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Book 2 Chapter 37: Faces In The Crowd
🕑 Added 2025-07-05 04:07:00 +0000 UTCJosephine turned toward Isol, one brow raised, violet eyes gleaming.
"My darling, my love... what’s the plan?"
Isol grunted, already stretching out his neck. "Paperwork. I need to go reclaim my classroom from whatever ruffian they’ve shoved in there. Might even be Michael, if the gods are cruel."
They both spit.
Vaeliyan looked down. The floor was immaculate. Somehow, it absorbed the insult and came out cleaner.
Josephine turned her attention to him, her gaze sharp.
"Mr. Verdance... may I ask why there’s a mangy cat sitting on your head?"
Before he could respond, Jurpat grinned.
"That’s just Bastard. One of his bonds."
Josephine’s eyes shifted to Isol.
"Bonds? As in plural?"
At that moment, Styll poked her head out of Vaeliyan’s coat pocket, blinking with slow offense.
Isol nodded slightly. "That’s Styll. She’s rather unique. Well, they both are, from what I’ve seen... and heard."
Josephine tilted her head. "A cadet with two bonds, both non-combat? That is rare."
Isol shook his head. "From what I’m told... and from what I’ve watched up close, neither of them is remotely domestic."
Josephine’s voice cooled. "Really now?"
Inside Vaeliyan’s mind, Styll’s voice hissed: I don’t likes her. Can I bites her, Warns?
Vaeliyan exhaled. "She says she wants to bite you... for calling her non-combat."
Styll poked her full head out, silver fangs gleaming. "Stylls can speaks for herselfs, thank yous, veries much." Her voice rang out into the air.
Josephine jumped back a step, blinking. Her posture returned quickly, but her surprise didn’t go unnoticed.
Vaeliyan hissed under his breath. "Styll, you’re not supposed to talk. Someone might hear. It could get us caught."
"Stylls is sowies, Wa..."
WHAP.
Bastard batted her on the side of the head with one paw, claws carefully retracted.
"Bastards! Why hits Stylls!"
The cat rolled his eyes, turned a slow circle, and resumed his throne on Vaeliyan’s head.
Josephine began to laugh. She laughed hard, genuine and wheezing, until she had to hold the wall.
When she finally caught her breath, she wiped her eyes. "They’re perfect. The mouth and the mind. A perfect pair of bonds. I’m almost jealous."
Isol smiled. "Well, my dear... while I’m off reclaiming my class, maybe you could dress the boys in some of Nelton’s old clothes?"
She scoffed. "Old clothes? These two young gentlemen are getting a proper debut." Her grin sharpened. "We’re going shopping. Maybe even try on a face or two. I might change it up myself. Not as old as you, my love... but perhaps grey is the way to go."
Vaeliyan’s expression died.
He turned his head slightly, whispering to the creatures on his body. "If she tries to change my face, you both have permission to bite her."
Styll sprang from his pocket immediately, fangs bared mid-leap.
"Not now!" he said, fumbling to catch her. "Only if she tries anything!"
She squirmed once in his hands, then flopped like a dead thing.
Bastard stared, completely unbothered.
Josephine didn’t take the transport pad. She took the house.
The entire estate lifted from its platform with a purring hum, the hover rings engaging in perfect synchrony. Wrapped in veil tech, the rings pulsed beneath the structure like slow-turning halos, pushing the house upward with invisible precision. Vaeliyan watched from one of the windows as Kyrrabad bent around them, buildings parting, traffic rerouting. This wasn’t travel. This was declaration.
Apparently, it wasn’t even unusual. Two other houses floated nearby, gliding toward different luxury districts like gods bored of their altars.
Josephine adjusted a wine flute and smiled. “I thought it might be fun to make a proper entrance.”
She didn’t disembark. The house settled into a low-hover dock beside one of the exclusive Ryan & Ryan elite-service towers, completely separate from the flagship branches. These towers didn’t cater to clients. They were built to serve estates.
The store came to her.
