The stone arcs through the air on a perfect trajectory. Splash. Ripples disturb the pond's mirror surface, distorting the reflection of House Azure's spires above. I select another stone, smooth and flat. Perfect for skipping.
Three versions of myself flicker in my mind: four-year-old-me lying on my back as I stare up at cousin Septimus, present-me standing where he once stood, future-me... I push that one away. Not now. Focus on the stone.
My grandmother's words echo. Demon. Hunger. Vessel. The stone flies from my hand, too hard, too angry. It plunges straight down. No skips. No grace. Just fury.
I reach for my Inner Hell, trying to lock away the rage. It fights back, slipping through my grasp like water. Another stone. Another throw. Each one a battle between control and chaos.
"Your form is getting sloppy."
Cyra. I do not turn. Do not need to. Her presence fills the space behind me, warm and steady as sunlight.
"Shouldn't you be preparing for the Festival of Retrospection?" The words come out sharper than intended.
She moves beside me, her silver-blue robes shimmering in the light. "And miss watching you assault innocent pond water?" A pause. Her voice shifts, grows softer. "I was younger than you when they came."
They? The Nihil?
The stone in my hand grows heavy. The Second Shattering. She never speaks of this.
"I remember the screams first. Then the silence." Her words fall like stones into still water. "The way the air itself seemed to die. Have you ever heard a world go quiet, Janus? It's not natural. Nothing should be that still."
I turn to her. Her eyes are distant, seeing something beyond the pond, beyond now.
"Mother grabbed me. We ran. Through corridors that shouldn't exist, through spaces that hurt to look at. The Nihil were everywhere and nowhere. Just... emptiness that moved." She wraps her arms around herself. "I saw what they did to people. How they... unmade them. Turned them inside out. Not just their bodies. Their souls."
My throat tightens. The stone cuts into my palm.
"I still dream about it sometimes. The unmaking. The silence." Her eyes find mine, sharp and present. "So when I see you here, throwing stones because grandmother called you names..." A small, sad smile touches her lips. "Well, any burden feels heavier with perspective, doesn't it?"
I let the stone fall. It hits the ground with a dull thud.
"Cyra, I—"
"Young master. Optimate Cyra."
Darius. His violet-gray eyes—so like my own—catch the light as he approaches. The Mark of Nullification stands stark against his neck, a reminder of different paths and choices.
He bows, precise and formal. "Dularch Titus requests your presence. Immediately."
Cyra straightens, mask sliding back into place. But her words linger, heavy as stones in deep water.
"Of course," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "We wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
Darius's eyes hold a flicker of sympathy as he turns to lead us. He knows, as we do, that a summons from Titus Ragnos is rarely cause for celebration.
Cyra's hand brushes mine as we follow. A silent reminder: whatever comes next, we face it together.
Above us, House Azure's spires pierce the sky like frozen lightning, watching. Always watching.
Darius leads us along a winding path that shifts and blurs with shadows until we emerge into the harsh light of day. The Grand Causeway stretches before us, a span of ivory marble linking House Azure with the Dularch-Temple.
Uncle Titus stands at the head of the gathering, his ceremonial armor gleaming under the sun. The Chatelaines flank him in their formal robes—a sea of silver and blue that ripples with each breath of wind. Behind them, the other scions who passed their testing stand proud, their faces masks of serenity I wish I could mirror.
My skin prickles. So many eyes. So many thoughts of—
"Stand tall," Cyra whispers, taking her place beside me. "Let them look."
I drop into a deep bow before Uncle Titus, arms crossed in the formal gesture of House Azure. "My Qilin, I present myself as—"
"Did you intend to keep us waiting all day?" His voice cuts through my greeting like steel through silk.
The words catch in my throat. "Chatelaine Elethra... she forbade me from attending the Festival."
"Who rules here?" Titus's eyes bore into mine. "Me or her?"
Ice spreads through my chest. The wrong answer could shatter more than just this moment. "You do, my Qilin."
"Then take your place."
