Fiery lanterns shimmered along the innermost stone walls, and steel gateways, enclosing the cathedral plaza off to the east. Kindling the brace poles on either side of the walkway, guiding any lost wanders to the chantry—or further down the west wing, where the vicar conveyed the doctrine for the day. It was that doctrine, they lived by, and it was that doctrine they died by.
Natural fire sparkled over the masses below, igniting their red, black and silver non-combatant uniforms in a golden summer glow.
Contemplation lingered in the depths of the vicar’s greying eyes wandering over the soundless crowd of Excelian Centurions who heeded his words with each breath he bequeathed. He towered over the first row, behind a grandstand on the balcony of the marble stairs, clad in burnt-cerise and silver robes, pressed too finely.
In a thunderous yet quavering tenor, coarsened by time, he uttered:
“In the past, our people were inflicted with the worst cruelty known to man. When our ancestors, suffered, no one aided them in their time of peril.
“Instead, they were shunned and shamed for voicing their suffering. Beneath their bruised, bloodied, and blemished skin, they possessed resilience, clarity, and strength of character.
“Despite their squandered hope, something bestowed them the power to fight their oppressors and encompass liberation. Those who unjustly suffered torture and death became the first guardians of our people.
“Throughout the millennia, many lost their humanity and evolved as Excelians: beings gifted with their own unique natural skills and power, blessed with blood, which is as sacred as the lands we walk on. All of which, must be considered, valued, and respected with every action we take for the rest of our lives.
“Even as our muscles are sturdier than the strongest metal excavated, complementing the speeding winds of a destructive hurricane, while our minds are just as quick.
“Our senses are heightened beyond comprehension, to match our elemental abilities. However, it’s our wounded hearts, and our progenitors’ pain, which drives our connection with the elements and our home. Reminding us every day that our carefully cultivated world is a gift to be cherished and not corrupted.
He continued: “To believe nothing, is to accept and know that the manifestation of manipulation and misdirected truth exists.
“To regret nothing, is to understand that for every action conducted to save yourself or many will befall criticism and hatred.
“See everything, with open eyes, open minds, and open hearts, for the truth will be revealed in every decision made—every action taken will always reveal the truth, often hidden by many layers of secrets and deceit.
“Finally, fear none in the lands beyond ours; as fear is a tool used to control, oppress and suppress. In saying this, may our blood guide us to value our world and our continued survival.”
Second Lieutenant of the Princeps Core, Gothalia Ignatius-Valdis, joined everyone in the hall in repeating, “May our blood guide us to value our world and our survival.” Then everyone rose to leave the chantry.
The Cetatea, was one of the largest fortresses in New Icarus, that oversaw the training and education of future Centurions, as it had for millennia. It guarded the Fire Reserve, protecting it from both the extensive, ancient lava-filled chasms and surface dwellers. With high-set walls, the Cetatea had been crafted to deter those who would dare scale it and ensure its climbers would not dare reach its peak.
The towers of amaranthine durability were fortified with motion sensors to detect earthquakes, lava spills and any other infiltrations or disturbances that would befall their home, even if many had believed it could not fall to such frivolous things.
The deep crevices of the Earth’s crust hid the fortress well, tucking it away and out of sight, from prying eyes and poisonous thoughts that threatened invasion. Powerful wards guarded the city and its people, nurtured by the Grand Elders, and watched by the Foreseers.
Gothalia walked the old stone grounds, evading every person at the corner of her vision. Never acknowledging the familiar pieces of the chessboard she passed, nor bothered with small talk, as she went to meet up with her mentor.
Why provide any chance for their ill words to incite more gossip? She would often remind herself of this, for she knew no one would dare speak to her. They all feared the demon within.
Except for a few, and Anaphora Reagan-Valdis was one of those few. She was a woman of the Valdis clan, by name if not by blood. She never added to Gothalia’s discrimination and didn’t care who she pushed aside to keep her safe, it was her duty. Anaphora understood Gothalia’s anathema but never paid it any unnecessary heed. As such, she was an intelligent woman, who never hesitated to arm herself with words sharper than her blade.
