Chapter 42:
Thy Fearful Symmetry
> Oh, the Hunters ride when the moon is low,
> For a Knight gone soft or a Soldier slow.
> They’ll drag your ass from a tavern’s floor,
> And kick it back to the Emp’ror’s door.
>
> With knives in the dark and arrows that sing,
> They’ll snatch your coin and steal your ring.
> So raise a glass, but drink it quick,
> The Hunters come to make you sick!
>
> — Old Soldiers’ Song
Adrian let out a sharp cry as the ash pole slammed against his shin, the impact resonating through his bones like a bell tolling doom. It had been months since he'd last struggled to maintain his Control under such brutal duress. Gritting his teeth around the wooden gag, he closed his eyes behind the itchy wool blindfold and delved inward. His mind melded seamlessly with his body, and in his visualization, he added layers of dense callus over the bruised area, reinforcing it like natural armor. He channeled minerals into his shin bones, fortifying them to withstand the next onslaught.
He shifted uncomfortably on the rough wooden chair to which he was strapped, the ropes biting into his wrists. Each breath he took was measured, deliberate—a fragile tether to his waning composure.
To his left, another sickening crack echoed in the chamber, followed by a grisly crunch and a scream that curdled his blood. Gregor's agonized wail pierced the heavy air, a stark reminder of the stakes. Clearly, Gregor had failed to maintain his Control; his shin must have shattered like brittle glass. That would mean at least two days in the Respital, setting him even further behind in the rankings.
"Looks like Gregor's taking the fast track to a vacation," Adrian thought wryly, a flicker of dark humor sparking in his mind. "Lucky bastard gets to lie around while we enjoy this delightful spa treatment."
Footsteps approached—measured, deliberate. Adrian couldn't see, but he could sense Rhys's presence looming closer, the air growing colder with each step.
A voice, smooth and edged like a finely honed blade, cut through the silence. "Something amusing you, Squire?"
Adrian recognized Rhys's voice immediately. Around the gag, he managed to garble, "Just wondering if this comes with a complimentary massage."
A pause, then the faint sound of a dry chuckle. "Your wit is noted," Rhys replied. "Let's see how long it lasts."
Adrian heard the subtle rustling of cloth, followed by the faint whoosh of something slicing through the air. Instinctively, he braced himself. A thin rod struck his forearm, the sting sharp but manageable. He focused, visualizing his skin thickening, nerves dulling to the sensation.
"Feel free to scream," Rhys taunted. "No one here will think less of you."
Adrian grunted, sweat beading on his forehead beneath the scratchy blindfold. "You….say that to…all the pretty girls?" he asked through the gag.
Adrian's quip hung in the air, met only by the cold silence of the chamber. Rhys's footsteps echoed ominously as he circled the restrained Squire. "Still jesting, even now," Rhys murmured. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Adrian braced himself, the coarse fibers of the blindfold pressing against his eyelids. The ash pole whistled through the air before cracking against his thigh. A fiery pain flared, but he gritted his teeth around the gag, channeling his focus inward. He visualized his muscles absorbing the impact like taut springs, dispersing the force throughout his body.
Another strike lashed across his shoulder. Adrian imagined his skin toughening into layered hide, nerves dulling to blunt the sharp sting. He directed his body's energy to flood the area with endorphins, natural painkillers that eased the throbbing ache.
"You're the last one left," Rhys announced coldly. "Your peers have all fallen. Will you persist in this folly?"
Adrian's heart pounded, but he forced a ragged chuckle through the gag. "Guess... they couldn't... handle your charm," he mumbled.
Rhys's grip tightened on the ash pole. "Insolence won't save you."
The pole descended again, aiming for his ribs. Adrian summoned a surge of Control, envisioning a lattice of interwoven fibers reinforcing his bones. His Control was far too amateur at this stage to accomplish something like that, but he managed a weak facsimile of interconnected tendon tissue. The blow landed, but the expected crack didn't come. Instead, a deep bruise formed, pain blossoming but contained.
