The Name Behind the Sword

Julian woke the next morning feeling as though sleep had personally attacked him.

His head remained heavy from the previous night's collapse, and the mark on his chest had shifted from heat to a low, persistent pressure. Every few minutes he became aware of it again, like a second heartbeat that had not yet learned the rhythm of the first.

The woman had not spoken since midnight.

Julian had tried calling her several things.

Mysterious woman.

Fort Giden lunatic.

Parasite.

Several insults less suitable for polite company.

Nothing.

Her silence was almost worse.

He dressed and went downstairs.

Geen stood near the main hall speaking quietly with Antonius. Their conversation ended the moment Julian entered.

That was becoming a pattern.

Geen looked at him.

Julian looked back.

Neither mentioned Mirai.

Geen left first.

No insult.

No smug comment.

Nothing.

Julian disliked that far more than fighting.

Antonius adjusted a document on the table beside him.

"You're late."

"It's morning."

"Morning has a beginning."

"So does disappointment, apparently."

His father did not react.

"If you possessed even half the discipline you spend avoiding, the Ministry could probably find you clerical work."

Julian stared after him as Antonius walked away.

"Good talk."

The smell of breakfast drew him into the dining room.

Then he stopped.

The table looked prepared for a siege.

Fresh bread. Fruit. Eggs. Cured meat. Cheese. Honey. Several dishes Julian normally only saw when the family entertained guests.

Jeane stood near the table arranging cups.

When she saw him, relief crossed her face.

"Finally."

Julian reached for an apple.

"What happened? Did Geen die?"

"Julian."

"Just checking why we're celebrating."

Jeane stared at him.

Then her expression slowly changed.

"Oh no."

The apple stopped halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

"You forgot."

Those were never pleasant words.

"Forgot what?"

His mother placed both hands against the edge of the table.

"The Seleniatary."

The apple slipped from Julian's hand.

It struck the table and rolled into a bowl of bread.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Julian."

"The Seleniatary is not today."

"It is."

"That seems irresponsible."

Jeane almost laughed despite herself.

"The date has not changed because you spent a week under a mountain."

There it was again.

Seven stolen days.

Julian looked toward the window as though the calendar might apologize.

The Seleniatary was Lazarell's biennial defining assessment—the point at which the Academy stopped caring what students were supposed to become and began recording what they could actually do under pressure.

Combat.

Strategy.

Resilience.

Decision-making.

For students approaching their final academic year, the results followed them into military assignments, Order placement and professional certification.

For someone with Julian's record, failure could close the few doors still willing to remain open.

He pushed the apple away.

"Why did nobody tell me yesterday?"

Jeane crossed her arms.

"Several people assumed you remembered."

"Fatal optimism."

"Eat."

"No time."

"You are not walking into a defining combat assessment after surviving Fort Giden and skipping breakfast."

Julian grabbed two pieces of bread, wrapped slices of cured meat between them and raised the improvised meal.

"Compromise."

"Julian—"

He was already moving.

"Love you."

"Come back with all your organs!"

"No guarantees!"

Jeane's exasperated voice followed him into the hall.

For reasons Julian could not explain, that felt almost normal.

He needed normal.

◆ ◆ ◆

Lazarell had transformed overnight.

Banners hung from gothic towers, carrying the insignia of all Three Orders. Students packed the main courtyard in formal training uniforms, and instructors stood along elevated walkways as though preparing to observe military exercises rather than teenagers attempting to graduate.

Julian arrived just as an amplified voice rolled across the courtyard.

"Four hundred years."

Director Balthier stood on a raised platform beneath Lazarell's central tower.

He was old enough that Julian had never been certain whether the rumors about him fighting in ancient campaigns were exaggerated or merely inconvenient facts. Age had reduced nothing in his posture. His gaze traveled across hundreds of students with predatory clarity.

"Four centuries since Lazarell first placed children of the Three Orders on the same ground and told them to become something more useful than their ancestors."

A few nervous laughs moved through the crowd.

Balthier smiled.

"For today's Seleniatary, tradition will be adjusted."

"That's never good," someone muttered.

"Julian!"

He turned.

Minerva waved from several rows away.

Reis stood beside her, looking exactly as cheerful as a man awaiting public execution.

Julian pushed through the crowd.

Minerva's first glance went directly to his abdomen.

"You're walking."

Julian looked down at himself.

"Usually."

"No, Julian." She lowered her voice. "Your injury."

Reis frowned.

"She's right. That Trigon opened you like a purse."

"Thank you for the medical terminology."

Minerva stepped closer.

"You should still be recovering."

Julian's smile faded slightly.

"So should I."

Her expression changed.

She understood what he meant.

Fort Giden.

He wasn't ready to explain.

Minerva adjusted her glasses.

"Does it hurt?"

"Less than it should."

Reis opened his mouth.

Balthier's voice saved Julian from whatever question was coming next.

"To commemorate Lazarell's fourth century, your challenges will not follow the ordinary standardized list."

