Chapter 32
You Have to Pay the Price
> The Emperor often speaks of the labyrinth—how, in that dark and winding place, he left most of himself behind. I asked him once if it was fear that drove him to sacrifice so much, but he only smiled. 'It was necessity,' he said, 'though I did not know then there was another way.' Even now, he never tells me what that other path might have been."
>
> — Interviews with the Emperor
As Godfrey descended, he Focused his eyesight until even that became useless. The blackness swallowed him whole, and soon there was nothing but the cold stone beneath his feet. He felt along the wall, guiding himself through the twisting descent. The air grew colder, thicker, until he reached the bottom of the stairs. A narrow passageway lay ahead.
He inched forward cautiously, his fingers brushing against the rough stone walls. He had no idea whether this was the exit or merely the next chamber in this strange, hidden labyrinth. Charging ahead would be reckless; he couldn’t risk it. Carefully, he pressed on, moving with deliberate steps until the passage widened, and he sensed an open space before him.
He stopped at the edge and focused his hearing. The soft hum of his own breath and the faint rhythm of his heartbeat were the only sounds. Absolute silence surrounded him.
Stepping into the chamber, his foot met cold stone. As if triggered by his arrival, a door at the far end of the dome-like space opened. A flood of sunlight poured in, casting long shadows and illuminating the chamber in a warm, golden glow. Godfrey blinked as his eyes adjusted, the darkness behind him fading into memory.
He moved toward the light, emerging into a brilliant day. Before him stretched a barren cliffside overlooking a steep ravine. Far below, the roar of a subterranean river echoed up through the gorge.
Next to him, a set of narrow steps carved into the ravine’s rock beckoned him upward. With cautious steps, Godfrey began to climb. The steps wound tightly against the cliff, offering no platforms for rest. His muscles ached, but he pressed on until he reached the lip of the ravine and the world opened up before him.
He was above ground now, surrounded by trees and barren trees dusted with frost. Ahead, the vast bowl of Centria lay sprawled out in the distance, its towering structures and labyrinthine streets shining under the midday sun. He could see the city clearly from his vantage point—massive, alive, and bustling with energy.
Nearby, he noticed a group of young men and women milling around, their faces flushed with exertion. A cohort of Institute personnel moved among them, performing triage.
Someone stepped up behind Godfrey, and he turned to find Knight-Captain Rexia standing there. The large man towered over him, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the afternoon sun.
Rexia’s sharp eyes surveyed Godfrey for a moment, then, with deliberate care, he extended a thick iron chain toward him. Each link was emblazoned with intricate calligraphy, gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Godfrey could see that every link bore a name, meticulously inscribed, as if each one carried its own story.
“This,” Rexia said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, “is the chain of the Hand. Every Squire before you has had their name etched into these links. When the time comes, you will pass it on, and your name will be added.”
Godfrey stared at the chain, ambivalent.
Rexia’s gaze softened slightly as he lowered the chain into Godfrey’s hands. “Welcome to the Hand, Squire Godfrey Marcellus.”
XXX
The march back to Centria was silent but for the steady shuffle of boots on the dirt road. The seriously wounded had been gathered and treated in a temporary Respital, while those new Squires and Scribes who were fit enough to walk were organized into a column for the four-mile journey back to the city.
Adrian sidled up next to Godfrey, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes flitting between the horizon and the path ahead.
“Apparently, a week has really passed,” Adrian said, his voice strained as if trying to make sense of it all. “They… they stagger the occupants of the trials, so that two people always reach the center of the maze at the same time. It takes time.”
Godfrey nodded. “That makes sense,” he replied, though the hollowness of his own words felt strange in his throat.
Adrian was rambling, Godfrey could tell. He patted his friend on the shoulder, offering what little comfort he could, though his own mind was racing.
As he looked around, he saw it. The shock painted on every face. The fear. The disbelief. Of course. They weren’t used to this. But Godfrey was. He was too familiar with death.
“It’s okay, Adrian,” he said, his voice low. “They forced us to.”
Adrian stopped walking, shaking his head slowly. “No, they didn’t. Count who’s left. There’s more than half.” His eyes were wide with something close to anger. “There was another way.”
Godfrey’s eyes widened, his chest tightening. Another way? He thought back to the trial. Godfrey had known not to trust Marian in his gut. The man had also proven his murderous tendencies…though Godfrey could admit to not having been the most communicative.
It didn’t matter now, not for Godfrey.
