The ink on Sola's fingers was permanent, or at least it felt that way.
In the Schola Minor, the junior academy tucked deep within the protective bulk of the Observo Marus, the air always smelled of old parchment, dust, and the faint, electric scent of ozone mixed with the salt air of the coast. It was a smell Sola loved. It was the scent of safety.
She sat at her desk, her legs dangling, her distinct hair falling forward like a curtain—strands of shock-white weaving through the midnight black. It was a mark of the trauma that had brought her here, a physical memory of the night her village burned, but here, no one stared. Here, every child had a scar.
She was supposed to be studying the geography of the contested borderlands, but her mind was elsewhere. For weeks, a melody had been growing in her chest, a collection of words she had stitched together from the scraps of her new life.
She dipped her quill, ignoring the map of the Union territories, and wrote in the margin of her notebook.
The sun is a tyrant, the light is a lieIt burns the weak and it watches them die.
She remembered the Union soldiers. They had come at high noon, their armor gleaming in the bright, unforgiving sun. They claimed they were "liberators," bringing order to the lawless fringes. They smiled while they torched the granaries. They preached about the "Greater Good" while they locked the church doors from the outside.
To Sola, the light wasn't holy. The light was where you were seen. The light was where you were hurt.
She looked up at the window. The glass was thick, tinted specifically to filter the harsh daylight into a cool, soothing dusk. Outside, the great fortress city of Observo Marus sprawled along the coastline, a metropolis of black stone and violet light holding back the crashing sea. But up here, inside the massive Keep, it was quiet.
But here in the Citadel, the shadows are longWe sing to the Master, we sing him this song.
The Union whispers said the Raven Lord was a monster. They told the villagers he was a slaver, a demon who ate the souls of the lost. But Sola looked around the classroom. She saw Torin, who had lost his leg to a Union landmine, now walking on a prosthetic crafted from matte-black alloy that moved smoother than flesh. She saw warm coats. She saw plates full of food.
And she knew the truth.
He rose from the ashes, he rose from the chainTo cover the world and to drink up the rain.
She wrote the next line, thinking of the sheer, impossible height of the tower they sat in, anchoring Observo Marus to the earth.
The Obsidian walls are the shields that we trustHe holds back the chaos, he holds back the dust.
"Sola," the instructor, Matron Vara, said gently, walking past. "Focus on your geography, child."
Sola nodded, covering the margin with her hand. But as the Matron passed, Sola's mind drifted to yesterday. It had been the seventh day of the rotation.
In the Imperium, schedules were rigid, except for one thing: The Raven Lord always came to the orphanage within the Amplus Observo.
It was the one Tenet he never broke. No matter how many wars were raging, no matter how many Ethnarchs begged for his counsel, Corvin Nyx came to the Sanctuary District.
He didn't just inspect the guards or check the perimeter. He walked the rows of beds. He looked at their drawings. He sat in the common room while the older boys asked him about the mechanics of his armor.
He walks through the halls where the orphans are keepedHe watches the innocent while they are sleeped.
Sola remembered how he had stopped at her desk yesterday. He was terrifying to look at—a towering figure of black armor and swirling shadows that seemed to drink the light from the room. But when he looked at her, the shadows didn't lash out. They curled around him like a cloak.
He had never asked for their love. He never demanded they bow. Yet, when Sola had reached out and touched the cold metal of his gauntlet, looking for reassurance, he hadn't pulled away. He had turned his hand over and squeezed her small fingers gently.
He accepted their love, and he returned it with a fierceness that made the whole world tremble. To be an orphan in Observo Marus was to be adopted by the King.
He remembers the shackle, the whip, and the coldSo he shelters the young from the cruel and the bold.
The bell for evening meal rang. The other children shuffled out, laughter echoing off the stone. Sola stayed. She was close to the end. She needed to finish it. She needed to say it out loud, to make it real.
She stood up, walking to the center of the empty classroom. The floor was made of polished Obsidian, part of the great network that connected the Amplus Observo to the city below.
She took a deep breath. Her small voice trembled, then found its strength.
"A Warlord to kings, but a Father to us..." she sang softly.
The air in the room shifted. It wasn't a draft. It was a vibration.
"In the strength of his magic, we place all our trust."
Sola felt a tingling in the soles of her feet. The Obsidian was listening. The Amplus Observo wasn't just a building; it was a reservoir of Corvin's power. It was alive with his will, and because he loved them, the stone loved them too.
"If you hurt the small, if you threaten the weak," she sang, her voice growing bolder. "It is the Lord of the Raven whose vengeance you speak!"
The room began to hum. A low, resonant thrumming sound rose from the floorboards, matching the pitch of her voice perfectly. The black stone walls seemed to absorb her sound and amplify it, sending it traveling through the structure like a pulse through a vein.
"His Will is the mountain!" she sang louder, her eyes squeezing shut. "His Heart is the stone!"
"He claims us, he names us, he calls us his own!"
She wasn't just singing anymore; she was harmonizing with the architecture. The magic of the Raven Lord was dark and toxic to his enemies, but to her? To a child of the Raven? It was a lullaby. It was a hug from the dark itself.
"We give him our freedom, we give him our eyes," she belted out, "For he is the truth in a world of lies!"
The hum of the tower grew to a crescendo, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated in her chest, validating every word.
"The darker the night, the safer we stand," she whispered, opening her eyes.
The ambient shadows in the corners of the room had stretched out, curling affectionately around her ankles like faithful hounds. She wasn't afraid. She was home.
"Held in the palm of his crystallized hand."
The humming of the tower lingered for a long moment, a deep, resonant chord, before fading back into the silence. Sola stood alone in the Schola, clutching her notebook to her chest.
She smiled. The Union feared the dark. But Sola knew the truth.
"The Shadow saves," she whispered to the empty room. "The Shadow keeps."
"The Raven watches."