Clerks arrived in synchronized pairs, male and female Ryans, flawless in posture and symmetry, bearing trays of biometric readers, accessories, and embedded weave fabrics. Holograms deployed with a whisper. Scanners took shape in the air. This wasn’t shopping. This was ritual.
Josephine lounged at the edge of her floating deck, tablet in hand, barely glancing up. “We’ll begin with faces. I want both of you scanned for overlays. Don’t worry, they won’t apply anything without consent.”
Vaeliyan’s jaw locked. He didn’t move.
A male Ryan stepped forward with a sleek case. "Sir, if you’ll hold still..."
Vaeliyan slapped the scanner away. Not hard. But with finality.
"No."
The Ryan blinked. "Face scans are standard protocol for compatibility reads."
"No."
Josephine glanced up. "It’s just a test, dear. No changes unless you approve."
Vaeliyan didn’t raise his voice. "The only face I want on this body is the one already on it."
Silence.
Josephine studied him, something flickering in her gaze. Amusement, maybe. Or approval. Then she looked at the Ryan and nodded once.
The scanner retreated.
Jurpat quietly declined as well. “No thanks,” he said, polite but firm.
Josephine gave a slight shrug. "Suit yourselves."
Outfits were next. Vaeliyan stood, arms crossed, letting the bots circle him. He made no selections. No comments. When they tried to adjust measurements for assumed enhancements, he held still and glared until they recalibrated.
Jurpat, quieter but more fluid, made his choices with a few nods. Nothing loud, nothing desperate to impress. Clean. Tactical. Appropriate.
The Ryans worked with clinical perfection. Neither boy spoke during the fitting.
When it was done, the results were stark: Vaeliyan unchanged, unyielding. Jurpat refined and outfitted for war. Both standing like they’d just walked through fire.
Then Josephine stood.
She stepped into the scanning circle. The Ryans swarmed with eerie grace. Her face began to change, aged just slightly with dignified lines. Silver streaked through her hair in metallic waves. Her cheekbones became sharper. Her eyes, deeper. Power without apology.
She studied her reflection with a small smile. "You know, I really like this new style Isol’s trying to start. Might be time to be a new me."
She turned to the boys.
"You’ll do. Barely. Let’s go make introductions."
The Ryans bowed.
The boys didn’t bow back.
The hover estate returned to its platform in Kyrrabad without ceremony. The veil shimmered back into place as the rings disengaged, settling the house onto its sculpted foundation. Josephine didn't wait. She stepped off before the pads were even fully stabilized, heels clicking with practiced precision.
"Park the house," she said to Nigel.
"Of course, Mrs. Brent."
To reach the Citadel mixer, they had to take transport pads. Vaeliyan watched as Josephine stepped onto the nearest one with regal confidence, then immediately turned aside and began vomiting into a polished chrome basin a servant bot offered without comment. She did it all with perfect posture.
"Transport pads," she muttered through gritted teeth. "I loathe them."
They arrived in the southern courtyard of the Citadel,a gardened plaza walled in by blood-red towers. Sunlight filtered down in angled shafts, and drone orchestras played low, forgettable melodies beneath hanging silks. Every person here was watching everyone else.
Josephine composed herself, dabbed at the corner of her mouth, and adjusted her silver hair with one graceful motion.
“Dignity is enduring nausea without losing your shoes,” she muttered, stepping forward like nothing had happened.
The Citadel's outer complex was already humming with motion. Dozens of cadet hopefuls and sponsors mingled beneath sprawling translucent canopies, each branded with one of the Nine. Light displays shimmered with advertising, subtle, high-tier, and ruthless.
This wasn’t a mixer. It was a battlefield in silk.
They hadn’t been standing long when a tall man and a willowy woman approached, both dressed in high-form threads trimmed with blue and gold.
"Josephine?" the woman said. "Darling, what is that new look? It's radiant."
Josephine smiled. "My dear husband returned from his tour as an enforcer, you know. Medical tour. He inspired the change."
