"Two days of this," Cyril muttered, finally tearing his gaze from the rolling plains. "Where are we actually going?"
Lucia blinked. "Sir Mentor kept you in the dark?"
Cyril shook his head.
Lucia straightened her spine, adopting a regal air. "Sanctum Regis. The heart of the Holy Kingdom. And, ten years ago, your home."
"Why?"
Lucia faltered, glancing at her sisters. Justina and Marcella offered identical shrugs. The three Dames turned to the ascetic.
Ward cracked an eye open. "He will sit for the Academy entrance exam."
"What?!" The Dames shattered their decorum in a synchronized shriek.
"Suicide!" Justina barked. "His combat foundations are incomplete!" Marcella argued. "The Church wields zero authority on that island!" Lucia panicked.
Ward raised his palm. He stroked his beard, a single, deliberate drag of his fingers. The air froze. The women clamped their mouths shut.
"Speak, Cyril," Ward commanded, pinning the boy with a piercing stare. "You have never questioned a destination. Why now?"
Cyril fidgeted, his cheerful demeanor fracturing. "My dreams. The last few nights, they've mapped this exact road. And they end with... a warning. A shadow waiting at the end of the line."
Ward slowly lowered his chin, sealing his eyes and retreating into total meditation. The Dames exchanged horrified glances, the blood draining from their cheeks.
Hours later, monolithic white walls crested the horizon. Lucia lunged across the cabin, gripping Cyril's shoulders. The playful sister vanished, replaced by a desperate zealot.
"Listen to me. Once we pass those gates, Sir Mentor departs. You will not leave your quarters. If anyone—anyone at all—attempts to speak with you, you ignore them. You do not follow them. Do you understand?"
Cyril offered a sunny, oblivious nod. "Understood!"
They breached Sanctum Regis. Cyril's jaw unhinged. A labyrinth of blinding white marble and spotless cobblestone swallowed the carriage. Cathedral spires pierced the sky, surrounded by sprawling estates that orbited a colossal, diamond-glinting citadel. It was a staggering monument to wealth, a violent contrast to his limestone cave. Pedestrians choked the streets, draped in robes that mocked the Dames' modesty—violently dyed silks suffocating under pounds of gold chain and jewels.
"The schedule," Lucia whispered, her eyes tracking the crowds outside. "Exam at 07:30 tomorrow. Sir Mentor will be absent for eight days. You do not move without a Dame. Clear?"
The carriage shrieked to a halt before the central citadel's wrought-iron gates. Ward stepped into the street, Lucia flanking him like a shadow.
The carriage lunged forward again, dragging Marcella, Justina, and Cyril away from the glittering core. The gold-paved streets surrendered to muted brick. They stopped before a modest, unremarkable safehouse hidden behind a rusted iron gate.
Marcella dismounted first, her gauntlet resting heavily on her broadsword's pommel. Justina covered the rear, her eyes scanning the alleyway's shadows like a cornered wolf.
"Clear," Justina muttered, her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.
They ushered him inside the bare wooden hall. "Rest," Marcella ordered.
"I will!" Cyril chirped.
"I hold the door," Marcella promised, planting her armored boots onto the porch boards.
The night passed in suffocating silence. At dawn, Justina splintered the peace, kicking the bedroom door off its latch.
"On your feet, brat! Exam day!"
She froze. Cyril sat on the mattress edge, boots laced, robe pristine, his foot tapping a frantic, nervous rhythm against the floorboards.
"Ready, Senior Sister Justina!"
"Report," Justina demanded that afternoon. They marched back toward the safehouse. She kept a white-knuckled grip on her hilt, projecting a lethal aura that forced pedestrians to part like water.
"Manageable," Cyril beamed. "Actually, kind of fun. The other applicants were great. I hope they pass."
Justina slammed to a halt. Her murderous glare snapped to the boy. "You didn't talk to them, did you?"
Cyril flinched, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. "Uh... definitely not! I followed the rules."
Justina pinched her nasal bridge, exhaling a long, tired breath. "Save it. You're a terrible liar."
They breached the safehouse gate and locked the door behind them.
"Lucia returns at dusk," Justina muttered, throwing the heavy iron deadbolts. "She'll handle your city tour."
Frost bloomed across the windowpanes, spiderwebbing over the glass as the room's temperature nose-dived. A colossal silhouette eclipsed the afternoon sun, casting the parlor into a suffocating twilight.
Justina slammed her arm across Cyril's chest, violently shoving him behind her. Her steel greaves scraped against the floorboards as she widened her stance. Beneath her breastplate, her breath hitched, ragged and shallow. She drew her blade a single inch. The steel ground against the scabbard—a harsh, trembling screech that betrayed the violent shaking of her hands.
"Why are you here, Grand Inquisitor?" Justina snarled. The venom in her voice barely masked the raw, panicked edge threatening to crack her composure. "Walk. Away."
Cyril peeked around Justina's quivering armored hip. A towering entity stood in the courtyard, drowning in an abyssal black cloak. The Grand Inquisitor disregarded Justina entirely. The hooded skull tilted, locking an invisible, paralyzing stare straight through the glass and into Cyril's retinas.
Cyril blinked. The courtyard was empty.
Justina tackled Cyril to the floor, her heavy gauntlets frantically patting his chest, searching for hexes or soul-burns. Her eyes were wide, the whites showing all the way around, and a cold sweat plastered her golden hair to her forehead. "Do you feel cold? Dizzy?"
"No," Cyril stammered, entirely bewildered. "I'm fine."
Justina sagged. The adrenaline abandoned her in a rush, leaving her gasping. A ragged, trembling breath escaped her bloodless lips. She hauled him up, her grip bruising, and shoved him away from the window. "This city is dangerous. You don't take a single step outside until the Great—" She bit her tongue so hard a bead of crimson stained her teeth. "Until Sir Mentor returns."
Fourteen days later, the marble spires of Sanctum Regis were a distant nightmare. Cyril sat on the rocky terrace of the Grenfell cave, watching the twilight bleed over the farmlands. Down in the valley, the Dames had pitched a heavily warded camp.
He didn't come out today, Cyril noted, tracing the rim of a clay cup. My last night before the Academy. I want to say goodbye, but if isolation is what he wants, I won't disobey him.
His fingers brushed the coarse collar of his robe.
You will return the church to its true foundation. Ward's parting prophecy echoed in his skull, hardening his naive excitement into iron resolve. I don't understand it, but I won't fail him.
He watched the distant campfire, where three armored knights silently packed their saddlebags. They couldn't enter the Academy. He was walking into the fire alone.
Wait. Cyril tipped his head back, watching the first stars pierce the dusk. The Dames mentioned Ward secured one final safeguard for me before we left the capital.
Cyril smiled, inhaling the crisp, quiet air of the only home he'd ever known.
I wonder what it is.