When I step out through the doors of the main compound, Katlya and Malcol are already there. Tension settles into my body; the air feels heavy, even as the wind tries to tousle my hair.I definitely hate the exact moment of farewell. I would have preferred to leave through the back door, without saying anything.
As I stand before them, I nod to Katlya. With complete solemnity, our eyes seal an unspoken agreement about the one thing that binds us.
When I look at her side, that one thing that truly binds us looks at me with desolation. My chest feels as if it contracts and expands at the same time. The only thing I manage to give Malcol as a farewell is a sad smile.
The words escape me. Nothing I could say would make sense, so I simply turn around and walk down the path, surrounded by servants who bow as I pass in front of them.
Before reaching the carriage, someone grabs my arm. Malcol clings to me in an embrace, as if his life depended on it. For a moment, I forget all the eyes on us and return the hug.
—Every time you look at the moon, remember that I love you —I say, almost in a whisper.—And you, remember that I will always wait for you in our land —he replies, his voice hoarse.
We let go, and he straightens up. I turn and keep walking, as if nothing had happened.
Only when I am inside the carriage do I dare to look back. I try to control the nausea that comes from watching the main entrance grow smaller and smaller, until it disappears along with everything I once knew in this world.
This is the dilemma of love: one way or another, it always causes pain. I have never been able to answer whether that pain is worth it; if even something as pure as love brings suffering, perhaps we were only born to suffer before we die.
Although, in my circumstances, I am more certain of suffering than of death itself. I sigh deeply and hold my breath as long as I can, keeping my eyes closed.
—Let's travel in silence. I'm not in the mood for anything right now —I tell Eleni and Amara, who sit across from me in the carriage, as if that could create a barrier between them and me. It's already too late. It is always too late.
Eleni nods and loses herself again in the window, just as I did moments ago. Amara merely raises an eyebrow as she looks at me, then turns to the opposite window.
The journey lasts only an hour and a half, until we reach the capital of Nova Gaelia. Before stepping out of the carriage, I open the box the Legatus sent me this morning.
Inside is a silver mask, with no adornment other than the outline of a face and eye holes. I let Eleni help me put it on.
From what I read in the predictive book of the blue stone, and from what I have seen in religious propaganda, I know that masks are worn by the Arkitectus and their descendants in public places, both for security and to cultivate a certain mysticism around them.
In the hangar, Sir Edmun joins us, which I appreciate, because most people look at me with intrigue—some wide-eyed—and all, without exception, bow deeply. No doubt because of the mask. I ignore them, head held high.
Without delay, we transfer to a large ship of gleaming metal, shaped somewhat like a triangle with curved sides. I spot the Regentus in the distance, surrounded by his entourage, and I am grateful I do not have to speak with him.
Unlike its smooth, unadorned exterior, the interior of the ship is luxurious and comfortable. But what is most astonishing is its speed: in the blink of an eye, we arrive at Kratus V, one of the three most powerful nations on the continent. Its capital alone—the one we are heading to—is twenty times larger than Nova Gaelia's.
If we were alone, I would help Eleni disembark; she is so pale I think she might vomit at any moment. Even back on solid ground, the horror does not leave her eyes.
Though they hide it better, Sir Edmun and Amara are not much better off. With the aversion religion has instilled in them toward technology, this ship must seem like a demonic artifact; in their folklore, a Vermisdei that has swallowed them and spat them out elsewhere.
The next vessel we must board is colossal: a great silver floating ship. The assigned guide—who seems more robot than human in his formality—leads us through the place to a panoramic dome.
It is a small but luxurious space, with the upper half and ceiling made of glass. Only my small group, two guards, and the guide are there.
—And the others? And the Legatus? —I ask, not allowing my voice to tremble.
The man looks like he might faint.
—I… I do not know, my… —he chokes, unsure how to address me—. My most exalted lady, forgive this poor servant, who only follows the instructions given by the Honorable Legatus of House Noxirian —he finally says, kneeling with a bow, the top of his head touching the floor.
—It doesn't matter —I reply coldly. The discomfort makes me ignore him as I sit and watch the hangar open while instructions echo through the speakers.
The tension in the room is palpable, and I can do nothing to comfort my people—not without knowing who is watching for weaknesses.
When the ship begins to lift and move slowly out of the hangar, it feels like being on a boat over calm waves.
The initial micro-jump to orbit, announced by the speakers, was like falling asleep standing and waking up in space. There were no vibrations. The ship did not roar, did not tremble. Only a slight pressure in the stomach, as if the soul moved ahead of the body by a few seconds.
What truly overwhelms me is seeing the planet recede: a blue-green and brown disk, mottled with clouds, floating over nothingness. The stars—invisible from the surface—shone like needles piercing a curtain of black velvet. Smaller ships crossed orbit like luminous insects.
Everything comes alive again when the speakers announce that the warp jump will occur in one hour and fifteen minutes. I tear my eyes from the dome and see Amara embracing Eleni to calm her, while Sir Edmun cannot look away from space.
While we wait, we are attended as if on a luxury commercial flight, by a kind of attendant in a gray military uniform who serves us food and drinks.
Only Amara eats, while I am the only one who drinks a large glass of some kind of wine, not caring that I must slightly lift my mask. It occurs to me that the Legatus probably sent me here to intimidate me; too bad it takes more than this to succeed.
In the end, the warp jump is not painful. It is… strange. As if all your senses are suspended for a moment. Vision turns white—not from light, but from absence of form—and then suddenly everything expands. As if the universe breathed, and you were caught inside the sigh.
When I opened my eyes, we were in the orbit of Luna Magna. And the first thing I hear is Eleni's stomach emptying through her mouth.
