Chapter 33
An Unknown Room
Walking among the room's shadows, Kaep left the table behind.
His steps echoed softly on the wood, barely perceptible among the sleeping breaths.
As he advanced, he noticed one of the alchemist's apprentices leaning against the wall.
The blue uniform, though wrinkled and stained, was still clean compared to the rest.
His head was tilted to one side, his hands crossed in his lap.
Kaep observed him for a moment.
"He probably has one."
If anyone might have something useful—a pen, a pencil, a writing stylus—it would be one of them.
He approached slowly, crouching slightly to avoid waking him.
The apprentice breathed slowly, deeply. He seemed completely asleep.
Kaep carefully extended his hand, feeling the belt and the vest pockets.
Nothing.
In silence, Kaep continued searching patiently.
He slid his fingers carefully between the folds of the coat, trying not to brush more than necessary.
In the first pocket, he only found a folded, damp piece of cloth.
In the second, something that felt like a stone or piece of glass, smooth to the touch.
Nothing useful.
He sighed quietly.
Only when he glanced slightly to the side did he see another pocket. There was only one left, on the chest of the coat.
"In there…?" he thought.
Slowly, he reached his hand toward it, and as he did, the apprentice moved slightly, a faint reflex, but enough to make Kaep freeze.
He waited… five seconds… ten…
Nothing.
The apprentice remained asleep.
With a quick gesture, he finished slipping his fingers into the pocket and then felt the metallic edge of something thin and elongated.
He pulled it out slowly: it was a bronze pen, with a fine tip, still stained with barely visible dried ink.
"Perfect," he thought, and smiled slightly.
Kaep held it between his fingers for a few seconds, turning it carefully to see it better under the faint candlelight.
It was a slender-bodied pen, made of polished bronze, with spiral engravings along the tube.
Though somewhat dull from use, it still retained a certain warm shine.
He brought it to his ear and shook it gently: it still had a faint liquid sound inside.
"Little ink, but I have the jar…" he thought.
With a satisfied expression, he slipped the pen into his pants pocket and stood up carefully, making sure not to make noise.
He cast one last look at the sleeping apprentice before turning to return to the table.
Kaep let out a soft sigh as he returned to the table, minding each step to avoid tripping over the prone bodies or creaking the floorboards.
The silence of the place was dense, interrupted only by some heavy breathing or the faint crackle of a candle burning down.
Once before the table, he carefully dragged a chair to avoid making noise and sat down.
He placed the paper in front of him, the ink jar to one side, and the pen in the center.
For a few seconds, he simply stared at the paper, not moving a muscle.
"Where do I start…?" he thought, twirling the pen between his fingers.
He finally rested it on the sheet, leaving a first fine mark, barely perceptible.
The movement gave him a certain sense of relief, as if that gesture returned some control to his mind after so many things to process.
But before writing a single word, he lifted his gaze toward the circular window.
For a moment, he thought he saw a reflection move in the glass.
Or maybe it was just a candle flicker.
Without taking his eyes off the window, he murmured in a low voice:
"Just killing time, nothing more…"
He turned his wrist, lowered his gaze to the paper, and began to write the first line.
---
First, he rested his forearm on the table and let the pen slide slowly over the paper.
The first stroke was hesitant; the tip scraped the dry surface, leaving an irregular line before stabilizing.
"Third grade…" he whispered, barely moving his lips, resting his chin on his left hand.
He leaned back, thinking. His body still felt heavy from the blood loss, and the bandage on his head throbbed from time to time, like a reminder.
He remembered hearing it from the alchemist moments ago, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were something everyone understood.
But he didn't. Not entirely.
He wrote the two words and stared at them.
The shine of the bronze pen reflected the light of a distant flickering candle, making the letters seem to tremble, as if they too doubted themselves.
He leaned closer to the paper again and wrote under the first heading, in a tighter script:
"Rank or level. Not sure if it's military, academic, or power-based.
'Third-graders' seem weak or in training.
The alchemist treats them like apprentices."
He pressed the end of the pen with his fingers, thoughtful, and let his gaze get lost for a few seconds in the flame's irregular movement.
Then, with a soft sigh, he wrote the next heading.
TakRan Academy.
The name came out firmer, as if it had weight.
The pen paused for a moment over the word "TakRan."
The still-fresh ink pooled on the "R," forming a dark dot.
Kaep watched it for a few seconds, distracted, until a vague idea filtered through his thoughts:
He knew it… or at least thought he'd heard it before. That name… he'd heard it before. He didn't know where, or when, but it felt close. Like a vague sensation of distance, as if it were something from another life.
He thought, drumming his fingers on the wood.
"Possible main organization. Maybe the place where I was trained or 'marked.' Relation to the alchemist and the blue uniforms."
