The polished oak door swung inward without a sound. Joshey stepped across the
threshold, leaving the tense silence of the antechamber for another sort of quiet.
Viggo's office was a study in controlled opulence. Thick, wine-colored carpets swallowed
sound. Bookshelves lined one wall, not with ledgers, but with real books-histories,
philosophies, a few with titles in languages Joshey didn't recognize. A wide window behind
the massive obsidianwood desk offered a grim, panoramic view of the Granary's heart: the
mist-shrouded marsh to the south, the labyrinthine pens below, the distant glint of the sea.
It was the throne room of a king who surveied his kingdom of misery.
Viggo himself did not appear as a monster of story. He sat, a man of late middle years with
a comfortable paunch testing the buttons of a finely embroidered silk waistcoat. His hair
was an improbable shade of light blue, swept back from a high forehead, and his skin was
pale, almost waxy, as if he consumed the district's light along with its profits. But his eyesthey were his true seat of power. They were black, not just dark, but a matte, lightabsorbing black, like chips of void set into his face. They tracked Joshey's entrance with the
passive interest of a spider noting a fly's trajectory.
Joshey halted a respectful distance before the desk, assuming a stance of attentive
neutrality. He let his gaze go slightly wide, slightly off-center, the look of a man trying not to
be overwhelmed.
"Your name," said Viggo. His voice came as a surprise-soft, cultured, almost bored.
A flicker of thought in Joshey's mind: He has the report. He knows my name. Why ask me
again?
"Elias Vulcrest, sir."
Viggo selected a small, sharp fruit from a silver dish on his desk and examined it. "Born a
commoner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Married?"
"No sir."
The questions came in that same soft, relentless rhythm. Family? None. Previous
occupation? Odd jobs. Home region? The poorer parts of Oakhaven. Each answer was abrick in a profile Viggo was building, a sketch of a nobody. Joshey answered truthfully
where he could, weaving Elias's sparse history into vague generalities. There was no
suspicion in Viggo's tone, only a profound, analytical curiosity. He was taking inventory.
Then, in his same inflection, Viggo said, "Get on your knees."
He didn't shout, he simply made a command to me.
Joshey's brain was processing it in nanoseconds. Refusal meant instant death.
Compliance meant submission. He opened his mouth, and a "Why?" formed on his lips; a
stalling tactic, a negotiationHe never got the chance.
A presence he had barely registered, a tall, silent figure standing so still in the shadow of a
bookshelf he'd seemed like a statue. Moved. There was no wind-up, no dramatic lunge.
One second Joshey was standing, the next, an immense, inexorable pressure was applied
to the back of his shoulders and neck. It wasn't like it was a blow; it was a forcing. Like a
hydraulic press made of flesh and bone.
His body betrayed him. His knees buckled. He hit the thick carpet with a soft thud, the
impact jarring up his spine. He instinctively tried to push back, but the pressure was
astronomical. It was like trying to lift a mountain. His merged consciousness, with its
perfect perception, analyzed the force vector, the muscle engagement, the sheer density
of the man behind him.
Leagues above Lucia. The assessment was instant, chilling, and absolute. Where Lucia
was a scalpel, this man was a collapsing continent. Where Kaelen was bedrock, this was
the tectonic plate itself.
Damn, Joshey thought, the profanity a quiet spike of pure, professional awe in the silent
prison of his mind.
Above him, Viggo took a delicate bite of his fruit, a droplet of juice gleaming on his lip. He
chewed slowly, looking down at Joshey now. The perspective shift was complete. Master
and supplicant.
"Good," Viggo murmured, his black eyes drinking in the sight. "Now I can look down on
you. It clarifies the relationship." He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. "Twenty-eight
hours. That is how long the ledger says you have been in my employ. In that remarkablyshort time, you have accrued a record of stubbornness and disobedience." He took
another bite. The crunch was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Joshey kept his head bowed, his voice carefully calibrated between respect and strained
defense. "A mistake, sir. I was. acclimating. Trying to only train."
"Your limits are where I say they are," Viggo said; his tone never lost its conversational
quality. "Who is your employer, Elias? Who brought you into my house?"
The question hung in the air. Joshey felt the BG's grip tighten a fraction, a warning. His mind
became a collision chamber of scenarios. Say Kaelen? He's embedded, but it risks his
cover. Say no one? A lie that would be obvious. The truth… a modified truth…
He let a beat of hesitation play out, the natural pause of a man weighing loyalties. Then he
looked up, meeting those void-like eyes. "Michael, sir."
A micro-expression flickered over Viggo's face-a slight tightening at the corner of his
mouth. Interest. "Michael," he repeated, tasting the name. It was rare here. "And since
when has Michael been in a position to hire talent?"
"He offered the gig a while back," Joshey said, his voice thick with rough edges, like from a
low-level hustler. "I had. facilities to manage. My own little corner. Took time to wrap things
up. He said there was real opportunity here. A chance to reach the peak." He let his gaze
sharpen, not with defiance, but with ambition. "To rule a place like this."
