I walk through the faintly illuminated hallways near my uncle Titus's chambers in House Azure. The night air feels oppressive, as if the palace holds its breath. I feel Binah's presence before I see her, the faint weight of her gaze pressing against my thoughts like a phantom.
She steps into my path, her pale figure stark against the dark stone. Her violet eyes glint, unblinking, and though she says nothing—as always—the meaning is clear. She wants me to follow.
But I do not.
"No…" I whisper, the word sharp in the stillness. My pulse quickens. I force myself to meet her gaze. "No more adventures."
Her head tilts, her expression unreadable, but I sense her disapproval like a shadow draped over my shoulders. For a moment, I think she might try to stop me, but then she steps aside.
I press forward, ignoring prick of her eerie gaze.
I am not a leaf. She is not the wind. I go where I will.
And at this moment, I feel like taking the scenic way home, away from the judging eyes of the eunuchs and maids that populate the hallways of the Chatelaines' quarters. The air grows quieter as I step into the more desolate corridors, the paths less trodden.
Walls seem closer than they should be, archways stretch taller, and the silence presses against my ears. The usual hum of life is absent—no footsteps, no whispered voices, only the faint creak of ancient stone.
Titus's words echo in my mind. "Manhood is not given, Janus. It is earned, blood by blood, step by agonizing step…" My hands clench at my sides. I do not want to think about it any longer, yet something of those words call to me.
This is why they hate me. Because I am better.
The thought burns bright and defiant, but it is fleeting.
The corridor ends, and I find myself descending a shallow incline into an open space between courtyards. The air grows fuller, tinged with a faint copper tang. My steps falter. My breath catches.
At the center of the courtyard stands a ceremonial tree, its gnarled branches twisting skyward like skeletal hands. Draped across one of the branches is a figure. A breeze I cannot feel sways the form gently, the motion unnatural, almost mocking.
I take a step forward, my body moving before my mind can stop it. The figure becomes clearer—a flash of deep purple against the pale bark. My stomach churns as recognition dawns.
Darius.
The name rises unbidden, a jagged memory clawing its way to the surface. I see him as he was—his booming laugh, the warmth of his hand on my shoulder, the stories he told of the Crucible. Now, his body hangs lifeless, his arms limp, the hands bruised and scraped as though he had fought to…
I cannot finish the thought. My throat tightens. Bile rising. I force myself closer, my eyes locking onto the silken noose wrapped about his neck.
A sound breaks the stillness—footsteps, faint but drawing closer. Voices, low and urgent, echo through the courtyard. Panic surges through me, cold and sharp.
I step back, the scrape of my boots on stone sounding deafening. My breath is shallow and ragged. The shadows seem deeper now, closing in. The tree looms larger, its twisted branches stretching toward me like claws.
I turn and run.
The corridors of House Azure blur around me, their pageantry twisting into a living maze. My heart thunders in my breast. A scream splits the air, high and shrill, and my legs burn as I push myself to run faster.
Binah saunters beside me, her steps a colorless parody of my own. Her gaze flicks to me once, her expression unreadable—a silent mockery of my fear.
Shame crawls my face, worms its way into my heart.
The path bends sharply, and at last, I see the faint glow of my quarters ahead. It is a sliver of light in the suffocating darkness, a promise of safety I cannot trust but cannot ignore.
I burst into my chambers, slamming the door shut behind me. My chest heaves as I collapse against the door, the cold surface grounding me as I struggle to catch my breath. The faint hum of the palace is gone, replaced by the hammering of my heart.
"Janus."
The voice cuts through the noise like a musical note. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I lift my head.
She stands in the center of the room, her figure bathed in the faint brightness of the glowglobes. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, and her violet eyes—the same as Binah's and Cyra's—gleam with quiet intensity.
"Mother."
The word escapes me, raw and trembling. Relief surges through me, only to be consumed by a burning anger. My fists clench at my sides as I take a halting step forward.
Kaelenya tilts her head, her expression unreadable. "You are safe," she says, her voice steady. "Good."
Safe. The word feels hollow, meaningless in the wake of what I have seen. In the wake of what I have done. My voice rises, sharp and unsteady. "Where have you been? You left me. Abandon me on—"
"Stop." Her tone is calm, but it carries a weight that halts my words. She steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I am here now. That is what matters."