Sweat dripped down his temples, soaking into the blindfold. His breaths came in controlled measures, each exhale a release of tension. He accelerated his heartbeat slightly, increasing blood flow to deliver oxygen and nutrients where his body needed them most.
Rhys began a relentless barrage—strikes targeting random points to catch him off guard. Adrian's mind raced to keep up, redirecting resources on the fly. He thickened the skin of his forearms to shield against a downward swing, tightened his calf muscles to absorb a low strike, and even momentarily numbed the nerves in his back as the pole cracked against his spine.
"Impressive," Rhys admitted grudgingly. "But everyone has a breaking point."
Adrian's body screamed in agony, but he clung to his Control like a lifeline. He visualized cooling rivers coursing through his veins, quelling inflammation and soothing damaged tissue.
"Why... don't you... take a break?" Adrian gasped out. "Must be... tiring... your stick not being hard enough to get the job done..."
Before Rhys could respond, a firm voice resonated from the shadows. "That's enough."
The sudden command froze both of them. Adrian heard Rhys turned sharply toward the sound, his annoyance palpable even through the blindfold. "Who dares interrupt the Trial?" Rhys demanded.
"I do," the voice replied evenly. There was a subtle weight to the words that suggested unquestionable authority.
Adrian listened intently. He couldn't see, but he could hear the measured footsteps approaching, the way Rhys's breathing hitched ever so slightly—a hint of unease.
"Master Kieran," Rhys acknowledged, his earlier confidence tempered. "We are testing the limits of this Squire's Control."
"And you've done so sufficiently," Kieran replied. "He has proven his resilience."
"With respect, the Magisterium dictates that the Trial must continue until—"
"The Hunters operate under different mandates," Kieran interrupted smoothly. "This Squire will report to the Grain Gate barracks at dawn for reassignment."
Adrian's mind reeled. The Hunters? He had heard of them—a specialized arm of the Magisterium, the embodiment of civil law's sharpest edge. Composed of select members from both the Hand and Tongue, their public acts were legendary. The whispers of their more private endeavors acted as a balance of power between the Hand, Tongue, and Magisterium.
Rhys hesitated. "Sir, with respect, the Magisterium does not permit full field assignments until the first year of training is complete."
Kieran remained unfazed. "That will not be an issue. The Hunters select whom they require, and we are in need of a new porter."
Adrian felt the ropes around his wrists loosen as Rhys began untying him, the instructor's movements brisk and efficient. The gag was removed next, and he worked his jaw gratefully.
"You're fortunate," Rhys muttered darkly.
"Feels like it," Adrian replied hoarsely, licking his dry lips.
Before Adrian could say more, Rhys ripped the blindfold off. Harsh torchlight flooded his vision, and he squinted, eyes adjusting after the prolonged darkness. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Kieran turning toward a side passage—a lithe figure clad in dark attire that bore the insignia of the Magisterium, his cloak edged with silver embroidery denoting his rank. The man moved with a fluid grace, exuding authority.
As Kieran passed through the archway, he glanced back momentarily. Their eyes met—Kieran's gaze was piercing, a mixture of scrutiny and something else Adrian couldn't quite place. Then he was gone, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors beyond.
Rhys's stern voice pulled Adrian back to reality. The echoes of the trial still lingered in the dimly lit chamber, but the tension had shifted. Rhys stepped forward, his gaze scrutinizing Adrian's battered form.
"Hold still," Rhys instructed, his tone softer but still authoritative. He began to check Adrian for serious injuries, his hands methodically probing for fractures or deep bruises. Despite the grueling nature of the trial, there was a hint of concern in Rhys's actions—after all, Adrian was one of his Squires.
Adrian winced as Rhys's fingers pressed against a tender spot on his ribs. "Nothing seems broken," Rhys muttered. "You'll have some bruises, but nothing the Respital can't handle."
He looked at Adrian. “You really did well, I’m very impressed. Your Focus is abysmally bad for your class, but your Control is several years ahead. That’s probably what got you noticed.”
Stepping back, Rhys met Adrian's eyes. "Report to the Western Respital before you retire for the evening," he ordered. "But be quick about it."
