Chapter 26

The Road Will Rise With You

> Loyalist forces successfully pierced the line and routed the Sixteenth and Fourteenth Infantry Divisions, which were providing critical support to Respital 42. Thirteen full Speakers and forty-nine Listeners are now considered missing in action. The combat effectiveness of Hand shock troops has diminished by magnitudes as a result of this loss. I hereby request immediate reinforcements from Tongue personnel to restore operational capacity.

>

> — Field Report, Frontline Dispatch, Year 309

>

> Knight-Captain Rictus Pentametria

Corvin lay face down on the stone table, his body humming with the familiar sensation of Resonance as several Speakers worked in unison to heal his battered form. The wounds stitched together rapidly, muscles knitting under the focused energy of their power, but the process was humiliating.

A sharp female voice cut through the room. "You were a fool to bring so few Soldiers," she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I told you time and again, the boy and his family are talented, and yet you let your arrogance nearly get him killed."

Corvin tensed, though whether from the pain or her words, it wasn’t clear. The woman’s steps clicked across the floor as she circled him, her gaze fierce. "Are you so blind that you forget even Paladin Valerius was killed by a no-name Soldier at Redwater?" she continued, her voice hard as steel. "Or do you think yourself invincible?"

Corvin remained silent, his jaw clenched, as the Resonance continued, searing through his skin.

Corvin growled, his voice tinged with indignation. "The boy lived, didn’t he?"

The woman’s response was immediate, her voice exploding with fury. "He lived? Yes, along with the old Soldier!" She took a sharp step forward, her presence looming over him. "I’ve been looking into them, Corvin, do you even know who you faced?"

Her voice sharpened as she listed the names. "Soldier-Corporal Hawker Donomitius, Soldier-Sergeant Tarlow Andromidus, and Soldier-Sergeant John Kleos. Their files were tangled up in the Purge, but not everywhere."

Corvin winced slightly, but the woman wasn’t done. "They were fucking shock troopers, Corvin. Personally selected by Knight-Captain Halt fucking Ptolemaios himself! And you know what else? They volunteered to be exiled with Halt at that prison fort!" Her voice was seething now, barely restrained. "And you thought you could duel all three of them at once—without even confirming whether Halt was lurking somewhere in the fucking village!"

The accusation hung heavy in the air, and Corvin’s silence spoke louder than any protest he could muster.

Corvin’s frustration boiled over. "Halt would’ve been close to eighty if he were still alive, which we now know he isn’t," he said sharply. "It was a calculated risk. And the old man took a wound that almost certainly killed him when they got caught in that Gauntlet."

The woman laughed, a harsh, contemptuous sound that made Corvin stiffen. "Halt?" she said, the sneer evident in her voice. "Halt Ptolemaios? If he lived to the age of the old Emperor, he still would’ve cut through you like a cake. If I could but replace you with his shadow, the boy would already be here."

Corvin’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, her rage fled, and her voice grew quiet now—dangerously quiet. "Now that your delusions of grandeur have been appropriately shattered, let me ask—you speak of calculated risk?" she repeated, her tone icy. "You’re lucky the boy hasn’t been fully realized, Corvin."

He could feel her eyes boring into him. "I confirmed Hawker’s death—do you have any idea the cost of that? It was no small thing. And yet, after all that effort, you almost left the boy under the care of a knowledgeable mentor."

Her steps drew nearer, the air in the room growing tense. "And as if that couldn’t be your last failing, you drove him into a Gauntlet, leaving his survival to chance." Her voice was a razor’s edge now, cutting with every word. "I don’t leave things to chance, Corvin."

Corvin’s gaze finally rose, locking with the cold, piercing eyes of his bonded Speaker, Rinthess Decimus. Her expression was unreadable, but her next words carried an authority that left no room for argument.

