An hour before dawn, the air in Grevona is heavy and humid, a nice contrast to the more chilly mornings of the academy where we just left.
The spring months here in Verion, and the temperature is surprisingly warm even at this ungodly hour. It was starting to warm up in at the Academy but the East of the empire just seemingly sucks with its weather. The city here smells of ozone, damp stone, and the faint, sweet scent of blooming jasmine.
I walk two paces behind General Icepelt, my boots clicking rhythmically on the seamless cobblestones. To my left is Lucian, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, his eyes scanning the rooftops for some reason. To my right is Imara, her hand clutching her pendant of Aren, looking at the city with wide, overwhelmed eyes. And trailing just a step behind us, silent as a shadow, is Vihaan.
The streets of Grevona are awake, but only just.
Markless soldiers patrol the intersections in pairs. They look exhausted and bored. Some lean against the silver pylons of the streetlights, fanning themselves with their caps, smoking rolled tobacco. When they see the General, they straighten up instantly, snapping salutes, but the moment he passes, they slump back into the lethargy.
We pass a row of tall, elegant residential buildings. A few civilians have remained in the city, despite the martial law in effect. They scuttle along the edges of the street, heads down, hugging their baskets of bread or laundry to their chests. They know the hierarchy here. Soldiers are dangerous. Elites are demi gods. And you do not make eye contact with demi gods.
An elderly woman, bent double with age, steps out of a doorway just as we approach. She freezes when she sees our black hoodless cloaks marking us as Elites.
She doesn't just step aside. She collapses.
She throws herself to the ground, pressing her forehead against the warm stone, trembling violently.
"Blessings of the Light," she mutters into the dirt, her voice cracking. "The flame is the soul's breath... The black smoke is the soul's release... Ashes thou wert and art... May thy soul return to the great flame of fire, blessed by the Gods, blessed be Aren"
I look down at her as we pass.
She is a religious fanatic, one the Churches great victories was brainwashing people just like her to believe in the so called Gods. I don't know what I believe. Maybe a god or gods exists maybe they don't. My powers and the powers of other Elites could be a result of a great deal of things not just some abstract "gods" that the Inquitors claim. I know however deep down that I will never be like this poor old woman who believes in the shit the Church of Aren and the Inquisitors sell. The most detestable wickedness, the most horrid cruelties, and the greatest miseries, that have afflicted the human race have had their origin in this thing called religion. It has been the most dishonourable belief against the character of any type of divinity and the idea the Gods would bless such creatures like us humans who use their gifts to murder and subjugate others seems like the most destructive thing to morality, and the peace and happiness of man, that has been propagated against man since we began to exist. It is better, far better, that we admitted, if it were possible, a thousand devils to roam at large, and to preach publicly the doctrine of devils, if there were any such, than that we permitted one such impostor and monster as the First Pope Aren and all subsequent Aren's and the Inquisitors of the Church who have spent centuries preaching about the "Gods" in every corner of the Empire. Of all the horrid assassinations of whole nations of men, women, and infants, with which the the Church is complicit with. That's not even to mention the tortures onto death and the fucking bloody religious persecutions of the past when the First King and his church "united" the lands against Chaos, all of those people of past religions lay in blood and ashes all for this impious thing the Inquisitors called truth and how all who did not convert to truth must be agents of Chaos. I sigh thinking about it and how cruel the lies of the church are. All national institutions of churches... appear to me no other than human inventions set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.
A sound escapes me though as I look back at the woman a quiet, degrading snicker.
It is cruel, perhaps. Imara shoots me a look of shock, her lips pursing in disapproval. She sees a faithful subject showing respect. I see an animal and it makes me angry.
I try to understand her and the others mindset but I never can. I wonder and think bitterly that they all clutch their pendants and look towards the sky towards the Sun. And yet, the gods never give any of them answer and they never will. So many people have died in an instant, stripped of all they hold dear and so many more will continue to die. Have they committed any kind of sin? Where is the logic in it? Can't the gods hear all their despair? All the sorrow, but where is their hand, their mercy? What could all of these people do to deserve the treatment this cruel world inflicts upon them? My parents flash across my mind, my mother's smile and the way my Dad would wink at me. Why did my parents deserve to die?
We continue moving.
The silence between all of us is heavy. The other three with me are not pleased.
Last night before we bed down, I had dropped the hammer. I told them we were being split up. I told them the General demanded it, which was true.
"I have no choice," I had lied, looking Zaria and Niko in the eye. "Orders are orders."
Zaria had been furious, Niko had looked resigned. Dominic had annoyed.
But I didn't have no choice.
The General had given me discretion. "Pick three," he had said.
So I did but they didn't need to know that.
I picked Lucian because he is my right hand and we share a bond. I know he's loyal and he shares my hate and distaste for the Empire as a whole. I picked Vihaan because he is a guided missile of violence who needs no moral justification to kill and he follows my orders as he sees me as a natural born killer like him. And I picked Imara as her density manipulation is the strongest mark of powers in my opinion amongst the others. We also get along for the most part the only issue is I wish she wasn't so fucking annoying about the religion shit.