As he wrote, he felt how fatigue mixed with a kind of tense lucidity, as if his mind was working faster to order what it didn't yet fully understand.
He took a deep breath, looked at the ceiling for a few seconds, and wrote the third word.
"Marked Ones."
The stroke was stronger, almost an incision.
The word was accidentally underlined when his hand trembled.
"I am one. Don't know exactly what it means. The alchemist said it as if it implied power or a special condition. Maybe it's the reason I wake up in that place every time I sleep or lose consciousness… or the reason I'm still alive."
Kaep went still.
The memory of that moment—the golden figure, the water, the failed attempt to shoot from his fingers—flashed briefly through his mind.
A twinge crossed his temple.
Gently, he closed the pen, rested it on the edge of the jar, and exhaled slowly.
"Marked…" he repeated to himself, this time in a low voice, almost with resignation.
The candlelight flickered again, and the shadow of his profile moved on the wall as if it weren't entirely his.
Kaep looked at it for a few seconds, his head tilted, and finally looked down at the paper again.
He dropped the pen onto the table, his head tilted to one side, and closed his eyes for just an instant.
Or at least he tried.
But Kaep forced his eyes to stay open.
The constant flickering of the candles was lulling him; the faint crackle of the fire in the wicks seemed to purposely soothe him.
He shook his head sharply, trying to clear it.
He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing his eyelids until he saw reddish flashes.
"No… don't sleep," he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse.
He looked back at the paper in front of him.
The three words written above—Third grade, TakRan, Marked Ones—remained still, but his mind insisted, something was missing, something he had to remember.
With his chin resting on his hand, Kaep tried to squeeze his memory.
He ran his thumb along the edges of the paper.
His gaze lost itself in the void for a few seconds, looking around the room.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to force the images to return.
He took a deep breath.
Kaep opened his eyes abruptly.
A shiver ran down his back.
That phrase. The same one as before.
"Don't trust… doubt… think… and reason out a method."
He looked around.
The hall was the same: the sleeping silhouettes, the heavy silence, the flickering candles.
But he'd swear someone had just spoken in his ear.
His fingers fumbled for the pen, he held it trembling slightly, and wrote the phrase in the margin of the paper.
Kaep stared at it, motionless.
His heart pounded against his chest with contained force.
"Step by step…" he whispered, barely moving his lips.
He turned his head slowly to the left, pausing now and then as if measuring the movement, forcing his eyes to stay open. His neck ached, but he needed to move, to check his surroundings.
The slight turn was enough to open his view of the floor: a disordered row of bodies covered with uniforms.
Kaep narrowed his eyes to distinguish them better.
One was wrapped up to the chest in his jacket; another used his coat sleeve as a pillow.
He could see how some breathed—chest rising, falling—others barely moved, perhaps sleeping more deeply.
He followed the line with his gaze, reviewing each figure.
At the end of the group, near the wall, he distinguished the alchemist's other apprentice.
The boy slept sitting, his back against the wood, legs extended, one hand fallen to the floor.
His face was turned to the side, his hair pushed back.
Kaep watched him silently for a few seconds.
Then he turned his body a little more, bracing one arm on the table for support.
It wasn't just curiosity; he wanted to make sure nothing in the room had changed while he was thinking.
He mentally counted each person present, noting the gaps between them, the bundles of blankets and jackets.
The noise of the ship accompanied the count: creaks, the water knocking against the hull.
Kaep ignored it, concentrating on his task.
One, two, three...
They were all in the same place.
He exhaled through his nose and straightened up.
He stared for another moment, his jaw resting on his hand, evaluating.
"Good…"
Looking back at the apprentice in the blue uniform…
"Blue uniform… uniform… uniform…" Kaep repeated, murmuring softly, as if saying it quietly could keep his mind occupied and sleep at bay.
His gaze kept jumping between the covered bodies, counting without counting, just filling the silence.
Then, a warm breeze brushed his cheek. It wasn't strong, but real enough to halt the mechanical rhythm of his words.
He blinked.
The air inside the cabin was always dense, humid, heavy. There were no currents that felt like that.
Yet, that short gust swept over his face, warm, with an almost human softness.
At the same time, he heard a voice.
Feminine.
Low, but clear.
It didn't come from any specific point; it seemed to seep directly from the edge of his ear into the center of his head.
"Kaep…"
His name, or at least that's what he thought he heard.
He didn't recognize it, but the warmth of the tone disarmed him.
His body, tense just a second ago, relaxed without permission.
His shoulders dropped, his breathing slowed.
***
[In an unknown room, on an unknown day, of an unknown year]
The morning had begun calmly. A soft light entered through the window, illuminating the small room and caressing the walls with a warm glow. On the bed, neatly folded, lay the child's uniform, freshly ironed, emitting that particular scent of cleanliness and home.
