise that suggested they knew exactly how to weigh someone with a glance.
"Ah—sorry I'm late!" I said, forcing a chipper tone into my voice. I tried to make it sound
casual, even lighthearted, but I could feel the weight of their scrutiny like iron pressing
against my chest. Sasrir didn't move a muscle beside me. Not a single twitch. Silent as stone.
Gunlaug sat in his familiar throne at the far end of the hall, high and imposing. If I hadn't
seen him stand off it during the duel, I might have genuinely believed he was glued there, like
the mythical God Emperor of Humanity itself. His presence radiated control, authority, and
an unsettling calm that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. The faint glint of his fingers
on the armrest reminded me that this was a man who never wasted motion.
Seishan stood slightly apart, as perfect as ever. Pale grey skin, eyes cool and unreadable, lips
curved into a delicate smile that somehow managed to be both beautiful and completely
inscrutable. She inclined her head as we entered, her nod smooth, elegant, and silently
assessing. I felt my pulse quicken, though I couldn't tell if it was from nervousness or a
strange, magnetic awe that always seemed to follow her.Gemma was already seated with Kido. The two of them had paired up like clockwork,
Gemma ignoring us completely, posture rigid and expression brooding, as if the air itself
offended him. Kido, on the other hand, leaned slightly forward, curiosity flickering across her
features as she took us in, eyes darting back and forth between myself and Sasrir. I couldn't
help but feel a little exposed under that scrutiny, as if every misstep might be catalogued and
judged.
Harus, as always, remained a fixture beside Gunlaug. The hunchback was as unsettling as
ever, standing motionless yet somehow present in every shadow, his gaze sliding over us like
a fish swimming in dark water. His hollow, unreadable expression made me shiver slightly; it
was impossible to tell whether he registered our presence—or if he simply existed in a space
slightly removed from our reality.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The air was thick with unspoken authority, a
tangible tension that seemed to vibrate against my skin. Gunlaug's eyes, sharp and piercing
even from the throne, flicked toward me the moment I stepped fully into view. I gave a quick,
polite bow, trying to look composed.
"Good," Gunlaug said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "All present.
Let us begin."
Sasrir remained silent, shadow still at his side, but I could feel the quiet weight of his
presence bolstering me in a way Kai never could. That dark reassurance made me straighten
my spine, even as the tension pressed down.
Every eye in the hall was on us now, evaluating, waiting. The meeting had begun, and I knew
—intuitively—that nothing here would be simple, nothing would be safe.
The room was smaller than I expected for a meeting with the Host. Only seven of us in total,
counting Sasrir and me. The rest—the Bright Lord himself and his Lieutenants—sat around
the circular dais like predators in a carefully arranged nest. The air hummed with authority,
cold, sharp, and deliberate. I could feel it pressing against me as I made my way toward
Gunlaug's left side.
Sasrir moved silently, shadow trailing him like a second skin. He claimed the largest seat
available after the throne, too big for him but somehow perfect in its imposing emptiness. He
didn't bother with the chair's impractical size; he simply lowered himself into it with a grace
that made the heavy wood seem like a mere prop. I felt a flicker of admiration, even as I
reminded myself not to think too much—my own nerves were enough without adding awe to
the mix.
I took my place at Gunlaug's left, standing rather than sitting. The throne's height made the
Bright Lord seem like he was looking down into the core of the world, and I felt distinctly
small. But I straightened my shoulders and forced a calm expression. Sasrir's silent presence
near me made the world feel slightly less threatening.
Harus turned, slowly, deliberately, those hollow eyes locking on me like they were peeling
through flesh and bone. "It seems your friend will need a new chair," he said flatly, his voiceechoing faintly in the still room. The words were measured, but there was a trace of mockery
hiding beneath the monotone, as if he took pleasure in silently noting the absurdities of life.
I smiled and inclined my head. "Indeed. Tessai was a few sizes bigger than him. Still, I'm
sure Sasrir will grow to fit it in time." My tone was calm, almost casual, but I made sure the
statement carried just enough pointed edge to stand out.
Harus let out a short, snide chuckle, the sound dry and hollow. It wasn't loud, but it carried
across the room like a stone skipping over a frozen lake. Then, just as suddenly, he returned
to his statue-like stillness, as if nothing had happened. I didn't miss the slight tightening of
his posture before he settled again—an imperceptible acknowledgment that he had been
amused, but only just.
Gunlaug, for his part, did not react immediately. His dark eyes swept over me and Sasrir with
that calm, predatory precision he always carried. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his
head and looked around the circular dais, letting his gaze settle briefly on each of the
Lieutenants. It was the kind of silent scrutiny that made you want to shrink into the floor.
Finally, he gestured with a single, measured hand toward Kido. The motion was slow,
deliberate, as though he were marking her as the first to speak—but not by choice. By right,
Gunlaug's authority demanded he acknowledge her, and the gesture left no room for
argument.
Kido's shoulders stiffened as she rose, carrying the faint weight of being recognized yet
carefully masking any hint of nervousness. Her posture was perfect, precise, the kind of poise
that made it obvious she had been trained to stand in a room like this since birth. But beneath
the flawless exterior, I could sense the tension coiled like a spring, every careful movement
calculated to avoid drawing disapproval. She cleared her throat, adjusting her stance, and the
room seemed to hold its collective breath.
I shifted slightly, glancing at Sasrir. He was the picture of calm, shadowed and unreadable as
ever, sitting slightly too tall in the chair meant for someone larger. I could feel the subtle
thrum of his presence, reassuring and intimidating all at once.
Gunlaug leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the armrest with quiet authority. Seishan sat
with that usual perfect poise, serene and inscrutable, her pale grey skin almost luminous
under the muted light. Gemma and Kido remained partnered in their odd, silent alignment—
Gemma brooding and indifferent, Kido poised and carefully attentive. And Harus… Harus
was still there, still watching, still unsettling, a living shadow beside the Bright Lord.
The room was silent, every movement magnified, every shift in posture significant. Kido
finally began to speak, her voice steady but carrying that subtle edge of tension that only
came from knowing the weight of the Host's scrutiny.