Who knows what will happen to the other three, hopefully they are assigned underneath someone component enough to keep them alive.
Survival of the fittest, the voices in my head whisper, soothing my conscience. If they are strong enough to live they will
I sigh, pushing the thought away, and focus on the city.
Grevona is staggering.
The wealth here isn't in gold; it is in infrastructure. The streetlights aren't torches; they are massive, cut crystals perched atop silver pillars, glowing with a steady, indefatigable blue light. There is no soot on the buildings. The roads are smooth, engineered for drainage and some new type of transposition that resemble a mini train. The general had called them "trams" and Lusa was already implementing them into the city as well, with the plan to spread the mode across the entire Empire eventually.
Here, in the West, the technology is leaps and bounds ahead of the mainland Empire. They have turned the crystals into a utility.
"Look at the tram lines," Lucian whispers, nudging me. "They run on Light rail compared to the bigger trains back in Avrael. No wonder the Empire wants the mines back so badly these crystal for sure can be used to power weapons as well!"
"It's efficient," I say, my eyes tracking the glowing lines embedded in the street. "But does it not seem fragile? One cracked crystal and the trams would stop working no?."
"You're a pessimist," Lucian grins. "I'm sure they have back ups in place and people who can repair them quickly."
I grunt conceding the point.
We turn a corner, leaving the residential district and entering a more militarized zone.
Ahead of us, in a large, open courtyard in front of a converted municipal building, a group of soldiers is conducting PT.
There are about fifty of them. Given the warmth of the morning, they are all shirtless. Sweat streams down their backs, glistening under the blue crystal-lights. They are doing burpees in perfect unison, a rhythmic thud-clap-jump that echoes off the walls. The smell of exertion is heavy in the humid air.
General Icepelt stops.
He doesn't announce himself. He just stands there, hands clasped behind his back, watching.
We stop behind him.
It takes a moment. The soldiers are focused, their breath coming in heavy heaves. Then, a soldier in the back row spots the General. His eyes widen.
"ATTENTION!" he screams.
The reaction is chemical.
Fifty soldiers freeze mid-motion. Fifty spines straighten. Fifty hands snap to their heart's in the traditional salute.
The silence is absolute.
"At ease," the General commands. His voice is low, but it carries. "Carry on."
The soldiers relax slightly, but they don't go back to exercising immediately. They stand there, vibrating with adrenaline, staring at the General.
The General scans the group. His eyes lock onto a man at the front the one who was leading the drill.
"LT Colonel Aric Caldera," the General calls out. "If you would, a moment."
The soldier leading the PT nods once. He gestures to a subordinate, who instantly steps forward to take command of the formation.
"Resume!" the subordinate barks. The thudding of bodies hitting the pavement starts up again.
Colonel Caldera jogs over to us.
I study him as he approaches.
He is not what I expected.
I expected most high-ranking officers in the Imperial Army to be stiff, polished men who look like they sleep in their dress uniforms. Colonel Caldera looks like a man who enjoys bar fights.
He is tall, maybe six-one, with a lean, ropy build that speaks of a hard trainer. He is wearing standard PT gear black shorts and a black T-shirt soaked through with sweat, clinging to his frame. His hair is black, cut in a clean, sharp fade that looks freshly done.
But it is his skin that draws the eye.
He is a canvas.
Every inch of exposed skin is covered in ink. I see daggers woven into the muscles of his forearms. I see grenades inked onto his calves. I see a shield covering his left shoulder. The artwork is exquisite, hyper-realistic, turning his body into an arsenal.
My eyes travel up to his neck.
Tattooed around his throat, like a choker, is a spiked chain. The links look heavy, the metal rendered with such detail that I almost expect to hear them clink when he moves his head. It gives him a dangerous, leashed look.
I rack my eyes over him, unable to look away from his eccentric look, and I could tell my friends are doing the same.
Then, I see his leg.
On his right thigh, extending down below the hem of his shorts, is a massive image of a Squid. Its tentacles wrap around his leg, disappearing behind his knee.
I squint.
The ink on his arms is just ink. It sits on the skin.
The Squid... sits under the skin.
That is not a tattoo, I realize, a jolt of recognition hitting me. That is his Marks brand.
I frown. A Squid? What does that mean for his power? Does his tattoos have something to do with it?
The Colonel arrives in front of us. He doesn't seem out of breath despite the training he was just doing. He snaps a salute to the General, then stands at attention, his charcoal grey eyes flicking briefly to me, then Lucian, then Vihaan, assessing us in a split second.
"Sir," Caldera says. His voice is gravelly, calm. "What do I owe the pleasure?"
The General pauses, looking past Caldera at the training soldiers.
"You do a good job here, Colonel," Icepelt says softly. "That unit is tight. Disciplined."
"Thank you, sir," Caldera replies. "They're good men. They want to fight."
The General nods.
"You are being reassigned, Colonel."
The Lieutenant Colonel stiffens. It is subtle a tightening of the jaw, a flex of the hands but I see it. He is not pleased. He has built this unit. He has trained them. And now he is being pulled.
"Sir?" he asks, his tone neutral.
