Chapter 7: Heat Beneath the Surface
Julien stood in front of the double doors marked with a discreet sigil: a triangle nested inside a circle. It looked like nothing special—minimalist, even. But in the language of the Imperial military, that mark meant restricted access. Top-level clearance.
His new division.
He swiped the identification chip Veldaric's lieutenant had issued him that morning. A quiet chime sounded, and the doors slid open, revealing a space far removed from the polished halls of the Academy. The lighting inside was muted and golden, the air scented faintly with ozone and steel. Walls lined with reinforced glass revealed inner training arenas, tactical holograms, and private laboratories.
This was no longer school.
This was war's dressing room.
"Julien Deton," came a voice from inside. "You're late by forty-five seconds."
The speaker was a tall woman in full black combat armor, her posture rigid, her pale hair pulled back in a precise twist. Her eyes were augmented—mechanical irises that scanned Julien up and down, registering every twitch.
"I'm Lieutenant Riva Thorne," she said. "I oversee Division Twelve under Marshal Hill. Which means your heartbeat, bowel schedule, and brainwave spikes now fall under my jurisdiction."
Julien didn't flinch. "Understood, Lieutenant."
Riva smiled faintly, like a blade being drawn an inch from its sheath. "Good. Because eyes are on you, Deton. Veldaric doesn't select anyone without reason—and the others here notice that."
She stepped aside. Behind her, cadets in the same matte-gray uniform were lining up in formation. All older than Julien. All trained killers, if the way they stood was any indication. A few turned their heads when Julien entered. One in particular didn't bother to hide his sneer.
"Fresh meat?" the sneering one asked, a lanky young man with copper-red hair tied back in a military knot. "Did we lower the age requirement, or did the Marshal start fishing in prep schools?"
Julien stopped in front of him, face calm. "No, just flushed the old recruits who couldn't cut it."
A few cadets chuckled. The redhead's smile vanished.
"Name's Varin Kest," he said coolly. "Second-in-command. You'll find my approval matters more than your cute answers."
Julien tilted his head, lips curving slightly. "Then I'll try not to beg too hard for it."
A snort from one of the other cadets broke the tension. Even Riva seemed faintly amused.
"Enough," she barked. "Deton, take the open post. Everyone, we run the Tactical Illusion Gauntlet in ten."
Julien's station was a sleek table lined with embedded card ports and one glowing slot awaiting a signature channel input. He ran his fingers over the interface and felt it hum to life beneath his touch.
Then his fingers paused.
A card. Black. Obsidian again.
Left on his station before he arrived. No one else had touched it.
He picked it up slowly. No runes visible, no traceable origin mark. But the moment his thumb touched the edge—
"Focus on me."
Julien's breath caught.
The voice wasn't real. It was a spell-trigger—Veldaric's voice, coiled into the card like a command.
"Prove you can handle pressure, Julien. Or I'll come test you myself."
He felt the blood rush to his ears. His fingers tightened around the card. Not from fear—but from something darker, sharper.
Veldaric was watching.
And he wanted Julien to know it.
The gauntlet began moments later. Holographic projections of enemies—beasts, corrupted mecha, rogue mages—flashed into existence around them. Spells fired. Walls shifted. Cadets shouted commands.
Julien moved like he was dancing. His cards flowed like an extension of his breath—energy blades drawn from illusion, mirrored barriers shifting with a snap of his fingers. Every moment he felt the weight of that obsidian card in his pocket, humming with awareness.
Varin tried to outpace him, once—blasting through a simulated mech's armor before Julien redirected the enemy's core burst behind him, nearly taking Varin down in the crossfire.
"Watch it, brat!" Varin snapped.
Julien didn't even look back. "Don't stand where I aim."
By the end of the exercise, Julien's hair was soaked with sweat, his hands burned raw from energy feedback, but the silence in the chamber told him everything.
They'd seen him.
They wouldn't ignore him again.
Later, in the locker room, as he peeled off the upper layers of his uniform, he noticed a thin band of gold magic still wrapped around his left wrist. A trace spell.
Veldaric's signature.
Not a threat. Not a weapon.
A mark.
His.