I exhaled quietly, bracing myself. This was it. The meeting had begun.
Kido cleared her throat and began in a voice that was calm, measured, and practiced, like a
conductor leading an orchestra. "We've identified the primary supplies that are currently in
shortage," she said, her tone crisp and professional. "Raw materials for Memory forging areall running low. Without replenishment, production will inevitably slow in the coming cycle."
She paused, letting the information hang in the air for a moment, then continued.
"We've also encountered difficulties with several of the workshops. Equipment failures in
two of the Memory forges caused a minor backlog, though our artisans have worked overtime
to compensate. Additionally, scheduling conflicts among the workers have reduced efficiency
in certain sectors." Her eyes scanned the room briefly, as if to make sure her words were
registering. "Revenue for the last month has remained stable despite these issues. Stock
levels remain sufficient for daily operations, though reserves are now slightly below optimal
thresholds for emergency production."
I blinked. Logistics. Finance. Stock levels. Taxes. My brain was still wrapped around the idea
of the Host as a group of predators, strategists, and warriors, not accountants and warehouse
managers. I hadn't expected the first topic of the meeting to be inventory management and
production statistics. But then, looking around, it made sense. The Forgotten Shore wasn't
just the Castle—it was a sprawling settlement, home to hundreds of people, both inside the
Castle and outside in the wider settlement. Someone had to track the flow of resources,
someone had to ensure that taxes were accounted for, production quotas met, and that the
gears of society didn't grind to a halt.
I stole a glance at Sasrir. He remained perfectly still in his oversized chair, his eyes observing
Kido with a faint, unreadable intensity. Even he seemed unshaken by the mundane nature of
the report; or maybe he honestly justdidn't care about it at all.
Kido continued, detailing the specific quantities needed for each category of artisan work, the
projected shortages for the next quarter, and contingencies for unexpected production halts.
She even provided notes on the quality of materials received from external suppliers, pointing
out which sources had been inconsistent and which had exceeded expectations.
Gemma, seated beside her, made no move to comment. His expression was the same scowl
he wore perpetually, as if the very discussion of supplies offended him on principle. Kido,
however, didn't flinch or waver. She simply presented the information, efficient and precise,
and moved on to the next topic: revenue allocation and storage.
As the numbers and details passed over me, I felt the weight of administration pressing down
in a way that was very different from combat. Here, mistakes didn't just risk a failed attack—
they could starve a section of the settlement, slow production, or cripple the Host's financial
stability. The mundane precision required was almost terrifying in its own way.
I couldn't help but think back to the lessons from training with Saint and Effie. Fighting was
brutal, exhausting, and dangerous, but at least it was immediate—either you succeeded or
you failed in the moment. This… this was slow, calculated, methodical. A different
battlefield entirely, but no less deadly if mishandled.
And yet, I couldn't help but admire Kido. She carried herself with a confidence that made
every figure she recited and every observation she made feel like a weapon in its own right.
In her hands, even statistics became a form of power, a subtle way to manipulate outcomes
before the first sword was ever drawn.And suddenly, I felt like a bit of a fool.
Seishan was the next to speak, sitting up higher in her chair, her melodious voice coming
from parted lips. It cut through the quiet hum of the meeting, calm and deliberate, each word
measured, carrying an authority that seemed to make the very air hold still. She began cross-
referencing the reports from her Handmaidens with Kido's numbers, comparing the
production data to the stockpiles and pointing out where distribution had been inefficient or
where reserves could be stretched further. Her observations were sharp, precise, and utterly
meticulous—the kind of precision that could make or break a settlement if acted upon
correctly.
I tried to follow along, I really did. My eyes tracked her lips, my mind nodded at the correct
intervals, and yet… my attention was slipping, sliding away like water seeping through
cracks in stone. It was an amazing trick, really, considering I was standing right beside
Gunlaug, the man whose very body was coverd by a Transcendent Echo, radiating the kind of
power that made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. How could my mind wander now?
How could I allow myself to drift while the Host—the Bright Lord, his Lieutenants, even
Harus's hollow stare—observed?
And yet it did.
I felt myself being pulled backwards, carried by memory like a tide over jagged rocks. The
sensation wasn't painful, just inevitable, like standing on the edge of a cliff and letting the
wind take you. My vision blurred slightly at the edges as the present faded, replaced by
echoes of a day that was burned into me with fire and shadow. The day Sasrir had killed
Tessai.
Weeks ago, or maybe it felt like months—time had compressed since then—Sasrir had
moved with that terrifying calm. Every motion deliberate, precise, like a sculptor chiseling
away at an imperfection. Tessai, the head of the Guards, had fallen in a sequence of strikes
that were almost cruel in their efficiency, a blitz of halbard and scimitar that seemed to obey
no direct system.
I remembered the sound: the ice cracking, the hiss of metal against frozen armor, the faint,
horrifying silence that followed. The way Sasrir's shadow curled around him as he stood over
Tessai, the deliberate calm of his breathing, the slight ripple of darkness that seemed almost
alive. And the way I had felt—frozen, half in awe, half in disbelief, my body trembling
despite knowing I had nothing to fear in that moment.
It made my present surroundings—the polished floors, the murmuring Host, Kido's clipped,
efficient explanations, Seishan's calm assessment—all feel strangely unreal, like a dream I
was forced to step through while my mind replayed an old, terrible truth.
And yet, somehow, I managed to stay upright. Somehow, I reminded myself to nod
occasionally, to shift my weight, to let Seishan continue speaking without noticing that my
thoughts were elsewhere. My breathing slowed, shallow but controlled, and I focused on the
cadence of her voice, letting it act as an anchor while my memories swirled around me.It was almost maddening how natural it felt—the duality of presence and reflection. Here I
was, standing in the circular dais beside the throne of the Bright Lord, one of the most
powerful men I'd ever seen, listening to Seishan outline logistics and resource management.
And yet, half my mind was reliving a fight that had been nothing short of apocalyptic in its
precision. A fight I had started.
I shook my head slightly, trying to center myself. Focus, I told myself. This isn't the time to
replay old battles.
