For hours, the training hall is a bubble of hush, the hum of the world outside tamped down to the faintest subsonic: the ceaseless wind scouring the polyglass, the distant ache of turbines below, the slow refrains of the ocean's pull. If it were not for the pulses of the ventilation, the room would be as still as a coffin.
Syr Marigold sits at the dead center, his armor shedding warmth like a small, gold-filigree sun.
He has already lost count of the time. Meditation is a discipline best measured in drift, not in minutes. At first, his mind picks at the day's old threads—his conversation with Gilgamesh, the taste of synthetic rations, the tiny friction points in the armor's fit. But as the hours accumulate, these edges blur, the mind surrendering to deeper currents.
As the time drift, so does he.
The silence is not a void. It is a surface, and it holds him up. Each breath is a ripple. Each thought, a disturbance. He becomes obsessed with the sound of the air, with the faint tremor of the alloy at his wrists. He tries to grasp humanity's dreams and hopes, a faint sound from afar.
He tries, as his master taught him, to turn his attention outward. To listen—really listen—for the echoes of other lives, for the pulse of hope and fear that, according to Hideyoshi, is the hidden power of Knights.
"Humans, animals, plants and, all living things emits pain whether in whisper or loud scream," Hideyoshi had told him once, at the field somewhere in Japan. "That's why it is our job to heal them, therefore, listen to them and understand them."
He recalls that lesson as he sits, forcing his awareness out through the heavy gold of his helmet, past the flexor servos and the thick-plated arms, through the thin air. At first, he hears nothing but the dull ache of his own thoughts.
Then, with a patience he lets his mind go further. The ocean, just outside, is a continent of sound: the chitter of foam, the groan of the deep, the endless, secret convulsions of life below the surface. For a moment, Marigold becomes a part of that life, his thoughts diffusing into the vast ocean and the lungs of whales. He wonders what it would be to live with no memories, only motion.
He slips deeper. Deeper into his mind, a place where no one can touch him.
There is a layer of memory and sensation: fragments of garden, of green, of sun on brick. The sensation is clear and urgent: the light on his face, the heat of it, the way the wind combs through the stalks. As he open his eyes, he finds himself standing, not in the training hall, but in a garden.
It is not an ordinary garden. This is the garden of his dream. This is his mind palace, a place where he can think and focus peacefully without the interruptions of the outside world. The air is wet and heavy with the smell of earth, but also with something more: the ozone crackle of an oncoming storm, the faint honey of pollen drifting from bloom to bloom. Aurora borealis can be spotted in the sky, it dance gracefully in the sky. He let the wind and scent of the garden fly through him.
"I can hear them… All", Marigold can hear the voices of the world, their dreams, prayers, and hopes as well as pain. He can hear all of them. In that moment, he only stare at the light in the sky.
Then, he walks. Under his feet, a path of interlocking stone, worn to silk by centuries of passage. Around him, flowers: the yellow-bright aggression of sunflowers, each face canted to follow the arc of a sun that is not visible. Below them, a riot of roses, their petals the color of wounds and old secrets, their thorns slick with dew. In the shadier crooks, hydrangeas in impossible blue, their orbs as perfectly designed as any knight's helm.
He touches the petals, or means to—his gold glove is now a human hand, pale and unscarred, the nerves alive to every pressure. The sensation is so real it aches. He kneels by a rose, inhaling the sharp green of the leaves, and feels the rush of a thousand memories: every time he had seen beauty in the world, and every time it had been threatened by the Emergence.
He stands. The garden is bigger now, sprawling out in every direction, the paths tangled but navigable, each turn promising a new flower, a new flavour of colour. He lets himself be led, not by logic but by the pull of curiosity. He remembers, dimly, a time before the armor, before the world ended, when a garden was just a garden and not a rehearsal for battle.
He walks until he finds the edge.