Kaelenya moves to the small table by the window, her fingers brushing against its surface. She turns, holding something in her hands—a curved dagger, its blade etched with faintly glowing runes.
"This is yours," she says, offering it to me. "A knullknife. A gift to celebrate your entrance into manhood."
I take the knife, its weight unfamiliar but comforting. The hilt feels warm against my skin, pulsing faintly with an energy I cannot name. The blade, curved and dark as obsidian, shimmers faintly under the light, its surface etched with runes that seem to breathe.
A chill crawls down my spine as realization dawns. "A knullknife," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "One of the few weapons that can permanently harm an Eidolon."
Kaelenya nods, her gaze steady.
I turn the knife over in my hands, its weight suddenly heavier, more significant. My reflection warps in the blade's dark surface, and for a moment, I see more than my own face—something shadowed, something distant.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. "Has Cyra showed you how to access your torq?"
The question jolts me, sharp and unexpected. My fingers tighten on the hilt of the knife, and I force myself to meet her gaze. "No," I say, the word clipped.
Kaelenya's expression does not change, but I catch the faintest flicker of something—disappointment? No, something deeper, harder to name. "And why do you think that is?"
I hesitate, the words bitter in my mouth. "She said she had to return to the Mere. But I think it's because she fears me."
Her brows draw together, and she steps closer, her hand brushing lightly against my cheek. "Do not say that," she says, her voice soft but firm. "Your sister does not fear you, Janus. She loves you."
"Then why—" I stop myself, my voice catching. The knot in my chest tightens. "Why does she look at me like I am… a monster?"
Kaelenya's hand lingers for a moment before falling away. Her gaze remains steady, unyielding. "Your sister has much weighing on her thoughts. This will be her final term, and your Father's legacy flows through her veins just as it does your own. But that does not diminish how deeply she cares for you.."
Her words hang in the air. I want to believe her, but the memory of Cyra's hesitant gaze, her abrupt parting, refuses to leave me.
Kaelenya steps back, her hand brushing the hair from my face. "Close your eyes," she says softly. "Focus on the inside of your forehead."
I nod slowly, my eyelids shutting. The room falls away, and pinpricks of colored light bloom and die in the inner darkness. A distant, low hum rises, like the roar of a distant seashore. The chaos resolves into shapes, forms, and finally, meaning.
The void fills with faint letters etched in light.
Name: Janus Ragnos.
True Name: Morvayn.
Rank: White-Gold.
Attributes: Dormant.
Shadow Roots: [12/1000].
My breath catches, the words lingering in the darkness before fading back into nothingness. The silence that follows feels loud, deafening.
I open my eyes slowly, meeting Kaelenya's calm, expectant gaze. "What… what does it mean?" I ask, my voice barely steady.
Her lips curve into the faintest smile, though her eyes remain serious. "It means, Janus, that you have much to learn—and much to overcome."
She rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. "This is only the beginning. You will grow into your torq and the truth it holds. But for now, let it guide you—slowly. You are not yet ready to wield all that it offers."
Her words settle over me, heavy with implication, but I nod, the weight of the knullknife grounding me in the moment. Morvayn. The name pulses in my thoughts, both alien and familiar.
Kaelenya steps away, moving toward the door with deliberate grace. "Rest, Janus," she says, her tone softening. "Tomorrow, you will need your strength."
She pauses at the threshold, glancing back. "And remember, your sister's love is not so easily lost. Give her time."
The door closes softly behind her, leaving me alone with the knife in my hands and the faint echo of her words.
I glance at the blade, its runes still faintly pulsing. Morvayn. White-Gold. Shadow Roots. Questions burn in my mind, but the answers feel as distant as the stars beyond the shifting geometry of Malkiel.
With a deep breath, I place the knife on the table beside me. Its presence lingers, a weight that presses against my thoughts, even as I lay back and close my eyes. The hum from the torq vibrates faintly beneath my skin, a constant reminder of the path ahead.
What lies beyond Dormant? The question lingers as sleep pulls me under, and for the first time in years, I dream of fire.