Amelia's expression, however, is not soothed by Flynn's antics. Her gaze is fixed on me, her brow furrowed in a mixture of scholarly curiosity and genuine concern. "Actually," she says, tapping a thoughtful finger on her chin, "there's a rather interesting passage in one of the heretical texts I was researching about the 'Gloom-Kissed.' It suggests the boundary isn't as clear as the modern Order likes to believe."
"Amelia, now is not the time for a history lesson," Flynn groans, slumping back against the wall. "The man just woke up from a magical coma. Let him have some soup."
"No, it's relevant," Amelia insists, her eyes lighting up with the fervor of someone who has been wrestling with a puzzle for days and has finally found a piece that fits. "The text, a fragment attributed to an exorcist named Malakor, claims that the Light and the Gloom are not opposing forces, but two sides of the same coin. Two ends of a spectrum."
She starts pacing the small room, her words coming faster now, animated with intellectual energy. "Malakor proposed that some individuals aren't born purely of the Light, but exist somewhere in the middle. A balance. These were the 'Gloom-Kissed' he spoke of. Not corrupted, not evil, but... different. Able to understand the nature of the Gloom in a way no pure-blooded Exorcist ever could."
She stops in front of me, her green eyes wide and intense. "Caden, what if you're not a Tainted Blood? What if you're... a new evolution? A throwback to the First Age? What if your ability to command the Gloom isn't a curse, but a... a different kind of blessing?"
"...When have you last slept, Amelia?"
She blinks, the question pulling her out of her academic reverie. "What? I... I slept. A little." She waves a dismissive hand. "That's not important. What's important is-"
"What's important is you're running on fumes and speculation," Flynn says, pushing himself off the wall and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Caden's been asleep for a day. Which makes him more rested than you." He gently turns her toward her bed. "Lie down. Before you start trying to prove we're all living in a snow globe."
Amelia opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. A yawn she can't suppress betrays her. The sudden surge of adrenaline from finding me awake is fading, and the exhaustion of her marathon research session is catching up with her. "Fine," she concedes, though her tone is mutinous. "But we are not done discussing this."
She collapses onto her cot, not even bothering to get under the covers, and is asleep within seconds, her glasses askew on her face.
Flynn sighs, a long-suffering sound, and carefully removes her glasses, placing them on the small stack of books she has next to her bed. He looks at her for a moment, a surprisingly gentle expression on his face, before turning back to me.
"Don't mind her," he says, keeping his voice low. "She's a genius, but with her level of sleep deprivation right now, I wouldn't trust a word of anything she says. She's probably hallucinating pixies." He picks up the heavy leather book she dropped on my bed. "What is this, anyway?"
I glance at the cover. The title is embossed in faded gold leaf: A Compendium of Ancient Glyphs and Their Esoteric Applications. "Her new bedtime story, apparently."
Flynn flips through a few pages, his brow furrowed. "It's all pictures. Weird squiggles. How does she read this stuff?"
"She's not reading it, she's devouring it," I say, my mind still on her 'Gloom-Kissed' theory. As ridiculous as it sounds, a part of me wants to believe it. A different kind of blessing. The idea is a warm spark in the cold, dark cavern of my soul. A dangerous, foolish hope.
"Well, I hope she finds something useful in there," Flynn says, closing the book with a heavy thud. "Because Siena is already drilling everyone. The ones she took with her, anyway. She's got them running laps and practicing their forms like the Citadel never fell. She's a slave driver."
It makes sense. Siena is a professional. She's a field agent, too, not a Classmaster. Enough of one that I don't recall ever even seeing her around the Order, and I never had anywhere to go outside of it, so I definitely saw most of the inhabitants. She's more focused on the direct fight. The short term.
"What about you?" I ask. "You're not on the 'Siena Special' training regimen?"
He grins, a flash of white in the dim light. "Nah. I'm on 'Classmaster Thomson's Special Assignment'." He taps the stew pot. "Which apparently involves making sure you and Amelia don't starve or turn into a vegetable. It's a full time job." He stretches, his arms over his head, and then glances toward the third bed in the room, that he'd taken claim of. "Makes a guy tired..." he says, in a way that's so obviously not true he might as well be trying to sell me a used Feral.
He walks over to it and plops down onto it with a loud thump that makes the whole room seem to shake. He folds his arms behind his head and stares up at the stone ceiling.
"So," he says, after a moment of silence. "Siena is a piece of work, but she's a good piece of work. Sharp. And tough. She took a group of the more competent-looking students out for some 'reconnaissance and supply recovery.' Her words." He pauses. "She didn't ask you to go."
"I was asleep." I say, not yet interested in trying to will myself out of bed.
I don't particularly want to be made the permanent plus one every time anyone leaves this place, so Siena refusing to employ my help is something I'd consider a benefit. But...
"...She probably thinks I'm a monster." I add.
Flynn is quiet for a long moment, just staring at the ceiling. "Yeah," he finally says, his voice quiet. "She does. But nobody's perfect."
"...What??"