I exhaled softly, letting my shoulders slump fractionally, just enough to feel the tension
release. Seishan's voice continued, precise, steady, unyielding, and slowly, slowly, I felt the
present claw its way back into my awareness. The meeting, the numbers, the Host—all of it
snapped back into focus. My ears registered Kido's continued explanation, Seishan's cross-
references, and even the slight scuff of Gemma shifting in his seat.
Yet my mind soon slipped backthen again.
-----------------------------------
The instant Tessai's massive body crumpled beneath Sasrir's precision strike, a silence fell
over the dais that was almost physical in its weight. Even the torches seemed to dim, their
flames quivering as if afraid to cast light on the aftermath. Then, as though the stillness had
been a signal, movement exploded into the room.
Harus, who had stood like a statue at Gunlaug's right side the entire duel, shifted
imperceptibly at first. Then, with a sudden, visceral cracking of joints, his hunched back
straightened in a motion that sounded like splintering wood and grinding stone. The sound
alone was enough to make a few of the Guards flinch. In the same heartbeat, a Memory
manifested around his wrist—a chain flail, each link heavy and blackened, the ball large
enough to crush stone, spinning loosely as if eager for impact. It coiled around his arm like a
living extension of his body, the metal links rattling with a promise of destruction.
And then he rose. Not slowly, not gradually. Harus's already unnerving frame doubled in size
and then nearly tripled, towering over the Host like some demon of legend. His newfound
height seemed almost unreal, shadows stretching along the hall, curling along the edges of his
limbs like smoke licked by fire. The chain flail in his hand shimmered faintly in the
torchlight, each link reflecting a dull, sinister glint.
The sudden transformation was enough to break the composure of most present. Every Guard
and Hunter in the room reacted instinctively, drawing weapons in unison. Swords, halberds,
spears—the clang of steel against steel filled the hall as the secondary defenders of the Host
scrambled to take positions. Even Gemma, normally calm and contained, snapped his own
blade free with a sharp hiss, his posture defensive, muscles coiled.
Kido reacted differently. She wasn't afraid in the same way as the others—her mind raced,
calculating angles, escape routes, and potential counters—but even she sought shelter,
stepping behind Gemma with a subtle flick of her cloak to obscure her body from any stray
swings or misdirected strikes.Seishan remained unnervingly calm—or at least, she appeared so. She did not move to draw
a weapon, though her pale grey skin was almost ghostly against the dim hall. Her eyes, wide
and unblinking, held a frozen, unreadable expression. Was it shock? Confusion? Strategic
calculation? It was impossible to tell. Her lips were slightly parted, as if to speak, but no
sound came. Even in that suspended, tense moment, she exuded the aura of someone
untouchable.
And then there was Gunlaug. The Bright Lord's reaction was instantaneous, violent, and
absolute. The golden armor adorning his form rippled, each plate shifting with a metallic
hum, catching the light and refracting it into shards across the circular dais. His entire body
seemed to surge, a wave of authority and power that filled the hall, vibrating through the
stone beneath everyone's feet. A roar erupted from behind his facemask, the sound
impossible to mistake, a single sentence cutting through the tension like a thunderclap:
"What have you done!"
The words didn't just carry anger—they carried accusation, judgment, and the raw, unfiltered
weight of someone who ruled through fear and awe alike. Every head in the hall instinctively
lowered or turned, even those armored and ready for combat.
Sasrir didn't respond immediately. He merely shifted his weight slightly, the shadows coiling
around him like a living serpent. Below him, blood and brain matter seeped out from the hole
in the back of Tessai's head and eyesocket.
The room was a hurricane of tension. The Guards and Hunters froze mid-motion, unsure
what to do next, unwilling to act without orders from their leaders. For the Guards, that
meant Gunlaug himself now.
Gunlaug's golden armor shone almost painfully now, each reflective plate moving
independently, like molten metal alive with fury. His hands clenched into fists, sending tiny
echoes through the hall. "Explain," he demanded, his voice now low, lethal in tone, though
still carrying the resonance that made even the most seasoned warrior hesitate. "Immediately.
Why is a subordinate—nay, a servant—of mine prepared to bring destruction into my hall?"
The rest of the Host remained pinned between awe and fear. Gemma and Kido's breathing
had slowed to careful, controlled inhales; even seasoned Hunters hesitated, unsure of whether
to act, speak, or run. Their eyes, however, never wavered from Sasrir, a quiet tension in the
way their hands flexed, as if preparing to move the instant the man made a motion.
"What have you done?!"
It wasn't a question of disbelief; it was a proclamation of absolute, burning wrath. The sound
cut through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls and freezing every Guard and Hunter in
place. Even seasoned combatants instinctively lowered their weapons. Gunlaug's eyes, while
not visible behind his facemask, were no doubt melting in rage, fixed with unflinching
judgment on the Sleeper who had dared kill Tessai in his presence.
Sasrir didn't flinch, didn't shift a muscle. His posture was calm, almost casual, but there was
a quiet tension in the way his hands flexed at his sides. The chain flail at Harus's wrist rattled,a subtle reminder that the room could erupt into violence in an instant—but Gunlaug's gaze
never wavered from Sasrir.
The room itself felt as if it were holding its breath. The Guards and Hunters tensed, aware
that any sudden motion could trigger a cascade of death. Gemma and Kido froze mid-step,
eyes flicking between Sasrir and Gunlaug, calculating whether intervention was even
possible. Seishan's gaze remained locked on Sasrir, her pale face betraying the slightest hint
of shock—an almost imperceptible twitch of her lips, a narrowing of her eyes.
Gunlaug's voice lowered, deadly and deliberate, every word sharp as a blade. "Explain
yourself. How dare you bring this upon the Host without permission. How dare you kill in
my hall!"
Sasrir's eyes met the Bright Lord's, calm and unyielding. He didn't respond immediately,
letting the weight of his actions—and the collective tension of the room—settle in fully.
Every muscle in the hall was taut, every mind running scenarios, yet none dared interrupt the
confrontation.
