Chapter 37
The Eleven
'The Eleven Marked'
For decades, the academies of the Human Alliance have upheld a silent system: in every tri-generation—a cycle of three complete student cohorts—eleven individuals would be singled out by a destiny that neither sages nor strategists could fully decipher.
These eleven are known as The Marked.
Each academy has its own Eleven Marked. They are not chosen by decree or favoritism, but by the recognition of a potential that defies all conventional metrics. On the surface, they are students like any other—children and youths between eight and eighteen—but their performance, their perception of power, and the way they react to the unknown set them apart from the crowd.
The identification process begins long before they themselves understand what is happening.
The oldest instructors, discreetly called 'observers,' watch the generations in silence, noting every gesture out of the ordinary: an instinctive reaction to latent energy, a premature mastery of advanced techniques, or the ability to withstand mental or physical influences that would break a trained adult.
When a student manifests more than one of these signs, their name is inscribed in a Candidate Registry.
By the age of fifteen, most of the Marked face the decision that defines their destiny. That is the limit of their stay within the academies: the age when promises cease to be students and become disciples.
The institution, aware of the risks of retaining such potential and talent in closed spaces, releases them so the world can absorb them, guided—at least in theory—by teachers or external figures who can channel their potential to new levels.
It is said that, by that age, the Marked's body and spirit have reached the precise point between maturity and malleability. Keeping them longer in the academic structure would only provoke conflict: rivalries, ruptures, or the premature death of a brilliant talent.
Once outside, the paths diverge. Some Marked seek out legendary masters, veterans of ancient wars, or scholars who study the limits of power.
Others launch themselves into the world without guidance, drawn by the promise of freedom or the need to test the limits of their strength. These are the ones who most quickly gain fame or infamy: they become adventurers, mercenaries, explorers of ancient ruins, or soldiers in campaigns where the Alliance extends its dominion.
The term "promise" ceased to be an academic description and became a social category. In many regions, when someone says, "he is a promise," they are not referring to just any young talent, but to a Marked who has left the classrooms to test their gift in the raw reality of the world.
Some do not survive their first year outside the walls. Others return decades later, unrecognizable, transformed into legends or threats. The academies do not reclaim them; the Alliance does not control them.
They are free entities, fragments of scattered power, seeds of change planted without direction, but whose growth is expected to alter the course of history.
***
Outside the academy gates, people exited with their parents and children.
Some chattered excitedly about how impressive the teachers' uniforms with the colored stripes looked; others continued commenting on the presence Allion had exuded.
There were those who still jokingly imitated him, striking their chests with a closed fist, while others simply walked in silence, overwhelmed by the sensation of having witnessed something greater than themselves.
The public's murmur mixed with the sound of footsteps on stone and the laughter of children, who were running again after having stayed still for so long.
The air, which inside the grounds had seemed solemn and heavy, now breathed differently: more alive, more human.
Near the main gate, Sil adjusted Kaep's coat to protect him from the wind.
The boy kept looking back, trying to see amidst the crowd the last glimmer of the columns or the dark uniforms disappearing behind the doors.
"No need to look so much," Ivan said with a smile, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll be back tomorrow, and every day after that."
Kaep didn't answer. He pressed his lips together, holding back an emotion he couldn't name. Eli, a few steps away, picked up a small stone from the ground and made it skip with the tip of her shoe, following it in little hops.
Further ahead, groups of parents were saying goodbye to each other. Some talked about what they would do on their day off, others commented on Allion's words.
"Did you see the confidence with which he spoke?" one said. "He didn't even seem like an instructor… he seemed like someone who runs this whole place."
"At his age," added another, shaking his head. "If half of what they say about the Marked is true, those kids are born for this."
The conversation was lost among others: laughter, murmurs, footsteps.
Kaep was no exception.
He walked between his mother, Eli, and Eli's mother, talking with the energy of someone still digesting what they had just experienced.
"Did you see how everyone listened to him without moving?" the boy said, waving his hands enthusiastically. "Not even the older ones spoke, nor the teachers standing behind."
Sil glanced at him, amused.