“Adrian, there is nothing to be done about it.” Godfrey’s voice was firm, though there was an undercurrent of weariness. “They forced us into a position where the first logical solution was to fight. It makes a sort of twisted sense. Rexia said as much when he ripped the bag from my head.”
Adrian's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I let the commoner drown,” he said quietly, the confession barely audible over the shuffle of their feet.
Godfrey stopped in his tracks, his eyes turning to his friend. There was nothing to say to that. Not really. He had felt the same fear, the same gnawing terror that twisted logic and morality into something unrecognizable.
He understood Adrian’s decision absolutely.
As much as he wanted to offer comfort, he found no words that could ease the weight of such a choice. He simply nodded, the silence between them louder than any words could be.
Godfrey's mind drifted back to that moment, to the hallway, to the crushing pressure of the trial. Now that he knew what had awaited him in that hallway, he couldn’t say with confidence that he would have let the man go if he had been forced to choose again.
XXX
Godfrey knocked on the exterior warehouse door on the Institute grounds, the same one he had visited more than a week ago. His knuckles thudded against the wood, the sound heavy in the stillness of the early evening.
The door creaked open, and an attendant stepped out. He wore a brown leather apron over a white linen shirt, now stained with black grease. As he wiped his hands with a rough rag, his muscles bulged, his gaze cold and unyielding as it settled on Godfrey.
Godfrey’s eyes were hollow, empty—he was beyond exhaustion. The weight of the last week pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket, but there was still one last errand to handle before he could retreat to his room at Antonia’s.
“I need to see Quartermaster Horatius,” Godfrey said, his voice blunt.
The attendant grunted in response, pointing behind him with his thumb. Godfrey didn’t wait for a formal invitation; he pushed past the man, the top of his head barely reaching the attendant’s chin. He didn’t care. He was past politeness now, his patience eroded by exhaustion and the weight of the past days.
He trudged forward in the direction the attendant had indicated.
The warehouse sprawled before him, an organized chaos of shelves, barrels, and crates filled with equipment in every conceivable state. Workbenches were scattered throughout the space, cluttered with tools and armor in varying stages of repair. Above him, attendants strode confidently along narrow walkways between rows of hanging shelves that dominated the air above.
The heat hit Godfrey like a wave. The air was thick, humid from the bodies working and the small forges roaring at one end of the building. The scent of sawdust, grease, and sweat hung heavy, clinging to his skin as he moved deeper into the warehouse.
As Godfrey turned a corner, he spotted Quartermaster Horatius. The man was hunched over a workbench, his large hands moving with surprising delicacy as he worked on a set of plate mail. The armor gleamed in the dim light, intricate scrollwork in gilt running along its surface. Horatius held a small vial in one hand, dabbing something onto a precise spot of the armor with a tiny brush, his concentration absolute.
Godfrey stood there for a moment, watching the quiet, methodical care with which the quartermaster applied his craft. There was a certain reverence to the way Horatius handled the armor, as if he were restoring more than just metal, but something sacred.
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Horatius spoke without looking up from his work. “Squire Marcellus, what is it you need?”
“I’m here for my halfplate,” Godfrey replied, his voice steady despite the weariness that clung to him.
The quartermaster grunted, finally glancing up from the armor. “You want your armor?” His tone carried a hint of dry amusement. “I’m assuming you’re going straight to armored training then? Such initiative you’re showing, and so soon after your induction trial.”
Horatius raised an eyebrow, his words carrying a slight edge of challenge.
Godfrey met Horatius’ gaze evenly. “It’s not that. I’ve been forced to find room and board in the Lower City, in a less-than-reputable location. I would request your permission to wear it about the city.”
Horatius paused, setting down the vial and brush. He straightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Godfrey. “You want to wear your armor in the Lower City?” There was no mockery in his voice now, only consideration. “That’s not a request I hear every day.”
“Yes,” Godfrey continued, his tone firm. “It’s been reported to me that there’s currently some sort of gang skirmish in my area. Not a full war, but… it’s troubling.”
Horatius rubbed his chin, weighing the situation. His eyes flickered with understanding as he considered Godfrey’s request. “A gang skirmish, huh?” He sighed, crossing his arms. “Troubling, indeed. And you think walking around in halfplate is going to help you stay out of it?”
“I think it would dissuade the average goon,” Godfrey said, a hint of dry humor in his tone. “Which is a higher bar than I’m sure those groups recruit on.”