Adrian hesitated, his mind swirling with questions. "Sir," he began cautiously, "what just happened? Who was that man? And the Hunters—what does this mean for me?"
Rhys's jaw tightened slightly. "It's above your head, Adrian," he replied curtly. "As shocking as it might be to you, you're no longer a member of the Hand. Technically speaking."
Adrian blinked in confusion. "No longer a member of the Hand? How is that possible? I've only just begun my training."
Rhys sighed, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "The Hunters operate outside the usual structures. When they select someone, protocols change. You're under their command now."
"But what does being a porter for the Hunters involve?" Adrian pressed. "I've heard stories, but—"
"Enough," Rhys interrupted firmly. "I can't explain further. Just know that the Hunters have their own ways. You'll receive your instructions soon."
Adrian frowned, frustration and uncertainty gnawing at him. "So... what should I do now?"
Rhys's gaze softened just a fraction. "Do as you're told. Get yourself to the Respital, get patched up, and rest. You'll need your strength for what's ahead."
A moment of silence passed between them. Then, almost reluctantly, Rhys added, "You've shown resilience today. More than I expected."
"Thank you, sir," Adrian replied quietly.
"Don't thank me," Rhys said, his demeanor returning to its usual sternness. "Just be prepared."
With that, Rhys turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. Adrian took a deep breath and headed toward the chamber's exit. The cool air of the corridor was a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere inside. As he walked, the walls bearing the Magisterium's emblem seemed to watch him, the etchings illuminated by flickering torchlight.
XXX
Adrian stepped out of the bathhouse, his skin still warm and tinged pink from the steam rooms. The crisp air embraced him, carrying the subtle scent of budding flora mixed with the lingering chill of winter's end. A low-lying mist wreathed the ground, swirling around his legs like ghostly tendrils and casting an ethereal aura over the Institute grounds as he made his way back to his hotel.
It was fitting, he mused. Ever since the events at the ruins, life had taken on a surreal, almost dreamlike quality. Reality felt blurred at the edges, as if he were walking through a world slightly out of focus. The memory of Godfrey's departure surfaced unbidden: Godfrey striding boldly through the city streets, with Rinthess trailing behind like a shadow clinging to his heels. The reversal of their dynamic was jarring—Rinthess, once so commanding, now seemingly subservient. It was a sight that had left Adrian perplexed, one he would have eagerly dissected with Riella and Thyra had they not all been so utterly exhausted.
But they, too, had drifted away, each consumed by their own paths. Riella had thrown herself into her training with a fervor that bordered on obsession. Whenever he glimpsed her, she was surrounded by instructors or buried in arcane texts, her eyes distant and unreadable. Their conversations had dwindled to polite nods in passing corridors.
Thyra, on the other hand, had left the Institute entirely—a choice that ordinarily carried severe consequences. Dropping out of the Tongue was not a decision taken lightly; mandatory punishment usually followed, often in the form of indentured service to the Army or menial labor in distant provinces. However, for those from affluent families like hers, the rules were malleable. Wealth had a way of smoothing over obligations and circumventing penalties. It was an open secret that the nobility could grease the right palms to ensure that the stringent repercussions were quietly overlooked. After all, no one among the elite wished to hear of highborn ladies being torn to shreds during southern incursions or perishing on the brutal frontiers of the southwest.
Adrian hadn't anticipated how deeply their absence would affect him. Friendships had always come easily to him; he was naturally affable, quick to laugh, and even quicker to forge connections. The swift formation of their little quartet hadn't surprised him at the time. But now, with the group dispersed, he felt a gnawing emptiness—a sense of dislocation he couldn't quite articulate. Why did their absence leave him feeling so unmoored, as if a vital anchor had been severed?
Perhaps it was the intensity of their shared experiences—the life-and-death stakes that had forged bonds stronger than mere acquaintance. Or maybe it was the unsettling awareness that, in the grand tapestry of the Institute and the machinations of powers far beyond his understanding, genuine connections were rare and precious.