"Of course I saw. But you weren't breathing either," she replied, her tone warm.
Eli laughed softly, covering her mouth.
"You looked like a statue, Kaep. Your eyes were even shining," she added, making him frown in mock offense.
"Not as much as you, you were like this," he retorted, opening his mouth exaggeratedly to mimic her expression.
The two mothers exchanged a look, suppressing a smile. The lightness of the moment contrasted with the grave murmur of adult conversations sounding further back.
Ivan walked a few steps behind, next to Körper, with a more relaxed air now that the protocol was over.
The bustle of the group gradually dissipated along the stone paths.
"And to think someone could actually become a Marked at fifteen," Ivan said, his tone thoughtful. "But after seeing that kid, Allion…" He paused, shaking his head. "I understand why someone like that would achieve it."
Körper nodded and immediately replied. With a mix of frankness and discipline, without taking his eyes off the path that sloped gently toward the exit.
"I know it all too well," he said with a dry, almost incredulous laugh. "Even though there's only a year's difference between Allion and me…" He shook his head. "I feel there's a chasm I can't cross. Not one of strength, exactly. It's something else. A distance that doesn't shorten no matter how much I train or learn."
Ivan looked at him sideways, curious.
"The difference seems that big to you?"
Körper exhaled through his nose, looking at the ground before turning his gaze to the sky, where the academy's reddish walls stood out against the orange light of the afternoon.
"With adventurers, it's different. They can be hundreds of times stronger than me, and still, I can see them as a reachable goal. I can imagine that, with time and discipline, I'll reach their level." He made a brief pause, lowering his voice. "But with Allion… no. There's no path that connects him to me. It's as if he's already in another league… looking down from above."
Ivan nodded slowly, understanding the feeling without needing words.
Körper, however, didn't let respect turn into resignation. He lifted his gaze again, his eyes firm, and a slight smile curved his mouth.
"That's why I admire Bairon so much," he continued. "Becoming a Marked was… very difficult. I saw it, I lived it with him. But he did it, and that reminds me the line isn't impossible. It's just far… very far." He crossed his arms, with a determined air. "And I don't plan to fall behind. Not after all we've been through."
Ivan smiled, recognizing the tone of that promise.
"You two still push each other, huh?"
"Exactly. We help each other improve," Körper replied without hesitation. "Sometimes with blows, sometimes with words. But without that, neither of us would have come this far."
A brief silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the children's laughter a few meters ahead.
The wind carried the echo of the interior fountain's water and the distant murmur of new families entering the grounds.
Ivan looked at him for another moment before speaking with a half-smile.
"Then don't change that. As long as you have someone who demands more from you than you think you can give, you can keep advancing."
Körper let out a light laugh, nodding.
"I know. That's why I don't plan to let him get too far ahead."
And they kept walking, side by side, as the sound of the academy faded behind, dissolving among the trees and the evening breeze.
As they walked, the group gradually dispersed among the crowd leaving the grounds. The bustle mixed with the murmur of the wind and the rustle of leaves.
Kaep, who until a moment ago had been laughing with Eli, slowed his pace. His eyes strayed from the path and returned to the front, toward the gate marking the boundary of the grounds.
There, amidst the coming and going of families, off to the side of the gate, a man stood motionless, leaning against one of the stone pillars.
He wore a shirt that was too loose, white, wrinkled from use, and black military-cut trousers, with nearly faded violet stripes running down the sides.
His hair was disheveled, falling in rebellious locks over his forehead, and his posture was relaxed, almost careless.
But what was most striking—or rather, what should have been—were his eyes: violet, deep, the same shade as Kaep's.
The boy stared at him.
And yet, he didn't see him.
His gaze didn't stop at the man, but went through him, as if observing something beyond.
The figure, still motionless, lifted his face slightly. The violet eyes blinked once, slowly. Then, the man tilted his head a little, as if acknowledging something… or someone.
By the time the group of both families drew closer, the man raised his arms slightly, a hesitant gesture, as if unsure whether to greet them or stop them.
His gaze moved between the faces of the adults and the children—lingering for a moment on Kaep.