Even though Gothalia was twenty-five, she was expected, like the rest of the Princeps, to complete one final test under her mentor’s guidance.
Then, she would be free to conduct her missions.
Even so, she recognised the mistrust that would befall her, would regularly bloom in the mouths of those with paltry understanding of her.
Gothalia lingered in the courtyard.
Her thoughts riddled with persecute retentions, one that would demand a call for mourning.
She observed the dojang in the distance with despondency, a place she had trained at after she’d enlisted. A place she believed she could not return to ever again.
From the day, she changed in a way she never expected. She became cautious of who she would interact with, aware only very few could be trusted.
Across the courtyard, she recognised Anaphora’s dark eyes following her, inspecting her. She can tell, Gothalia thought unhappily.
For as long as she had known Anaphora, nothing ever escaped her uncanny perceptiveness—regardless of how many times Gothalia had endeavoured to avoid it in the past.
Discreetly, she allowed the muscles in her face to relax. However, the look on Anaphora’s features confirmed it had not made a difference.
The tension in Gothalia’s shoulders was accompanied by a sullen gloom in her dark eyes that was hard to ignore.
Anaphora waited patiently until Gothalia was close enough before voicing her thoughts, and when she did, her words were detached yet strewn with concern. “You don’t seem happy.”
Gothalia eyed her old dojang from over her shoulder before turning away, choosing to not look back.
“I could be better.” Gothalia’s attention drifted to Anaphora, who in turn, impassively studied the young woman.
“You will be.” Anaphora hoped and crossed her fingers loosely behind her back before striding to the building.
Inside, they walked, their black combat boots clicked lightly against the opaque black marble floor, engraved with translucent flowers and ancient symbols whose meaning had long been forgotten. “I have a mission for you—tomorrow.”
“To the surface world—why not tonight?” Gothalia pressed, aware Anaphora would throw jobs at her left right and centre. Any further questions Gothalia had were halted by the appearance of female Excelians at the end of the hall.
The women were huddled deep in conversation. Their focus danced from each other to Gothalia and Anaphora and back to each other again. Their hushed words were punctuated with muffled giggles and taunting gazes. The women gathered at the mouth of a large breezeway that expanded into a lush garden filled with a varied flowers, trees, herbs, as well as one of the many aqueducts found throughout their home, which carried water from a large central lake. Normally, run by the Water Utilisers. The garden housed a main fountain, shaped to replicate a female Centurion, many had long forgotten, even if her legacy survived.
Anaphora continued, responding to Gothalia’s question: “You can’t go tonight. I have other matters to tend to, and no, it is not the Northern Reserves this time. There is another matter with the Xzandians and Alastorians that requires our immediate attention. The Northern Earth Reserve seems peaceful for now. No need to interrupt the natural order.”
“Not to be uncouth, but what natural order? Their previous ruler may have been a wise King but his sons were power-hungry and took whatever they wanted, with no regard nor respect for the natural order of things,” Gothalia remarked. “Of all the members in the family to ascend to the throne, why did they have to choose him?”
“It’s not our job to understand, only to safeguard. He and his brothers have been warned to be mindful of their actions, but it’s his choice should he decide to be selfish, and if he steps out of line . . . we’ll know.”
Gothalia did not vex Anaphora further with her unwarranted questions. Instead, her gaze dawdled over the women further down the hall, with mild dislike and immense distrust.
The women drew closer to Gothalia and her mentor until their faces became discernible, much to Gothalia’s regret.
An unhinged desire to abandon the area arose, but Gothalia stubbornly refused to listen to such ridiculous fear, or to submit any further to the bubbling anxiety within that these women caused.
An exhausted sigh escaped Gothalia’s lips when the women met her gaze—a reminder of yet another unnecessary irritation she was forced to deal with.
“I think you have a different battle of your own right now,” Anaphora hinted, looking with shrewd scrutiny at Persephone Maragos.
