The portal spits me out.
One is struggle enough, but traveling through two, back-to-back, is too much. My head spins. The world—
I stumble forward, my boots catching on the edge of a thick rug. I lurch sideways, barely catching myself on a nearby chair, my heart pounding as the room twirls around me. The air here feels different—warmer, heavier, laced with the faint scent of polished wood and stone. I glance around, trying to orient myself.
The chamber is opulent yet austere, a contradiction that feels entirely deliberate. Banners of deep azure hang from the walls, each adorned with the insignia of the Qilin. The floor is black stone, polished to a mirror sheen, interrupted only by the massive rug beneath my feet—a sprawling mosaic of intricate patterns that seem to ripple under the flickering light of the sconces. To one side stands a wide table, its surface strewn with star maps, reports, and a single ceremonial dagger, its blade catching the light.
Titus strides past me as if I am not there, his presence somehow shrinking the room despite its size. He moves to the table, placing his hands flat on its surface as he leans over the maps, his back to me. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until I can no longer bear it.
A palm presses against my back.
Binah's palm. Its touch radiates an eerie calmness that knots my stomach tighter.
"My Qilin—" I begin, the words spilling out unbidden.
"Quiet." His voice cracks through the air like a whip, sharp and unrelenting. He does not look at me, his attention still on the table. "You were in the Necropolis. Reckless. Foolish. Yet here you are, standing before me. Alive." His gaze lifts, sharp and unrelenting. "Do you understand how many foolish youths that place has swallowed?"
I open my mouth to respond, but the words die before they form. How can I explain? Can I blame Binah? Even if I could, would it matter?
My hesitation earns a faint, disdainful snort.
"No. You do not," he says, straightening. "How you got there is irrelevant. What matters now is that you never enter again."
The warmth of Binah's palm vanishes.
From the corner of my vision, I catch her movement. She steps toward the table, her focus shifting to the star maps. My breath falters as I track her movements, her silence heavy with intent.
Titus lets the silence linger before speaking again. This time, his tone is different—softer, reflective. "But I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge your survival of the First Baptism. A rare feat in itself."
I blink, startled by the shift. His hand moves to a decanter on the table, its crystal surface catching the light. He pours a small measure of a dark amber liquid into a pair of glasses. The scent of it—a blend of spice and smoke—wafts through the air.
Titus picks up one of the glasses, his eyes meeting mine as he gestures for me to take the other. "Manhood is not given, Janus. It is earned, blood by blood, step by agonizing step. And you, like your father before you, have taken your first step."
My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the glass. I do not drink, not immediately. The weight of his words presses against me.
"Your father," he continues, his gaze distant, "was a legend. He emerged from the First Hell with a silver torq. A feat that had not been accomplished in a century. But you…" His eyes flick to my neck, where the white-gold torq rests against my skin. "You wear what no one else has earned in living memory."
I stiffen under his scrutiny. The torq feels heavier now, its presence a constant reminder of what I cannot fully understand. Pride and doubt war within me, each vying for dominance.
"To survival," Titus says, raising his glass. The toast is curt, deliberate. I follow his lead, taking a hesitant sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, leaving a heat that lingers in my chest.
The moment passes, and Titus's demeanor shifts again. The warmth of his reflection fades, replaced by his usual commanding presence. He begins to circle me, his hands clasped behind his back, his steps measured and deliberate. "Tomorrow, you leave for the Mere. The first true test of your worth. Many break there. Some rise. Few survive intact."
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. The mention of the Mere sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me, yet it is Binah who holds my attention. Her pale figure halts before the desk, her fingers hovering just above the star map, tracing invisible lines across its surface.
"I see something in you, Janus," Titus continues, his voice steady. He stops to my left, his presence bearing down on me. "A fire that has not yet been snuffed out. That makes you dangerous—and useful."
His words hang in the air, sharp and unyielding, and I feel a flicker of something I cannot name. Hope, perhaps. Or dread.
Titus returns to the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the ceremonial dagger. "You aspire to power," he says, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "That much is clear. I will show you the way."
My breath catches, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. He turns to face me fully, his expression unreadable. "Achieve Primarch status at the Mere. Prove that your ambition is not hollow. Do that, and I will ensure your ascension to Polemarch of House Azure."
The words are thunderous. Polemarch. The enormity of the offer leaves me momentarily speechless. My lips part to speak, but Titus's expression darkens, and his tone hardens.
"Do not mistake this for charity. The path I offer you is treacherous, and it will demand everything of you. Discipline. Strength. Sacrifice." He steps closer, his gaze a blade that pierces me to the core. "You will rise, Janus, or you will break. And if you break, you will fall farther than you can imagine."
The weight of his words presses down on me, suffocating. My voice trembles as I force out a question I am not sure I want answered. "What if… what if I am not ready?"
Titus's eyes narrow, his lips a thin line. "Then you will break. And Malkiel does not weep for the broken."
I bite back the lump rising in my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Shame burns beneath my skin, but so does defiance. I will not let him see me falter, not here.
He steps back, his demeanor shifting once more to cold detachment. "Rest tonight," he says, his tone dismissive. "Tomorrow, the Mere awaits. Remember what I have told you, Janus. And remember: there are no second chances."
With a sharp gesture, he turns back to the table, his attention already on the maps. The door to the chamber creaks open, the sound echoing through the stillness. My feet remain rooted as I struggle to process everything he has said, everything he expects of me.
"Go," Titus says without looking up. The word carries the finality of a hammer striking stone.
I turn stiffly, my movements mechanical. But as I reach the door, something compels me to glance back.
Binah's finger trails over the star map. My eyes catch the faint glow of New Larin—the third planet from the sun, our home. But her finger does not rest there. It moves lower, pausing over the fourth planet.
Cythraen.
The name ignites a memory, sharp and vivid: a splinter group, my mother's people. My pulse quickens as questions flood my mind, too many to voice. Binah's gaze flicks toward me, unblinking, before she turns back to the map.
I step into the corridor, the sound of the door closing behind me as final as a tomb's seal. Cythraen burns in my thoughts, its name refusing to fade.