As he walked through the mist-laden grounds, the muffled sounds of the city fading into the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant tolling of bells, Adrian couldn't shake the sense of being adrift. The camaraderie he had found with Godfrey, Riella, and Thyra had grounded him, provided a touchstone of normalcy amidst the chaos. Without them, the path ahead seemed obscured, the future uncertain.
He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as a cool breeze whispered through the fog. The hotel loomed ahead, its windows glowing softly like welcoming beacons. Perhaps tomorrow would bring clarity—or at least distraction. For now, all he could do was navigate this haze, both within and without, and hope that the lingering promise of spring would soon bloom into something tangible.
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Unconsciously fulfilling the pull of his thoughts, Adrian found himself drifting toward the Barracks Gate, his footsteps carrying him into the heart of the Lower City. The labyrinthine streets wound around him like a maze, each turn leading him deeper into a tapestry of shadow and flickering lantern light. The mist here was thicker, clinging to the cobblestones and casting an ethereal glow around the gas lamps that struggled to pierce the fog.
He wandered past shuttered storefronts and quiet alleyways where the whispers of the city’s nocturnal life barely reached his ears. The distant tolling of a bell marked the hour, but time felt irrelevant in the haze of his thoughts. Eventually, his aimless journey crystallized into purpose as his destination emerged from the malaise clouding his mind.
His footsteps led him to Antonia's, a well-known establishment nestled between a dilapidated apothecary and a lively tavern. The brothel was adorned with intricate carvings and the ever-present red lanterns, their soft light offering a seductive invitation. Adrian paused at the entrance, the muffled sounds of laughter and music seeping through the heavy wooden door. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed it open.
Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of warmth and shadows. Plush furnishings in deep hues of crimson and gold filled the space, while tapestries depicting exotic landscapes adorned the walls. The air was perfumed with incense, a heady mix of spice and sweetness that clung to every surface. Attendants moved gracefully among the patrons, their smiles practiced yet distant.
Adrian scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Godfrey was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his gaze fell upon Scarlet, the woman who had turned him away on his previous visits. She stood near the foot of a grand staircase, her auburn hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes sharp as they met his. The moment she recognized him, a flicker of discomfort crossed her face.
Summoning his resolve, Adrian approached her. "Good evening, Scarlet," he began cautiously. "I'm looking for Godfrey. Have you seen him?"
She folded her arms, her expression hardening. "I told you before, I haven't seen him," she replied curtly.
Adrian sensed her growing agitation. "Are you sure? It's important that I find him."
Scarlet's eyes flashed with irritation. "I said no. And you need to stop coming down here to the real City, patrician."
The word confused Adrian, though he knew its meaning of course. "Patrician? I'm just trying to find my friend."
She took a step closer, her voice low but edged with anger. "Godfrey has more important things to do than deal with the likes of you and your noble circles."
Adrian frowned, confusion knitting his brow. "What do you mean? What is he involved in?"
Scarlet shook her head, exasperation evident. "You really don't get it, do you? This isn't your world. You don't belong here."
Before he could respond, she turned away abruptly. "Enough of this." Raising her voice, she called out, "Brutus!"
From the shadows near the entrance, an enormous man emerged. He stood well over six and a half feet tall, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway as he approached. Clad in chain and a cloak, his flinty eyes peered at Adrian from behind a deep cowl.
The giant stopped beside Scarlet, crossing his arms as he fixed Adrian with an unwavering stare. The message was clear.
Adrian swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I didn't mean any trouble," he said carefully, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
Scarlet gave a faint, humorless smile. "Then it's time for you to leave."
Understanding that any further insistence would be unwise, Adrian nodded. "Very well. I apologize for the disturbance."
He backed away slowly before turning and making his way toward the exit. As he stepped outside, the cool night air greeted him, a stark contrast to the warmth inside. The mist had thickened, the red glow of the lanterns casting elongated shadows that seemed to dance around him.
Adrian pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he walked away from Antonia's, his thoughts churning. Scarlet's words echoed in his mind: "Godfrey has more important things to do than deal with the likes of you." What could she have meant by that? And why the hostility?