As a Lieutenant Colonel, Anaphora had no place intervening in meaningless rivalry. However, as a Triarius, she was regarded highly for her wisdom and tact in such delicate matters.
Anaphora nodded at Persephone and her friends in a silent greeting, which Gothalia did not approve of, then vanished into the shadows of the building, leaving Gothalia alone with the intolerable Excelian women.
Gothalia knew of Persephone’s presence without needing to be informed. Her father was here for another business meeting.
Persephone Maragos was the daughter of a wealthy banker from New Icarus, Michelob Maragos. Whatever she wanted, she procured with little difficulty—including all the men Gothalia had ever been interested in. Which was why she no longer bothered, especially with her around.
“Look who decided to crawl out of the mud! Tell me, did you enjoy your bath?” On cue, her friends chimed in laughter.
Gothalia wondered if Persephone remembered how that had happened. As usual, shee was more concerned with Gothalia’s failings, never on their aftermath. If only everyone knew . . . Gothalia pondered, itching to smile at the thought she refused to share.
Instead, she responded, “Why don’t you go and do something worthwhile other than open your legs and toy with people?” Ignoring Persephone’s stunned reaction, Gothalia tried to push by the woman, only to be held up short when Persephone refused to let her pass.
“You think you can speak to me of all people like that? You’re nothing but a filthy orphan! A nobody. As if anyone let alone any man would ever want you. I’m certain your parents didn’t want you either.” Persephone sneered. The other women stepped back, almost burnt by the scorching fury of Gothalia’s glare.
Persephone’s unsympathetic words met the ears of the male Centurions across the garden, whose curious gazes drifted to the women in the centre.
“You may be a Centurion but you’re a lowlife, unworthy of the title. A loner like you doesn’t deserve it. As if you could ever do your job properly.” she continued. The girls giggled, momentarily forgetting Gothalia’s wrath, while Persephone circled her like a vulture preparing to feast. Gothalia didn’t waver beneath her scrutiny. Instead, held her head high.
It was the eyes of the men that amused Persephone and her already dangerous smile grew poisonous.
“Look, we have their attention. No matter, it’s not like they’re looking at you. You can’t even begin to compare.” She batted her eyelashes at the men, before narrowing her cold calculating gaze on Gothalia.
Gothalia rolled her eyes slowly and crossed her arms. “You’re right. They’re not looking at me. You’re the talk of the town.”
“I know.” Persephone sung, in a whimsical voice and her friends fell silent. They watched Gothalia with fearful anticipation of her next words.
“Rumour has it, Daddy’s losing money because of your family’s dirty deeds and illegal affiliations. So, no, those men aren’t looking at me, they’re watching you. You know, because you descend from a line of criminals, a once-proud family now forever tainted, and not very clever—mind you. You sully your reputation and everyone who ever worked with your family. If anyone is unwanted around here, it’s you.” Gothalia’s tone switched from sarcasm to warning: “Now, get out of my way before I have the Peacekeepers arrest you for harassment and defamation.”
“You can’t do that!” Persephone wailed.
Gothalia’s dark gaze tightened and an evil smile curled at her lips.
“I can, and I will. Or have you forgotten, Daddy has no power here, princess? You are on my turf now, and technically you are a guest. I’d advise you best behave.” With that said, Gothalia left Persephone behind in a bubbling rage. As quickly as Persephone’s anger had erupted, it evaporated.
Her gaze narrowed on Gothalia’s retreating form. “We’ll see, demon.”
Persephone stormed away, then paused to glower at the women, who hadn’t followed.
“You don’t need an invitation. Let’s go!” They hastened after her as she crossed the garden, passing the men who had seen the altercation. The Centurions eagerly avoided eye contact with the raging brunette and her friends, before returning to their duties.
From afar, Gothalia watched Persephone vacate the lush gardens, and questioned whether she was too harsh. “Don’t stress about it,” a woman said from behind her. Second Lieutenant Princeps Demetria Crystallovis and First Lieutenant Aquilifer Asashin Brutus-Marius approached.
Their eyes lingered on Persephone’s retreating figure, until she was out of sight.
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