The journey to the Royal Citadel was not the heroic procession Matthew had once imagined. There were no cheering crowds or fluttering banners. Instead, there was only the rhythmic clatter of iron-shod wheels on stone and the muffled sobs of his sister, Emily, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep against his shoulder.
The carriage was a mobile fortress—iron-reinforced wood with tiny, barred slits for windows. Matthew spent the hours staring through one of those slits, watching the blackened remains of the countryside blur past.
When the carriage finally groaned to a halt, the heavy doors were thrown open not by a servant, but by two guards with halberds.
"Out," one commanded. "The girl goes to the infirmary. The boy goes to the North Tower."
"No!" Matthew snapped, his arm tightening around Emily. "She stays with me. We're the only survivors."
"It wasn't a request, kid," the guard said, reaching in to grab Emily.
"Wait!" A sharp voice cut through the air. The Captain from the ruins—a man whose breastplate bore the insignia of a rising sun—stepped into view. "The girl is traumatized. Take her to the Sisters of Mercy. Treat her well, or you'll answer to me. The boy comes with me to the interrogation wing."
Matthew looked at the Captain. "Interrogation? We didn't do anything wrong."
"It's a formality, Matthew," the Captain said, though his eyes didn't match the softness of his voice. "Standard procedure for any survivor of an S-Class event. We need to know what you saw."
With a final, desperate look at Emily being led away, Matthew was marched through the cold, echoing halls of the Citadel. The architecture was oppressive—vaulted ceilings that felt like they were crushing you and white marble floors that reflected his own ragged, ash-covered appearance.
Matthew was led into a small, windowless room. The only furniture was a heavy oak table and two chairs. He was left alone for what felt like hours, the silence ringing in his ears until the door creaked open.
The Captain entered, followed by a man in dark, high-collared robes. The newcomer didn't look like a soldier; he looked like a vulture, thin and sharp-featured, carrying a stack of parchment and a quill that looked like a needle.
"I am Inquisitor Vane," the man said, sitting across from Matthew. He didn't offer a greeting. "And this is Captain Allen . We are here to discuss the fall of Oakhaven. Or more specifically, your father."
Matthew felt a spark of defensive heat. "My father died protecting the village. He died a Knight."
"He died a mystery," Vane corrected, leaning forward. "We have the logs from the Oakhaven garrison. Adrian was listed as a 'Grade C' frontline soldier. A man of average talent and unremarkable record. And yet..." Vane slid a piece of charcoal-stained parchment across the table. It was a sketch made by a survivor scout. "One man was seen engaging a Sky-Dreader in single combat. One man managed to deflect a mana-beam from a Behemoth, even if only for a few seconds."
The Inquisitor's eyes locked onto Matthew's. "That isn't Grade C talent, Matthew. That is Grade S. Where did he get the sword?"
"I don't know," Matthew lied. His voice didn't waver, but his heart was hammering. He remembered the golden light, the way the blade seemed to breathe.
"Don't lie to me, boy," Vane hissed. "A weapon of that caliber is a national asset. It's a relic. If your father was hiding it, he was committing treason against the Crown by withholding military power."
"Treason?" Matthew stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. "He was fighting! While your 'elite' army was miles away, he was the only one standing between those things and my sister! If he had a special sword, thank the stars he did, because I'd be ash right now if he didn't!"
Captain Allen placed a hand on the table, signaling for Matthew to sit. "Calm down. We aren't accusing you. But you have to understand the gravity. Those monsters didn't hit Oakhaven by accident. They were drawn there. We believe they were hunting something. Or someone."
The room felt smaller. Matthew thought of the chest his father had kept chained up. He thought of his mother's sapphire pendant.
"Did he ever show you any techniques?" Vane asked, his quill poised. "Did he ever speak of where he came from before he settled in Oakhaven? His records only go back eighteen years. Before that, Adrian of Oakhaven didn't exist."
"He was just my dad," Matthew said, his voice dropping to a whisper. The weight of the day—the loss, the fire, the sight of his mother falling—finally began to crush his anger into exhaustion. "He told me he was just fast. He told me he didn't want me to be a Knight because it was a trade of souls for silver. He wanted us to be safe."
Vane sighed, looking disappointed. He turned to Allen. "The boy is a dead end. Either he's a very good liar, or the father kept him completely in the dark."
"He's telling the truth, Vane," Kael said. "Look at him. He's just a kid who lost everything."
"A kid with the blood of a man who could kill S-Class monsters," Vane retorted. He turned back to Matthew. "You have two choices, boy. Because you are a survivor of a Calamity, you are a ward of the state. We can send you to the labor camps in the south to earn your keep, or..."
"Or what?" Matthew asked.
"Or you join the Royal Academy," Allen interrupted. "We saw you in the market before the attack, Matthew. You tried to fight the Mayor's son. You have spirit, even if you lack strength. If your father had secrets, they might be buried in your blood. We want to see if they wake up."
Matthew looked at the door. He thought of Emily. She was alone, probably terrified, in a room full of strangers. If he went to a labor camp, he'd never see her. If he joined the Academy, he might be able to protect her. He might be able to find out why those things came to his home.
"If I join," Matthew said, "what happens to my sister?"
"She will be educated at the Royal Convent," Allen promised. "She will have food, safety, and a future. But only as long as you remain a student in good standing."
It was a cage. A gilded, silver cage, but a cage nonetheless. They wanted to use him as a lab rat to see if he was as powerful as his father.
"I'll join," Matthew said.
Vane smiled, a thin, needle-like expression. "Excellent. We'll start the physical evaluation tomorrow. Oh, and Matthew?"
Matthew paused at the door.
"Don't think you're special just because of your father," Vane said. "In the Academy, your bloodline is just a theory. Your weakness, however, is a fact. We'll see which one kills you first."
Matthew didn't respond. He walked out of the room, the sound of his own footsteps echoing like the ticking of a clock. He wasn't the boy who read stories about heroes anymore. He was a survivor. And survivors didn't need to be heroes—they just needed to stay alive long enough to strike back.