Here, the flowers thin and the ground slopes to a little pool. The water is so still that it perfectly reflects the sky—a sky that is not blue, but the lambent gold of dusk, shot through with the faintest threads of cloud. He kneels at the pool's edge, peering into the surface. His own face stares back: not the helmet, not the mask, but the face he remembers from childhood. The eyes are soft, unarmored, and very young.
He reaches down, letting his fingers trail in the water. The ripples expand outward, distorting the reflection, fracturing his face into a thousand fragments.
He realizes: this is the self he has protected, the self he has never shown to the others—not to Hideyoshi, not to Lancelot, not to anyone. He wonders if this is what it means to be a Knight, not the armor or the sword, but the secret garden you cultivate inside, the one place the monsters of the world cannot touch.
He sits by the pool for what feels like a long time, watching the way the ripples settle, the way the sky changes from gold to violet, the way the flowers nod in the wind. He feels a peace here that is almost magical, a steadiness that eluded him in the physical world.
He wants to stay in this place forever.
Outside the tranquillity of the training hall, the HQ's main arteries have not yet learned to accommodate the force of a woman in a mood. The sound of Alessia Gwinn's approach precedes her like a dropped tray of glassware. Her boots—black, custom-laced, heels slightly reinforced for style and intimidation—strike the ceramic tiles with the precision of a metronome and the malice of a warning shot. The rhythm is uneven, alternating between a stalk and a deliberate, predatory pause at each intersecting hallway.
The effect is more than physical. As she advances down the C corridor, conversations gutter and snuff out. Even the digital maintenance bots, trained to respond only to flagged emergencies, scuttle to the edges of their sensor ranges when she passes. The hallway's recycled air seems to drop two degrees behind her.
At 06:30, not many are awake, but two young staffers—one in a loose-knit beanie, the other with a tablet clutched to her chest—huddle near the water dispenser, their voices pitched to a level intended for conspiracy.
"—told you, it's about the Knight," says Beanie, eyes darting toward the next junction.
"The golden one?" Tablet asks. "She's always after him lately. Did you see the roster swap? Cecill's making her—"
Alessia rounds the corner at an angle calculated for maximum psychological effect. The staffers freeze, expressions sliding from gossipy delight to the poker-faced neutrality of seasoned survivors. Tablet drops her gaze to the floor; Beanie offers a wet, nervous smile.
Alessia doesn't break stride. She doesn't have to. One look—eyes narrowed, jaw set, the faintest roll of her right shoulder as if itching for a fight—is enough to scatter the pair. They peel away from the wall like heat mirages, fading into the minor offices with the shame of small mammals caught mid-scurrying.
The corridor, now cleared, feels brighter and more hers.
She slows, lets herself take a deeper breath, and reins in the performance. The anger is real, but it is also a tool; letting it run unchecked in public is unprofessional. She makes a show of straightening her jacket, running a finger along the pulse at her throat, tucking the purple streaks of hair behind her ears. The gesture is more than cosmetic. She is resetting herself, switching from the war-paint of command to the more subtle intimidation of the support staff.
As she walks, Alessia reviews the last hours' worth of wild goose chase. She'd checked the barracks first, then the east gym, then the kitchen, then—humiliatingly—the roof, where the cold and wind had nearly torn her uniform from her bones. She'd even tried the old storage cubbies, thinking Marigold might be hiding in some childhood haunt. No luck.
It was Isabella who had saved her from a total breakdown, flagging her down with the crisp efficiency of someone who has already triaged the situation.
"Saw him at the training hall," Isabella said, a soft burr of sleep still in her voice. "He's been in there since zero four. You should try there. Bring coffee. Or a sword."
Alessia had nodded, thanked her, and pretended not to notice the smirk that flickered on Isabella's face as she turned away. She owed the logistics officer, as always, a Favor.
Now, as she approaches the training hall, Alessia is determined to appear in total control. No more slammed doors, no more shouting matches with quartermasters. She will be cool, collected, and—if the gods are merciful—at least slightly dignified.