The woman, leaning patiently, helped the child get dressed. Her hands moved over the fabric with expert gestures, buttoning here, smoothing a wrinkle there.
"All done," she said finally, releasing a small sigh of satisfaction.
The child, perhaps eight years old, raised his arms and stood still, marveling at his reflection in the full-length mirror. His eyes shone with wonder; the jacket was a bit loose on his shoulders, but it gave him a charming air, as if trying to appear older than he was.
"Mom, I look important!" he exclaimed, flashing a smile that revealed a newly lost tooth.
She let out a small laugh and knelt to be at his height. With a finger, she pointed to the pocket where a small embroidered shield rested.
"Of course you are. See this? It's not just a uniform. It's a sign that you're starting something new."
The child fell silent, lowering his gaze to the emblem. He moved his arms slowly, turning around as if to check how he looked from all angles.
"It feels weird, but… nice," he confessed, shrugging.
She ruffled his hair affectionately, undoing the effort he had put into combing it just minutes before.
"It fits you perfectly," she said tenderly.
The child let out a timid laugh and looked at himself in the mirror again, this time with more confidence. The uniform wasn't just a garment: it was a kind of promise. A symbol that he was growing up, step by step, even if it still seemed like a game to him.
The woman, standing by the door, watched him spin a couple more times. The scene was simple, but in the quiet of that morning, it felt special, like a memory both would cherish.
She opened the door softly, but at that same instant, she heard a loud crash: a door downstairs slammed open, followed by quick footsteps coming up the stairs.
The echo resonated through the house, and before she could react, a man appeared in the air, leaping from the lower landing and landing firmly in the hallway. The impact was sharp, agile, like someone used to moving with speed and precision.
Without stopping, he ran toward her. It took him barely a second, two at most, to reach the half-open door. The woman moved slightly aside, giving him space. The man lowered his body, crouching to avoid making noise, and peeked into the room…
Empty. Only the soft breeze and the morning light entered through the open window, moving the curtains as if mocking his tension.
Unease ran through him like a chill. He pushed the door open a little more, hesitant, and entered. His steps were careful, almost cautious, until something hit him from below: a soft tackle, more of an embrace.
He looked down. There was the child, clinging to his leg, his face buried in the fabric of his trousers.
The man blinked in surprise, and then the little boy lifted his head, showing him a pure smile.
"Dad…" he said.
Relief instantly washed over him, visible in his whole body. The woman noticed it from the door; it wasn't subtle.
"Did he scare you so much he hid in the wall?" she said, connecting the dots.
He glanced at her and nodded silently. Concern etched itself on the woman's face, though she chose not to add anything more.
The child released his father's leg and ran down the hallway, clumsily but cheerfully descending the stairs. His parents followed, this time with calm steps.
"How long can you stay?" the woman asked quietly.
"Maybe two weeks," he replied.
As they descended, she added cautiously:
"By the way… what happens out there, in the outer lands, is very traumatic."
He nodded without surprise.
"Yes, even though they're safe zones, different from expeditions… it always is."
She frowned.
"But when you return, you don't seem scared."
"Ah…" he exhaled with a half-smile. "That's because of something new they've been giving us, me and the younger ones too."
Curiosity shone in her eyes. He continued, lowering his tone:
"They're runes, stones enchanted by a new branch of magic. By carving symbols on them, they gain effects. They give them to us as pendants, insignias, clasps, or bracelets. We have dozens, so they're never lacking on missions."
She nodded, though each word seemed to stir more questions.
"And what they do," he went on, "is suppress fear… or give you more courage and bravery."
"That sounds incredible…" she murmured, genuinely amazed.
He hesitated for a moment, lowering his gaze to the hallway.
"Yes, but…" he paused to find the words, "it's like, when you use them, you lose a bit of your own capacity to feel those things. Courage, calm… after a while, they feel foreign. And besides, they don't stop the trauma or the pain. They just postpone it. When the effect breaks, everything comes back."
The woman stopped for a second, taking his arm with both hands. She tried to calm him, to silence the fear he hadn't fully expressed.
He responded with a soft, though tired, smile.
At that moment, they both noticed something: from the living room sofa, the child's face peeked over the backrest, watching them with those large, innocent eyes.
The father felt the tension in his chest dissipate immediately. A broad, almost restrained smile lit up his face.
The mother followed his gaze and, seeing the same scene, her own expression also changed. The tenderness of that little mischief was so unexpected it was funny.
They both burst into laughter. A pure, roaring laugh that brought tears to their eyes until they had to wipe them away almost in unison.
"Kaep," the father finally said, his voice still broken by laughter.
The child straightened up on the sofa, standing on the seat. Now his head reached neck-height above the backrest.
"Ready for your first day?" the man asked.
The child flashed another timid smile and nodded firmly.
"Good. Then let's have breakfast, and we'll take you… to TakRan Academy."