Marius sat in a cold isolated chamber within The Panopticon. His entire body ached and the hard chair and frigid chamber did little to soothe him. He tried his best to ignore the blood that dried like a grotesque mask around his mouth and nose as he listened to the rhythmic pitter patter of flowing water pooling somewhere in the distance.
The aftermath of the brawl had been chaotic. Gor had fallen to the floor in a hulking mass and thrashed about like a beached whale. Marius considered himself lucky that no one had noticed the Stream had been manipulated and the outcome of the fight was a farce. Guilt welled in him like an inky void, but Marius was grateful that Caranir had stepped in regardless of his honor. Feeling shame was still a better outcome than having to peeled off the Pit floor and brought to the infirmary or worse, the morgue. Still, that knot of guilt sat in his chest and he knew the immense disappointment his father would have felt in him. He could hear his voice; Relying on the unsavory trickery of an Etherian… a Sylvean at that. You disgrace the very nature of our family. Remember, DeSilva never tarnish. It was a phrase Marius had grown to hate. In the eyes of his father there was a certain luster, a sheen to being a DeSilva, and it was something that could be lost apparently. His entire life he had walked on eggshells worried that the wrong action or poorly chosen words might lead to a dulling of his imaginary shine. He could feel the phantom pain of a cane strike to his knuckles.
Marius’ moment of reflection was disrupted with the sharp sound of clicking against the moss gray floor. He didn’t need to wait for the figure to emerge from the portcullis to know who it was. Canoness Carathiel was someone you could recognize from the mere cadence of their step. Carathiel had to duck slightly to avoid striking her head on the entryway arch. She made it look graceful despite the immense weight of the glistening white gold and Rymerian red ornate armor she wore. It was the traditional battle garb of the Sisters of the Immaculate Slaughter - the war priestess that nearly every legion was forced to deal with by edict of The Emperor himself. Many considered them the eyes and ears of the Dusk King.
“Marius,” her voice was sharp. He hated how she spoke to him with such curt familiar language. “Your brother will be disappointed to know of this meeting.” Marius eyed the Sanguine Tree carved into her breastplate. It was a startling red that reminded him of the shower of gore he had caused just a meager hour or so before.
“May the war goddesses’ blessing be upon you, Canoness,” Marius half heartedly repeated the standard greeting.
“It seems she already smiled upon you tonight,” a smirk formed across her umber lips. She wore no makeup yet there was an alluring austerity to her all the same. She was the same as the beauty one might find in a winter storm or from the immensity of the seas. Her dark skin was only marred by the mark she bore upon her left cheek; the bastard’s sigil. It was common in Talissima to use ink to brand individuals who fell outside of standard society. Slaves often had their ears docked, but a freed slave would also be tattooed with the Shattered Manacles of Domecles around their neck. The grotesque tattoos were constant reminders of who they once were and to have the ink healed by soother or carved from their flesh by a surgeon was considered an abhorrent crime. The canoness’ sigil was a series of sweeping crescents depicting the crown of the familial patriarch, but broken asunder down the middle. The pattern work was exquisite, but even still it simply made Marius feel hollow. His father had no bastards, but that wasn’t true of the men Atticus considered his peers. All of them mistreated their illegitimate heirs.
It wasn’t particularly shocking that Carathiel had joined the sisterhood, Marius figured. He wasn’t sure of her stock, but given her familiarity with his brother it wouldn’t have surprised him if she was at least partially of Trueborn blood. The Bastard’s Sigil was often reserved for those of aristocracy. It prevented the passage of title, land, holdings, and other items of significance, which common folk had little of to worry about. Symbolically it also gave the right for people to view the illegitimate child as lesser. Talissian society was not kind to bastards. However, the various religious orders that kept the Empire running were one of the few areas that could look past a marking and allow for one to gain prestige despite their circumstances. It was a way to escape, at the very least, the degradation they often dealt with to their face. Behind their backs though, they were still simply bastards to most.
“I’m not sure it was the war goddess. More likely Pontius had a hand in this victory.” His voice was quiet.