A murmur moved through the students.

Two instructors rolled a pedestal onto the platform.

Something large rested on top beneath dark cloth.

Reis went pale.

"I hate surprises."

"You hate most things involving danger," Julian said.

"Because danger is dangerous."

"A compelling philosophy."

Balthier pulled the cloth away.

The object beneath was an ornate urn.

Gold bands ran across ancient black material. Gemstones had been embedded around its rim, though Julian could not identify any of them. Symbols hovered faintly above the vessel as if written on invisible glass.

Red light gathered inside.

"The Fate Urn," Balthier announced.

Reis looked at Julian.

"That sounds worse than surprise."

"Significantly."

Balthier spread his arms.

"The Urn will assign opponents, conditions and locations. Some of you will receive physical trials. Others tactical exercises. Some will face one another directly."

The red symbols brightened.

"Before anyone begins praying—no, the device does not know your divine destiny. It is an old selection instrument with an unnecessarily dramatic name."

The courtyard laughed.

Julian almost respected him for clarifying.

"Your actual destiny," Balthier continued, "remains your own problem."

That part Julian respected more.

Students were ordered into lines.

The resulting chaos immediately demonstrated four hundred years of institutional progress.

People shoved.

Complained.

Argued over age order.

Someone threatened a duel before the actual duels had even been assigned.

Julian was attempting to avoid an elbow when a hand settled heavily on his shoulder.

He did not need to turn.

"Morning, FakeRose."

Andrei.

Julian removed the hand from his shoulder with a sharp slap.

"Does touching me improve your day?"

Andrei smiled.

"Sometimes."

The blond Paladin looked irritatingly prepared. White training clothes fitted over a body built for direct confrontation, and confidence sat on him even more naturally than the Wallen crest.

His smile sharpened.

"Mirai isn't here."

Julian's expression changed before he could prevent it.

Andrei noticed.

Of course he did.

"Interesting."

"Don't."

"What? I was worried."

"Andrei."

"I heard about the engagement."

Julian stepped closer.

"Good for you."

Andrei's smile became cruel.

"Must hurt."

Reis, a few feet away, suddenly found the floor fascinating.

Minerva did not.

She watched both men carefully.

Andrei continued.

"All that time she spent protecting you, and now she gets to marry the DeRose who actually matters."

Heat gathered beneath Julian's sternum.

Not emotional heat.

The mark.

He inhaled.

The courtyard seemed to sharpen.

Colors deepened.

Sound became clearer.

Andrei's heartbeat suddenly felt—

Julian blinked.

No.

That was impossible.

Andrei's expression changed.

"What the hell?"

Julian frowned.

"What?"

"Your eyes."

Minerva inhaled sharply.

"Julian…"

A red beam erupted from the Fate Urn.

Everyone turned.

The light climbed above the courtyard and broke apart into burning letters.

Names appeared.

Students cheered, groaned or swore as their assignments formed.

MATILDA LUNGREI
VS.
ENERTY LOVER

STONE-RIDGE COMBAT TRIAL

The names vanished.

Another pair replaced them.

More assignments.

More reactions.

Julian barely watched.

His chest was burning now.

Then the Urn flashed harder than before.

Red light flooded the courtyard.

The murmurs faded.

Two names appeared.

Large enough that nobody could pretend not to see them.

JULIAN DEROSE

VS.

ANDREI WALLEN

Below them, a second line formed.

RUDORFILD FOREST

And then:

UNRESTRICTED COMBAT

Silence.

Reis whispered:

"Oh, we're fucked."

Minerva elbowed him.

"He's fucked."

"That's what I meant."

Andrei began laughing.

Not mockery this time.

Actual delight.

"Finally."

Julian stared upward.

Rudorfild.

He knew the forest.

Dense ground.

Uneven terrain.

Enough distance from Lazarell for the Academy to allow serious combat without accidentally destroying a classroom.

Andrei rolled his shoulders.

"Looks like your luck finally ran out."

Julian should have been afraid.

Two days ago, he would have been.

Andrei was stronger.

More experienced with supernatural combat.

Gifted.

Trained.

Everything Julian was not.

But something cold settled against Julian's hip.

Weight.

Familiar.

His hand moved instinctively toward it.

There was no sword there.

And yet his fingers almost found a hilt.

A woman's whisper touched the inside of his mind.

Take it.

Julian froze.

Show him.

For less than a second, black metal appeared at his waist.

Minerva saw it.

Her eyes widened.

Then it vanished.

Andrei stopped laughing.

Julian raised his head.

The world had taken on a faint red cast.

He could feel something smiling through him.

"So that's it."

His own voice sounded strange.

Another voice lived beneath it.

Soft.

Female.

Hungry.

Andrei's face tightened.

"What did you say?"

Julian stepped closer.

"I said this works."

"Works?"

"For me."

A smile pulled at Julian's mouth.

It did not feel entirely like his own.