Lost in thought, he barely noticed the bustle of the streets around him—the vendors closing up their stalls, the distant strains of music drifting from taverns, the murmur of conversations that ebbed and flowed like the tide. He could almost forget his own troubles, and the world he was being forced from, into a new barely defined set of responsibilities.
Maybe it was for the best that the group had faded away. Adrian just hoped that whatever Godfrey was up to, Rinthess had been able to stave off the military police.
XXX
Adrian set out for the Grain Gate barracks early the next morning, well before the first light of dawn pierced the horizon. The path led him away from the familiar bustle of the city center to a quieter quarter where the streets narrowed and the buildings huddled closer together. The air was crisp, carrying the lingering chill of night and the faint scent of the nearby docks.
The barracks emerged from the mist like a steadfast sentinel. Unlike the grand stone fortress of the Barracks Gate, the Grain Gate barracks was constructed entirely of timber. Its weathered beams and sturdy logs told a story of practicality and resilience. The façade spoke volumes—here was a place built for function over formality, its wooden structure a testament to resourcefulness. The grain of the wood bore the marks of time and elements, a silent chronicle etched into its very walls.
As Adrian approached, he noticed a diverse group of men and women scattered around the entrance. Some lounged casually on crates and barrels, others sharpened weapons or adjusted their gear. Their attire was a motley assortment: bits of armor mingled with worn leathers, military tunics paired with civilian cloaks, and a few donned rugged, travel-worn garb that had seen better days. What caught his eye most was the grooming—or lack thereof. Several of the men sported beards or stubble, a blatant disregard for the strict grooming codes enforced by the Hand and the general Army. Such nonconformity was startling, almost rebellious.
The realization settled in Adrian's mind: these were the Hunters.
The rhythmic clink of his gear announced his arrival—a stark contrast to the relaxed demeanor of those around him. Each step was accompanied by the subtle jingle of chainmail beneath his newly acquired half-plate armor. Since returning from the expedition, Adrian had curtailed his usual indulgences, saving diligently to acquire quality equipment. The half-plate was a significant upgrade—a balance of protection and mobility that suited his style. Full lobstered plate was a luxury beyond his reach for now; at his considerable height, the cost would be astronomical—a pun he allowed himself with a faint smile.
The real treasure, however, was the chainmail he wore beneath the plate. Crafted in distant Somara, it featured astraferum fittings—an alloy famed for its strength and lightness. The mail hugged his form comfortably, its weight surprisingly minimal, allowing for ease of movement without sacrificing defense.
Drawing a steadying breath, Adrian approached the entrance. Conversations quieted slightly as a few heads turned his way. He felt the weight of their gazes—a mix of curiosity and mild amusement.
"Well, look at this one," a lean man with a crooked grin remarked. "All polished up and nowhere to go."
Perched on a nearby barrel was a petite woman with short, spiky hair the color of a raven's wing. Despite her small stature, there was an undeniable presence about her—a coiled energy that hinted at unpredictability. She eyed Adrian up and down, a sly smirk playing on her lips.
Adrian met her gaze evenly, a glint of humor in his eyes. Reading the playful challenge in her tone, he decided to match it.
"Oh, I thought this was where they kept the clowns. Seems I was right," he replied smoothly.
A ripple of laughter spread among the group. The lean man's grin widened. "He's got a sharp tongue, this one."
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, but the smirk remained. "Charm and wit. Think that'll get you far here?"
Adrian gave a modest shrug. "Can't hurt. Besides, I heard the Hunters appreciate those who can think on their feet."
She hopped off the barrel with feline grace, sauntering toward him. "Bold words for a Baby Squire."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to be heard by her and those nearby. "Well, I figured I'd get the hazing over with early."
She studied him for a moment, amusement flickering in her eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a genuine, melodious sound.
"Maybe you're not entirely hopeless," she conceded. "Name's Nyx."
"Adrian Phaedrus," he replied, offering a slight bow.
"Well met, Phaedrus," the nearby man said, stepping forward. "I'm Briscus. Welcome to the Grain Gate, the last stop before our grand mission begins."
"Thanks, Briscus," Adrian said, extending a hand, which Briscus shook firmly.
