Noon arrived with the dark cover of storm clouds, faintly rumbling in the distance. Still dry, the castle soldiers remained at their posts bearing pikes and swords and shields and armor. Each man stood straighter than usual, gripped his weapon more sternly. They were here, in the castle, out of sight and earshot, their presences all but unconfirmed. Yet each man knew that they were here, could feel their stifling presence. And they were afraid.

Amice was, too.

The Vigilants had arrived that morning on horseback, three of them carrying naught but their own equipment and feed for their mounts. Amice had watched them from the window of her chamber, which offered, she thought, an exceptional view of the castle gates and the fields and forests beyond. They had been easy to spot; none had visited the castle since her stay began, and the Vigilants, at least, she knew were coming.

They had been greeted by Sigebert personally, as was expected, and entered the castle courtyard in full gear: steel armor overlain with short robes of red and purple–the royal colors. Not a man dared look them in the eyes as the three visitors surveyed the castle interiors.

When they eventually moved out of sight, Amice had sat at the center of her room and meditated, focusing on the energy of the world, pulling it in, refining it over her core. How long had it been, she wondered? Years, at least. She had not cultivated much since Mother’s passing.

A folly, in hindsight. She had been so close to the next stage all those years ago, and, it seemed, was even closer now. With energy hardening layer after layer over the core of her inner self she felt it, a surge of liquid steel being pulled from within and bubbling to the surface and enveloping her and cooling and hardening, her core becoming a ball of steel in a world of stone.

The Eighth Step.

Relaxing in the afterglow of ascending to the next Step, Amice tensed once more as she focused on her senses. She could hear more, see more, smell more, every sensation seemingly doubled compared to before, intermixing in such a profoundly perplexing manner. Together they created a map of the castle beyond the walls of her room, incomplete, almost nauseating. It was as if she could see with her ears, her nose, her skin, and could, therefore, see through the walls of her room to what lay beyond.

And what lay beyond were the Vigilants.

Amice saw the man knock before she heard it. She stood and took a step to the door, uncertain, then said “Come in.”

Even with her ascendence to the Eight Step Amice could tell she was no match for them, even individually. They had no cultivation to speak of, having none of the world’s energy intertwined with their own, yet their very presence set the air to buzzing in some strange fashion. Mana, she wondered?

“Amice, I take it?” the middle man asked.

“I am.”

“I am Ormar, and with me are Aelfred and Idmaer.” He did not motion to either man when introducing them, leaving who was who a mystery. Peculiar. “We are Vigilants in service to the Emperor, as I am sure you know already. May we sit?”

She had no reason to refuse. “Yes.”

Ormar sat across from her with dignified grace, the sort uncommon among base soldiers. Uncommon, even, with knights, who were often little more than exemplary commoners, despite being, by technicality, low nobles. The other two remained standing, hovering behind Ormar like wraiths, one looking dour, the other apathetic.

Ormar would speak for the three of them, it seemed. “You are a former noble, correct?”

“Formerly heir to a barony, yes, though now I am merely a knight.”

Ormar nodded, content. “The soldier who convinced you to remain loyal to the Empire. Do you remember his name?”

“Alden? Of course.”

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“What were your initial impressions of him?”

Amice paused. “He had my interest from the beginning. His magic was quite unusual. Powerful, even, for a common mage.”

“And what of his physical abilities?” Ormar asked.

“Average, for a soldier. Perhaps a little below average.”

“We hear,” Ormar said, leaning forward, “that Alden has become a knight. And with one hand, no less.”

Ah. They were not here for her.

“Is that so?” she asked. “That is… surprising.”

“Yes, quite interesting,” Ormar agreed. Leaning back, he returned to his initial position, back straight against the chair, arms resting on the table. There was a gleam of recognition in his eyes, of suspicion. They would know if she lied, she knew. Every inch of her body screamed to tell the truth, only the truth.

“Did you know about his sudden increase in power?” the dour faced one asked.

“I did. His growth… under my captivity I saw him grow stronger firsthand, faster than I could believe possible. Given enough time I think he will surpass myself in strength, and easily. He will surpass us all in time, I imagine.”

The dour faced man and the apathetic man exchanged looks with one another, their expressions changing subtly. Curiosity, Amice assumed. Ormar, however, did not look away, nor had his expression changed from the faint grin plastered across his face.

“That is a very interesting statement,” Ormar said. “Very interesting indeed.”

He stood carefully, barely making a sound, so quiet that, in the silence, Amice heard a low thump thump thump coming from each man’s chest. Their hearts, she realized. She could even hear their hearts now.

“I apologize for the shortness of our visit, though I do imagine you wished it were shorter. However, our duties require us to discuss more matters with you at a later time, so I fear we will be meeting again shortly. Tomorrow morning, perhaps, if that is acceptable?”

“That would be fine,” Amice said. She did not see much other choice.

When they had finally left Amice moved to the window and focused, listening to all the sounds within the castle. With effort her mental map slowly grew, the edges blurred as if covered in fog. She could detect the soldiers training in the yard to the right, behind stone walls ten feet thick. She could hear the bubbling of boiling water coming from the kitchens two floors directly below her, could smell the faint scent of onions and mutton and potatoes, could see the castle’s chef cut the ingredients with a knife and hear the words he muttered under his breath.

“Get them damn skins off those potatoes, boy,” the chef said, waving his knife to his assistant, a young boy of fourteen or fifteen. The boy nodded, silent, and did as he was bid.

Amice moved her attention away from them and towards the three Vigilants. Among the castle’s people, they were the hardest to find, their footsteps soft and nearly silent as they walked the corridors. Eventually they settled themselves in the chambers afforded to them, a spacious room on the opposite side of the castle from Sigebert’s own dwellings. Richly decorated in rugs and curtains that absorbed sound of every kind, Amice could barely hear as they began to speak.

“Should we fetch him?” a voice said. The dour faced one.

“Not yet,” Ormar replied. “This Amice is also of interest. She is quite powerful for her age.”

“Aye,” agreed the third voice. The apathetic man.

“How long will we stay?” the dour man asked.

“Patience, Idmaer,” said Ormar. “Did she truly convince you so easily?”

“She did not lie,” the apathetic man said. Aelfred.

“It was more than not lying. It was like the wench thought he was the Maker himself. You saw it,” Idmaer said.

“I did.” There was a pause, followed by the sound of shuffling fabric, then the crinkling of paper.

Through her senses Amice could make out Ormar’s image, a rectangular shape in his hands. A map. He placed the map on the central table, nearly thrice the size of her own.

Ormar pointed to the map, voice low, inaudible. Whispering.

The three gathered around the map, pointing and whispering, their words little more than the sound of breathing and the map useless to Amice. To her the map was little more than a black sheet of parchment.

Idmaer pointed to the map at some unknown spot, voice rising yet still too low to hear. Angry, she could tell. And then, for a mere moment, the man’s voice rose too high, and Amice heard something.

“...the Maker’s Mark isn’t…” she heard. For a long second Amice did not believe her ears. Perhaps she should have, she reasoned. Hilva nobility was filled with gossipping nobles. It was a certainty the Vigilants would learn of it sooner or later. She did as well, after all.

The question was: how much did they already know?