Chapter 2: Cold Guard Trouble

Syril wanted to fade away; nothing would please him more than to disappear into a lifeless void of inky blackness, never to be seen again. But unfortunately, vanishing into thin air was outside his current skill set. Instead, he was trapped on the cold tiled floor of the Academy’s hallway, just meters from the classroom where his life had turned upside down.

His once pristine white shirt was stained in a mix of blood and sweat. Its source was no mystery to Syril; instead, it was a grim reminder of what had happened.

Gently, he placed a hand into his pocket, examining the gold watch he’d managed to snag off the ground as he was escorted away from Seabright. It was hot to the touch, almost unbearable, as if he’d pulled it from the coals of a bonfire.

He had an overwhelming urge to take it out, examine it, figure out what the hell it was and why Seabright was so desperate to keep it away from his brother.

But a nagging voice in the back of his mind urged him to keep it hidden.

Everything felt wrong, as if he were stuck at the bottom of a dark ocean, the people around him just shapeless figures that moved with no purpose or reason. The sounds of the world around him, chatter, and grief blended into a smothering yet dreary hum, tears filled his eyes, and he again buried his head into its perch within his knees.

His body was drained, and exhaustion tingled every cell of every limb. He gripped the watch, its bold heat raising in intensity to a point just beyond pain, where everything crystallised beyond normality.

A part of him had hoped the pain would carry away his grief, like the balancing of a scale, exchanging one extreme core pain for a more controllable peripheral version. But even as the watch cut into his skin and burned to the point of tears, even as blood pooled on his palm and dampened his pocket.

He still felt the same aching hollowness.

He looked around, mainly out of distraction more than boredom. The guard that had escorted him out of the classroom stood ridged at its door, the detectives that had questioned him earlier locked inside,

Faculty and students had gathered at the end of the hall. They were held back from the classroom by an unseen wall the guard had erected an hour prior. Its translucent border shimmered against the last slivers of light pouring from the windows. Its runic source still glowed faintly against the stone it was drawn onto.

If it had not been for the unseen wall, the hallway would have been suffocated with uncontrollable conversation and fear.

Instead, it was quiet, an absent hollow silence that stung the air.

Syril made a point to avoid eye contact with the crowd; he couldn’t stomach their condemning looks and side-eye glances. Their obvious suspicion of him drove daggers into his chest; people he’d once called friends stood behind the barrier, their eyes conveying more accusation than their lips ever could.

Not for the first time that evening, Syril tried to replay the meeting with his brother; Every detail, every expression, every word, he knew there must have been a clue – some amalgamation of words that would provide a transparent and explainable reason as to why.

Why was Seabright’s body now in a bag in the back of an ambulance?

Why had Davion killed him?

And why this godsdamn watch was now in his pocket.

But it was no use; his brain had been hijacked, and any memory was instead replaced by the last waves of panic that Seabright experienced.

Or maybe it was his own panic?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

Every time he tried to reason the night’s events, to apply an inkling of logic to anything that had happened, he found the answer slipping further and further away, like paper dancing on the wind.

Syril’s fingers brushed his stomach; the dagger’s sting and death’s chill plagued the back of his mind. He felt the blade’s shadow pierce through his flesh again. His breath quickened, and his body shook. The room spun at such a speed that he felt himself floating. The blood rushing to his head pounded like a war drum, his vision becoming grey and uneasy.

Above it all, the watch ticked its melody.

Tik

Tok

Tik…

A gentle hand gripped his shoulder, and just as suddenly as it had started, his panic ceased. The watch went quiet, and an overwhelming calmness enveloped him.

Syril turned to find the spectacled brown eyes of his uncle, dressed in a neatly ironed brown tweed suit with a pink undershirt. He met Syril’s gaze with a thin smile before gently placing his briefcase against the wall and sliding down to sit beside him.

He silently placed his arm around Syril’s shoulder and pulled him in for an uncharacteristic hug.

“Are you ok?” his uncle muttered, still not releasing him from the awkward embrace.

He wasn’t. His world had just crumbled before him; his brother had killed someone, and Syril had received the ultimate first-hand perspective.

“I’m fine, just a little shaken, you know?” he lied, his mouth dry and throat hoarse, “I just want to get home.”

His uncle stared at him, and a deep frown creased further onto his aged face, “Why didn’t you call me?”

Syril shook his head, “They told me they’d give you a call. My phone was confiscated.”

His uncle raised his eyebrows, “Why did they take your phone?”

“They think I did it,” Syril said without hesitation, his voice expressionless and hollow.

