The interior of Vespera's mansion was a labyrinth of decadent opulence. The scent of expensive incense tried—without success—to mask the smell of blood and seawater seeping up through the cracks in the floorboards. Kaelen stood at the center of an oriental rug, surrounded by four guards whose curved blades gleamed beneath the light of silver candelabras.
— I will not become some back-alley cabaret killer — Kaelen's voice came out hoarse, yet still carrying a trace of the pride he was trying to salvage from the ruins of his dignity. — I was trained under the code of a gentleman. I was taught that steel serves honor and the defense of the realm, not the slitting of throats in alleys for dirty coin.
One of the guards—a man with a scar splitting his lip—stepped forward. The cold metal of his dagger pressed against Kaelen's throat, forcing his head back.
— Honor doesn't fill bellies or buy silence, boy — the guard growled. — If Madame gives the order, your "honor" will spill out of that neck before you finish your next sentence.
Madame Vespera, who had been watching while pouring herself more wine, let out a short, icy laugh. She walked toward Kaelen with the elegance of a panther, pushing the guard's dagger aside with the tip of a silk-gloved finger.
— Oh, I much prefer when the dogs arrive like this — she said, circling him, her eyes tracing his wounds and torn tunic. — Growling, baring their teeth, clinging to dead ideas like "honor." They're far more entertaining to tame. The fall is more satisfying when the pedestal is high.
She stopped in front of him, her face only inches from his.
— A gentleman? — She touched the scar on Kaelen's shoulder where his insignia had been torn away. — Where was your gentleman's code when Malphas split your father's knee open? Where was your "honor" when your sister was weighed and appraised like a cut of meat in a flesh market?
Kaelen clenched his teeth so hard his jaw cracked.
— Honor is what separates me from monsters like Malphas… and like you — he hissed.
— No — Vespera snapped back, her voice suddenly as sharp as a razor. — What separates you from Malphas is that he has the power to take everything you love, and you do not have the power to stop him. Your honor is a collar, Valerius. It tells you to face a Nephilim head-on—one who can crush your chest with a thought. It tells you to die "with dignity" while your sister screams in a cardinal's chamber.
She stepped back, spreading her arms to the shadowed hall.
— Gentlemen die in songs. Men who kill in the dark survive to write history. You want to save your family? Then understand this: in Ostrava, the light of virtue only helps the enemy see where to drive the dagger.
Kaelen looked down at the floor, at his own shadow cast by the torchlight. He thought of Elara. Thought of the way the Inquisitor had lifted him by the throat as if he were nothing.
— What do you want from me? — he asked, his resistance giving way to a desperate exhaustion.
— I want you to kill the gentleman inside you — Vespera smiled, and the gleam in her eyes was purely sadistic. — I will give you the tools to reach Malphas. I will teach you the language of shadows. But in return, you will be my Executor. And your first target will not be a monster. It will be a man who, like you, believes that "honor" makes him untouchable.
The woman who guided him did not walk—she glided. Her steps were no louder than a petal falling on damp stone. She was tall, broad-shouldered from years of drawing a war bow, and her eyes—cold as Ostrava's winter sea—never stopped scanning their surroundings.
— Name's Nyx — she said without looking back. Her voice was low, carrying an authority born not of titles, but of scars. — And if I were you, Valerius, I'd leave that knightly pride in a piss bucket before going to sleep.
Kaelen followed her through the mansion's narrow corridors, which felt more like the veins of a living creature. His ribs still ached, and the heat of Malphas's blood burned on his arm, but Nyx's presence imposed a different kind of vigilance.
— Vespera saw something in you. Maybe it's your stubbornness. Maybe it's the way you bleed without kneeling — the archer continued, stopping before a reinforced oak door bound with iron. — She's interested in your potential, but don't abuse her goodwill. Vespera cultivates talent the way she cultivates black roses: if the flower doesn't bloom right—or starts to wilt—she rips it out by the roots and throws it into the fire. She has patience, but her patience is a rope always on the verge of snapping.
She turned the key in the lock and opened the door, revealing an austere room. A straw bed, a rough wooden table, a water jug, and a basin. Simpler than his dormitory at the Academy, yet the air felt heavier.
Nyx tossed the heavy iron key to Kaelen. He caught it, the cold metal biting into his wounded palm.
— Rest while you can. If your body fails tomorrow, you'll be useful to no one—least of all your sister — her tone softened by barely a fraction at the mention of his family. — Wake before the first church bell. Go to the rear hall, past the kitchen. Training begins tomorrow. And a warning: back there, no one cares who your father was.