"I'm putting you in charge of a new strike force," the General says. "It will be a mixed unit. Six Awakened, including you and the three soldiers you see here the other two are being determined."
He waves a hand toward us.
"And I am also assigning top-of-the-line markless soldiers. About three or four of them. Specialists."
Caldera says nothing. He just looks at us.
I can see the gears turning in his head. He sees three teenagers. He sees a boy with a sword, a boy with daggers, and a girl clutching a religious icon. He sees children.
He looks resigned. He looks like a man who has been handed a shovel and told to dig a well in solid rock.
"Understood, sir," he says flatly.
The General smiles slightly, sensing the skepticism.
"First Lieutenant Awakened Ayato Daath here will be your XO," the General adds.
Caldera blinks.
He looks at me. Really looks at me this time.
"Daath?" he repeats. "The name sounds familiar."
I internally sigh. Here we go, I think.
"I'm famous," I say dryly.
Caldera's charcoal eyes widen slightly. The recognition clicks into place.
"Wait," he says, his voice somewhat shocked. "You're that Three Mark Bearer? The one from the rumors?"
"In the flesh," I respond.
I don't smile. I don't preen. I just hold his gaze. I want him to know that the rumors he heard didn't mention the half of it.
The Lieutenant Colonel shakes his head, looking back at the General. He seems genuinely shocked.
"Sir," Caldera says to the general, "aren't they... young? Should they not be at the Academy still? Three marks or not, he's... what? Sixteen?"
"Seventeen," I correct.
"About that," the General interjects, cutting off the debate before it starts. "We've had no choice but to deploy a good portion of the students. The situation here is important and we need up our timeline as Lumor keeps attacking the mainland from the North. We can not afford to fight two wars on two different fronts. Especially with our crystals being controlled by agents of Chaos."
Caldera shakes his head again. He looks at the soldiers doing burpees behind him grown men, hardened by training and then back at us.
"Untrained and unprepared children being sent to war," he mutters, his voice thick with disgust. "What a damn shame."
It isn't an insult to us. It is an indictment of the system.
But the General frowns. The air around us seems to grow heavy with his disapproval.
"They showed enough competence to be pulled early, Colonel," Icepelt says sharply. "Lieutenant Daath has already proven he has the stomach for the necessary work and he's effective." "As did the others" he adds as an afterthought glancing sideways at Vihaan.
"Yes, sir," Caldera responds automatically. But his face is hard. He is displeased. He is unsatisfied. He thinks he is being saddled with babysitting duty.
The General eyes him for a long moment, measuring his obedience.
"Regardless," the General says, "you will get your gear and report to House Number 45 on Silver Street. It has been reserved for this new strike force. You will go with these three here, and I will send the rest of your new unit later."
Caldera nods. He knows better than to argue with a General especially one whose mind is made up.
"Aye, sir," he says.
Then, he pauses.
"But... what does this new detail entail? A six-man Awakened squad with markless support? That's not a patrol unit. That's not a garrison unit." "What do you think we can accomplish?"
The General smiles.
It is the same smile he wore in the arena right before he told me to kill the prisoner. It is a smile of secrets and violence.
"You'll get more in-depth orders later," the General says. "Especially since your first mission is going to be tonight."
My ears perk up. Tonight? What the fuck?
"But I can tell you now," the General continues, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. "That you are now Strategic Command's newly formed TG."
"TG?" Caldera asks.
"Task Group," the General clarifies. "A small, highly mobile group that moves behind enemy lines to conduct rapid, violent attacks on specific high-value targets and areas, followed by a quick withdrawal."
He looks at me, then at Caldera.
"You can think of a name for your new strike force if you like. You'll all need call signs as well."
The General straightens up.
"This was the King's idea himself. He wants to test his new idea. You are now his scalpel."
The Lieutenant Colonel blinks.
He processes this. Behind enemy lines. Rapid assault. High value targets.
It is a suicide squad. But it is also an Elite squad. We are chosen to be the Elite among Elites. This is almost akin to being a Spellbreaker Unit. It's an honor to be given such a duty.
I watch Caldera's face. The resignation fades, replaced by a cold, professional focus. The soldier takes over.
I am impressed by his poker face. He doesn't flinch at the danger. He just accepts the geometry of the battlefield.
"Understood, General," Caldera says.
He snaps a salute.
We follow suit. Lucian, Imara, Vihaan, and I snap our hands to our chests.
"Dismissed," the General says.
He turns on his heel and marches across the street, his black cloak swirling in the warm morning wind, heading toward the command center.
We are left standing there.
Caldera exhales a long breath, watching the General go. He runs a hand through his short black hair, the spiked chain tattoo on his neck rippling with the movement.
He turns to look at us.
His eyes are charcoal grey and unreadable. He looks at me.
"So," he says, his voice flat. "First Lieutenant Daath."
"Colonel," I reply.
"You're the XO," he says, testing the words. "That means you keep them in line." He gestures to my friends.
"No need to worry about them."
Caldera stares at me for a second. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Silver Street," he says. "Let's go see our new house."
He turns and starts walking, his gait loose and dangerous. I fall in step beside him.