Standing beside Sasrir, I felt the full weight of the moment. The room seemed charged with
static, a storm of authority, fear, and power. Even with Harus looming like a giant in the
corner, it was clear that Gunlaug's wrath was directed entirely at Sasrir. I could see it in the
rigid line of the Bright Lord's shoulders, the way his golden armor seemed to vibrate with
contained fury.
Harus, for his part, remained still, flail coiled and ready, a silent sentinel rather than a threat.
The hunchback's black eyes flickered briefly toward Sasrir, but his demeanor was neutral.
The danger wasn't Harus—at least, not yet. The danger was the wrath of a lord who had seen
his order, his control, and his hierarchy directly challenged.
Gunlaug's next words were low, but every syllable cut like sharpened steel. "You will answer
for this, Sasrir. Here and now, you will answer or you will be cut down."
The words left no room for misinterpretation. Sasrir had crossed a line, and the Bright Lord's
fury was absolute. Every eye in the room followed him, waiting, watching. Every heartbeat
felt like a drum, counting down to an outcome none could predict.
And in that moment, standing at Sasrir's side with my mind still raw from the duel with
Tessai, I felt the full weight of the Host crash down on me at once. Harus's grotesque
transformation, the violent surge of power filling the hall, and Gunlaug's wrath—all of it
merged into something almost unbearable. The air felt electric, charged enough to split me
apart, yet some instinct buried deep in my bones recognized one thing with absolute clarity:
Harus wasn't moving because he had yet to beordered to. He only moved with purpose. And
Gunlaug's rage, as immense and blinding as it was, did not necessarily mean immediate
destruction.
The hall froze around me. The moment stretched thin, drawn tight like an unstruck chord.
Every eye was fixed on that fragile balance between obedience and annihilation. One wrongbreath, one wrong twitch, and the entire Forgotten Shore would drown in blood.
Harus let the chain flail hang for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the iron ball tapping
against the floor with a cold, deliberate thud. Each tap echoed like its own sentence. Only
after savoring that moment did he straighten fully, monstrous and towering, waiting for
Gunlaug's command—or perhaps for the acknowledgment that even ascended into a
nightmare, he still served the Bright Lord alone.
Sasrir's voice cut through the suffocating pressure with perfect calm. "I was merely enforcing
justice."
The understatement was almost comical, considering the corpse on the floor.
Gunlaug's armor rippled violently, golden plates rattling like thunder. "You were ordered
away!" he roared. His voice was a hammer, and I felt the vibration in my ribs. "You had no
authority to strike here! You had no permission!"
Sasrir didn't so much as blink. "I was not told as such," he answered, tone flat. He gestured
almost lazily toward the vague head-motion Gunlaug had previously made. "Your gesture
means nothing to me. Orders must be explicit."
He let a cold pause hang before adding, almost lightly, "Tessai's death was… an accident,
then."
Gunlaug's reaction was immediate. The gold around his arm warped and twisted, reforming
into a massive battleaxe with a metallic groan. The thing was large enough to cleave a horse
in two. Light from the torches rippled along its edge as if even flame bowed to it. The space
around us felt ready to collapse.
Instinct shoved me forward before fear could hold me back. I raised my hands, heart
pounding so hard it rattled my teeth. "Lord Gunlaug," I began, voice tighter than I wanted,
"please—allow me to clarify."
Sasrir didn't move. He simply watched me with a cool, distant expression, as if observing
whether the dam would break or hold.
I pushed on. "This wasn't meant as defiance," I said, trying to steady the waver in my voice.
"Sasrir acted because Tessai threatened those under our protection. There was no intent to
undermine your authority. It was a fair trial, witnessed by everyone here."
Gunlaug's focus narrowed on me, then flicked back to Sasrir. The battleaxe shifted slightly.
Even that small motion sent fresh panic prickling across my skin.
Sasrir tilted his head. "If you wish blame, assign it to me alone. I accept responsibility." He
said it like he was identifying a painting, not admitting to killing a Lieutenant in front of the
Host.
I swallowed and stepped closer, palms still raised. "This can be prevented in the future," I
said quickly. "Clearer orders, clearer boundaries—misunderstandings like this won't happenagain. But the Host must remain unified. A single spark, no matter how justified, can burn the
entire foundation. We must unite to survive in this nightmarish world."
Gunlaug didn't answer. The pressure of his silence pressed against my lungs. The golden
light of his armor pulsed, softer now but still dangerous.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he lowered the axe. Not fully. Not safely. But enough that I
could breathe again.
I didn't drop my hands until I was certain he wasn't going to strike.
That was when Seishan moved. Smooth, deliberate, cold. She stood without urgency, her pale
grey skin catching the torchlight. Her expression was unreadable—beautiful, distant, serene.
"How," she asked, voice slicing through the last remnants of tension, "do you intend to
compensate for this mistake?"
Her expression revealed no trace of familarity, or favour or partnership. She looked down at
me like you would a slab of meat on the counter: whether she was mrely playing the role, or
had geniunely decided to cut me loose here, I couldn't tell.
I forced myself to face her. "What would you consider sufficient?"
She tilted her head, just slightly. "I defer to the Bright Lord."
Of course she did.
Gunlaug rose to full height, metal groaning softly. "You were warned," he said, fire banked
but present. "First for your association with Athena. Now this. You have killed one of my
best warriors." A long pause. "I require a replacement."
Sasrir spoke before anyone else could breathe. "I will serve as the new Guard Primarch."
Gasps. Anger from the Guards. The shuffle of hands gripping weapons. I felt the heat of their
resentment settle on both our backs.
Gunlaug let the outrage ripple through the room, then dismissed it with a single cold glance.
"And you," he said, turning to me, "will also serve me."
The words hit hard, but were not unexected in the slightest. Men like Sasrir were impossible
to tempt, as Gunalug should now, so the next best thing was to threaten them. I was to be his
hostage, kept close so he could keep an eye on Sasrir.
My stomach clenched. My thoughts lurched. Sasrir stiffened beside me, shadows tightening
around him. In response, Harus' chain flail went taut, metal whispering across stone.
I bowed deeply before fear could paralyze me. "I accept your command, Bright Lord," I said.