She pauses at the final stretch of corridor, one hand resting on the reinforced steel handle of the training room door. She lets the breath out slow, savouring the moment of quiet before the next confrontation. The echo of her own footsteps, fading down the empty hall, is a small satisfaction.
Inside, she knows, Marigold is probably doing that thing knights do: not sleeping, not eating, just waiting in perfect stillness, like a statue left behind after the museum's closing. Maybe meditating. Maybe brooding. Maybe, as the rumour mill would have it, communing with spirits.
She thinks: It would be easier if he was just an asshole.
She smiles, briefly, at her own reflection in the glass. The anger, for now, is spent.
She pushes open the door, ready for whatever comes next.
The door does not open so much as detonate. The sound, a sudden report of violence, is at odds with the sacred silence Marigold has woven around himself for the better part of three hours. The shock is total: he jerks upward from his cross-legged pose, and in the rush to regain his bearings, his momentum carries him not up but sideways—straight into the narrow strip of polyglass that curves along the east wall.
For a moment, he is plastered there, a golden knight suctioned to the window like a startled octopus. The force of the impact leaves an imprint: armour, faceplate, even the insignia of Rook & Pegasus stencilled briefly onto the transparent surface. If there were witnesses, it would be immortalized in legend before lunch.
Standing in the blown-open doorway, Alessia stares. She is, for the first instant, too surprised to be angry.
Then the sight hits her: Marigold, still clinging to the window, boots two centimetres off the mat, arms splayed as if auditioning for an art exhibit on kinetic shame. The absurdity is overwhelming. Alessia's face cracks open, not in a grimace but in the purest, brightest laugh she has produced since the Emergence.
It's not a polite chuckle. It's an animal sound, bright and ringing, filling the training hall with a warmth that immediately curdles the last dregs of her anger. The humour is infectious and absolute. Her shoulders quake; her breath comes in shivering gasps; she clutches at her side, nearly doubling over.
Marigold, mortified, slowly unpeels himself from the window. The process is undignified, each movement punctuated by the faint squeak of gold alloy against polyglass. He lands, knees locked, and stands at an awkward attention, hands at his sides like a child caught in the pantry. Even through the helmet, the posture radiates a horror reserved for those unaccustomed to being the joke.
Alessia is still laughing. Marigold waits for the storm to abate, but it only gets worse; every attempt to compose herself is derailed by another glance at the knight, now trying—and failing—to stand with soldierly dignity.
"Is there—" Marigold starts, then aborts as Alessia's laughter spikes. He lifts one gauntlet and points, a gesture as imperious as he can muster under the circumstances. "Are you quite finished?" he says, voice cool but stretched thin over panic.
Alessia wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and forces her breathing into some semblance of order. "Sorry, sorry," she manages, though the corners of her mouth betray her. "It's just—you looked—oh, never mind." She snorts, a final undignified note, and tucks her hair behind her ear, cheeks still scarlet.
Marigold watches her, uncertain whether to be angry or grateful. He settles for a blankness, folding his arms and waiting out the aftershocks.
Alessia, collecting herself, moves a few steps into the room. She gives the door—now shuddering gently in its hinges—a critical glance, then focuses back on Marigold.
"Cecill wants to see you," she says, adopting a tone of exaggerated seriousness. "Immediately. Or, at your earliest convenience, which in HQ parlance means ten minutes ago."
Marigold relaxes a fraction. "Understood," he says, voice regaining its usual resonance. "Thank you for the… timely notification."
Alessia can't resist. "Are you sure you're okay? The window looked like it took most of the impact, but—"
He interrupts, brisk but not unkind. "I am fine. Your entrance, however, could use some refinement."
She grins, unable to stop herself. "I'll work on it. Next time I'll knock."
They stand there, for a moment, neither quite knowing what to do with the new equilibrium. The awkwardness is lighter now, tinged with a shy amusement.
