I wake to darkness.
Not the absolute black of a moonless night, but the deep grey of pre-dawn when the world is suspended between sleep and waking. My eyes adjust immediately one of the perks of being Awakened and I can almost make out every detail of the small room. The desk. The scattered clothing. The candle burned down to nothing.
Beside me, Cecilia breathes steadily, her naked body pressed against mine under the thin blanket. Her skin is warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold stone floor beneath the bed. I can feel the curve of her hip against my thigh, the gentle rise and fall of her chest syncing with my own breaths in a way that feels almost mocking.
I sigh, a brief annoyance at myself surging through my veins. What the hell am I doing? Lying here like some lovesick fool, tangled up with an Inquisitor who might be playing me like a puppet on strings. The thought twists in my gut, but I don't pull away. Instead, I look down at her sleeping form, her short blonde hair tousled and sticking up in soft spikes against my shoulder, her lips slightly parted in slumber. In the dim moonlight filtering through the cracked window, she looks peaceful, vulnerable. And damn it, with the Fearmonger off, I have to admit it to myself: I care about her.
I genuinely care about Cecilia Lakeborn.
And that's the fucking problem. It really is the bitter core of it all. I don't know if these feelings are legitimate, born from some genuine connection,
or if they're just another layer of manipulation. My paranoia gnaws at me, insistent and unyielding. What if she's Awakened? What if she's been branded with a mark of power, hiding it under that pious Inquisitor facade, and she's been using it to worm her way into my head? The Empire's laws are clear: Inquisitors can't be Awakened. It's forbidden, a direct threat to the theocratic order they enforce. If she is... gods, if she is, then everything between us is a lie. A calculated game to control the "Child of Light," and whoever sent her would have enormous power over the world. The Pope i wonder but it doesn't make sense from what Cardinal Bishop said he had been convinced i was a threat and had green lit a plan to kill me.
I look down at her sleeping face, illuminated by the faint pre-dawn light filtering through the window. Her blonde hair is a mess, spread across my chest in tangles. There's a small smile on her lips, like she's dreaming of something pleasant.
She's beautiful. That's not manipulation that's just objective fact. High cheekbones. Delicate features. Soft skin that smells like jasmine and smoke.
But beauty doesn't mean trustworthiness. And attraction doesn't mean honesty.
I sigh again, deeper this time, and run my hand across her back, feeling the smooth expanse of her skin under my fingertips. No scars, no ridges that scream "brand." But that means nothing yet. Brands can be subtle, hidden in places the eye doesn't immediately wander. I hope I'm wrong. I hope. Because if I'm not, if she's been playing me this entire time, then I don't know what I'd do. That kind of betrayal... it would send me over the edge. I've teetered there before, staring into the abyss of my own despair, the voices in my head whispering sweet nothings about just letting go. This betrayal would confirm every cynical belief I have about people and power and the fundamental impossibility of trust.
And part of me knows it would break something inside me that's already cracked and barely holding together.
I think about the word love. Turn it over in my mind like a stone, examining it from all angles.
Is this love? What I feel for her?
I don't know. I've never been in love before. Have nothing to compare it to. The closest I've come is the desperate, clinging affection I felt for my parents before they were executed. And that was different that was the love of a child for his protectors, born of dependency and fear of abandonment. I replay our interactions in my mind, forcing myself to examine them objectively. Her acts of kindness, they way she always supports me no matter what i do, how she encourages me to "accept myself" how being Ayato Daath and The Child Of Light can be two different things. Even though it's not true. I do not to be worshiped by fanatic's and fools, I just want to gather power so no one can threaten me or use me as a slave, if I was to accept the title she wants me to I would be obligated to act like a god and it would launch this Empire into a civil war. I would have the majority of the church kneeling at my feet and it would start another holy war that would spread across the entire continent. Me the three mark bearer claiming divine providence would undermine the King and would simultaneously embolden the Federation. Millions would die.
But she believes in me she be lives that I would be somehow Imbue hope. The way her eyes light up when she sees me, hazel sparks in the gloom, like I'm the only thing that matters in this forsaken world. It's infuriating. Annoying. Because it makes me want to believe it's real, even as my hatred for her order boils beneath.
Cecilia shifts a little in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent, and I can't help but smile. It's soft, genuine, cutting through the fog of my doubts for a split second. I lean down and kiss her forehead, the skin there warm and slightly salty from our earlier exertions. "Forgive me," I whisper, so quietly it's barely a breath. Forgive me for what I'm about to do. For the suspicion that won't let go. For the hate I carry that might consume us both.
I activate the Fearmonger.
The shift is immediate. My vision sharpens, the world bleeding into greyscale, every detail etched in hyperfocus. Emotions dim, retreating to the back of my mind. The confusion, the hopes; they dissipate like smoke. When I look at Cecilia now, I don't see a lover. I see a potential enemy. Or a potential ally. A tool, perhaps, in the grand game of power I'm playing. Even the passion from last night, the raw heat of our bodies entwined, fades into almost nothingness. It was fun I suppose.