My voice was steady, though my pulse was a frantic drum. "I thank you for your mercy."Mercy. Funny word.
The room held its breath. Sasrir's eyes flicked toward me, sharp and unreadable. Seishan's
elegant profile tilted in a gesture of approval. The Guards seethed. And Harus's chain scraped
the floor like a reminder that mercy was not a permanent state—merely a pause before fate
resumed its course.
In that bow, with the weight of Gunlaug's demand settling like a collar around my neck, I
understood something bitterly clear:
Power in the Forgotten Shore was bought with obedience, blood, or sacrifice. And today,
Sasrir had paid in blood: the rest, would be taken from me.
Just as I intended.Chapter 45: Gambling
Of course, I couldn't see the future, and I won't claim to be smart enough to manipulate
something of this scale, but I took an educated guess and pushed a few buttons, and voila, I
was right. My assumption was based on five things:
Firstly, Gunlaug had been looking for an excuse to put a leash on Sasrir, and by extension, on
me. He couldn't do it openly. Doing so would risk damaging his relationship with Gemma
and the other Hunters, and the Host was already fractious enough without adding more fuel to
the fire. But the intent was there. I could see it in his mannerisms, in the way his eyes
lingered on Sasrir whenever he moved, in the subtle shifts of his voice whenever he
addressed me. He was waiting for an opportunity, and the moment this trial appeared, he
snatched it up without hesitation.
Secondly, Tessai's ambitions were no secret. Gunlaug tolerated him because he was useful
and because he was one of the oldest Sleepers on the Forgotten Shore, but love? Respect?
Trust? None of that existed between them. The man was a blunt instrument, and Gunlaug
treated him like one. Judging by what I remembered from the novel and everything I had
gathered over the past months, Tessai was little more than a loud, volatile placeholder. I
realized early on that if I provoked Tessai, and forced him into the spotlight, Gunlaug would
happily push him forward to collide with Sasrir. No matter who won the duel, Gunlaug
benefited-he would learn the powers of one side, and the other would be humiliated in defeat.
Actually killing Tessai, though—that was beyond what he expected. That small surprise
brought me neatly to the third point.
Thirdly, the Guard faction was already fracturing-the Guards had always been treated as
lesser than the Hunters and Pathfinders, as grunts and muscle despised by basically every
other Faction in the Castle. Ambitious idiots wanting promotions, old loyalties getting shaky,
Harus looming over everyone like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from… it was only a
matter of time before someone made a move. Whether it was us or them didn't actually
matter. Something was going to give. Now, with Tessai gone, the whole thing became a
powderkeg waiitng to explode-Gunlaug needed to secure order, and fast.
Fourthly, Gunlaug had a superiority complex. A very large one. From his mannerisms, to the
hierarchical structure he built in the Bright Castle, to the very people he chose as his
Lieutenants, everything pointed toward a man obsessed with control. Not control through
brute force alone, but through image, through order, through dominance planted in the minds
of his subordinates. He wanted to be feared, admired, and obeyed in equal measure. That
meant he would never allow the Guard Faction, Tessai's faction, to remain headless. And he
certainly didn't trust any of Tessai's remaining followers to fill the role.
That was why the first and fourth points overlapped so neatly. Sasrir could replace Tessai
cleanly, efficiently, without threatening the structure Gunlaug held so dearly. But Sasrir alone
was dangerous. Too independent. Too unpredictable. So he needed something he could
control. Something that would keep Sasrir in check.Which is why my presence… my involvement… became the perfect chain to wrap around
Sasrir's neck and keep him loyal.
And lastly? This one's a bit embarrassing. I kind of assumed that if things went very bad—
catastrophically bad—Sasrir would be able to kill everyone in that room before they killed
me. Or at least buy enough time for some miraculous stroke of luck to save my hide. Not the
kind of plan you put on a chalkboard, but a plan is a plan.
So, I connected those threads, made a few risky gambles, and as usual, fate rewarded me with
the worst possible version of success. Not death, not freedom—just getting shackled to the
Bright Lord with a smile plastered on my face.
Looking back on it now, I can admit it: I had no idea what exactly would happen in that
moment. I didn't know if Gunlaug would explode in golden fire, or if the Guards would
mutiny, or if Harus would swing that monstrous flail and pulp someone just to make a point.
All I knew was that the outcome would revolve around Sasrir, and whatever happened to him
would ripple onto me whether I liked it or not.
So when I bowed, when I thanked the Bright Lord for his mercy, when I pretended I wasn't
being neatly boxed in like a domesticated pet, it wasn't due to fear. It was confidance, the
steadfast and almost religious belief that no matter what happened, I would come through it,
me and Sasrir both.
And the funny thing? It worked.
It actually worked.
Though if I had known what that choice would cost me later…
Well. Maybe I still would've done it.
Maybe.
Because at the end of the day, in the Forgotten Shore, you don't get to pick between good
options.
You pick between losing a finger or losing the whole arm.
And I've always been partial to keeping my limbs.
------------------------------------
The trial concludes at last, the echoes of the verdict still hanging in the chamber like smoke.
With a curt gesture from Gunlaug, the Host is dismissed. The great doors thunder open and
the assembled Hunters file out in a wave of rustling cloaks and murmured speculation—
everyone except the Lieutenants. And, of course, the two culprits at the heart of this storm.
Kai is swept away with the departing crowd, glancing back only once before the doors shut
behind him.
Silence settles. Heavy. Electric.Gunlaug remains seated high upon the dais, glaring down at Adam and Sasrir with
smouldering fury. His massive frame looks carved from some ancient, furnace-lit stone—
rigid, furious, unyielding.
Harus stands off to the side, still in his monstrous form. He hasn't bothered to shrink himself
back down. Muscles coil under his darkened skin, runes still faintly glowing as the enormous
spiked chainball dangles from his wrist, scraping a deep semicircle into the floor every time it
sways.
Seishan is motionless as a glacier—expression blank, posture ramrod-straight, her very
presence radiating an arctic chill that rivals Tessai's Aspect. Gemma, by contrast, looks
deeply unsettled; he keeps shifting his weight, eyes darting between Gunlaug and Sasrir as
though waiting for the whole hall to erupt into violence.
