Chapter 2

Touchstone

In Malkiel, even the air tastes of judgment.

Eunuchs line the path to the Sacral Enclosure. Each face a mirror of my fears. Each throat bearing the silver qilin of House Azure. Each wrist or neck marked with the dark stain of Nullification. Uncle Darius stands among them, the Mark stark against pale skin—my skin, our shared blood betrayed in every feature. Three steps away, Cousin Matthias keeps his vigil. Three summers since his trial. Three summers since he joined these ranks of the severed.

Cyra moves ahead, slipping into the shadows of the Sacral Enclosure. Her steps are smooth, unhesitating, drawing me past our fallen kin. Their muted robes ripple in the ethereal light. Distant. Serene. Uncle Darius catches my eye—violet-gray meets violet-gray. A prophecy, perhaps. A warning. His gaze holds no judgment, no mercy—only that perfect, hollow serenity that House Azure demands of its servants.

The walls twist at impossible angles, pulling in directions that logic cannot follow. Geometry built by something other than human hands. Cyra does not flinch. I do, if only inwardly.

Each step fractures me further. Tripartition—they call it. The feeling of being split in three. Three versions of myself, all grasping for control. The first whispers of duty and House Azure's expectations, the second echoes with my mother's Netniem blood and its urge for perfection, and the third... the third speaks only of survival, raw and desperate. Each one pulling me in different directions, each one certain its path is right. I focus on Cyra's back, on her steady stride. She is my anchor in this shifting space.

Memory pulls me back. Minutes ago. The Dularch-Temple.

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Cyra's fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting the incense. Smoke curled upward, a pale offering to our father's statue. Sweet myrrh and bitter herbs mingled with the temple's ancient air—prayers turned to scent, memories to smoke. The vast chamber echoed with whispered chants, an endless tide of devotion.

"In the shadows of creation, where dimensions collide, The Great Autarch beckons, with arms open wide..."

Leocian Ragnos. His likeness towered above us, carved from pale stone. That piercing gaze—the one that could see through flesh and bone, into the marrow of our ambitions. The soft brush of ceremonial robes against stone mixed with the rhythmic prayers.

"The Ingress, a refuge, a sanctuary of grace, For those who seek solace, in the Autarch's embrace..."

I stood there, uncomfortable in my own skin. My mother's Netniem blood runs deep. More than just my veins. Despite my platinum hair, despite my height, I am nothing like him. A pale shadow against his magnificence.

I squared my shoulders. Pretended at strength. Cyra saw through it. She always does.

Without warning, she pulled me close. Her warmth seeped through, a shield against our father's cold judgment. Behind us, the chants continued their eternal cycle.

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"In the heart of the cosmos, the whispers of the divine, Echo through the ages, a beacon for those who pine..."

"Whatever happens, you're my brother." Her voice steady. Certain. Unshakeable.

"Even if I'm destined to become an... an armiger?" Even to her I could not speak my true fear out loud.

Eunuch.

She met my eyes. "Yes. Even if you become a shitty blade swinging idiot."

Sacrilege. Open defiance. And in that moment, more precious than any blessing.

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The present snaps back into focus. Around us, the edges of the Sacral Enclosure press in. Watching. Judging. I swipe at my eye. No weakness allowed here. Not now.

Grandmother Elethra emerges from shadow. Silver hair cascading. Sharp face carved with wisdom and authority. Her robes absorb light, making the darkness deeper. Her eyes cut like blades.

"You're late." Her voice cracks like stone against stone.

Cyra meets her gaze. Unflinching. "We are here, Grandmother. And we're going in."

Something flickers across Grandmother's face. Surprise? Annoyance? It vanishes before I can name it. She shifts. Just enough to let us pass. Her judgment follows like a blade at our backs.

The chamber opens wide. Cold stone beneath my feet. Light fractures across polished floors. My cousins wait—all six years old, drowning in oversized regalia that marks their bloodline.

I stumble. A phantom force jerks my ankle. Laughter echoes. My eyes find Talon and Enna, the golden twins of House Azure; their matching angular faces and pale golden hair are a testament to pure bloodlines. Where Talon carries our grandfather's grace, Enna wields her semblance like a knife—each small torment a reminder of my place. Or rather, my lack of one.

She smirks at me. Another tug at my ankle—another show of her power. Her warning.

Cyra stands with the Chatelaines now. Their hushed voices carry across stone. Chatelaine Kassandra's auburn hair does nothing to soften the burning hatred in her gaze—a mother's fury directed at me, though I cannot remember why. Each time her eyes find mine, something dark and painful stirs in the locked corners of my mind. They watch. They wait. They wonder if I will fail. I will not.

The Veilstone waits on its pedestal. Dark as a starless sky. High-Exarch Oshen stands beside it, masked and terrible. The hollowed eyes of his mask seem to hold the Autarch's judgment, ancient and absolute. His presence turns the air heavy with ceremonial weight, each movement deliberate as though the Autarch himself watches through those dark sockets.

His staff strikes stone. "Talon of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone."

My cousin moves with practiced grace—every step precise, as though he's rehearsed this moment a thousand times. His pale golden hair catches the light as he approaches the stone. No hesitation. No fear. Pure Azure blood flows through his veins, unmarred by foreign weakness.

His palm meets the Veilstone's surface. For a moment, nothing. Then—light. Pale blue ripples across the stone's dark face. Talon's eyes close, his expression serene. When they open again, there's triumph there. Pride.

High-Exarch Oshen's voice carries the weight of ceremony. "The Veilstone accepts. You may take your place among the worthy."

Talon steps back, head high. Enna's smirk grows wider. Their eyes find me, measuring, judging.

The staff strikes stone again. "Step forward, Janus of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone, and let it weigh your worth."

I move. Each step measured. Deliberate. Cyra's warmth fades from my back as I approach the stone. Its surface shifts with symbols I cannot read but feel in my bones.

My palm presses against the Veilstone's surface. The cold seeps through my skin, but there's something else—a resonance that hums through my bones, pulling me deeper. The stone's darkness spreads before my vision like spilled ink, and suddenly I'm falling, though my hand hasn't moved.

The chamber around me blurs. High-Exarch Oshen's masked presence fades into shadow. Even Cyra's steadying presence dims, replaced by something vast and ancient. The Veilstone isn't just testing me—it's drawing me into itself, into a place between reality and dream.

My last coherent thought is of Cyra's words: Whatever happens, you're my brother. Then the darkness takes me completely.