A lanky fellow leaning against the wall piped up. "Don't let Nyx scare you off. She likes to test newcomers."
Nyx smirked, crossing her arms. "Only the ones who look like they might break."
Adrian chuckled lightly. "I'll try to stay intact, then."
Briscus glanced at the gear Adrian was carrying. "So, you're the new porter we've been assigned?"
Adrian nodded. "That's right. I'm here to help in any way I can."
"Porter, huh?" Nyx raised an eyebrow. "Good. They keep dying in gruesome ways, and it is such a bother carrying all my cooking pots."
"I'm… not afraid of hard work," Adrian replied evenly, not skipping a beat, but also not missing the subtext.
"Good to hear," Briscus said. "We've got plenty that needs doing. Supplies don't carry themselves."
The lanky man pushed off from the wall and approached. "Better get inside and report to Garrick. He's not one to keep waiting."
"Of course," Adrian agreed. "It was nice meeting all of you."
As he headed toward the barracks entrance, Nyx called after him, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Welcome to the bottom rung, Baby Squire. Enjoy the view!"
Adrian glanced back with a faint smile. "I think I am, Nyx."
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but she said nothing more.
Inside, the barracks was as plain as the exterior suggested: a large, mostly empty room filled with mismatched tables and chairs. In one corner, a staircase led up to what Adrian guessed were sleeping quarters. On one side of the room, there was a bar—more for storing supplies than serving drinks, from the look of it. The faint glow from a few lanterns cast shadows across the space, making the place feel more like a forgotten tavern than a military post.
At the center table, three men sat talking quietly. One was older, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Adrian guessed this must be Garrick, the commander he’d been told to report to. The other two men were younger but equally intimidating in their relaxed, yet alert, postures. They eyed Adrian as he entered, their conversation momentarily pausing.
"You're late," the older man said without looking up from the parchment he was studying.
Adrian blinked. He wasn’t late. But something in the man’s tone suggested this was more of a formality than a real accusation.
"My apologies," Adrian said, standing a few paces away from the table, uncertain of the protocol here. "I was told to report here first thing."
The man seated to the older man's right, a lean figure with a sharp jawline and an air of practiced ease, snorted softly. "First thing? You're just in time to move crates, Squire."
Adrian tensed but forced a calm smile. "If that’s what’s needed, I’ll handle it."
The older man, whom Adrian assumed was Garrick, finally looked up. His eyes flicked over Adrian, assessing. "You're the new porter, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Adrian said, inclining his head.
Garrick gave a brief nod, then gestured toward the man on his left—a dark-haired figure with equally dark skin. The man wore a small pair of spectacles, incongruous with the air of quiet lethality that surrounded him. He was Somaran, and his thoughtful demeanor suggested someone who weighed everything before acting. "You'll be reporting to Hadriq for today, and for the rest of our current mission. He’ll show you what needs doing.”
Garrick paused, his eyes flicking over Adrian with a more considered gaze. "How are you holding up, Squire? Most of us got here, ripped from our homes and comrades when Kieran saw something of value."
“Holding up fine, sir," Adrian replied, keeping his tone steady. "I was ripped out, as you say, early. Not enough time to set down roots…” His voice faltered for a moment as thoughts of his friends floated through his mind—Godfrey, Riella, Thyra. Roots were just beginning to grow, only to be torn up.
Garrick gave a brief grunt, as though satisfied, but indifferent to the undercurrent of emotion. “Good. You haven’t had time to learn bad habits,” Garrick said, his tone clipped and dismissive. He turned his sharp gaze toward Hadriq. “Hadriq, settle our Squire into his tasks.”
Hadriq gave a small nod, pushing his chair back with deliberate calm. “Follow me,” he said, his voice low and measured, the hint of an accent in his soft voice. Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the far side of the barracks, where a stack of crates and gear awaited.
Hadriq led Adrian outside to where a stack of crates sat beneath the pale morning light. The wood was damp with dew, and the air carried the faint scent of earth and pine. Hadriq stopped in front of the crates, crossing his arms as he studied them for a moment before speaking.