Kido stands closest to the wall, shoulders tense but posture otherwise controlled. There's
nerves beneath her composure, yes—but also familiarity. Almost as if this kind of aftermath
is something she's weathered before.
Gunlaug finally speaks, his voice low but resonant enough to shake the rafters.
"This stunt," he growls, "will never be committed again."
He directs the words at Sasrir, but the chill of his authority spreads to everyone present. The
implication is unmistakable: any future act of defiance—however small—will be punished
with immediate, merciless execution. No warnings. No trials.
His burning gaze fixes on Sasrir.
"You will familiarize yourself with your new obligations as head of the Guards," Gunlaug
commands. "Every aspect of them. Every rule. Every limit. You are done behaving like a
stray dog biting at shadows."
Only then does the Titan turn toward Adam.
"As for you…" Gunlaug leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You may continue your duties.
You may live as you have." A beat of air hangs sharp between them. "But you are no longer a
member of the Hunters."
The words land like a verdict heavier than the one pronounced earlier.
"You will not leave this Castle without express permission." His tone softens only in the
sense that lava softens stone. "You are, for all intents and purposes, confined."
House arrest—declared by the man who controls the entire mountain.
Gunlaug sits back. The sentence is final.
Adam lifts his head slightly, trying to keep his voice steady."…Do I have any other duties?" he asks. "And what about the charity work in the outer
Settlement?"
For a moment, Gunlaug says nothing. His posture slouches, his gaze sharpening as if Adam
has just reminded him of something trivial yet annoyingly inconvenient. He drums one thick
finger on the arm of his seat, each tap like a distant hammer striking iron.
"Hmph."
He leans back, thinking it over with the reluctant patience of a man deciding whether to crush
or tolerate an insect.
"The charity acts," Gunlaug mutters, "will halt."
The final word cracks like a whip.
"If you and Sasrir"—his eyes flick to the other troublemaker—"show discipline for the next
several weeks, then I will consider allowing you outside again. Under watch. And only under
watch."
A faint tension runs through the Lieutenants, but none dare speak.
Gunlaug shifts his attention fully to Adam, the weight of his authority bearing down.
"As for your duties…" His lip curls slightly, not quite a smile, more like disdain made
visible. "Do whatever you want."
He spreads a hand, dismissive.
"So long as it is within the Castle walls. And so long as every action is reported to me. I care
nothing for how you pass the time, only that you remain contained."
His fingers close again, forming a fist.
"And remember what will happen if you disobey me."
The hall grows colder, quieter—the kind of quiet that comes just before a sword is drawn.
Adam bows low, letting the moment settle. When he rises, Gunlaug's attention has already
shifted—sharp and predatory—toward Gemma.
The Hunter Primarch stiffens, shoulders straightening, spine taut as a spear shaft. His jaw
tightens just enough to show he knows what's coming.
"You," Gunlaug growls, "have grown lax."
Every word drips with accusation.
"I warned you before—keep a leash on your subordinates. And today proved that you cannot
even manage that."Gemma does not flinch, but the silence around him feels like a wall closing in.
Gunlaug leans forward in his throne, voice dropping into something colder.
"If the Hunters wish to exploit the Settlement, then do it properly. Tighten discipline. And if
anyone outside this castle becomes an obstacle…" His fingers tap the armrest once. "Then
make certain there are no witnesses left to speak of it."
The command lands like a thrown boulder.
Even Harus pauses, his oversized frame going still.
Seishan's brow creases—barely, but enough to show disapproval.
Kido inhales sharply through her nose.
Sasrir's gaze flicks sideways, unreadable.
The air grows thick, charged with the unspoken horror of what Gunlaug has just made
official.
Gemma allows himself only one reaction: a slow, measured bow.
"…Understood," he answers.
That is all. No protest, no hesitation.
And with that single word, the tension—while not gone—loosens just enough for the room to
breathe again.
Everyone is dismissed with a flick of Gunlaug's hand. "Harus, show the two brats to their
new home."
Harus stomps forward, still half a mountain of mutated muscle—until, with a series of
cracking pops, his spine folds back into its hunched shape. His swollen limbs shrink. The
chainball Memory unravels from around his wrist and dissolves into a puff of grey motes. By
the time he turns to Adam and Sasrir, he looks once again like the crooked, awkward giant he
normally appears to be.
"Come," he mutters.
He leads them out of the Hall and into the arteries of the Bright Castle. The walk is long and
winding—past arched windows lit by the red haze outside, past statues of ancient Sleepers,
past bored guards who fall silent at the sight of Sasrir.
Harus says nothing the entire way. Neither does Sasrir.
Adam only hears footsteps, echoing in a steady rhythm that does little to calm the knot in his
stomach.
Finally, they stop at a door—thick, iron-banded, clearly not part of the Hunters' wing.
Harus turns.His small, sunken eyes lock onto Adam's face with unsettling precision.
"I know you're planning something," he says flatly.
Not a question. A certainty.
Adam keeps his expression as neutral as possible.
Harus continues, voice low but not hostile. "I don't care what it is."
A beat of silence follows.
"So long as you pay respect to Lord Gunlaug," he adds, leaning down just enough to make
his shadow fall over Adam, "and remember your place, you and I… will have no problems."
His words are not a threat.
They are a boundary.
A warning wrapped in no small amount of malicious intent.
He stares a moment longer, then steps aside and gestures toward the door.
"Go on. Settle in."
Once the door shuts behind them, Adam waits—listens. Footsteps fade down the hall. No
shadows linger under the crack. No breathing except theirs.
Safe enough.
He exhales, loosening the tension in his shoulders.
Sasrir speaks first.
"Well?" the shadow asks, voice low but expectant. "What next?"
Adam blinks.
He had prepared himself for criticism—for a lecture, or one of Sasrir's barbed accusations
about recklessness.
But Sasrir only stands there, arms loosely folded, head slightly inclined.
No scowl.
No judgement.
"I thought you'd be angrier," Adam admits.