His uncle blinked, “they…” his face contorted from confusion to anger and then back to confusion. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, “They think you killed Seabright?”

Syril nodded, angry tears stinging his eyes again. He should have expected this reaction. His uncle was a man of pride and impartiality, no small part because of his position within the government. Of course, he’d find this situation suspicious. Who wouldn’t?

“Well, did you?”

“Did I kill him?” Syril asked, confused by the question.

His uncle’s face flushed with frustration, “No. Did you invite him to dinner?” He said sarcastically.

Syril was taken aback; he hadn’t expected such a direct question, albeit he wasn’t sure what he had expected. “No, of course, I didn’t!” He said earnestly.

His uncle sighed, the tension bleeding from his face, “and you don’t know who did?”

Crap.

Syril didn’t know how to broach this subject; he wanted to tell his uncle everything – to remove the burden now dumped on his shoulders.

He wanted help. No, he needed help; he needed someone on his side to understand what had happened.

But that voice again called deep within him, “Don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” he said calmly.

His uncle continued to stare; his eyes cut into Syril like a surgeon’s scalpel. Syril stared back, determined not to back down, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was innocent.

He felt calmer as he stared beyond the spectacles and into the eyes of the man who had raised him. Sore muscles relaxed, and his stress seemed to wash away like dirt in the rain. Warmness passed through his extremities, and the nagging voices inside him vanished into mere whispers on the wind.

He felt weightless, as if he was floating away from all his problems. In the back of his mind, a soft voice urged him to release this weight. It pecked at him like a pebble in a shoe, pulling at his will like a loose thread.

“Are you absolutely sure?” the voice felt like an invitation.

Syril’s mouth opened, and the words sat on his tongue, itching to be told.

Tik

Tok…

There it was again, that stupid watch. The beating of its gears once again flooded his senses. It pierced through his drowsiness and wrenched him from his daze. He blinked again and felt each of his feelings sharpen, he felt weighted again, and the full extent of the evening bore down on him like a collapsed building.

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“I’m positive,” Syril spoke with newfound determination. He needed his uncle to believe the lie, at least for now.

His uncle studied him for a moment, his face emotionless. Syril wondered what was running through his head, but his uncle had worked in foreign affairs for half his life, to the point where he lived and breathed diplomacy.

Try as he might, getting a sense of what he was thinking was like reading a book that wouldn’t open.

His uncle pushed his spectacles up his large nose, “Right,” he stood up, removing his coat and tossing it into Syrils lap.

“Hold this for me, would you.”

Syril opened his mouth to ask politely what the hell he was doing, but his uncle had already stormed down the hallway toward the lone city guardsman positioned at the classroom door.

The guard stared unblinkingly ahead, clad in a grey bodysuit that clung to his lean figure like a second skin. The emblem on the right breast pocket displayed a white rose encircling a sword, evidently, a member of the urban combat unit.

The guard was bald, and his eyes bleached white, devoid of any colour or pupil. His body was tattooed in ornate symbols, giving the impression of a decorative vase; no skin was left exposed, and each character was as intricate as the last.

Syril would have thought the symbols were beautiful if he had not known their power. Guards were covered head to toe in combat Runes, emblems of stored magic that granted the wearer battle advantages. Syril didn’t know what each rune did; only those who trained and specialised in Runic architecture had the authority to hone that expertise.

“Excuse me, but what kind of circus are you running here?” His uncle demanded, walking towards the stationed guard, his voice trembling with anger.

An aura of rage and authority oozed from his uncle, a luxury of his governmental standing; it was a feeling that Syril, unfortunately, had experienced many times when growing up.

The guard remained placid and immobile as his uncle stormed up the hallway, but as the well-dressed man moved uncomfortably close, the stock-still guard grimaced in annoyance. They stood mere inches from each other, the uncle only slightly shorter than the stone-faced man.

“I will ask you this plainly and simply.” His uncle gritted venomously, “Why did no one call me.”

The guard did not react or respond. Instead, his milky white eyes bore down onto the uncle like a parent scolding a child.

“Answer me boy,” His uncle said quietly.

“Orders.” The guard responded.

“From whom?” The uncle’s voice burned with molten anger as he jabbed a finger squarely into the man’s chest, “I am this boy’s legal guardian when something happens. You. Call. me.” He emphasised the last three words with jabs to the chest so solid the guard took a step back to regain balance.

The guard drew a black stick from his belt. Its hilt was polished brass, and even from where Syril sat, he could see the marvellous runes etched deep into the weapons cudgel.