"Garrick enjoys the Hunters' blank check," Hadriq said, his tone neutral but carrying a quiet edge. "Most of this," he gestured at the crates, "will be left here. But go through the contents and catalog any foodstuffs. We'll be taking those with us."
Adrian nodded, stepping closer to the crates.
Hadriq’s gaze lingered on Adrian for a beat longer, assessing. "While you do that," he continued, his voice lowering slightly, "understand this: I’m in charge of the porters. Several of them have already died."
Adrian froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement.
"I’ve argued for a full Soldier to take on the role," Hadriq added, almost as if speaking to himself, "but I’ve been overruled on such matters."
Adrian glanced at Hadriq, catching the faintest flicker of irritation in his otherwise controlled expression.
"Regardless," Hadriq continued, turning his sharp gaze back to Adrian, "I find this unacceptable. So, before we engage in any action, I expect you to have mastered the dual-mind Focus method."
Adrian was barely keeping pace with the flood of facts spilling from Hadriq’s mouth, until one statement made him stop cold. “Wait—Splitting Focus?” Adrian’s voice faltered. “That’s… that’s the stuff of Knights.”
Hadriq barely glanced at him, shrugging with a kind of indifferent ease. “One of the techniques, yes.”
Adrian blinked in disbelief. “But that takes years. How am I supposed to—?”
“It does not. There is nothing technically preventing me from teaching it to you,” Hadriq cut in, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “So I shall.”
Hadriq turned his gaze to the crates, his expression unreadable. "So, we shall begin."
He gestured toward the stack of wooden crates in front of them, the morning light glinting off the rough edges. "These are crates, yes?"
Adrian glanced between Hadriq and the crates, unsure where this was going. "...Yes."
"Good," Hadriq replied, his tone completely serious. "Well done."
Adrian hesitated, searching Hadriq’s face for any sign of a joke, but there was none. He wasn’t kidding.
Hadriq gestured at the stack of crates again, his tone as even and calm as ever. "We have decided they are crates."
Adrian nodded, unsure if he had gone insane.
"While you sort the contents," Hadriq continued, "I would like you to convince yourself, wholly, that they are in fact not crates. Do you understand?"
Adrian blinked, caught completely off guard. "...not even slightly."
Hadriq’s gaze remained steady as he continued, "Good. This idea is antithetical to your understanding of the objects in front of you."
Adrian stood quietly, processing the strange logic, but he was sharp enough to know this wasn’t about crates.
Hadriq gestured toward the stack, his tone thoughtful, yet pointed. "What is a crate? If these were made of metal instead of wood, would they still be crates? Or does the material change their nature?"
Adrian’s mind tracked Hadriq’s words quickly now, knowing there was something deeper beneath the surface. "The function would still be the same," he said slowly, trying to follow Hadriq’s reasoning. "But... it might depend on how we perceive it."
"Exactly," Hadriq said, giving the faintest nod. "Is it a crate because of its shape? If I cut the corners, made it spherical, would it still be a crate in your mind? Or would something shift—would you name it something else?"
Adrian’s gaze flickered to the crates again, no longer just objects to sort but a concept to unravel. "The word crate defines its purpose. Change the form enough, and maybe that purpose changes too."
Hadriq’s eyes glinted with approval. "You’re beginning to see it. The world is layered with meaning, but meaning is pliable. At what point does it cease to be what you call it now? That, Phaedrus, is the first step of the Split Focus—understanding that the crate both is and is not, depending on how your mind frames it."
Adrian felt the challenge in the words, not insulted but intrigued by the task. "So, you’re asking me to hold both concepts—crate and not-crate—in my mind while I work?"
"Not exactly, Phaedrus," Hadriq said, his voice calm but edged with something deeper. "I’m asking you to convince yourself absolutely that these are not crates. And, at the same time, hold the absolute belief that they are crates."
Adrian felt his mind falter. He could navigate complex ideas, sure—but this? "How am I supposed to hold two completely opposite views in my mind at the same time?" he asked, genuinely confused but refusing to let himself appear incapable.
Hadriq’s grin widened, and for the first time, there was something almost wild in it. "Why," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "have two minds, of course."