Chapter 9: Bloodlines and Boundaries
Julien stood in formation with the rest of Division Twelve, sun glaring off the Academy's upper decks. Despite the open air, he felt caged—tension coiled in every breath, every glance. The others had stopped sneering. That would have been easier to ignore.
Now, they just watched.
Too quiet. Too curious. Like they'd been told not to touch him. Or warned what would happen if they did.
Lieutenant Riva barked orders for a new sparring sequence, pairing cadets in randomized groups. Julien was assigned to Varin Kest again.
"Try not to trip over your reputation," Varin muttered as they stepped into the combat ring.
Julien smiled blandly. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."
Varin lunged first—his strikes sharp, brutal, fueled by suppressed resentment. Julien parried cleanly, his card-weapons forming smooth arcs of defense. They clashed in silence, blow for blow, until Varin misjudged a reversal and left himself open.
Julien struck—stopped the blade an inch from Varin's throat.
"Dead," Julien said quietly.
But before Varin could snarl back, a ripple of raw energy rolled through the training field. Heavy. Smothering. Every cadet turned toward the northern walkway.
Marshal Veldaric Hill had arrived.
No guard. No escort. Just him—long black coat fluttering like a shadow cut from the sky. His presence hit harder than any spell.
And his gaze?
Locked on Julien.
"Cadet Deton," he said. "With me."
No one questioned it. Not even Riva.
Julien followed without a word, heart hammering. They walked in silence, Veldaric's pace precise, almost predatory. He didn't lead Julien to his office. Instead, they entered the lower hangar—a space filled with inactive mechas, quiet and humming with stored power.
Once the doors sealed behind them, Veldaric turned.
"Tell me," he said coldly, "what did Elsin give you?"
Julien didn't answer at first.
Veldaric stepped forward—just once—and the space between them evaporated.
"You were marked, Julien. That trace on your wrist? It's mine." He reached out, gripped Julien's wrist tightly. "He dared to override it. Touched what doesn't belong to him."
Julien shivered. "I didn't ask for your mark."
"But you wear it."
His fingers dragged slowly up Julien's arm, deliberately, possessively. "You think I didn't feel it? The moment your loyalty wavered?"
"It didn't—"
"You lied."
Julien jerked back, breath catching. "You're insane."
Veldaric stared at him. Then, quietly: "Maybe. But insanity is preferable to letting them take you from me."
Silence fell between them like an axe.
Then Veldaric reached into his coat and pulled out a new card. This one glowed faintly—gold threaded through obsidian. The design was elegant, minimal, dangerous.
He held it out.
"Take it."
Julien looked at it, not moving.
"What is it?" he asked.
Veldaric's voice dropped.
"A bond-seal. Crafted through the old bloodline method. Illegal. Undetectable. Unbreakable."
Julien's breath faltered.
"If you take it," Veldaric said, stepping closer again, "you'll be mine. Fully. No secrets, no shadows, no lies between us. I'll protect you from Elsin, the Council… even from your own past."
Julien stared at the card. Felt the dangerous pull of it. Power. Protection. Ownership.
A trap made from everything he craved.
"And if I don't take it?" he whispered.
Veldaric's expression darkened—possessive, almost hurt.
"Then I'll have to chain you another way."