“Sit Down and wait.” The man’s voice was deep and steady. It was a voice that could control a room with a mere word, a voice that had seen battles rage both in the streets and in the trenches.

His uncle laughed bitterly, “Son, you don’t scare me.”

The guard gritted his teeth, his knuckles white against his weapon’s handle, “It was not a threat, sir. It was a promise.”

To the untrained observer, his uncle’s face would have appeared calm, possibly even serene. But Syril knew the fury that boiled behind his eyes. He’d experienced it as a boy. He’d seen firsthand how easily his uncle could hide absolute revulsion and rage behind a calm façade.

“Well, let me make a promise to you, boy.” His voice was now building in anger, “I will walk out of here with my nephew. We will walk without interruption. We go home, have a nice dinner, and never speak of this again. He is a sixteen-year-old child. Only a moron could ever suspect him of murder.”

“You. Will. Sit. down.” The guard replied angrily, his voice raising in volume with each word. He stepped toward the uncle, placing the stick into the man’s sternum. Both men stood staring malevolently at the other, the tension between them so cold and thick air froze around them.

Finally, his uncle took a step back, firmly pushing the weapon away from his chest. “I will do no such thing.”

The guard, once so calm and ridged, now shook with the anger of a man who was not used to being disobeyed. The sleek black stick glowed an electric blue. Its light became brighter with each second, arcs of electricity danced against each other in a terrifying ballet, and a faint hissing echoed through the hallway.

Syril felt his stomach drop.

“You can’t intimidate me with a stick,” His uncle said wearily, “Put it away now before you do something you regret.”

The uncle stepped away, turned his back on the guard, and continued down the hallway, “You have no authority to hold a student on campus grounds without a guardian or legal representation. So, in saying that, I’m going to take my nephew, I will walk out that door, and you will not stop me.”

The guard laughed, the arcing electricity now blinding, “sit down.”

Syril was now sweating; he stood and found his legs uneasy, his stomach churned with a nauseous fear so powerful it spun his world. He caught himself on the wall and tried to calm bubbling nausea. When he could see straight again, he ran to follow his uncle down the hallway.

The same stern voice echoed across the hallway, “I said sit down.”

His uncle didn’t break stride and using every bit of willpower he had, Syril followed closely behind. He trusted him beyond words, but the hidden fury bleeding from his guardian terrified him.

Syril had experienced his uncle’s rage a few too many times in his childhood, but never to this extent – this was something else. The anger that rolled off his uncle tugged at the air around him. It was like walking through hot oil, his eyes stung, and he felt his chest tighten into a constrictive wheeze.

They were now mere meters from the door. Syril briefly thought that maybe they’d be able to leave safe and unscathed, that they had perhaps worked out a way out of this mess.

The guard roared down the hallway, “I’m warning you!”

His uncle turned so fast that Syril nearly ran into him. His face was red, “What are you going to do? Kill me? Hurt me? I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how tough you may think you are. You have no idea who I am or what you are stepping into.”

The guard moved so quickly that Syril didn’t see the energy beam until it collided in front of him, its brilliant light exploding into blue sparks that briefly illuminated the darkened hallway.

A crackle of electricity hung in the air, blue specks of light fell around him like the winter snow, and from the classroom door, the guard lowered the weapon. Its end was now smouldering, faint specs of electricity biting the air around it.

Syril panicked and turned towards his uncle, expecting to find his body charred beyond recognition.

But he was unharmed; his tweed suit as unwrinkled as it was when he arrived. He stared blankly at the guard, “You missed.”

Syril hurriedly tried to push him down the hallway and through the exit doors. He needed to get out of the school before the guard could use that thing again; he was sure they wouldn’t get lucky twice.

But a calm voice sang sweetly out from the classroom, halting their retreat, “Jerard, you should know as well as anyone that the guards don’t miss.”

Their attacker snapped to attention, holstering his weapon. And Syril, who was still on a very intense rollercoaster of emotions, half-thought – half expected to have imagined the voice, another stop on the crazy train of Syril.

But as he looked towards his uncle, whose gaze moments ago was enough to burn air, he was shocked to find him white with fear, his eyes wide and mouth open.

The voices origin stepped out from within the classroom; she was short but stocky, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black singlet covered by a golden chest plate ordained with the carvings of a burning tree. What skin was visible was covered in layers of old and whitened scars. Her brown hair was neatly tied into a bun, and a long scar ran from her right eyebrow to her lower lip.

She smiled at the duo, “How long has it been, sweetie?”

He turned toward his paralysed uncle, hoping for an explanation, but his uncle only croaked, “Vanessa.”