"Ah, yes," Lord Menso said. "I’ll be doing my tour in the next five years, I believe. Isoldian did his in some backwater, if I’m remembering correctly."
"My dear husband said that’s where the best talent comes from," Josephine replied smoothly. "Actually, boys? Could you come here for a moment? There are some people I’d like you to meet."
Jurpat and Vaeliyan stepped forward.
"Jurpat Van and Vaeliyan Verdance," she said, "this is Lord and Lady Menso of House Menso."
"It is an honour to meet you both," Jurpat said with crisp clarity.
Vaeliyan followed with less polish. "It’s an honor to meet you, sir and or madam."
Lady Menso raised a brow. "Well. I never."
Lord Menso chuckled.
"Backwater bastard’s bastard," Josephine said lightly. "Don’t mind him. By the time the Legion is through, he’ll be a proper gentleman."
She turned slightly. "Anyway, my dear Isol said that Jurpat is the next Teon, if you can believe it."
The Mensos both looked stunned. They stepped past Vaeliyan without another word, turning their full attention to Jurpat.
Jurpat gave Vaeliyan a helpless glance.
Vaeliyan mouthed, It’s fine, then turned and slipped away.
He didn’t belong here. He knew it. And still, he moved deeper into the crowd, keeping his head down and his eyes sharp.
If he couldn’t belong, he’d at least learn. Maybe cause a little trouble. Maybe figure out who the real enemies were.
He was already failing at pretending. So he stopped pretending.
And he started watching.
Eventually, he found a courtyard half-hidden behind a line of red-lacquered columns. It was quieter here. No orchestras. No silk. Just statues, dozens of them, ining the stone garden like silent judges. They weren’t abstract or graceful. They were brutal. One in particular caught his eye: a winged man mid-roar, sword in one hand, a severed head in the other. The face wasn’t peaceful. It was furious. Victorious. The wings were chipped. The jaw was cracked. But it stood tall.
Vaeliyan stopped there.
“Couldn’t handle the crowd?” someone asked.
He turned slightly. A boy about his age, standing a few paces away, dressed in high-cut dark cloth with silver trim. Pale hair, perfectly styled. Posture casual. Face too clean to be common.
“I was never a fan of them myself,” the boy said. “Everyone’s always jostling for position. It’s not conversation they’re after. It’s angles. Advantage.”
Vaeliyan nodded.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“No.”
The silence settled. Then the boy turned to him with a faint smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Vaeliyan Verdance.”
The boy blinked at that, mildly surprised. “Verdance,” he said. “Interesting.”
Vaeliyan hesitated, then asked, "And what's yours?"
The boy smiled like the question amused him. "Elian," he said. "Elian Sarn."
"This Citadel," the boy said quietly, "is the best of the five. Not the biggest. Not the richest. But the best. If you achieve something here, something real, you might even change the world."
He glanced at the statues. "That’s what these are, you know. Every one of them. People who did something that mattered. People who were more than just powerful."
Then he looked back to Vaeliyan, as if catching himself. "But what am I going on about? You probably just came here to be alone. I’ll take my leave."
He turned.
"Wait," Vaeliyan said.
Elian paused, half-turning.
Vaeliyan kept his eyes on the winged statue. "So what did he do? To become so world-changing."
Elian followed his gaze. "That one? He’s the one who stopped the siege at Kilgon’s Pass. Held it against the warriors of the Empire for three days straight. They say he was on his way to being chosen as a High Imperator himself... until he took the platinum ring instead. Chose to train others. Build the future instead of just burning the present."
Vaeliyan muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?" Elian asked.
"Nothing," Vaeliyan said. Then: "Can you tell me more? About the rest of them. What they did."
Elian smiled faintly. Not mockingly. Just surprised.
"Sure," he said. "Come on."