I move to the back of the gathering, where the lesser scions stand. The marble feels cold beneath my feet, even through my boots. The sun beats down, but I cannot feel its warmth.
Cyra glides forward to stand beside our uncle, her robes whispering against the stone. She takes the position reserved for the High-Chatelaine—the space where Mother should be. The empty air beside her feels like an accusation.
The other scions shift slightly, creating a pocket of space around me. Talon and Enna, the golden twins, stand on either side of the group, their eyes flicking to me with a mix of hostility and disdain.
I lock my spine straight and keep my eyes forward, fighting the urge to look at Cyra for reassurance.
We proceed down the Grand Causeway toward the Dularch-Temple. As we approach, the air changes—thicker, more charged. The neutral ground between House Azure and House Vermilion holds a certain gravity, a reminder of both unity and rivalry.
Within the grand halls of the Dularch-Temple, tension and ceremony blend. The air itself seems to buzz with the weight of tradition and expectation.
Meeting us in the central chamber is Helena Urisius, the High-Chatelaine of House Vermilion. Her platinum-blond hair, braided with red and black gems, catches the light, and her piercing double pupils survey us with a mixture of intensity and curiosity. Her presence is commanding, wrapped in ceremonial robes that speak of power and elegance.
Helena offers a sharp smile as she addresses Titus, her words dripping with mockery. "Titus, the time has come once again to watch you bleed."
Titus, unphased by her jab, maintains a facade of mocking sweetness. "Helena, your concern is always touching. Shall we proceed with the formalities?"
Behind her stand several boys my age, first sons of the Grandmasters of the Hundred Conclaves. These sons are sent to House Vermilion as part of the Rite of Fidelity, much like the first daughters sent as brides to House Azure. Their expressions are a mix of resolve and uncertainty, aware of the heavy responsibilities placed upon them.
My gaze locks onto a pair of striking blue eyes among the group. Penelope. Her platinum-blond hair falls in waves around her graceful, watchful face. Time seems to stop as our eyes meet. Something within me shifts—a pull, a pang.
By her side stands Castor, his athletic build and intense blue eyes mirroring his sister's. He assesses us with a barely concealed arrogance, a smirk playing on his lips.
The High-Chatelaine's double pupil eyes snap back to me, her interest sharpening. "And who do we have here? Is this Leocian's and Kaelenya's git?"
"Helena!" Titus barks. His voice slices through the sudden exclamations. He grabs Cyra's arm, forestalling her lunge forward. "Direct your insults at me if you must, or at minimum save them for those who've entered Nenuphar."
All eyes are drawn to me.
My throat tightens.
Am I so hated?
A smirk tugs at Helena's lips. "Forgive me, Titus. The joyousness of this day has made me lose all sense of propriety."
The temple air crackles with tension. Uncle Titus's face contorts, a mask of barely contained fury as he spins away from Helena. His shoulders bunch beneath his ceremonial armor, and the Codicil on his forehead blazes to life—a web of light that spreads across his skin like liquid fire.
Words spill from his mouth like living lava. Incomprehensible. Alien. The language is ancient, powerful, meant only for those who bear the full mark of the Codicil. Each syllable pulses with raw energy, making my teeth ache and my bones hum.
The air splits.
Reality tears itself apart before us, edges curling like burning paper. Through the widening gap, I glimpse the surface of New Larin—our adopted home since the Second Shattering. Frost-covered earth stretches toward a horizon painted in shades of amber and gold. The portal's edges ripple and dance, distorting the boundary between here and there.
The assembled crowd draws back. Even Helena's smirk falters as the portal stabilizes, its presence a reminder of the raw power the Codicil grants its bearer. The words of power may be beyond my understanding, but their effect is undeniable.
I catch Cyra's eye. Her face is tight with concern, but there's something else there too—calculation. She sees what I see: Uncle Titus losing control, letting Helena's barbs pierce his carefully maintained composure. It's unlike him to react so strongly, to waste power on such a display.
The portal pulses, waiting.