Before Heyo wakes from the coma
Days had passed.
Heyo still slept, unconscious, locked in that muteness only a coma can impose.
But elsewhere—far from the aseptic room where his body lay—on a different plane of the capital, a glass corridor stretched into silence.
A corridor without reflections. Without echoes. As if it belonged to no known substance.
Évra's steps, heavy and regular, hammered that void.
Alone. Grave. Her gaze fixed straight ahead.
At the end of the corridor: a door.
Massive.
Adorned with ancient engravings, too complex to be merely decorative.
It opened with a mechanical murmur, and Évra stepped into the circular chamber.
The contrast struck her at once.
The walls, a blazing, almost unreal beige, threw back a neutral light. Falsely reassuring.
All around, tiers of seats.
And on those tiers: seated silhouettes. Majestic. Motionless.
Judges without robes. Executioners without weapons. Figures of authority.
Thirteen in all.
But only one sat higher than the rest.
The President.
He did not need to speak to dominate.
His skin was fine, faintly gilded. His beard, trimmed with icy precision, underlined the firmness of his jaw. His black hair, short, left no room for disorder.
His brown eyes, fixed and dark, latched onto whomever he looked at. Nothing passed there. Neither doubt nor emotion. Only raw authority.
Every gesture was measured. Every breath controlled. His mere presence thickened the air, as if no one had the right to breathe before he did.
No one dared look away. Because in front of him, there was no escape.
Évra bowed.
— President. To what do I owe this summons?
She asked calmly. But her breath, slightly shorter than usual, betrayed a contained nervousness.
A murmur of reproach rippled through the tiers.
With a single gesture, the President crushed all noise.
Absolute silence.
— It seems, he said in a grave, clear voice, that one of your anomalies nearly destroyed the capital.
Évra raised her head.
— The situation was contained. Thanks to the intervention of the great families Harmony and Destiny, we were able to seal his power. Prediction warned us, and Sealed created a sealing capable of restraining the boy's power. We acted in time.
The hubbub rose a notch, like a swell returning ever stronger.
— Too dangerous. Eliminate him! a sharp voice snapped.
— Power like that has no place here, added another.
Murmurs, injunctions, hardening stares. Then, amid the tumult, a different note: prudence, calculation.
— Wait, someone breathed. Two great families are interested in this child. Harmony. Destiny.
The words had their effect. Silence.
The names weighed more than an order.
Everyone knew what that meant: those families never moved lightly. They acted only if it served their designs. They took no useless risks.
The council wavered between fear and pragmatism. Some demanded execution. Others whispered "diplomacy," "customs," "consequences." And all around, the hall held its breath, aware that the decision no longer concerned a single boy, but the very balance of power.
The President lifted his hand again.
Again, silence fell.
— Describe this ability to me precisely.
She drew a deep breath.
— It is a passive ability. It feeds its bearer with a quantity of energy of Words… unheard of. A typical Dormant would have taken months to withstand such an influx. He received it minutes after receiving his Word. And he survived. His access to such a vast amount of energy caused instability, yes, but the sealing is now in place.
The President remained motionless. Then, slowly:
— The numbers speak for themselves. According to the analysts, this energy was sufficient to destroy the capital. Perhaps more. This being is a bomb. But… can he serve us?
— Yes, she said without hesitation. I can control him. And if he survives… he could even reach the Wall of Words.
The phrase made the most erudite shudder.
The Wall of Words. The ultimate threshold. The unreachable.
— Is he loyal? the President asked then, eyes narrowed. This being lives in the blur. We know nothing about him. There are too many blind spots.
— I admit it, Évra replied. But the potential is worth the risk.
— Very well, he said. We proceed to a vote. Execution or integration.
Thirteen members. Thirteen votes.
But before he raised his hand, the great door opened.
A dry, unexpected creak.
All turned.
A silhouette entered.
Feminine. Dressed entirely in black. Hood lowered. No skin visible.
Not an ounce of flesh. Only shadow.
— Who dares interrupt a council? one member growled.
The woman advanced, without a tremor.
She brandished a parchment.
An eye was sealed upon it. Its pupil a star.
Silence.
Even the President furrowed his brow. Then, slowly:
— A summons from the head of the family Destiny?
She bowed without haste.
— Indeed. This message authorizes me to make a direct request.
Heyo must not die. He is destined to perish… but not here.
At the front. Against the Demons.
One of his abilities will alter the outcome of a war. That is what I was told. And I believe it.
The President remained silent. A long moment.
His gaze was fixed, but his fingers tapped faintly on the armrest.
Then:
— So be it. But on one condition.
He will depart for the front in four months. Not a day later.
He will pass every test.
And if he fails… he dies.
He turned his head toward Évra, slowly.
— You will handle it. Train him. Build him a team if you wish. But do it quickly.
Évra nodded, straight as a blade.
— Count on me. I will.
The President swept the hall with a look.
— Then… so be it.
An instant held fast.
A breath caught in every throat.
Then:
— Council adjourned.
Évra turned.
But as she stepped down the first stairs, she slowed.
Her gaze settled on the shadow at her side. The woman.
— What does Heyo represent… to your family?
The answer was immediate. Calm. And glacial.
— It is not for us to say.
It is for him… to decide what we represent.
At those words, the two women left the chamber—no heel's echo, no wasted breath.
One, with a new burden on her shoulders: forge a team of anomalies.
The other, messenger of a future written, but not yet understood.
And in the silence that fell over the assembly…
one truth asserted itself.
The game had changed.
The rules had shifted.
And Heyo, without knowing it,
had just been placed at the very center of the board.