Viggo's lips stretched into a smile. It was a vicious, lifeless thing, not reaching his eyes. It
was the grin of a predator who's just heard its prey has ambitions of being a hunter. "Is that
so? And how do you plan to achieve this peak, Elias? Does your path to the top… involve
killing me?"
The room grew colder. The BG's presence became a palpable weight, a promise of
annihilation.
Joshey didn't bat an eyelash. He went with the brutal, disarming honesty that was
sometimes the only card to play with a man like this. "Maybe," he said, the word clear. "I
don't plan to kill anyone. But if it came down to it." He held Viggo's black gaze, letting the
ambition he'd feigned harden into something colder. ".if killing you was the only shot at the
top? I'd take it. Without a second thought.A ripple of lethal intent went through the bodyguard. Joshey felt the man's muscles coil, a
millisecond away from snapping his neck. He was ready to try and twist, to funnel mana
into a desperate Recoil, knowing it would probably be futile.
"Let him go.
Viggo's command was soft.
The BG froze. The high pressure disappeared. Joshey did not gasp, but he drew a measured
breath, rolling his shoulders just enough as he rose to his feet, smoothing tunic and poise.
Viggo was watching him with something akin to delight. "I am not going to punish you, Elias
Vulcrest. I find I rather enjoy your behaviour. The ego is… refreshing. Unvarnished. Most
men lie to me. You simply tell me you would kill me if it served you." He chuckled, a dry
rustling sound. "It's honest. In a way."
Joshey nodded curtly. On the inside, he knew wha type of man Viggo was through
memories analysis. He likes the competition. The threat. It's a game to him. He's so secure
in his power that ambition amuses him. It had been the only way it could have gone—
playing the ambitious, blunt fool.
"Until we meet again," Viggo said, a wave of his fruit-stained hand dismissing him.
"Surely," Joshey replied, the word not quite subservient, not quite challenging. He turned
and walked out feeling those black eyes on his back until the door closed.
The silence thickened inside the office.
"Well?" Viggo asked, popping the last of the fruit into his mouth.
The bodyguard stepped fully into the light. He was a man of unremarkable features, but
with a stillness that was itself a weapon. "He is not weak," the BG said, his voice a low
rumble.
"Oh?"
"When I threw him down, I used enough force to crush a man's collarbones and drive his
knees through stone. He resisted. Not enough to stop it, but enough to control his fall. He
chose to kneel because you commanded it, not because I made him."
Viggo's eyebrows rose. "Interesting, could you kill him?The BG didn't hesitate. "Obviously. 'Not weak' does not mean 'strong.' He is a leaf trying to
understand the storm. But." A faint, almost imperceptible frown. "I do not know the full
measure of that leaf. It would be pride to claim to know the wind it might ride. But yes. I
would win."
Viggo laughed, a real sound of pleasure. "Good. I like variables. Keep an eye on that one."
Out in the corridor, Joshey's heart was a steady, powerful drum against his ribs. The
adrenaline was a clean, sharp, high. He had walked into the dragon's maw and tickled its
tongue. He passed the alcove where the gaunt man stood, a silent specter. Joshey didn't
look at him, but as he passed, he allowed a single, faint, unmistakable smirk to touch the
corner of his mouth, a tiny flash of triumph, a ghost of "you failed." He didn't look at Lucia
sitting at her desk. No Morse code, no glance. He was a recruit who'd had a strange
audience, nothing more. He continued walking, the picture of a man lost in his own
thoughts. The thin man watched him go, his tea-colored eyes narrowed. Most men who
saw Viggo came out broken, bleeding, or wrapped in the silent shock of a death sentence
postponed. This one walked out with a smirk. It made no sense. It lodged in the thin man's
mind like a splinter. At her desk, Lucia's pen continued its endless journey across the
page. She had heard nothing, seen only a man exit alive. But as Joshey's footsteps faded,
she allowed herself one single, silent thought, a private tribute to the sheer audacious skill
of the man she was learning to follow. Well played.
The return from Viggo's spire was a transition. The smug satisfaction of having lived
through the audience had chilled and hardened into a new form of purpose. Viggo was not
all that unpredictable so he forgot about him for now. There was a promise, however, that
needed to be kept.
Joshey did not turn towards the gloomy handler barracks. His feet led him with purpose
back out into the commercial threads of the district, to a dirty storefront marked with a
simple sigil, a crossed key and ledger. That was the commissary, where handlers in their
grey uniforms could come to squander their paltry pay. A finely tuned part of the machine:
keep the cattle prods warm enough to avoid insurrection.
He wandered through the crowded rows with a purpose that was strategic and, in a strange
way, household. He chose his purchases not for survival, but for sustenance. A small,
heavy loaf of dark rye. Two smoked river fish, wrapped in waxed paper. A lone, thin steak of
hard-appearing marsh beef. A small clay vessel of expensive honey, expensive enough to
make him wince in his mind. He passed over the ale, the common tobacco. With a sudden
afterthought, he picked up a fistful of small, waxy, bright-yellow-skinned fruits with asharp, citrusy scent. Water, he noticed, was piped from a community pump in every yard.