"The only reason you have not been exiled to a prison fort is your acquisition of our prisoners. When the boy arrives," she said, her voice calm yet final, "I am sending you away. You’ve already proven reckless, and if that boy hasn’t sworn a blood feud with you by now, he isn’t what I need anyway. I’ll call for you when you are needed."

Her words settled like a verdict, and Corvin knew there was no point in protesting. Rinthess turned away, leaving him to his bitter thoughts, the Resonance still thrumming through his body as it healed.

A bitter thought twisted in Corvin’s mind as he watched Rinthess turn her back on him. He was almost certain that, given the chance, she’d replace him with the boy. She’d mold him, use him, just like she’d used Corvin. The cold bitch probably thought she could.

But she would see. Corvin Alaric wasn’t done yet. She’d learn exactly what he was capable of before this was over. One way or another.

XXX

Godfrey walked steadily along the road, his thoughts quiet for the moment. Where the road was visible beneath the dust and dirt, it was a marvel of engineering. Large foundation stones fit together seamlessly, each one perfectly flush with the next, forming a straight line that stretched on like an arrow through the landscape.

As he continued south, the dense forest that had surrounded him gradually gave way to open land. Large farms dotted the horizon, their boundaries marked by stone fences. He passed mills, their wooden wheels creaking in the breeze, and clusters of farmhouses. Scattered among them were large stone buildings—structures whose purposes eluded him, their function unfamiliar. Yet they seemed important, standing silent and sturdy amid the wide fields.

Eventually, Godfrey began to encounter travelers. Wagons rumbled past on dirt roads that criss-crossed the Centrian Road, their wooden wheels cutting deep tracks in the snow-covered mud. He nodded to those he passed, offering a polite greeting, but each time, he received no reply—no glance, no acknowledgment of any kind. By the fifth time, he found himself frowning, glancing down at his own appearance. He was travel-dusted, sure, but not overly dirty, and considering the depth of winter, he was relatively clean and well-put-together for a man on the road.

What caught his attention most, however, were the strange beasts of burden pulling the wagons. They were unlike anything he had seen before—large, two-legged birds with intricate harnesses around their voluptuous feather coverings like winter coats, their powerful legs cutting through the thickened mud with ease. As odd as they looked, their strength was undeniable, hauling heavily laden wagons without hesitation, their clawed feet finding purchase evenly in the snow.

As Godfrey walked, the landscape gradually shifted. Farmhouses gave way to homes and businesses, the roads becoming busier as more people moved about. Soon enough, he found himself in the center of a small town, its streets lined with shops and vendors. He spotted a man unloading barrels from a wagon harnessed to one of the strange, two-legged creatures outside what appeared to be a general store or warehouse.

Approaching the man, Godfrey introduced himself with a polite nod. The man paused, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as they flicked to the swords on Godfrey’s hip. His expression tightened, and he quickly looked away.

"I don’t want any trouble," the man muttered, continuing his work without meeting Godfrey’s gaze.

Godfrey blinked, confused. "I’m not looking for trouble," he said, trying to soften his tone. "I just need directions to the Centrian Garrison. Am I close to the city?"

The man hesitated, still wary, but gave a small nod without looking up again.

Godfrey frowned, still puzzled. "How far?" he asked again, hoping for a clearer response.

The man reluctantly pointed down the road. "Follow that way for another ten miles, maybe. You can’t miss it. The city lies in a bowl in the ground, so you won’t see it until you’re nearly there."

Godfrey nodded but remained perplexed. "Why is this town so far from the city? Surely that must be inconvenient?"

At his question, the man’s face went pale. He repeated, more urgently this time, "I don’t want any trouble." Hastily, he left the wares on the ground, gathered the reins of his bird-like creature, and began leading the wagon away. "Begging your leave," he muttered, hurrying off without another glance.

Godfrey stood there, even more confused than before. He must have offended the man somehow, though he couldn’t figure out how. With a sigh, he cursed himself for not asking his Uncles about the customs of Centria before setting off on this journey.