Horatius chuckled, turning to fully face Godfrey. “I understand your concern, Squire Marcellus,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth. “I will permit you to be armored while within the Lower City, and during transit to the Institute. However”—he raised a finger—“you are to remove it and leave it here each day, then take it with you each night. And I expect you to perform adequate maintenance on it regularly to account for wear and tear. Agreed?”
Godfrey let out a breath of relief. “Agreed. Thank you, Quartermaster.”
“Of course. You’ll find your armor in armor bay four, over there,” Horatius said, nodding toward a section of the warehouse.
As Godfrey turned to leave, Horatius called out after him, his voice carrying a note of warning. “And, Squire Marcellus—armor is a weapon as much as a defense, but it can also become a target. Keep your wits about you.”
Godfrey paused, glancing back at the quartermaster. He gave a small nod, “I will. Thank you.”
With that, he headed toward armor bay four, the echo of Horatius’ caution lingering in his mind.
XXX
Godfrey walked through the Lower City on his way to Madame Antonia’s, his footsteps soft against the snow-covered streets. He moved like a ghost, passing unnoticed by the few who still lingered in the cold night. He barely checked his surroundings—something that would have earned a sharp reprimand from Hawker. The old soldier would’ve been disappointed in his lack of awareness.
The night air bit at his skin, colder than usual, and the light dusting of snow on the ground seemed out of place in Centria. Snow was rare here, another oddity in a city filled with contradictions.
But Godfrey didn’t notice much of it. He walked briskly, his mind wrapped in the blissful blankness he allowed to settle over him, a reprieve from the chaos. He welcomed it, the nothingness, when he didn’t want to think at all.
His half-plate clinked only at the pauldrons, a soft sound that blended into the stillness of the night. The armor was designed for movement, and Godfrey finally understood why the bulky Griffon could never have worn it. The pauldrons hugged his shoulders over the standard-issue black of the Institute uniform, snug but not restricting. The breastplate was a marvel—three articulated pieces that allowed him flexibility while offering solid protection. His gauntlets, crafted from lobstered steel, ended in sharp, deadly points on the left hand, making every movement of his fingers feel like an unspoken threat.
The helm had been left behind at the Institute, too cumbersome for the maze of narrow streets he was winding through. Peripheral vision was more important here, in the shadowed, twisting paths of the Lower City. His cloak, oiled and sturdy, clung to him, cutting through the biting cold, and though it kept the worst of the wind from reaching him, it did little to ease the chill that seemed to seep in from all directions.
He flexed his gauntleted fingers, feeling the comforting weight of the armor. While heavy, it was a mere fifteen stone. Griffon’s gift had been even more valuable than Godfrey had assumed. This set could easily pay for a home in the Upper City, albeit a small one.
Madame Antonia’s was just ahead, the red lanterns still faint in the distance.
As he neared the alley leading to the rear entrance of Antonia’s, the sound of raised voices caught his attention. Brutus, the broad-shouldered bouncer who manned the back door, was locked in a heated argument with three nobles. They were wealthy—by the look of their fur-trimmed cloaks and jeweled fingers—but they were also furious, faces flushed with anger beneath the flickering torchlight.
Godfrey sighed, his breath fogging the air. It was always something. He shifted course, moving toward the altercation, his hands casually loosening the blades at his hips. The familiar weight of steel gave him a sense of calm. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but he’d be ready if one came his way.
Brutus caught sight of him first, a silent plea in his eyes. The big man could handle himself in a brawl, but nobles were a different kind of problem. Godfrey stepped forward, his presence enough to quiet the din of the argument for a moment as the nobles turned to assess the newcomer.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Godfrey asked, his voice calm but edged with authority.
The three nobles turned toward him, their faces a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Brutus, ever the reliable sentinel, quickly stepped in before the situation escalated.
“These fine men,” Brutus began, his deep voice carrying a measured patience, “are simply frustrated by Scarlet’s absence this evening. Seems they’ve come all the way across the city for nothing.”
One of the nobles, a red-faced man with gold chains draped over his chest, sneered. “We paid for her time, and we expect to see her. Do you have any idea how much it cost us to get here in this weather?”
Godfrey let his gaze flick over the trio, assessing the situation. Wealthy, entitled, and, more than likely, drunk. It wasn’t the first time nobles had caused trouble over something so trivial, but it was the way of things in Centria—money made men think they were untouchable.
“I’m sure Madame Antonia will be more than happy to accommodate you with other options,” Godfrey replied smoothly. “But Scarlet won’t be available tonight, because…?”
Godfrey asked, turning toward Brutus with a raised eyebrow.
