The lamps burned dim when the Fourth Division returned. Their boots echoed down the marble halls, wet from the mist outside, voices hushed as if afraid to disturb the air itself.
Lucien walked at the tail end of the group, silent. His uniform still smelled of smoke and iron. Around him, the walls shimmered faintly with protective sigils, carved into the stone like scars that never healed. Every few steps, he felt the faint vibration of power—old, patient, and watchful.
They passed a corridor where lanterns hung on chains, each flame enclosed by runes that pulsed faintly with life. Some of the recruits averted their eyes when they met his. Others stared too long, as if trying to decipher what hid behind his calm face.
They knew what had happened in the barrier room.
They knew he had survived.
---
"Fourth Division, debrief in ten!" a voice barked. It belonged to Captain Marcell, a man with streaks of silver in his dark hair and the kind of presence that filled every room he stepped into. His eyes—cold, bright, and analytical—flicked toward Lucien only once before he continued forward.
Lucien followed the group into the hall, keeping to the back. On the far wall hung a mural depicting a vast balance scale — one side dipped into flame, the other submerged in shadow.
He stared at it too long.
---
Upstairs, beyond the sight of the recruits, three figures sat in the chamber of observation. The room was lit only by runic glow, the smell of burning sage and something metallic thick in the air.
Captain Marcell leaned against the desk. "He didn't sign it," he said. "The daemon they summoned was unbound. It should've consumed him."
Vice Captain Iliah—elegant, composed, and wearing a pale coat dusted with sigil dust—crossed her legs and rested her chin on her hand. "And yet, he walked out alive. That mark on his palm… it's stable. Too stable."
In the corner, the third presence stirred. A figure draped in ash-gray robes, face hidden behind bandages, a faint line of light escaping where his eyes should have been.
Greyfold. The Seer of the Fourth Division.
He whispered, voice like paper burning.
> "That is no contract mark. It's inversion. Something rejected the pact… and replaced it."
Marcell frowned. "Meaning?"
Greyfold's head tilted, light flickering under the wrappings.
> "Meaning whatever touched him doesn't belong to our realm. Or the daemon's."
---
Lucien didn't know they were speaking of him.
At that moment, he was in the dormitory—a long room filled with narrow bunks and a smell of wax, steel, and damp cloth. The lanterns flickered low, throwing long shadows across the ceiling.
He sat on his bed, reading the handbook they had shoved into his hands after his "initiation."
> "The Fourth Division's purpose: To preserve the Balance through unseen acts. To silence the corrupted. To erase contamination before it spreads."
Lucien's brow furrowed.
He closed the book and leaned back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. "Balance," he murmured. "Whose balance?"
No answer. Only the low hum in his left palm—the same pulse that had followed him from that sealed room. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't gone. Like a heart that beat somewhere outside his body, waiting for him to notice.
---
Dinner came late that evening.
Recruits and officers gathered in the mess hall under hanging lanterns, their reflections wavering across polished steel tables. The atmosphere was oddly light for a group that dealt in blood and contracts.
Lucien sat quietly as chatter filled the room.
"Did you hear? First Division's sending more observers to the South."
"Second Division's still trafficking pacts. They call it research now."
"And the Sixth? Don't ask. People vanish when they mention it."
Lucien listened, wordless. He memorized every rumor. Every division had its secret—its function in keeping the world spinning beneath invisible laws.
He wondered how much of it was real.
When the bell struck, everyone stood.
---
A cold wind swept through the open courtyard.
Above, on the balcony overlooking the Division, stood Director Ealdric, the head of the Lantern Syndicate himself. His body was tall and gaunt, face carved from shadow, eyes pale and glassy—like someone sculpted him from forgotten prayers.
His voice carried across the air, low and commanding.
> "The Balance has begun to tilt again. Reports from the Southern Veins confirm it. Entire districts collapsing into fog. Creatures without names rising where light does not reach. The Keepers must stand vigilant. We do not seek glory. We preserve the world unseen."
A murmur swept through the ranks.
Lucien stood among them, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed upward.
Then Ealdric's eyes found him.
For a moment—only a heartbeat—Lucien felt something invisible touch his mind.
A chain of thought, silent and ancient, testing, pulling. The air grew heavy; the sigils on the walls dimmed. But just as quickly as it began, it broke.
Whatever tether Ealdric had cast over him snapped soundlessly.
Lucien blinked once.
The director looked away, continuing his speech as if nothing had happened.
---
Later that night, Lucien sat alone in his quarters. The faint hum of the lanterns filled the air like breathing. He stared down at his palm again.
The mark glowed faintly—a circle broken through its center, thin veins of light tracing up his wrist.
He touched it, whispering under his breath,
> "You're still there, aren't you?"
Something answered—not with words, but a subtle vibration, like a whisper buried under stone. A sound only his bones could hear.
He didn't flinch.
He just leaned back, watching the city lights flicker through the rain-streaked window. Beyond those walls, the Dominion never slept—its towers shimmered like candle flames under a restless sky.
Somewhere, deep within the Syndicate's hidden halls, something was beginning to stir.
And Lucien—unknowing, unwilling—had already stepped into its center.