XXX

After stopping for a meal of cold sausage and hard bread, Godfrey sat on the raised platform near the village's communal well. The square was quiet, and after resting a while, he rose and continued on his way. The houses gradually gave way to more farmland, but now there were more of the large stone buildings he had noticed earlier. As he passed one particularly close to the road, a metal gate creaked open, and a procession of wagons emerged, each harnessed to two or four of the massive bird creatures. The wagons were heavily laden with sacks and barrels, their teams moving steadily in the direction he had come from.

After the train passed, Godfrey pressed on. In the distance, a wall began to take shape, slowly resolving out of the horizon. As he drew nearer, fewer and fewer buildings dotted the landscape. Soon, there was no productive land of any kind—only forest. The road swept in a straight line toward the imposing Wall ahead, cutting through a mile-wide swath of clear-cut land surrounding the city’s outer defenses.

The wall itself was made of plain stone, fitted from the same finely cut blocks as the road beneath his feet. Each block sat flush with its neighbor, beautifully placed. Here and there, signs of decay marred the perfection—cracks had appeared, and whole chunks of stone had sheared away from exposure. In those places, obvious patches had been made with different stone, mismatched with the original structure.

As Godfrey wandered closer, a massive gate rose into view, standing taller than the Wall itself. The grand inset doors were capable of accommodating ten wagon trains at once, though for now, the great doors remained closed. Instead, a smaller sally gate set into the rightmost door was being used as the main entrance.

He noticed something odd—there were far fewer people leaving the city than entering. Those who exited typically rode in well-appointed carriages, their clothing fine and expensive, while the flow of travelers into the city seemed more diverse, if less frequent.

Godfrey pushed past the long line of travelers toward the sally door, heading for one of the guards who stood lazily at his post. The guard barely glanced at him until Godfrey spoke.

"Excuse me," Godfrey began, "I’ve been instructed to try for induction at the Garrison. Could you direct me?"

The guard grunted, his eyes flicking to the weapons on Godfrey’s hips. He gave a tired, skeptical look. "You know how to use those things?"

Godfrey nodded.

With a sigh, the guard gave him another once-over, almost as if he pitied him. "Wait here." He stepped away, leaving Godfrey in the growing line of people. Moments later, the guard returned, accompanied by an older man with impressive mustachios flecked with white. His once-black hair was receding, leaving a gleaming bald dome, but the man’s broad frame and the firm muscles beneath suggested he was still formidable. The older guard studied Godfrey in silence, his eyes assessing him from head to toe.

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The older guard looked Godfrey up and down once more, then nodded slightly. "You look a strong enough lad," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He gestured toward the gate. "I can direct you through, but before I do..." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

Godfrey felt a pang of unease at the question, but he nodded again, determined. "Yes."

The guard shrugged, his mustachios twitching slightly. "Alright, then." With that, he turned and motioned for Godfrey to follow, leading him through the smaller sally door.

As the guard led him through the sally door, Godfrey couldn’t help but gape. The city of Centria lay spread before him, a colossal bowl stretching across the landscape. The far side of the city was at least twenty miles away, and the city dipped half a mile deep at its lowest point. Buildings climbed the sloping walls of the bowl, giving the impression of a city stacked on itself, layer by layer.

The thoroughfare on which Godfrey stood ran straight toward the center of the city, but after about three miles, it was blocked by another gate. This inner wall towered over nearby buildings, though given the downward slope of the land, it was only half the height of the outer wall. The division between the two sections of the city was unmistakable.

Around him, the wide thoroughfare was flanked by equally guarded gates of iron, protecting lanes that led to grand buildings. The upper third of the city was opulent, its marble statues and columned buildings draped in red and purple cloth that waved lazily in the wind. There was little traffic here—only the occasional well-dressed figure, and the wagons Godfrey had seen unloading their goods at the gate.