Brutus cleared his throat, keeping his tone neutral but firm. “Scarlet’s come down with a sickness. She won’t be able to come out tonight.”
The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. The red-faced man seemed ready to protest again, but something in Godfrey’s calm, unyielding demeanor made him hesitate. After a tense moment, he finally huffed, pulling his fur cloak tighter around himself.
“Fine,” the man spat. “But I’ll remember this.”
With that, the trio turned on their heels, their footsteps crunching in the snow as they stormed off into the night. Godfrey watched them go, then let out a breath.
“Thanks for stepping in,” Brutus said, his voice low as the tension dissipated. “Could’ve gone worse. Good-looking armor, by the by.”
Godfrey nodded, the moment already fading from his mind as his focus shifted back to his waiting meal, and his bed.
Godfrey slipped into the alley, the muffled clink of his armor barely audible as he approached the rear entrance. The door creaked softly as he stepped inside, careful to keep his movements light. The back wing of Madame Antonia’s was quiet, the faint sounds of slumber emanating from the rooms beyond. He navigated the familiar halls with ease, making his way toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was a warm, cozy contrast to the cold outside. The hearth at the far end crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the worn wooden countertops and the mismatched collection of pots hanging from the walls. The scent of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of stew simmering in a pot over the fire. In the center, a sturdy wooden table was scattered with half-empty plates, tankards, and a loaf of bread alongside a pad of butter, waiting for any late-night visitors.
Lysandra and Myrha sat at the table, sharing a quiet meal, their tired faces softening when they noticed him. Godfrey moved to the table and sat heavily on one of the benches, the weight of the night settling on his shoulders. Without a word, he pulled the loaf and butter toward him, drawing his dagger and slicing into the bread. He didn’t bother to remove his gauntlets, the metal fingers deftly maneuvering the butter-covered dagger across the slice.
Lysandra glanced up, her eyes catching his. A soft smile played on her lips. “Hungry? I can get you something more substantial than bread, you know.”
“No need, thank you,” Godfrey replied with a tired chuckle. “I will eat this entire loaf like an animal, and then sleep for an eternity.” He cut another thick slice of bread, not even pausing as he smeared more butter across it, the simple act almost meditative.
Lysandra laughed softly, shaking her head as she returned to her meal. “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if you wake up still hungry.”
Godfrey only grinned, biting into the bread, the warmth of the kitchen and the quiet company easing the weight of the night just a little more.
“So, Godfrey…how was your first week?” Myrha asked shyly; as far as Godfrey understood it, it was considered bad manners to ask a new Squire or Scribe about their induction, but he could tell she was asking from a genuine place.
Godfrey hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the hilt of his dagger as he cut another slice of bread. He didn’t meet Myrha’s eyes right away, choosing instead to focus on his task.
“It was… fine,” he said after a pause, the words clipped and devoid of any real feeling. He wasn’t ready to dig into the details—not now, maybe not ever. He forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to deflect the conversation.
Myrha studied him for a moment, but she didn’t push. “Well, you made it through,” she offered quietly.
Godfrey gave a slow nod, still keeping his focus on the bread, as though the simple act of eating could keep the weight of the past week at bay. He had no intention of unpacking it here, not in this warm kitchen where the horrors of the outside world had no place.
“Was there any trouble last week?” Godfrey asked, keeping his tone casual as he cut into the bread again.
“Nothing Brutus couldn’t handle,” Lysandra replied with a grin. “He’ll be glad to have his evenings off again.”
Godfrey nodded, then casually picked up the rest of the loaf. “I’m taking this with me,” he said, standing up from the table. “Don’t tell anyone, and definitely don’t come looking for it.”
The girls laughed, the sound light and easy in the warmth of the kitchen. Lysandra grinned at him, shaking her head. “Come get me if anything happens,” Godfrey added as he moved toward the door. “I may not wake up to a knock in this state, so just come kick me if you need me.”
Myrha blushed slightly at his words, while Lysandra smirked. “I absolutely will.”
Godfrey, already turning away with the bread in hand, gave a brief wave as he made his way through the door and down the narrow hall. His small room waited at the end, tucked near the bar storage, a quiet corner where he could finally get some much-needed rest.
The newly minted Squires and Scribes had been granted two days off from training, and Godfrey fully intended to make use of it. As he reached his small room, he shut the door behind him, the quiet darkness wrapping around him like a blanket. He set the loaf of bread on the small table by his bed and began to remove his gauntlets. Finally, the promise of sleep—an eternity of it, if he could manage—was within reach.
But first, how to remove this armor without assistance?