From the dome, Luna Magna is a spectacle. Massive, wrapped in a thin atmosphere, its vast tectonic plates marked like cracks in an ancient gem. Across its surface, cities glow with artificial light: some embedded in craters, others spread in translucent domes that seem to bloom like corals beneath the starry sky.
At the poles, I can make out what I believe are orbital defense stations suspended like silent sentinels, since this is where the largest space fleet and its central command are concentrated, as far as I knew. A chain of solar mirrors and agricultural satellites orbited slowly, like interrupted rings of purpose and precision.
The light here is different. Not only because of the distant star, but due to the constant reflection of thousands of structures and energy shields. It is a blue clarity, dense, almost liquid. The stars reflect on the glass of the dome.
I cannot help but laugh at the impression and raise my final sip of alcohol—purple, thick, slightly spiced—as an offering to the void itself before drinking it.
The final micro-jump to the moon takes another hour and fifteen minutes, just as smooth as the first. In a blink, the palace of Lunagran itself stands before us; we are so close I cannot take in the full structure of gray stone and metal, like towering needles with domes of green gardens encapsulated in glowing glass.
We glide calmly over invisible waves into a hangar camouflaged between rock and metal. When the descent is announced, the guide reappears from the shadows to direct us out of this stellar beast.
—You —I say, pointing to one of the guards, the largest and most robust, whose eyes widen in alarm—, carry her and follow us —I order, indicating Eleni, who looks like a newborn foal trying to walk.
I look at Eleni's face, her slight frown—one only I can recognize on her corpse-pale features—telling me she finds it undignified not to fulfill her role. But unable to protest in public, she says nothing, and we disembark.
The Legatus is waiting for me with a large escort of uniformed men. His sharp gaze makes me think he is trying to detect any doubt in my stride, since the mask prevents him from seeing my face.
—How was your journey, my most exalted lady? —he asks with a smile and a bow.
—Much better than I expected. The view was spectacular, and I barely felt the jumps. What displeased me was the cheap wine I was served —I say as if discussing the weather, just to ruin his little act.
The Legatus frowns for a moment, then returns to his false jovial smile.
—It will be taken into account, my most exalted lady. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I will guide you to your new home.
—His tone is solemn, carrying a respect that did not exist before, not without the mask. I cannot help but feel a certain satisfaction at that.
The sense of hostility is reaffirmed as we walk through the corridors of Lunagran. From the outside, green domes of vegetation might be visible, but inside it feels dead and sterile, like the stone and metal that compose it.
I almost dare to ask the Legatus if colors other than gray and black are forbidden in this place, just to see the impatience on his face and break this sepulchral silence that only our footsteps accompany.
Just when I begin to think we will walk this inert labyrinth forever, we stop before enormous carved doors that two guards open for us.
We enter a colossal audience hall, with great stone columns adorned with black banners bearing the crest of House Noxirian. The black floor reflects the stars visible through the glass ceiling.
When I look back, I see that only the Legatus and I continue forward through the hall. I barely catch a glimpse of how everyone else who had accompanied us is blocked from advancing as the doors close behind them.
We continue until we stand before a raised platform of several levels. It seems as though it could hold several thrones, but there is only one stone seat at the center; its back is enormous and tapers into a point, with the same crest engraved at the top.
Seated upon it is what appears to be a man in a black, military-style suit, sober in design, with only touches of silver and purple. But what stands out the most is that he wears what looks to me like a custom-made space helmet, with black glass almost completely covering his face.
—You stand before the great Arkitectus Seraphen Durn Vel'Askar III, ruler of House Noxirian and High Command of the army, protector of the firmament. Your humble servant, Tavian Caedor Krownwell Nytheris, premier Legatus of House Noxirian, and his companion, whom you may name at your will.
This grandiloquent formality strikes me as foolish. It is amusing how those who call themselves great men ensure they are remembered again and again.
Even so, I play along. When the Legatus bows, I do the same, offering the deepest and most flawless reverence I can muster.
The man on the throne—the Arkitectus Noxirian—gestures for us to approach with his hand… or so we think, the Legatus and I, because as we begin to ascend, the Arkitectus seems to say something to the man at his side.
If the predictive book of the blue stone had described this hall and the Arkitectus perfectly in a similar scene, then the man with glasses at his right should be his spokesman, the Noxirian Herald.
—The Arkitectus Noxirian wishes only to see the girl up close —the Herald declares in a commanding voice.
I cannot help but glance back, searching the Legatus's face for any sign of dissatisfaction. The moment tastes sweet, but even so, I do not stop climbing.
Until a red-haired man halts me four steps away from the Arkitectus.
I study this man's stoic face, searching for any sign that he is the ruthless killer the predictive book claims him to be: Kael Zabala, the Blinder, one of the Arkitectus's personal paladins, and the man who, under other circumstances, would have slaughtered the entire Mallory family without mercy at the Arkitectus's command.
—It's fine, Sir Zabala. Let her approach —the Arkitectus orders.
I advance, unable to remain fully alert with such a killer so close behind me. When I reach the throne, I kneel on one knee upon the cold floor, continuing my role in this theater.
We are so close that he only needs to lean slightly forward to remove the mask from my face. His woody perfume does not hide the scent of metal and old leather.
Without the mask, I see myself reflected in his black visor: a beautiful girl with eyes of steel. How strange. I feel like I am made of butter, about to melt at any moment.
The Arkitectus himself brings his hands to his neck and removes his helmet, allowing me to see his aged face, his tanned skin, and his white hair.
But above all, there is something in his gaze; those gray eyes shine with something I cannot understand—a certain longing.
—From this moment on, you will serve me under the name Ravenna Selene —he says, as if naming me both queen and prisoner at once—, and in return you will receive all the glory you could ever imagine.