He noticed that the wagon drivers and handlers were already turning back, heading toward the stone buildings from which they had come, much like the scenes he had witnessed earlier. Beyond the gate in the distance, the city became drabber, its buildings smaller and less grand. A haze of dirty smoke drifted above the Lower City, billowing from countless smokestacks that rose from manufactories in the city’s heart.

Godfrey’s mind flickered back to what John had told him. This was the Upper City, a place of wealth and grandeur, separated from the Lower City by the imposing gate that loomed ahead.

As Godfrey watched, a man in dirty, tattered clothes tried to slip through one of the iron gates while the guards were distracted by a delivery of crates. The moment the man was spotted, the guards grabbed him without hesitation. In the blink of an eye, the man was executed right there on the street, his body crumpling to the ground.

Well-dressed men and women strode past the body, unbothered, stepping through the gates as though nothing had happened. Meanwhile, the common folk kept their heads down, moving with deliberate calm, trying not to appear hurried as they went about their tasks.

Within moments, a wagon arrived, its handlers swiftly retrieving the body and scrubbing the stonework clean. Godfrey stood frozen, struck by the brutal efficiency of the act. But before he could process the sight, the old mustachioed guard beside him grunted and ushered him forward, pulling him out of his daze.

As they walked, the guard turned to Godfrey, his tone matter-of-fact. "You’re no longer permitted to leave the city unless and until you pass your induction. After that, depending on whether you’re Army or Hand—" the guard shot him a contemptuous glance, clearly assuming which it would be, "you’ll be given your unvested citizenship papers. Only then will you be allowed to leave the Garrison and travel into the Lower City. You’ll be given leave to exit the city only upon order from a commanding officer."

Godfrey nodded, though a knot of unease tightened in his chest. He could tell the guard was continuing the script more out of cautious politeness than anything else—he didn’t know Godfrey’s full identity, after all.

"If you’re inducted into the Hand," the guard continued, his voice growing more formal, "you won’t be granted room in the Garrison. Your family will be expected to fund your room and board, and you’ll be granted an Upper City pass. You’ll still need permission from your commanding officer to leave the city."

The guard’s words lingered, and Godfrey couldn’t shake the cold reality of the situation.

Godfrey frowned, glancing at the guard. "Am I truly not allowed to leave the city?"

The guard hesitated, guilt flashing briefly across his face before he confirmed it with a nod. "That’s right. No leaving until you pass your induction."

Godfrey nodded in return. He had been warned this might be the case. Still, there was one more question gnawing at him. "What happens if I fail the induction?"

The guard sighed, his voice taking on a heavier tone. "Then you’ll be conscripted to a work detail in the Lower City. Most likely at a manufactory. They’ll put you up in a tenement." His eyes met Godfrey’s briefly before he added, "You’ll live... and work."

XXX

They arrived at the gate to the Lower City, and Godfrey couldn’t help but marvel at its sheer size and fortification. Up close, the gate was more than just an entryway; it was a tall, wide, square building set into the massive wall itself. Arrow slits dotted the structure, and crenellations lined the balconies and exterior pathways, giving the impression of a fortress built to withstand an army.

The gate, however, was firmly closed, and unlike the outer walls, there was no smaller sally door to slip through. It loomed before them, a monolith of stone and iron, blocking the way forward.

The older guard led Godfrey across the courtyard, his heavy boots crunching against the stone. They approached a sturdy wooden building adjacent to the imposing gate structure. Standing at attention in front of the building were two men, their expressions serious, their uniforms sharply cut and unmistakably military. Both guards watched Godfrey closely as they drew near, though neither spoke.

The older guard gave them a curt nod before gesturing for Godfrey to step forward.

The leftmost military man eyed Godfrey, his expression unreadable. “What’s your business here?”

“I seek induction,” Godfrey replied steadily.

The man nodded, glancing at the weapons on Godfrey’s hip before gesturing toward the door. “Through there.”