Sasrir tilts his head. "Why? I exist to follow your commands," he says simply. "And I saw
what you were aiming for. You were reckless… but not wrong."
Adam lets out a small, dry laugh. "High praise."He sits down on the nearest bed. The mattress dips under him, springs creaking—far softer
than anything in the Hunters' quarters. He presses his palm into it, testing the give.
Comfortable enough to think, or to plot.
Sasrir steps closer. "So. What now?"
Adam hums, eyes drifting to the ceiling as the shape of the coming weeks forms in his mind.
"Now," he says slowly, "we let things cool."
Sasrir waits.
"The gamble paid off," Adam continues. "Gunlaug got what he wanted—a leash on you, and
on me. That makes him feel in control. When people feel in control, they relax. And when
they relax…"
A faint, sly smile touches Adam's lips.
"…they stop watching quite so tightly."
Sasrir nods once, silent encouragement.
"So we wait," Adam says. "Let the fractured relationships mend. Let the outrage over Tessai
fade. Let the political ground settle until moving on it won't sink us."
He raises a finger.
"Step one: gather influence over the Guards. Quietly. A Primarch has followers, and you'll
need yours solidly behind you."
A second finger.
"Step two: earn back my freedom. Bit by bit. Good behaviour, small favours, showing
Gunlaug that keeping me locked up is more trouble than it's worth."
Then a third finger.
"And step three: deepen our ties with Seishan and Gemma. They're the moderates. They're
the ones with doubts. If the Guards stand behind you, and the Handmaidens and Hunters trust
me…"
His eyes narrow, calculating. "…our position becomes unshakeable."
Sasrir's shadowy form leans in slightly.
"And after that?"
Adam lies back on the bed, hands folded behind his head, gaze distant.
"After that," he murmurs, "we'll see just how far Gunlaug's leash actually stretches."
The room falls into comfortable silence—two conspirators, one plan, and a Castle that has no
idea what's growing inside it.------------------------------------
Seishan glides through the winding hallways of the Bright Castle, her movements measured,
fluid, almost hypnotic. Even alone, she carries herself with the unyielding poise of a princess,
untouched by the shadows that cling to the stone walls and the chill that seeps through the
cracks. The corridors, dimly lit and echoing faintly with distant footsteps, seem almost to part
for her, as if the darkness itself respects her presence.
She is older than most Sleepers—almost a decade of experience etched subtly into her every
gesture—but it only adds to her allure. Her pale grey skin, smooth and unmarked, glows
faintly in the torchlight, lending her an ethereal quality that draws the eye whether intended
or not. Her beauty is not simple or ornamental; it is precise, deliberate, and layered with
danger. Every step, every tilt of her head, carries an unspoken warning: she is not to be
underestimated.
Her eyes, cool and calculating, scan the hall as she moves, noting details most would miss. A
loose stone, a flicker of movement, a shadow too long in its place—everything is cataloged,
filed, and stored. She is deadly in the way only someone who has lived long enough to
understand the fragility of power can be. Grace and lethality are entwined in her like a
shadow and its edge, impossible to separate, impossible to ignore.
Even when the faint sounds of life—or plotting—reach her ears, she remains untouched, an
island of icy control, moving through the decay and darkness with an elegance that seems
almost unnatural. Those who have encountered her know, immediately, that she is both a
weapon and a lure: every glance, every measured motion, is designed to command, to
ensnare, to dominate without a word.
She is Seishan of Clan Song, and in her passage through the castle, the stones themselves
seem to acknowledge it.
But once she steps into the Quarters of the Handmaidens, the aura of untouchable grace shifts
slightly, softened by familiarity. Surrounded by her sisters—those who have trained under
her, served alongside her, and shared in the burdens of life at the Bright Castle—Seishan
allows a trace of warmth to touch her features. The rigid perfection of her posture eases; her
shoulders relax, the icy edge in her eyes dimming just enough to reveal the woman beneath
the legend. Here, she is at home, commanding yet approachable, and she can afford the rare
luxury of dropping the constant vigilance the rest of the castle demands.
A small cluster of younger girls swarms toward her, voices a mixture of reverence and
curiosity. They press for details about the recent trials, the whispers that have rippled through
the Castle like wildfire. "Did what they say really happen?" one asks, eyes wide, while
another nudges closer, seeking confirmation of the rumors that have inflamed imaginations
and sown unease. "Will anything change now? Will the Castle be different?"
Seishan kneels slightly to meet their gaze, the faintest smile brushing her lips, not of
indulgence but of measured reassurance. She answers carefully, each word chosen to soothe
without revealing vulnerability. "The Castle changes for no one," she says softly, her tone
both gentle and firm. "It bends only to those who understand its rules and respect its bounds.
The trials… they are part of that order. What is necessary has been done, and life continues."The girls hang on her words, absorbing her authority and calm like a lifeline. Even in this
intimate circle, Seishan's presence commands attention; her ability to balance approachability
with control reminds them why she is both mentor and paragon. Here, the deadly elegance of
the Hallways softens into the warmth of leadership, but the underlying sharpness—the lethal
precision born of centuries—remains, hidden beneath the grace and poise she allows them to
see.
In these quarters, surrounded by her sisters, Seishan is still formidable, but approachable; still
wise, but capable of a small, rare tenderness. The Castle outside may be harsh and
unyielding, but within these walls, she can breathe—and guide them with a subtle hand,
showing that even the most untouchable of figures can have a heart for those who serve
faithfully.
It was a trick Seishan had learned from her mother, one she had taken deeply to heart: to
disarm fear and curiosity alike with a mixture of warmth and subtle charm, making even the
most guarded feel safe in her presence. One girl in particular, a petite handmaiden with soot-
black hair, stepped forward hesitantly. Her eyes were wide, betraying more than words ever
could, and the rapid thrum of her heartbeat was almost audible in the tense silence between
them. A slight tremor in her voice gave away her secret concern. "About Adam...how is he?"
Seishan's lips curved into a playful, almost conspiratorial smile. She leaned down just
enough to ruffle the girl's hair gently, her touch light, teasing. "And what is this I hear about
Adam?" she murmured softly, the tone laced with just enough amusement to draw a reaction.
