Bastard. I shove hair out of my face, heat prickling my skin. “What did he say? What did he say hewants?”
“He didn't specify. Only that you're to accompany him to the processing chambers.” Zeriel moves to the small chest at the foot of his bed and retrieves a clean tunic. He tosses it to me. “You should change.”
I catch the garment, my fingers trembling.
The processing chambers. The same place they brought me when I first arrived. Where they scanned me for magic. Where they passed that strange detector over my body, searching for any trace of outlawed power.
“This could be it, you know. They could be taking me to Voss right now.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Zeriel shrugs. “Possible. But panic rarely wins a fight. Better to keep your head and put that sharp tongue of yours to use. If you can’t talk your way out of it, at least go down saying something memorable.”
I freeze, staring at him. Who talks about execution like it’s strategy practice? Oh, right. A man who’s already had his wingscarved from his back and survived the arena besides. A man who plays at cruelty so easily it’s impossible to tell where the act ends.
Besides, we’re not talking abouthispotential death. If nobody was watching us, all they’d have is evidence that some kind of magic took place, but that’s no evidence to impugn a champion. Zeriel could argue I used it out of defiance, or even accidentally, thus the need for his continued “taming” of me.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging the tunic over my head. My pulse hammers, but his words stick—like they seem to have a habit of doing. Losing my composure won’t help. And damn him, he knows it.
He stalks to the door, hand closing on the handle. “Ready?”
I straighten my shoulders, summoning whatever courage I can find. “No,” I hiss. “But open it anyway.”
With a faint nod, Zeriel pulls it wide, revealing a uniformed guard waiting in the corridor. The man’s face is impassive, his posture rigid.
“Four-Three-Seven,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “You're to come with me.”
“May I ask why?” I keep my voice steady, channeling a confidence I don't feel.
“Handler Selen has requested your presence.” The guard's eyes flick briefly to Zeriel, then back to me.
The world seems to slow around me.Handler Selen. Requesting my presence.
“Champion Caelith may accompany you if he wishes,” the guard adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Of course I'll accompany my ward,” Zeriel says smoothly. “I want to know what this is all about.”
As we stride with the guard through the now-empty barracks—I can only assume the other men are already at training, while the venerablechampionis allowed to choose his own hours—my mind races. What would Selen want with me? After our strange conversation in the baths? After her warning about people watching me? Is this even connected to what happened last night?Did Zeriel get his assumptions wrong?But why call me to the processing chambers?
The guard leads us downward, through passages that grow increasingly familiar. My stomach knots as I start to recognize the route to the processing area. Zeriel moves half a step behind me, close enough that I can feel the prickle of awareness along my spine—no reassurance from him, just added tension. The reminder that he’s watching me, weighing, waiting.
The processing level feels colder than I remember, the air heavy with the scent of cleansing agents and fear. As we round the final corner, I spot Selen standing in the corridor outside the main chamber. Her posture is rigid, her silver-cropped hair gleaming under the bright lighting. But it's her face that sends ice through my veins—a mask of cold professionalism, utterly devoid of the subtle empathy I'd glimpsed in the baths.
She looks like she's here to do her duty, nothing more. Like I'm just another recruit to be processed. Or eliminated.
Before we reach the main chamber doors, Selen raises a hand to halt us. “Thank you, guardsman. You're dismissed.”
The guard nods and retreats. Selen's teal eyes flick to Zeriel.
“Champion Caelith, wait here. Four-Three-Seven, come with me.” She gestures to a small door set into the wall beside the main chamber.
Zeriel stiffens slightly. “As her guardian, I have the right?—”
“You have the rights we allow you,” Selen cuts him off. “This will only take a moment.”
I glance at Zeriel, whose jaw has tightened almost imperceptibly. He gives me a small nod—a command to comply.Does his command even mean anything now?I follow Selen through the door into what appears to be a small supply room, shelves of crystal lenses gleaming back at me.
The moment the door closes behind us, Selen's cold mask cracks. Her eyes widen with something I recognize immediately: fear.
“You’re to be rescanned for magical traces,” she hisses, her voice barely above a whisper. “Orders directly from Marrek.”