Pleasurable, objectively. Looking at her nude form, I can see a multitude of reasons why I could and should partake again. Physical release, stress relief, a way to maintain the facade of intimacy while I probe for information. And her being an inquisitor really doesn't even matter, I already accepted last night if presented the same scenario I would act the same. But giving up something that has fueled me for so long seems akin to cheating on myself. I chuckle at the thought.
The voices chuckle in the depths of my mind. Finally, they say, you're starting to accept what we've been telling you. You are divine little king.
I push the voices away with practiced ease. Since learning to subdue the wolf constellation in my soul sea, controlling them has become almost second nature. They're still there, still babbling, but I can silence them when needed.
They're useful sometimes, those echoes of my fractured psyche, but right now, I need focus. I shift, pulling her closer to me. She mutters sleepily, her body molding against mine instinctively, but she doesn't wake. I smile, but this time it's a little cruel, edged with calculation. I kiss her forehead again, then her lips soft, probing and begin my search.
My hands and eyes roam over her body, deliberate and thorough, under the guise of affection. I trace the curve of her spine, the dip of her lower back, the swell of her hips. Nothing.
I roll her gently onto her side, my fingers exploring her thighs, her calves, even the soles of her feet. Brands can appear anywhere on the tongue, behind the ear, in the most intimate places. They're physical and spiritual scars, etched into flesh and soul during the Rite of Manifestation. If she's Awakened, it's there somewhere.
In the end, I find nothing. My analytical mind races through possibilities: The first one is the simplest and she's not Awakened. I'm wrong about everything. Her survival of Cain's attack was genuinely just luck. My attraction to her is genuine and not manipulated. All my suspicions are just paranoia born from trauma and trust issues. The second is she is Awakened, but I missed the branding. They can appear anywhere on the body and vary wildly in size and visibility. Maybe hers is somewhere I couldn't check easily without waking her right now the back of her neck under her hair, or between her thighs, somewhere that required moving her in ways that would disturb her sleep. The next one is the most ridiculous but maybe she found a way to conceal it.
I lean back after several minutes, careful not to wake her fully, and admit defeat for now. Unsuccessful, but not conclusive. I still just can't rule it out. The search was limited by practical constraints can't exactly wake her up and demand she strip completely so I can examine every inch of her skin. She could still be what I fear an Awakened inquisitor hiding in plain sight, using me to undermine the very church she serves. The irony would be delicious if it weren't so personal.
Frustration simmers, even through the Fearmonger's dampening. I need more. Deeper insight. I close my eyes and slip into meditation, drawing on the memory of Proctor Deng's freezing cold room and the world fades, and I appear in my soul sea: a vast void above a churning Black Sea, where planets and nebulas swirl in constellations that make up the essence of me. Stars pulse like heartbeats, galaxies spiral in lazy arcs, representing my thoughts, memories and emotions.
I move toward the Fearmonger constellation, the dominant force in this inner cosmos. It manifests as a massive wolf of golden light, its form ethereal and fierce, with burning planets for eyes that glare with unyielding intensity.
I scan the area, searching for any foreign influence. Like when the General tried his emotional control on me and the other students, fanning the seeds of rage and nationalism into us. But there's nothing. No alien threads weaving through my stars, no shadowy tendrils from an outside mark manipulating my feelings for Cecilia. But that could be because she's sleeping and not actively using it.
Satisfied that there's nothing currently, I drift further, my awareness expanding. That's when I spot it: a smaller golden light, far off in the distance, flickering like a distant star. Curiosity pulls me toward it. As I approach, it resolves into a constellation a pair of hands clasped together, fingers intertwined in a gesture of unity or pact. My brow furrows in confusion. How did I miss this? It's dimmer, less vibrant than my own marks, smaller in scale. Then it hits me: this isn't mine. Not fully.
I reach out, touching the ethereal light, and awareness floods me. Lucian. This represents the bond he imprinted on me back when I was dying after fighting that abomination, this is the result of our bond and how he can heal me passively. It also explains why the healing wasn't as potent as a true healer's this constellation is smaller that all of mine and I would assume a dedicated healers, its power has been diluted through our imprint. A fragment of his essence, grafted onto my soul sea.
I nod in understanding, withdrawing my touch. But the discovery stirs deeper questions. How exactly do marks of power work? What are they, really? Some Awakened never even reach their soul sea; they manifest their abilities blindly, without introspection.
Those who do glimpse it rarely speak of it; it's personal, sacred, a window into the self that most guard jealously. The Empire teaches that marks are gifts from the gods, divine brands bestowed during the Rite to elevate the worthy. But I've always thought of that as drivel but standing here in my soul sea, looking at these impossible constellations of light that grant me superhuman abilities... I have to wonder.
What else could create this? What else could reshape reality, grant humans powers that defy natural law?
If not gods, then what?
Some natural phenomenon we don't understand? An evolutionary quirk? A parasitic entity that bonds with certain humans?