“Jerard.” She walked towards them; with each echoing step, Syril felt his pulse quicken.

That distant voice screamed at him again.

“And is this the boy I’ve heard lots about?” the woman looked around, “Where’s the second one?”

His uncle’s mouth again opened and closed, “he’s um…”

“He was sent to the Wigston mines. He’s in the scouting regiment,” Syril interjected, sure he now needed to rescue his uncle from whatever ailment plagued him.

“Oh, he does speak! Well, how wonderful for me,” Vanessa’s eyes were wide with excitement, and a malicious smile lined her face. “So why don’t you tell me what happened, Syril? Please spare no detail.”

Her smile was unwavering. It reminded him of a predator moments before catching its prey, focused yet gleefully excited for the meal.

He shuddered.

“Why can’t you just check the cameras?” his uncle asked, awakening from his shock-induced stupor.

“We aren’t morons, Jerard. We checked that,” she paused, looking at the guard, “You did check that, right?”

Syril held his breath; he had forgotten about the cameras.

“Yes, we did, ma’am. Someone turned them off” the guard stared at Syril, his anger barely contained within a farce of civility.

“So, someone turned them off,” she repeated quietly.

He didn’t want to take the bait; she was goading him, trying to make him angry.

It was working.

Righteous fury rose in him like a kettle on the verge of boiling; they needed to apply any amount of common sense to this situation.

Syril was a five-foot-eleven kid who hadn’t even reached selection age yet; Seabright was a godsdamn half-orc who’d fought in wars older than the city itself. How the hell could he even hurt him, let alone kill him?

He gripped the watch in his pocket, the anger rushing through him like a raging river, and the dam containing its furious current was close to crumbling.

Tik

Tok

Again, the rhythm exploded through his mind like a starved animal, its mechanical choir deafening the world around him. It had become a lightning rod for his anger. He squeezed it tighter and tighter, feeling the fear and anguish that had plagued him over the last few hours grow more potent.

His uncle stared; concern creeping into his lined face, “Syril...”

But Syril wasn’t listening, his head was foggy again, and he felt the dam inside him bend with the force of his anger. The questions were swirling around him in a vortex of confusion. Why him? Why did it happen to him? Why would his brother do this? All for a stupid watch?

“I didn’t kill him!” Syril’s eyes were stinging now, and the sound of the watch pounded its thunderous metronome, “and it’s crazy you think I did! What because I passed out in front of the door? Wow, what a great murderer I must be. I kill a professor but can’t make it fifty feet from the door to make my escape?”

His voice was venomous as he held up his hands, “you should cuff me now before I kill again.”

Vanessa stared at him; the scar on her right eye exasperated her ability to glower. Syril stared back; his chest burned with anger, his eyes wide and furious. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding within his chest.

He soon realised that Vanessa was not looking at his face but instead where his hands still lay suspended in front of him, the right of which was grasped tightly to the watch.

“I think it’s time we get you to bed, Syril. You’ve had a long day.” His uncle placed a hand on the small of his back, harshly guiding him towards the exit, “it was a pleasure as always, Vanessa…”

Another guard stepped out from behind the door, blocking their retreat.

“I think it’s better he comes with us, Jerard.” she was slowly walking towards the pair, her eyes fixated on the watch in Syril’s hand.

His uncle grasped tightly to the back of Syril’s jacket, pulling him closer to the wall and away from the larger man in front of the door. Vanessa and the two guards were inching closer, drawing their weapons.

“Don’t do this, Vanessa”, his uncle pleaded.

“I don’t have a choice.” Vanessa was now staring at Syril, her face greedy.

She tapped her collarbone, and he watched as a series of runes on her body glowed a vibrant white one after the other, “we’ll take good care of him.”

“Like you took care of Seabright?”

Vanessa ignored the question. Instead, she drew a pair of black handcuffs from her belt; Syril noticed the glow of several more runes carved into the chain.

“This isn’t how we deal with these things, Vanessa. Please listen to reason.”

They were pushed into the very corner of the hallway now, all hope of escape dashed.

Syril looked frantically around and felt his heart sink. At the end of the hallway, more guards were pushing through the wall that held back the crowd; shock sticks drawn and pointed at the pair.

They were cornered in every sense of the word, and it was all his fault. They could have been walking out of here if he’d just remained calm and not flown off the handle.

“Jerard, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Syril felt bile rise in his throat. No, this couldn’t be happening.

“Vanessa, please…” his uncle pleaded

She smiled.

Syril closed his eyes as the hallway exploded into a brilliant blue light.