They walked the garden path slowly. Elian pointed out each statue, telling the story of the soul behind it. There was the woman who carried a folding chair into every war council and sat through each one without speaking. She memorized every plan, every flaw, every ego in the room, then vanished the night before battle and reappeared mid-siege, pulling victories out of chaos the generals hadn’t even seen coming. They say she never issued an order. People just followed. A man who broke a Legion mutiny from the inside by surviving six days locked in a sealed room with the traitors. Another who turned down ascension to rebuild the medical corps. Each one a piece of the Citadel’s myth.
Vaeliyan didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened.
Elian seemed content with that. There was no performance here, no audience. Just two boys standing in the long shadow of legends.
Footsteps echoed across the stone. A woman in slate-gray stepped into view, polished uniform, quiet precision, not a servant but not quite noble either.
“Please, Lord Sarn,” she said. “You really must let us know before you disappear. The family is watching.”
Vaeliyan didn’t react. No bow. No salute. Just another name. The woman hesitated.
But the boy, Lord Sarn, smiled. Not at her. At Vaeliyan.
“It’s alright. He’s one of us.”
She gave the smallest bow and retreated.
Lord Sarn turned back. “Verdance, huh. You wear the name like someone who doesn’t care if it fits.”
Vaeliyan gave a half shrug.
Lord Sarn seemed satisfied. “I suppose we’re both strays, in our own way.”
Then he was gone, walking away like someone used to leaving things behind.
The crowd had begun to surge toward the perimeter of the pit. Vaeliyan moved with them, ducking between shoulders and ceremonial cloaks until he reached the front. He stood just behind the velvet rope, looking down into a space that seemed too perfect: gleaming walls, polished floors, and projected flames flickering along the rim like ancient torches.
The air above was thick with artificial starlight, millions of tiny points glimmering in a sky that wasn’t sky at all. It was too flawless, too curated. The music, the lighting, even the breeze... it was all wrong in the most convincing way. Vaeliyan felt like he was walking through a dream someone else had designed.
The people around him weren’t like the ones in Mara or even Parthilion. They were tailored, smoothed, edited. Every face perfect. Every expression curated. And they were tall. Even the shortest ones. He slipped beneath notice, ghosting forward because of his height and plainness.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. But he was.
Jurpat had told him about the pit, how the fights were real, despite the illusion. The cadets would be placed in capsules, their bodies suspended while nanite avatars projected them into the arena. The pain would be real. The stakes would feel lethal. They could go all out, throw everything they had, and still walk away intact. It was a way to keep the talent alive. No lost limbs. No dead prodigies. Just perfect violence with perfect containment.
He reached the front of the pit just as the stage above shifted and lights twisted into focus. A flare of gold across redglass. And then...
Ruby.
Flamboyant, flawless, floating in presence more than motion, Ruby stood at the center of the stage, arms wide, a drone circling like a pet. Vaeliyan recognized the voice immediately. Isol had explained to him about the Rubies, how no one ever saw two together, how they were always at tournaments, how no one really knew if they were one person, clones, constructs, or something else entirely.
But they were good. Damn good.
"...and so, due to unanimous consensus from all major parties, the petition has passed. From this day forward, what you once called Skills will now be known as Soul Skills. Because truly, my darlings, when blood meets belief, when essence meets action, soul is the only word that fits!"
The crowd roared.
Ruby bowed dramatically. Her recorder-drone hovered behind her shoulder, its lens trained tightly on her face.
"Now then," she purred, twirling in place, arms extended. "Let me introduce tonight's gladiators. Our first combatant: a girl who can outrun your fears and then make you wish you'd caught her. Deic Welhiker! Her Soul Skill: Run for the Hills."
A tall girl stepped forward onto the platform. Her stance was loose, arrogant, built for speed. One leg bounced slightly as she smirked at the crowd.
"And her opponent: the man who turns heat into heaven and then burns it all to ash. Alex Vrek! His Soul Skill: Heat Above."
Alex strode forward, slower, heavier. His eyes were half-lidded but locked on Deic. He cracked his knuckles with sharp precision.
The crowd hushed. Then the floor of the pit shimmered. Two silhouettes appeared, Deic and Alex again, but not their flesh-and-blood selves. These were nanite avatars: glinting, almost real. Real enough to bleed. Real enough to scream.