I ponder it, my disdain for religion clashing with a nagging wonder. What if gods are real? What else could grant these powers, these constellations in the void? If they exist, they're cruel—letting children watch their parents hang, letting wars rage for centuries. No, even if real, they're worthless. Or maybe they're just... sources of power. Entities that exist beyond normal reality, indifferent to human suffering, who occasionally mark individuals for reasons we can't comprehend. Although I guess that would still make them useless in the grand scheme of things.
I withdraw from my soul sea slowly, carefully, like surfacing from deep water.
My eyes open, and there's Cecilia, awake now, propped up on one elbow, staring at me with a soft, sleepy smile on her face. Her short blonde hair is mussed, strands falling across her forehead in a way that makes her look cute.
The Fearmonger is still active, keeping my emotions at bay. I decide to act normally.
"What are you smiling at?" I ask, keeping my voice light and slightly amused.
With the mark active, it's easy. I can perform normalcy without actually feeling it. Can play the role of the content lover without the messy emotions getting in the way.
I still have my suspicions. Will check her body again when I get the chance—more thoroughly, with better light, when she's not sleeping.
She stretches lazily, the blanket slipping down to her waist and exposing the soft curve of her breasts. She doesn't bother pulling it back up—just watches me with that same half-lidded amusement.
"You," she murmurs, voice husky from sleep. "You get this look when you're thinking too hard. Like the whole world's a puzzle you're trying to crack." She reaches out, tracing one fingertip lightly over the unbroken ring at the base of my sternum—the Regenerator, a power that means no wound, no pain will be permanent. Which would be nice if I could figure out the trigger for it. I snort to myself some three mark bearer I am.
Her touch sends a faint shiver through me despite the mark's suppression. "These brands of yours... they're beautiful, you know."
I catch her wrist gently, holding her hand there against my skin. Her thumb brushes the edge of the ring, slow circles. Above it, on my ribs, the wolf for Fearmonger - the ability to sense someone's deepest fear, something primal with an alien hunger deep in my bones. And over my heart, the Möbius strip for Veilshaper - the power to twist reality itself, to weave illusions so perfect they become truth to whoever is entrapped.
"They're tools," I say. "Nothing more."
She nods a little, her fingers trailing up to the Möbius strip. "Tools that keep you alive. Tools that let you come back to me." She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the spot. Her lips linger, warm against the cool night air.
I let out a quiet huff that might pass for a laugh. "Careful. You're starting to sound sentimental, Inquisitor."
Her smile turns playful, and she shifts closer, her free hand sliding up to rest on my chest. "Maybe I am. Blame the company." She leans in again, kissing me slow this time. When she pulls back, her eyes are darker, pupils wide in the dim room. "You're allowed to stay, you know. Just a little longer. Dawn's still far off."
"I can't," I say, softer than I mean to. Helix is black ops; details stay locked down. "Duty calls.
Her smile fades a fraction, but she nods, understanding without pushing. "Be careful out there. Whatever it is."
"Always am."
She laughs under her breath, the sound warm against my neck as she settles back down. "Liar. But come back in one piece. I'm not done with you yet."
I don't answer right away. Instead, I deactivate the Fearmonger.
Color rushes back the gold of candle stubs long since burned out, the soft pink flush on her cheeks, the bright hazel of her eyes.
She smiles wider, those beautiful hazel eyes sparkling, and whispers, "You," again, as if answering my earlier question. She kisses me once more, then lays back down, her head on my chest, her body curling against mine.
I stroke her back under the covers, feeling the rise and fall of her breaths as she drifts back to sleep. The touch is soothing, almost hypnotic. But my mind won't quiet. Am I a hypocrite? Preaching strength and independence, yet here I am, tangled in emotions that might be manufactured, with a woman who wears the robes of my parents' killers. I pause, then smirk at myself. Of course I'm a hypocrite. Everyone is. Hypocrisy is just the gap between what we claim to believe and how we actually behave. And I've never claimed to be consistent or morally pure.
I'm a killer who pretends to care about the lives I take. A weapon who wants to be seen as human. A monster who fights monsters. What's one more contradiction added to the pile?
Besides, even if Cecilia is manipulating me, even if she's using powers to influence my emotions... last night still happened. The physical reality of it. The pleasure. The connection, genuine or manufactured.
I can acknowledge that without committing to trust. Can appreciate the moment without losing sight of the larger picture.
Taking what comfort you can find in a world that offers precious little of it.
I feel Cecilia's breathing even out, growing slower and deeper. She's falling back asleep, secure in the warmth of my arms.
I should leave. Should extract myself carefully, get dressed, head back to prepare for departure.
Helix leaves before first light. Which means in maybe an hour, maybe less. I need to gather my equipment, brief with Caldera one more time, make sure I'm ready for the march to Baelin.
But I look down at her instead. At the way her blonde hair spreads across my chest. At the peaceful expression on her face. At the trust implicit in the way she's curled against me.
A few more minutes won't hurt.
Just a few more minutes of this. Of warmth and softness and the illusion of normalcy.
Of pretending she's not potentially an enemy.
Just... peace. However temporary. However false.
I close my eyes and let myself feel her breathing against my skin. Let myself exist in this moment without analyzing it to death.