Godfrey stepped inside the sturdy wooden building, the door creaking slightly as it closed behind him. The room was simple, almost barren, with several empty tables scattered about. In the center, three men sat together at a table, their quiet conversation pausing as Godfrey entered. The space smelled of sawdust and lamp oil, with a counter set against the far wall, where boxes of documents were stacked. A set of plain wooden stairs was built into the wall across from him, leading to a second level, and wooden columns supported the low ceiling.

The military guard followed Godfrey inside and directed him to leave his pack and weapons in a receptacle by the door. Obeying, Godfrey set his gear down, the clank of metal echoing slightly in the quiet room. As he did, one of the men at the table stood up and moved to a different table, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. The guard nodded curtly and left, the door closing behind him.

One of the men at the table, now sitting alone, indicated the chair across from him. “Sit,” he said, his voice firm but curious.

Godfrey sat down, feeling the man’s eyes studying him. The man’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as he took in the young man before him.

The man leaned back slightly, his eyes still fixed on Godfrey. "Soldier-Sergeant Briscus," he introduced himself with a nod. "And you are?"

“Godfrey,” he replied, his voice steady.

Briscus raised an eyebrow. “And your family name?”

Godfrey hesitated. “I don’t wish to reveal it.”

Briscus smirked and rolled his eyes. “Ah, of course.”

Leaning forward, Briscus continued, “Why’d you come from the Grain Gate to seek induction here? The Garrison Gate’s the usual place for that.”

Godfrey felt his thoughts scrambling for an answer to cover for his inadvertently unusual actions. “I, uh, prefer a more private setting,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I figured the Garrison Gate would be much busier.”

It was a relatively safe excuse, given the subtext of Briscus’s response.

Briscus waved off Godfrey’s excuse with a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter. We rarely get inductees at this post, so at least you’ll help pass the time.” He leaned back in his chair, his tone shifting to a more matter-of-fact explanation. “The induction test is quite simple, really. Not at all like the romanticized version you might hear from the public.”

Godfrey listened carefully as Briscus continued. “You’ll spar with me or one of my comrades. We’ll grade on a few things—technique, strength, adaptability, you get it. After that, we’ll sit you down and talk about areas of knowledge that are currently valuable to the Empire. You’ll be placed according to your ability.”

Briscus gave a small, almost bored shrug. “Straightforward enough, right?”

Godfrey frowned slightly. "And what if I don’t go along with the placement you choose?"

Briscus didn’t hesitate, his tone casual, almost dismissive. "You lost the ability to choose the moment you walked through that door, lad." He gave a slow, deliberate shrug. "If you disagree vehemently, me and my comrades will kill you."

Briscus leaned forward then, his gaze sharpening, voice dropping to something far more lethal. "Straightforward enough, right?"

Godfrey frowned but nodded, accepting the terms. Briscus chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Glad you understand."

He eyed Godfrey again, this time with a more practical curiosity. "So, what gear did you bring with you, other than those tools you had on your hip?"

Godfrey answered, "A set of decent half-plate and some travel sundries."

Briscus nodded thoughtfully, his eyes flicking to the receptacle where Godfrey had left his belongings. "Good to know."

Briscus gave a casual shrug, his tone matter-of-fact. "Obviously, if you fail induction, your possessions will be forfeit. If you’re inducted into the Imperial Army, your half-plate will be confiscated—for the good of the Empire, you understand."

He smirked slightly. "However, if by some miracle you are actually of pure birth—and by an even greater miracle you’re inducted into the Hand—you may keep the half-plate for your time as a Squire. But as of right now, you should consider that armor no longer your own."

Briscus leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "You got a problem with that?"

Godfrey met Briscus's gaze evenly, his expression resolute. "No, sir," he replied, his voice steady.

Briscus gave a satisfied nod. "Good."

Briscus motioned for Godfrey to stand. “Come on, follow me,” he said, gesturing at the two other men in the room. One of them rose and quietly made his way to the front door, while the other got up and stretched.