The girl's cheeks burned crimson, and she stammered a flustered denial, words tumbling over
themselves as she tried to regain composure.
"I'm just-I was just worried about him, you know. Gunlaug and Tessai are all bullies, and he
seems so helpless...he's a good person, I don't want him to get hurt."
Seishan chuckled, a warm, musical sound that seemed to fill the room and ease the tension
instantly. She didn't press further, letting the moment linger just long enough to make the girl
squirm, then relented with gentle authority. "Relax," she said, her voice soft but firm, "both
Adam and Sasrir are quite fine. There's nothing more for you to worry about."
The girl blinked, relief flooding her expression, and Seishan allowed herself a faint, indulgent
smile. It was a small, private victory: a lesson in reassurance, control, and the art of easing
the young into confidence—one she had mastered long ago, and one she wielded with
effortless grace.
It was no secret a few of her sisters had romantic inclination towards Adam-he was young,
fresh faced, considerate and handsome. He never discriminated against them for being of the
fairer sex, and was happy to offer his help to anyone who asked.
Still, speaking of that blonde young man with the unusualy blue eyes, her thoughts wandered.
She had detected the faint trace of conspiracy clinging to him—the same subtle scent she had
noticed the day they first met, after Gunlaug had dragged them both in for interrogation for
speaking with Huntress Athena. Beneath his calm smile, the effortless politeness of his
gestures, she sensed a kindred spirit—someone who played a role with careful precision, yet
harbored far darker intentions in the hidden depths of his heart.Her investigations that followed their first meeting, fueled by nothing more than quiet
curiosity, revealed layers that only deepened her unease. The man appeared, outwardly at
least, deeply religious, adhering to ancient covenants she had heard her mother mention only
once or twice. In an age where most had forgotten such things, he clung to them with quiet
conviction, yet did so without fanfare. Adam shared his beliefs openly, with a warmth and
accessibility that made it seem natural, almost disarming.
But beyond his piety, it was his uncanny ability to connect with others that unsettled her
most. He had a way with words—subtle, persuasive, almost hypnotic at times—that rivaled
her own. Even in casual conversation, he could draw people in, earn trust, and leave them
unaware they had been influenced. That effortless charisma, paired with the hidden cunning
she had glimpsed, marked him as a dangerous force—someone who could shape events
quietly but decisively. And in her mind, she could not ignore the warning bells his presence
rang: a man so unassuming on the surface yet so capable beneath could topple structures,
sway loyalties, and unsettle the balance of power in ways most would never see coming.
After all, Seishan had been taught to command hearts from her mother, trained in the subtle,
exacting arts of a Great Clan from the moment she could walk. Every gesture, every word,
every glance had been honed into a tool of influence. She knew instinctively how to bend
situations, to sway people without overt force, to make them act as she wished without ever
realizing it.
But Adam… where had he learned such arts, and from whom? He claimed his Aspect
allowed him to read surface thoughts and emotions, a gift that might explain some of his
uncanny timing in conversation, some of his deft manipulation of interactions. Yet even
knowing what to say next, even sensing the flicker of a thought or a heartbeat, did not
automatically grant one the skill to wield people so effortlessly. There had to be more—either
he had received rigorous, specialized training somewhere hidden from her, or he was simply
a natural, someone born with a rare instinct for reading and shaping those around him.
Either possibility set her nerves on edge. A trained manipulator could be precise and deadly,
methodical in undermining rivals, while a natural prodigy could be unpredictable, capable of
improvising influence in ways no rulebook could contain. In either case, Adam was
dangerous. The kind of danger that could unravel plans, sway loyalties, and unsettle the
delicate hierarchy of the Bright Castle without leaving a trace.
Seishan's fingers curled slightly at her sides, subtle but tense, as she considered him: not
merely another Sleeper in the Castle, but a variable she could neither ignore nor
underestimate.
Above all of that was the presence of Sasrir, though. If Adam carried the faint, familiar scent
of one of her own—someone who wore their intentions just beneath the surface—then Sasrir
was of a completely different breed: like a Knight born of Clan Valor. Every movement he
made exuded lethal precision, as if death itself lingered in the wake of his steps. His
accomplishments over the past six months alone spoke volumes of his skill, a catalogue of
feats that would intimidate even seasoned Hunters.
But it was what lay beneath that unnerved her most. She had tried, more than once, to probe
him, to read the currents of his blood and the subtle rhythms that betrayed intention. And yet,time and again, she gleaned nothing. No telltale pulse, no flicker of fear, no hint of desire or
calculation—he was utterly unreadable. In that moment, the thought struck her: he was closer
to a souless Echo than a flesh-and-blood human.
The most disturbing part, in her mind, was that when she focused intently, trying to map the
flow of life within him, she felt… nothing. As if his body were a vessel animated by purpose
alone, a living shadow with no heartbeat to betray it. Sasrir existed on a plane that Seishan
could not measure, an enigma wrapped in steel and silence, bound only to Adam—and that
bond, inexplicably, radiated a power she could neither penetrate nor ignore. Why the man
stuck to the blonde priest, she and the rest of the Bright Castle had no clue; and everyone was
dying to find out the price for the loyalty for a monster such as Sasrir.
Together, the two posed a threat far larger than either alone. And yet, instead of striking
preemptively, instead of eliminating the danger before it could grow, some inscrutable force
compelled her to extend an olive branch. Why? Was it Adam's acts of charity, his small
gestures that shone like sparks in a world consumed by Dream Realm depravity and cruelty?
Unlikely. She was no naive maiden, no girl whose heart could be swayed by kindness or
charm.
Then why? Even Seishan could not answer that. All she knew was the undeniable truth of her
actions: she was gambling—not just with her own position, but with the lives and futures of
every sister behind her. And for what? For two men who, if misjudged, might amount to
nothing at all. The risk was immense, yet the pull of something she could neither name nor
control had drawn her to this precarious decision. It left a chill in her veins, a tension that
would not fade, and a question that haunted her more than any threat she had faced before:
could she truly trust what she could not understand?
Only time would tell the results of her gamble