She turned and vanished into the corridor's shadows before Kaelen could reply.
The Night of the Dead Cadet
Kaelen locked the door. The sound of the bolt echoed through the empty room like the sealing of a tomb. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands—caked with mud, a guard's blood, and the Nephilim's black ichor.
He tried to pray, a habit carved into him by years of dogma, but the words felt hollow. The god of the Church had allowed Malphas to take Elara. The god of honor had allowed his father to be betrayed by those he protected.
Kaelen lay down, but sleep did not come easily. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the carmine glow of Malphas's armor and his sister's face vanishing into the darkness of Garrick's brothel.
Breathe, he told himself, using the Academy's pulse-control technique. Tomorrow, the gentleman dies. Tomorrow, the blade learns to hide.
The Dawn of the Rose
When Ostrava's bell tolled the first vigil, Kaelen was already awake. He washed his face with the basin's icy water, hissing as it burned the cuts. He walked to the rear hall, just as Nyx had instructed.
The place was a covered inner courtyard, hidden from any neighboring eyes by high, ivy-clad walls. Fine sand covered the ground to muffle sound. At the center, Nyx waited. She carried no bow now, but two wooden daggers hung at her waist. Around her, sandbags and moving targets creaked softly in the wind.
— You were taught to fight so you could be seen on a battlefield, Valerius — Nyx said, tossing one of the wooden daggers to him. — Today, I'm going to teach you to fight so the last thing your enemy feels is a breath on his neck.
The arsenal lining the courtyard walls was a collection of metallic nightmares. Serrated daggers, repeating crossbows, short swords with chemically treated blades—dull, lightless, black as the abyss. Every inch of steel had been designed to vanish into the night, to become an extension of shadow itself.
Nyx crossed her arms, jerking her chin toward the panoply.
— Choose. A blade, a spear, or a throwing axe. If you want to kill a Nephilim, you'll need reach—or an edge that won't dull on the first rib.
On the upper level, at the marble parapet that ringed the courtyard, Vespera appeared. She held a parchment while a servant murmured about the profits of Ostrava's routes and the costs of bribes at the customs houses. The Matriarch of the Pale Rose raised a hand for silence and leaned over the railing, her gaze locked on Kaelen.
— Let's see whether this new flower has thorns, or just soft petals — Vespera remarked, her voice heavy with sadistic amusement.
Kaelen's eyes moved over the weapons. The black gleam of the steel felt like a provocation. To him, a darkened blade was the mark of an executioner, of a backstabbing traitor. At the Academy, he had been taught that polished steel was the mirror of a warrior's soul; a weapon that did not shine was a weapon without honor.
— I won't use those — Kaelen said, his voice echoing with a firmness that made Nyx arch an eyebrow.
— Being selective now, Valerius? — the archer mocked. — The blood on your neck is still wet and you want to choose the color of your metal?
— No gentleman wields a black sword — Kaelen shot back, turning his back on the arsenal. — If you want me to be a monster, you can try. But I won't be a shadow-assassin. If steel can't reflect the light, it doesn't belong in my hand.
Above them, Vespera narrowed her eyes. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by tightly leashed irritation. She hated it when things refused to follow her script.
Kaelen crouched and picked up a roll of coarse linen bandages tossed on a wooden bench, used by the guards to bind wounds. With methodical, violent movements, he began wrapping the cloth around his knuckles, pulling tight until the circulation protested. He bound his wrists, covering fresh scars, turning his hands into blunt instruments.
— I'll use what nature gave me, and what the Academy honed — he said, clenching the linen-wrapped fists. — If I have to bring Malphas down, I'll do it with the weight of my own body.
Vespera felt a visceral unease. The boy wasn't just stubborn; he was trying to set the rules inside her cage. She had seen many men cling to integrity, but Kaelen was wielding his own vulnerability like a declaration of war.
— Nyx — Vespera's voice dropped from the parapet, cold and razor-sharp. — If he wants to fight like a brawling peasant, teach him how peasants die. No mercy. If he wants to use his fists, let him learn the taste of his own blood before the day is over.
Nyx smiled—but it wasn't friendly. It was the smile of someone accepting a challenge. She let the wooden daggers fall and flowed into a combat stance, almost like a dance.
— Your bones against my training, Valerius? — Nyx stepped forward. — I hope those bandages are strong enough to hold what's left of your teeth.