Godfrey followed Briscus up the creaking wooden stairs, and as they reached the top, the second floor unfolded before him. The entire area was a padded training floor, soft mats covering the ground from wall to wall. Lining the perimeter were racks of weapons—blades of all sizes, polearms, and shields, each gleaming with wear but well-maintained. The room had a vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams, giving it a spacious, almost cathedral-like feel. Lanterns hung from iron sconces on the walls, casting a warm glow over the practice space.

On one side, there was an open balcony with a view of the outer courtyard below, and in the far corner, a small table held what looked like training gear: gloves, helmets, and padded tunics. The air carried the faint scent of oiled leather and metal, mixed with the dust of countless training sessions.

One of the men returned, carrying Godfrey’s weapons. Briscus reached for them, his eyes gleaming as he examined the craftsmanship, turning the blades over in his hands. He clearly admired the weapons, his gaze lingering a little too long on the edges and hilts.

“These are of decent workmanship,” Briscus remarked, his tone casual, though the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. “Of course, they’d be confiscated if you were placed in the Army.”

After another moment, he handed the weapons back to Godfrey. “These will serve as your demonstrative tools for sparring.”

Briscus stepped back, gesturing toward the training floor. “Get yourself ready, however you see fit.”

Godfrey belted on his tools as he walked to the center of the room, drawing his weapons into his standard guard. His longsword gleamed in the soft lantern light, and he steadied himself, aware that the padded floor beneath him would be an unfamiliar challenge. Across the room, Briscus moved to the weapons rack, selecting a black steel bastard sword and a round wooden shield. Godfrey watched carefully as Briscus took his position.

Just as Briscus began to ask, “Are you read—?” he suddenly charged, cutting off his own sentence, sword-first, with a burst of speed that caught Godfrey off guard. Godfrey barely dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the tip of the blade. Briscus didn’t hesitate, following up with a quick shield strike aimed at Godfrey’s chest.

Godfrey gritted his teeth, hooking his longsword in the teeth of his parrying dagger to take the strike as he leapt backward, using the momentum to sail backward. He landed awkwardly, stumbling, far less graceful than he had intended, the strike having been like a horse’s kick. But Briscus was already there, the point of his bastard sword extending toward Godfrey’s chest.

As Godfrey scrambled to stay on his feet, barely fending off the relentless strikes, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye. A woman in dark robes had joined the other man from the table downstairs, silently watching from the edge of the training floor.

The momentary distraction proved costly. Briscus swept Godfrey’s longsword out of reach with a swift motion, stepping into his guard with unnerving ease. Godfrey, thinking Briscus had made a fatal error, prepared to capitalize with his dagger. But before he could react, Briscus dropped his sword and, with a fluid one-handed technique, locked Godfrey’s wrist. In a split second, the dagger was wrenched from his grip as though it had been effortless.

Instinct took over. Godfrey threw himself backward, slamming both feet into Briscus’s chest, forcing the larger man to stumble just as his hand twisted free with the dagger. Rolling onto his feet, Godfrey brought his longsword up obliquely across his body, crouched and ready as Briscus advanced once more.

Determined to regain control of the fight, Godfrey sprang upward, seeking to leverage his greater reach. But Briscus’s eyes dilated, his body moving in a blur. Godfrey barely saw the movement before the world tilted, and he was flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. Briscus stood over him, victorious.

Briscus let out a hearty laugh, reaching down to offer Godfrey a hand, and looking him in the eye with a small amount more respect than before. "You did well. Standing for that long against a full Soldier of the Hand is no small feat."

As Godfrey caught his breath and got to his feet, Briscus clapped him on the shoulder. But before he could say more, the woman in the dark robes stepped forward, her presence commanding the room. Her voice was smooth, almost detached, as she spoke. "I am here to inform you that your family's recommendation has successfully made it to the Garrison. The Cursis Celer sent me to inform the staff here by way of apology for the delay."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle before finishing, her eyes sharp. "Godfrey Marcellus."