The wind lifted the edge of his loose shirt, and a lock of his hair fell over his eyes.
He seemed about to say something.
But then…
The footsteps didn't stop.
No one looked at him.
No one reacted.
And before the man could comprehend it, the group passed through him.
They didn't dodge or push him: they simply passed through him, as if he were air.
The instant stretched. His body turned translucent for a blink, and for a moment the outline of his figure dissolved into a faint haze, the color of the sunset. When the last silhouette—Kaep's—crossed the point where he stood, the man became completely immobile.
His violet eyes opened a little wider, his expression frozen in mute shock.
He looked at his own hands.
He lifted them before his face.
They were his… but they cast no shadow.
The sound of the wind distorted, becoming hollow, distant.
He tried to speak, but no voice came from his throat; only a muffled echo.
Before him, the two families continued on their way without looking back, laughing softly, talking, completely unaware.
Kaep, the last to move away, turned his head for an instant, as if touched by an intuition.
And he saw how, high on the inner wall, a piece of paper detached from the stone and fell, spinning slowly in the air, until it landed right where the man had been.
Only the undulating air and the dust illuminated by the sun.
Eli's voice brought him back to reality.
"Kaep, are you coming?" she asked, turning from a few steps ahead.
The boy blinked.
He looked again at the spot where the leaf had fallen.
Only the pillar, the shadow, and the street bathed in the light of the sunset.
Kaep stood still for a second longer, lifted his gaze to appreciate the academy.
Then he quickened his pace to catch up with Eli, who was already taking her mother's hand.
Behind, Ivan and Körper continued talking, having noticed nothing.
The man slowly lowered his arms.
His fingers trembled.
The bewilderment on his face mixed with something harder to name: an old sadness, a sudden understanding that hurt too much to be new.
Then, his body began to lose form.
The outline of his figure unraveled into a thicker haze, like smoke fading when touched by light.
First the edges, then the arms, and finally the violet eyes—the last to fade—which seemed to look at a point beyond, before extinguishing completely.
The air was empty again.
Only the stone gate, the distant voices, and the soft breeze carrying the dust of the afternoon.
***
[Back in the room, at night]
The nearest candle burned with a thin flame, trembling with the same rhythm as his breath.
Before it, a wooden table marked by cuts and ink stains.
The sound of the small steel ball—scrape, scrape, scrape—filled the room with a constant, almost hypnotic pulse.
Kaep was writing.
His fingers, stained with bronze and ink, moved with forced precision, as if each word had weight.
The paper crinkled under the irregular pressure of the pen, and sometimes the line deviated a millimeter before righting itself.
Each stroke seemed to tear something out from inside him: an image, a voice, a tremor that wouldn't quite disappear.
The memory was still fresh.
He could feel it, pulsing behind his eyes, mixed with a slight nausea, as if his body still hadn't understood that he had already awakened.
The metallic smell of bronze mixed with that of hot wax; he didn't notice it consciously, but his body did—the muscle in his neck, tense, his shoulders raised more than necessary.
He finished the line.
The pen stopped mid-stroke, and for an instant silence filled everything.
Only the faint buzz of the flame could be heard.
Kaep lifted the pen.
The movement was slow, measured, as if letting go meant breaking an invisible connection.
The metal's reflection returned his gaze for a moment before his hand's shadow covered it.
He set it aside, on the table, right at the edge of the paper.
The trembling in his fingers wasn't from cold.
It was an internal vibration, a discharge with no outlet.
Before him, two sheets—one on top of the other—covered in tight lines of fresh ink.
The strokes still shone under the candlelight.
The text was brief, compressed to the limit, as if he had wanted to enclose an entire life on a single page.
Kaep observed them without reading at first.
He just followed the path of each line with his gaze, the mechanical order of the words, trying to recognize if what was written belonged to him or if he had just copied it from some corner of his mind that he couldn't quite accept as his own.
His hand trembled again.
Unconsciously, he brought his fingers to his face, brushing the lower edge of his right eye, right where fatigue accumulated in a line of heat.
"So… they are violet."