He lifts his gaze, unhurried, like a man weighing every detail before speaking. His expression, firm as granite, reveals neither warmth nor coldness—only that severity carved by decades.
"Would you like something to drink?"
The question catches me off guard. For a few seconds, silence reigns, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace behind me and the faint snap of the quill Marduk has set aside on his papers.
I hesitate. My dry throat betrays my desire, but something in his presence makes even a simple request feel heavy.
"If you want something, just ask, boy," he says, sensing my indecision. "You've already been told you are my apprentice."
"Yes, Elder," I answer, bowing my head slightly. "I'd like a glass of water."
Marduk claps twice, the sharp sound reverberating through the office like an irrefutable command.
The left-hand door opens slowly, and a woman enters, carrying with her both discipline and dignity. Her attire is that of a servant, yet nothing vulgar: a long skirt down to her shins, sleeves concealing every inch of her arms, fabric plain but well kept. Despite the sobriety of her clothes, her mature beauty cannot be hidden.
Dark green eyes—intense and steady—stand out against her slender face, lightly touched by time. Her blonde hair, tied in an elegant ponytail, falls to her shoulder blades, swaying discreetly with each firm step.
"Bring the boy a glass of water. For me, a cup of black tea, very hot," Marduk orders, his grave voice leaving no room for reply.
Then he turns his gaze to Iolanda, waiting as though her choice too were part of a ritual.
"For me, a cup of coffee," she answers, brief yet calm as always.
The word echoes in my mind like a gunshot. Coffee. The sound alone rips me from the present, dragging me backward—as if the bitter aroma already lingers in the air. Elise. Brumaria, before the flames. And further still, Earth—my mother, always with a cup in hand, smiling through that banal, human addiction. A knot tightens in my chest. That longing isn't sweet; it's corrosive. And with it, solitude presses down again like a stone on my shoulders.
"Could I change my request? I'd like coffee too," I say, voice firm but low, before the woman departs.
She simply nods, discreet, without a word. Her silent steps carry her back through the side door—an unseen kitchen, most likely. The sound of wood closing echoes softly, yet in this heavy chamber it feels like the sealing of a decree.
Minutes later, the door opens again. The servant returns carrying a polished silver tray with the three drinks we asked for. Steam rises from coffee and tea alike, mingling in the air with warm, comforting aromas. On the tray lie small accompaniments too: golden pastries, crisp biscuits, slices of fresh bread.
While she was gone, we had moved from the formal chairs before Marduk's desk to the dark-leather sofas at the left. The low table of noble wood, inlaid with golden runes, seems made for moments like this—part fellowship, part negotiation.
"Thank you," I say as the servant sets a cup of coffee before me.
The strong, bitter scent of fresh coffee strikes me like a wave, stirring nostalgia sweeter than it is painful. Not loneliness this time, but warm memories of simple mornings, of forgotten laughter. For a moment, my chest feels lighter.
I wait until Elder Marduk raises his black tea and takes the first sip. Only then do I lift my own cup, tasting coffee that burns my tongue slightly before spreading warmth down my throat.
We share a small meal in silence. The faint crackle of the fireplace gives the room the solemn air of a temple, as if even time holds its breath. While I chew slowly, my eyes roam across the chamber—colossal maps, shelves swollen with grimoires, luxurious carpets muffling footsteps. Everything radiates the sense that this is the heart of the Order, where secrets and destinies are shaped.
When we finish, the servant returns at the precise moment, as though divining our needs. Without a word, she clears away plates and cups with practiced grace, then leaves again. The click of the closing door resounds sharp and final, sealing our privacy.
That is when Marduk breaks the silence.
"How has your adjustment been?" he asks, voice grave, eyes fixed on me.
I straighten on the sofa, hands resting on my knees, and meet his gaze.
"It's going well, sir," I answer firmly. "Commander Haliel says I'm getting the hang of the sword." I pause briefly, choosing my words. "My room is very comfortable, and I've learned much in my philosophy lessons."
I hesitate. Part of me wants to complain about not training magic, but I hold my tongue. Marduk seems to read my silence, yet does not press. Instead, he cuts straight to the point.
"Good," he says, his tone brisk, one who wastes no time. "Let's get to business."
He slips a hand into his black coat and withdraws the Order's amulet. As his mana flows into it, the object glows with a deep violet light that floods the room for a heartbeat, reflecting across maps and grimoires.
On the low table, a chest materializes with a muffled thud. To me, it looks less like a chest and more like an ancient coffer—heavy, meant to guard secrets capable of bending fates. And it will bend mine.
"Inside are the materials for the construction of your altar," Marduk says, his voice grave as he tucks the amulet back into his coat.
My heart leaps. "Then I've been granted permission to build it?" I ask, unable to hide the urgency in my voice.
"You already had permission," he replies, each word weighted like stone. "Only the materials were missing."
A brief silence falls. The elder turns his gaze to Iolanda, the crimson in his eyes reflecting firelight.
"Assist him with the altar's construction afterward."
"Yes, Elder Marduk," she replies with resolve. She hesitates, then lifts her eyes to him respectfully. "Will you be present for the consecration?"
"I will," he says, dry yet certain.
I stay quiet, watching father and daughter exchange words. In that moment, they are not only elder and knight but blood—family, bound and divided by the weight of the Order. The contrast stings me, reminding me of Maria, of Emanuelle, of Anthony. My own family, so far away, while I witness another so near, wrapped in ranks and rituals.
My gaze falls again on the chest before me. The object seems to pulse faintly, as though the secrets inside breathe. What waits within? Bones, blood, symbols of power? Or merely tools, waiting for the moment they'll tether me to the Qliphoth?
Without a word, Iolanda produces her own amulet, glowing crimson. With a gesture, the chest dissolves into magic and vanishes into her possession.
"Explain to him what must be done and how to build the altar," Marduk orders.
"Understood," she replies solemnly.
The elder leans back, closing the matter. "You may go now."
We rise from the luxurious sofas. My heart still hammers as I bow.
"Thank you for everything, Elder Marduk."
He merely inclines his head—a gesture simple, yet more commanding than any word.
We leave the chamber, retracing the silent corridor, descending the spiral stair that leads outward. When the door opens, sunlight greets us in full force. The day's heat clashes with the damp wind left by last night's rain, brushing my skin like a premonition.
We walk side by side toward my quarters, where the altar will be built. With every step, my heart beats faster. The weight of responsibility and the flame of expectation twine together inside me. Another step taken, another chain linked to the power I seek—not for glory, not for pride, but for the silent promise to protect those I love.