Alessia, softening, gestures toward the corridor. "I can walk you to Cecill's office, if you want. Consider it an apology for the, uh, traumatic greeting."
Marigold inclines his head, the motion elegant despite everything. "I would appreciate that."
As they exit the training hall, Alessia glances at him sideways, her smile now more subdued, almost tender. "You know," she says, "you're not what I expected."
Marigold turns, curious. "And what did you expect?"
"I don't know," she admits. "More mystery. More doom and gloom. Less… window-hugging."
He laughs, just a little, and the sound is as surprising to him as it is to her.
Together, they walk down the corridor, the earlier tension forgotten, replaced by something fragile and new.
They walk together through the admin corridors, Marigold's footfalls heavy and measured, Alessia's gait suddenly buoyant, as if her legs have only just remembered what it is to be unburdened. She wears the residue of laughter on her face, a smile that refuses to abate. For two turns and an entire elevator ride, it glows like a secret.
But as the HQ's signage becomes more officious—angles sharper, fonts more insistent—she catches a glimpse of Marigold's gold-plated reflection in a glass partition and is struck, all at once, by the magnitude of what she's done. She has laughed at a knight. Laughed at the knight. The legend in the armour, the one half the compound treats as a living hero.
Panic, in Alessia, is a high-frequency thing. It flares without warning, detonates in the chest, then settles over her skin like a cold compress. Her smile dies. The blood in her face evaporates, leaving her ashen. She remembers, with perfect clarity, the plot of a show Isabella had forced her to watch: a girl, caught giggling in the presence of a royal heir, summarily executed for "treasonous disrespect." Heads rolled—literally, in the more graphic remake. Alessia had snorted at the melodrama, but now the memory is a knife to the gut.
She glances at Marigold, searching his face for any sign of offense. But the helmet is a mirror, the visor blank and all-reflecting. She imagines the knight cataloguing her disrespect, planning some terrible, ceremonial reprisal. Alessia's breath turns shallow. She tries to remember the appropriate protocol for apologizing to a knight. Kneeling? Bowing? Public self-flagellation?
They reach the threshold of Cecill's office and Alessia's nerves fail. She halts mid-stride and pivots to face Marigold; her own face drained of all colour.
"I—" she starts, then shakes her head, musters a better approach. "I'm so sorry. For laughing. Before. It wasn't— I didn't mean—" She can't finish. Her voice quavers, her hands clench and unclench. She looks like a defendant in a trial she knows she's already lost.
Marigold tilts his head, as if seeing her for the first time. The motion is subtle, a clockwork adjustment. "It is not an offense," he says, voice warm and without edge. "You don't need to apologize."
Alessia blinks, startled by the absence of anger. "Really?"
"Really," says Marigold. "Laughter is rare here. I prefer it to the alternative."
She exhales, the panic dissolving into a shaky relief. Her cheeks flood with color, and a smile—a smaller, softer one—returns.
They stand in the corridor, a long, awkward silence blooming between them.
Marigold breaks it first. "You should do it more often," he says, almost shy. "You have a beautiful smile."
The words hang there, unexpected as rain in a desert. Alessia, caught off-guard, flushes from scalp to jaw. She turns away, hiding behind a curtain of hair, and hurries to open the door to Cecill's office.
Inside, the mood is all business, but in the glass of the door, Alessia's smile lingers, a small, bright pulse of colour against the pallor of the morning.
The interior of Cecill Ackerman's office is a study in compressed authority. The furniture, angular and dark, absorbs more light than it reflects, and the walls are lined with both functional maps and the kind of framed diplomatic memorabilia that signals "I win at paperwork." Even the air seems curated, stripped of all scent save for a trace of cleaning solvent and the low-voltage ozone from a bank of security monitors.
Alessia opens the door, stepping aside with a gesture that is equal parts formality and self-effacement. Marigold enters, the gold of his armour drawing the room's focus like a lodestone. The Knight moves to the centre of the rug, standing not at attention but in a posture of respectful alertness—shoulders squared, arms at rest, eyes masked behind the visor.