Before the fight began, Ruby lifted one hand. "But wait! My lovelies, we have a special guest with us tonight. Please welcome one of the Legion’s most celebrated High Imperators. The strike behind three lost wars. The voice that leveled entire regiments. High Imperator Justinia Verdance, The Echoing Titan!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Vaeliyan froze.
He had seen pictures. Hollow, distant things. But this was the first time he saw her in person. Her presence was like a weapon. Dressed in deep red, silver hair tied high, she moved like gravity bowed to her.
She looked like no one else. But he recognized her all the same.
His great-grandmother.
She didn’t see him. Of course not. He was a shadow in a borrowed name. But she was real.
And then the fight began.
A sonic boom split the air as Deic vanished from view. Vaeliyan’s eyes strained to track her, just a flicker of movement, and then she was slamming into Alex with a trail of force behind her. He caught the blow, flame igniting from his forearms as the impact drove him back across the pit.
The ground buckled beneath them. A segment of the arena rose like a wave, then shattered as Deic chased him down. Vaeliyan’s chest thumped in time with the chaos. She darted around Alex in loops, every movement synced like music.
He retaliated with a concussive blast that turned the floor molten. Deic leapt again, kicked off one of the broken platforms midair, and launched a needle-thin spear of pressure directly into Alex’s path.
They weren’t holding anything back. This wasn’t a demonstration. It was a war.
The avatars bled, bruised, limped. And they kept going.
Vaeliyan flinched as a shockwave pushed through the crowd. Even buffered by the pit’s shield, the force registered in his bones. He could smell ozone. Taste metal. His instincts wanted to fight alongside them.
Ruby narrated from above.
"Judging by the force signature, that was a heavy burn from Alex. And Deic? Oh, she’s not running away. She’s building rhythm. Watch her hands, my sweets. Those aren’t flicks, they’re metronome strikes."
The audience was shrieking now, rabid. Vaeliyan’s breath quickened. This was his language. Not the gowns, not the names. This.
Alex sent a wave of heat up into the false sky. The pit's lighting changed instantly, clouds forming above. The next moment, Deic dropped from above with a spinning heel made of pure force.
They fought like they’d done it forever and with every blow, every flicker of their Soul Skills, the air screamed with resonance.
They were trying to kill each other.
And Vaeliyan could not look away.
Ruby's voice lilted over the violence. "Deic is baiting now, trying to force Alex into overcommitting. She’s shifted rhythm, ah, there, see? A feint within a pulse. Oh, she’s nasty when she wants to be."
It lasted three minutes.
And then it ended in fire.
Deic vanished in a blur, reappearing behind Alex, who had summoned what looked like a miniature inferno overhead. She struck once, twice, and the inferno collapsed with them both inside it.
The pit went white.
Silence.
Then, both bodies dissolved, nanites unraveling into harmless mist. A moment later, Deic and Alex stepped out from a mirrored corridor to the side, whole and untouched, bowing.
The crowd roared again.
Ruby clapped her hands, eyes wide. "Exquisite. A masterpiece of death without the dying. Now, let’s have a few words, shall we?"
Justinia Verdance stepped up beside Ruby. Even in the chaos, her presence shifted the air. The cadets stood straighter. The crowd grew quiet.
Ruby handed her a mic. "High Imperator Verdance, your thoughts?"
Justinia smiled. "They’ve improved. I watched them spar in their first year. Back then, Deic couldn’t land a hit. Now she’s the one setting tempo. Alex, as always, plays the long game. But tonight, she outlasted him."
She turned to them. "Well done. Both of you."
Deic flushed slightly. Alex nodded, but said nothing.
Ruby beamed. "And that, my darlings, is the Red Citadel. Brutal, beloved, and never boring. Don’t worry, we have plenty more fights ahead."
Vaeliyan stood motionless, hands clenched.
This was the place.
This was the standard.
And he would exceed it. One way or another.