That was a necessity; it couldn't be sold. Like how air couldn't be sold either.
His arms were heavy with his purchases, but he turned his feet towards the only place he'd
caught a glimpse of on Kaelen's hurried maps: the slave quarters.
"The district's true, horrific logic lay bare before him like a terrible textbook. It wasn't all of
a piece, a monolithic pit of despair. No, it was a rigorously planned guide to suffering.
Beyond the crowded, noxious pens of the Labor Stock, where adult men and women stood
with eyes dead of hope, their muscles slowly transforming to sinew, came a subtle
transformation in the architecture. The walls were a mite taller, the gates a mite sturdier.
There were signs, painted in bold, Primer-like symbols: SKILLED – TAILORS. SKILLED –
METALSMITHS.
And then, he noticed it: a Columbia in a Columbia. The fencing was the same, but this yard
was quieter. The figures in this Columbia were smaller.
JUVENILE HOLDING.
A cold, precise anger settled in Joshey's chest. "They have a plan for children." The cold
efficiency of it was even more infuriating than a merely random cruelty. This meant that the
suffering was calculated, optimized. And if this area existed. how, exactly, had Minna been
in the general adult holding when he'd found her in it? The explanation was obvious: a lack
of care, a lack of attention, the mere volume of humanity. A misplaced statistic. The anger
burned clean.
He walked towards the gate. A lone handler, younger and not as brutish as the Stone
Garden guards, leaned on his spear, a picture of boredom.
"I require an inmate. Designation. Minna. Small girl. Transferred from General Holding
yesterday," Joshey spoke with a note of bored officialness over steel.
The handler's eyes darted from Joshey's face to the parcel of food in his arms. "What for?"
"Important duty. Inventory verification on the new juvenile intake." This was a slick,
official-sounding lie.
"You packing her a feast, Handler?" asked a guard, a smirk playing upon his lips as he
nodded towards the foodHis eyes locked with Joshey's, his expression a bland slate. "I'm carrying measured rations
for a Health Scan. Is there an issue with complying with auxiliary procedural mandates?"
He lent the latter words a sufficient amount of menace, a sufficient amount of tie-in with
the Byzantine Rules of Procedure of the Bridge.
The smirk slid from the handler's face. He did not want paperwork, he did not want
questions. He shrugged, unlocking the gate with a loud clang. "Third bunkhouse on the left.
She's in cot seventeen. Don't be long."
The juvenile facility yard was a vacant imitation of the world beyond. Children as young as
five and six, and others on the verge of being adults, lingered in numb groups or alone in
the dirt. There was no playing, only a stinging silence. There was a stench of moist wool
and, even fainter, a desperate smell of unwashed youth.
He found the bunkhouse, a long, low shed. In it, it was dimly lit. There were rows of rough
cots. On cot seventeen, seated motionless with her hands in her lap, was Minna.
Eyes that had been locked on the floor jerked up as his shadow fell across her. A glimmer
of recognition, then a burst of raw, unchecked happiness that broke through her numb
mask of features. She never even acknowledged the food in his hands.
"Elias-san!" she breathed, the familiar, melodic syllables of her own homeland's words a
soft sing-song in that bleak room. She scrambled from her cot and flung herself forward,
not to snatch up the food, but to envelop his legs in her tight, small arms.
Joshey went down onto his knees, placing the packages there. "Kon'nichiwa, Minna-chan.
Yakusoku no mono o motte kimashita.*" Joshey spoke in this language, with a imperfect
accent but a warm
She sat back, her eyes scanning his face. "Elias-san, ogenki desu ka?" Her words spilled
out, tinged with concern. "Watashi, kikoemashita. anata ga shokei sareru to.*" .
He put a soft hand on her head. "*Daijōbu. Watashi wa genki desu.*" It's okay. I'm fine. He
gave her a small, reassuring smile.
Tears filled her eyes, no longer from sadness, but from guilt. "*Gomen nasai. watashi no
muchi de.*" I'm sorry. Because of my carelessness.
"Iie, iie," he shushed her softly. No, no. "Sore wa zenzen daijina koto dewa arimasen." It
was really no big deal at all. He moved, his gesture pulling her attention to the packages.
"Tabete, ōkiku natte, tsuyoku nare."He unwrapped each of the goods in turn, laying it side by side with her on the cot. The
bread. The fish. The steak. The honey pot, that precious, golden nectar. The small, yellow
fruits. A king's ransom in this world. Minna gazed at the spread, her hunger and her training
locked in a struggle. She glanced from the food to his face, her small jaw quivering. Then,
with a formality that wrenched his heart, she placed her hands in front of her and bowed
her head. "Arigatō gozaimasu, Elias-san." These were easy words. The thanks in these
words contained a universe of gratitude. Here, amid the perfect, terrible machine that was
Granary, he had composed a small, Rebel note of humanity