Cecill Ackerman is already seated behind his desk, fingers steepled in front of his face. He swivels his chair with a practiced ease, the kind that comes from a lifetime of performing confidence under scrutiny.
"Ah," Cecill says, and the word is a scalpel. "Syr Marigold. Please, come in." He gestures to the two seats in front of his desk, though Marigold remains standing. Alessia slides quietly to the left flank of the desk, her face a stone mask of professionalism, the previous blush and laughter wiped clean. On the right, Isabella stands with her hands clasped before her, posture military but eyes soft.
Cecill drops his hands and regards Marigold with a look that is equal parts appraisal and calculation. "You'll have to excuse the early hour. I'm told Knights don't keep ordinary schedules."
Marigold bows his head, just enough to signal deference. "It is an honor to meet the head of the operation," he says, his voice even.
Cecill lifts a brow, a wry smile ghosting his face. "Head, yes, that's what they call me, though in truth I'm just the last man willing to sign his name to the failures." He waves the comment off, as if allergic to self-pity. "Don't worry about the titles. We have more important matters."
He stands, moving around the desk with the controlled energy of a man who never sits for long. "I'll be blunt," Cecill says, hands now clasped behind his back. "Rook & Pegasus HQ is going to work with you, Marigold. Not as a mascot, and not as a ceremonial figurehead. As an operative. That means full integration. Joint missions, field ops, even evacuation protocols if needed."
He glances to Alessia and Isabella, then back to Marigold. "Our resources are stretched past the point of reason. If you're here, you're in the fight. There's no room for spectators."
Marigold nods, the gesture slow, deliberate. "Understood. I am prepared to assist wherever you require."
Cecill allows himself a brief, approving nod. "Good. You'll be getting briefed on current threat vectors shortly. Until then, Isabella and Alessia will take you through a rundown of HQ assets, staff, and operational norms. Consider this your orientation."
He pauses, the silence sharpening the focus of the room. "Any questions?"
Marigold hesitates, just for a heartbeat. "Is there a specific reason for the urgency? Beyond the obvious escalation?"
Cecill's lips press into a thin line. "Intelligence suggests a coordinated Emergence event within forty-eight hours. You're the only Knight assigned to this sector for the foreseeable future." His eyes do not blink. "The city's survival may depend on your ability to adapt—quickly."
Marigold takes this in with the gravity of someone used to apocalyptic ultimatums. "Then I will not fail," he says.
Cecill's face, unreadable for a moment, cracks into a tight, almost reluctant smile. "I believe you. Now, if you'll excuse me—" He gestures toward the mountain of paperwork on his desk, then looks at Isabella and Alessia. "Ladies. The tour, if you please."
The two women nods, their movements perfectly synchronized. Alessia's expression is back to peak composure; Isabella's is cool, but tinged with the warmth of someone who has already forgiven the world for its small absurdities.
As Marigold turns to follow them out, Cecill calls after him, "And Marigold?"
The Knight pivots, waiting.
"Don't let the bureaucracy get you down," Cecill says, the words an odd comfort. "We're all just improvising."
Marigold nods, a glint of real amusement flickering at the edges of his voice. "I will keep that in mind."
They leave the office as a unit—Marigold at the centre, Isabella on the right, Alessia on the left. They walk in silence at first, but the mood is different now. Lighter, charged with the electric potential of a team not yet tested, but ready to be forged.
In the corridor, Alessia glances at Marigold, her mask slipping just enough to reveal a small, conspiratorial grin.
"We're not so bad, you know," she says. "Once you get used to the paperwork."
Isabella snorts, but says nothing. Marigold, surrounded by these strange, bright, mortal people, feels the edges of his old solitude begin to dissolve.
Together, they move down the corridor, toward the tour that they promise him.