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“No need to be humble,” she walked to his left and rested a slender hand on his shoulder. “It takes a skilled combatant to survive crossing arms with a Malcathian savage. Especially as one as brutish as Gor,” she said. Her hand caressed the nape of his neck and Marius did his best to suppress the uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Besides, making use of an environmental advantage, luck may it be, is a mark of a proper tactician. You may be your father’s child after all.”
“I have no mark saying otherwise.” He regretted it as the words left his mouth. The once tender touch of her hand betrayed her reaction.
“Our deeds prove our worth, Marius, not our blood. A son who cannot obey his father is as good as a blade which will not cut. A man who does not show unwavering devotion to the Emperor is like a dog without teeth. You are not that man, are you, Marius?”
“Of course not. The Emperor provides and only an apostate would say otherwise,” he responded. In truth, Marius found the Emperor unsettling. He had met Cassius Tiberian three times in the company of his father when he was young. The Emperor was old, but frail certainly wasn’t a word that could describe him. There was an intensity to him that seemed disconnected to his outward appearance. Merely standing in his presence made the young Marius struggle to draw breath, like the air had been sucked from the room. He had only dared to make eye contact once and the inky darkness of the Dusk King’s pupils remained with him in all the clarity of the very day he saw them.
“Good boy,” she said, the smirk returning to her lips. “I’d have liked to seen it.” Marius gave her a quizzical look. “The fight of course. I saw the aftermath, you left Gor in quite the state. The way his femur snapped and erupted from his flesh was tantalizing. To see it happen in person though… that would have been a treat.” She leaned into Marius. “I can see it if you let me,” she said as she traced the outline of his face with a charcoal gray fingernail. She meant to use a hymn of course - a blessing of her goddess. The pious of the gods could access the Stream in ways akin to the Etherians. They didn’t need to use runes like the scholars and sages of the Arcan Tor. Instead they manipulated the essence of magic with song. Likely she meant to use a hymn to see the events of the fight through his eyes. He couldn’t tell if she truly had a perverse interest in the fight, or simply wanted to gather intel for whatever case they wished to build.
“I’ll pass,” he responded. Marius thought of Caranir first and to throw his friend to the Sisters for misuse of his gifts would have been a disaster for the both of them. “Are we here to simply discuss the confrontation or is there something else you wish to tell me, canoness?” He desperately wished to wash his face and tidy himself before his patrol.
“So curt. Well, if you refuse to indulge me,” she backed away, her tight braids swinging as she marched back to the anterior of the chamber, “I suppose we can go over the specifics of your disciplinary measure.”
“Disciplinary measure? I received a demerit?”
“But of course. A brutish halfwit he may be, but Gor was still a valued member of this legion all the same. You could have turned down his challenge at any time.” Marius nearly guffawed at the words of the sister. “I see the incredulous look on your visage. I am not daft. I understand to do so would have been equal to ostracization from the troop. Master Levy wished to tan your hide, so to speak, but my influence brought him to a more proper solution.”
“I suppose that is better than the alternative…”
“I’m glad you agree. In our society there has always been a strong emphasis placed on the importance of martial power. You have proven yourself a capable warrior despite whatever protests your centurion might offer,” she said, again her dark lips peeled into a smile. “You shall take Gor’s place on this holy night, and bring yourself closer to salvation in the eyes of the Emperor and the gods - salvation through immaculate slaughter.” Marius simply stared at Carathiel, confusion written on his face.
“Tonight as the sky burns incandescent, you will accompany Master Levy. Few legionnaires are afforded such a privilege. With a keen eye you’ll learn much from the beginning of this close tutledge with the warhound.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the flogging,” Marius said. Truly he’d rather the humiliation of a whipping than to be forced any closer to a man who so clearly hated him already.
“Nonsense, Marius. You don’t have a choice in the matter… and remember, you are not the kind of blade which will not cut, are you?” her eyes lingered on him, taking him in one last time.
“No, Canoness Carathiel. I shall serve,” his voice spoke the words but inside he felt his resolution quaver. He prayed they would find no newborns that night, or he wouldn’t have the option of turning away as Eo handled the task which seemed all too impossible for Marius. He’d have to be the blade Carathiel demanded he be.