POV Elian
I walk down the corridor toward the hall where I'll have breakfast with Iolanda and Elder Marduk. Akame walks beside me in silence. She doesn't speak much, but out of everyone I've met so far, she feels the most approachable—almost… a friend.
"Magus Akame," I call.
"Yes?" she answers without slowing, though she casts me a quick glance from the corner of her eye.
"How long has it been since you joined the Dark Throne? And why?"
She halts for a moment, takes a deep breath, then resumes her pace. Her expression remains serene, unshaken. Her beautiful, smooth face seems immune to the chill of this gray morning. Akame is a member of the Fourth Hierarchy, always close to Elder Marduk and to Iolanda—perhaps closer than she lets on.
"I joined when I was fifteen," she replies without hesitation, "right after being considered an adult."
Ah… so in this world it's similar to medieval Earth. People become "adults" far too early, not at eighteen like in Brazil.
"And the reason?" I ask.
This time she stops longer. Then she speaks, her calm voice weighted with pain:
"Revenge." She lifts her eyes to mine and adds, "Isn't it the same for you?"
"Revenge?" I repeat, startled.
"Yes." She confirms without evasion. "In my case, it was after my fiancé was killed… and the child I carried with him as well."
Her once serene expression darkens with grief. My chest tightens. I shouldn't have asked. But it's impossible to ignore—everyone in the order seems to carry deep scars, each one marked by loss.
"I'm sorry for bringing back those memories, Magus Akame," I say, bowing more deeply than usual.
"It's fine, Elian." Her voice softens again, gentle. "I won't say I've overcome it, because that would be a lie. But spending life brooding over the past is pointless." She pauses, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if searching for answers in the void. "I'm grateful to Elder Marduk for everything he's done for me. That's why I chose to remain by his side and serve in his faction."
So it's true… there are factions within the order. Not that I doubted it. Wherever power and politics exist, divisions always follow—even in something as solid as the Dark Throne.
"Let's keep moving. They're waiting for us," Akame says, resuming her stride.
★★★
We reach the hall where we'll take breakfast. The space is broad, lit by suspended chandeliers glowing with incandescent magic stones. The polished wooden tables are neatly arranged, with sturdy chairs that seem to promise comfort. Servers of the order move gracefully, carrying steaming dishes to those already seated.
It's a place reserved for the Dark Throne and its members. No civilians here. Even those who aren't mages but serve in administrative roles are considered part of the order's almost-military structure. A simple aide ceases to be mere "folk" and carries instead the weight of belonging to a public force.
The air is thick with spices, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread and warm herbs. My stomach growls loudly, cruelly reminding me that I hadn't even eaten dinner last night. No wonder I feel nearly starved.
But along with hunger comes the bitter memory of the night before. The stabbings I endured in meditation still echo inside me. It isn't physical pain—my body bears no wounds—but the sensation is so real it feels as though my soul itself is rotting from within.
I spot Elder Marduk and Iolanda seated at a more elaborate table, set for four. Their impassive faces contrast sharply with the welcoming atmosphere. Akame and I walk toward them and are received at once.
"Sit, Elian," Iolanda orders. "You too, Akame."
We obey without hesitation.
We place our orders: bread, yogurt, milk, scrambled eggs, fresh juice. The table already boasts an array of fruits and carefully prepared salads. It's a lavish breakfast, worthy of the high caste I now, somehow, belong to.
As I watch the plates gather before me, memories stir—of hunger I knew on Earth, of days when my mother and father gave up their own meals so Emanuelle and I could eat. Even in this life, I saw how much they sacrificed so nothing would be missing at home.
Now, seated before such abundance, I realize how much my reality has changed in so little time. Our new home had already given us a taste of this change, but here, in the company of the Elder and his daughter, the contrast feels overwhelming.
And still, deep inside, I know: what I desire most is to be able to give them even more than this.
★★★
In less than half an hour we finish. The conversation is brief, almost trivial—Iolanda explains how life will be from now on: harsher, stricter, more demanding. None of it surprises me, but hearing it from her own lips makes it real.
We rise and leave together. The clinking of cutlery and murmurs of the other magi fade behind us until we cross the main corridor of the branch and reach the exit. The cold air of Askov engulfs us at once.
We walk toward the entrance of the order when, unable to contain my curiosity, I ask:
"Where are we going?"
My eyes turn to Iolanda, who follows close behind Elder Marduk with steady steps.
"We're going to take the Teleportation Portal," she replies simply.
"The portal?" I frown, surprised. "I thought it was inside the branch."
"No," she answers, calm yet firm. "As I've told you before, no one truly understands how it works—not even its builders. They are ancient relics, older than any order. Only a few exist across the entire kingdom, across the whole continent of Aldebaran."
She pauses briefly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"That's why fortresses are raised where one exists. And here in Askov, the portal lies within the Council Arcane's building."
Her words echo within me. This is not just travel. We are about to cross a threshold that connects cities, kingdoms… perhaps even worlds.
I look around. The cold wind sweeps across streets still damp from the night's rain. Mist clings to the stone buildings, while guards—mages and non-mages alike—patrol silently, indifferent to the enormity of what I am about to witness.
We step into a carriage waiting at the entrance. It glides over the wet cobblestones, the sharp wind seeping through cracks. I watch everything intently: the people coming and going, magi and commoners, hurried merchants, soldiers of the Crown and of the orders.
It's a vision Brumaria could never offer.
Even with frost blanketing the stones and water reflecting the gray sky, Askov's streets are beautiful—somber, imposing. Beautiful enough to make me wish, once again, that one day I could bring my family to see this.
At last, the carriage stops before the Council. We disembark and walk toward the portal chamber, tucked away in the rear, accessible only to those with authorization—or so Iolanda had explained.