Andrei's stance changed automatically.

Hands raised.

Ready.

"You think you're going to beat me?"

Julian's right hand settled where the impossible sword had appeared.

"No."

Andrei blinked.

Julian leaned forward slightly.

"I think I'm going to make sure you remember it."

Minerva took a step back.

Reis stared.

"Julian?"

The sound of his name reached him from far away.

Then Director Balthier appeared between the two students with impressive speed for an old man.

"Enough."

Pressure swept outward.

Not an attack.

Authority given magical weight.

Julian's hand fell from his hip.

The red tint vanished from the world.

He blinked.

Brown eyes again.

Normal heartbeat.

No sword.

Andrei remained tense.

Balthier looked from one to the other.

"You have fifteen days."

Julian glanced toward him.

"Fifteen?"

"Plenty of time to decide whether attempted murder is worth the paperwork."

Andrei grinned.

"It is."

Balthier looked tired.

"Of course you think that."

He pointed at them both.

"Rudorfild. Fifteen days. Until then, no unsanctioned duels between you."

Andrei held Julian's gaze.

"Enjoy them."

Julian said nothing.

For once, he did not need to.

Andrei walked away.

Minerva immediately approached.

"What happened to your eyes?"

Julian looked at her.

"Nothing."

"They were red."

"Maybe he needs sleep."

Reis frowned.

"You also had a sword."

Julian's stomach tightened.

"What?"

Minerva nodded slowly.

"Only for a moment."

He looked at his empty hand.

The voice inside him had gone silent again.

Very convenient.

Julian made a decision.

"If the two of you want help preparing for your own trials, DeRose Manor. Tomorrow. Six."

Reis blinked.

"You're inviting us?"

"Unless you'd rather train alone."

"No."

Minerva answered faster than her brother.

Julian looked at her.

She adjusted her glasses.

"No," she repeated more quietly. "We'd like to come."

"Good."

Reis pointed at Julian.

"But before that, you're explaining the red eyes."

Julian started walking.

"Absolutely."

Reis brightened.

"Really?"

"No."

"Asshole."

Julian almost smiled.

◆ ◆ ◆

By evening, Julian had reached one conclusion.

Training could wait until tomorrow.

Answers could not.

He locked his bedroom door.

Removed his shirt.

Sat cross-legged on the rug before the mirror.

And stared at the mark.

Nothing happened.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

"This is ridiculous."

Silence.

Julian closed his eyes.

"Fort Giden."

Nothing.

"The sword."

Nothing.

"Red eyes."

Nothing.

His irritation grew.

"Rudorfild."

Still nothing.

Julian opened his eyes.

"If you're going to live in my head, at least pay rent."

A laugh answered.

Julian's entire body tensed.

"There."

The voice sounded amused.

There what?

"Stop doing that."

Doing what, Darling?

The word irritated him instantly.

"Talking inside my skull."

Our skull is currently convenient.

"Our?"

A soft laugh.

Julian stood.

"No. No 'our.' You explain what happened at Fort Giden, what this mark is, why a sword keeps appearing out of nowhere, and why my eyes turned red today."

The shadows near the mirror shifted.

Demanding.

"Very."

Better.

Footsteps approached outside.

Julian heard them before the person reached the door.

A gentle knock followed.

"Julian?"

Fehrir.

He looked toward the entrance.

"One second."

The voice laughed.

Afraid she'll meet me?

Julian lowered his voice.

"Shut up."

The door opened slightly.

Fehrir entered carrying a tray with tea, bread and small biscuits.

Then stopped.

Her brown eyes moved around the room.

"Who were you talking to?"

Julian looked at the mirror.

The mirror showed only him.

"No one."

Fehrir stared.

"A woman answered."

Julian considered several lies.

None survived her expression.

"Meditation."

Fehrir's eyebrows rose.

"Meditation answers back now?"

"Advanced technique."

She closed the door behind her.

Her gaze fell toward Julian's bare chest.

Not in embarrassment.

Concern replaced everything else.

The tray lowered slowly.

"That wasn't there."

Julian looked down.

The black sigil seemed darker in lamplight.

"It's fine."

Fehrir set the tray down.

"That is not what 'fine' looks like."

"Fort Giden souvenir."

She approached carefully.

"May I?"

Julian hesitated.

Then nodded.

Fehrir raised her hand toward the mark but stopped before touching it.

The skin around the pattern looked normal.

The pattern itself did not.

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes."

"When?"

"Apparently whenever my life becomes complicated."

Fehrir frowned.

"Your life is always complicated."

"Exactly. Poor design."

For half a second, her mouth almost curved into a smile.

Then a feminine laugh sounded in the room.

Not inside Julian's mind.

In the room.

Fehrir went completely still.

Julian did too.

The laugh came again.

Quiet.

Delighted.

Fehrir looked toward the wardrobe.

Then beneath the bed.

Then toward the curtains.

"There really is someone here."

"Apparently."

"Julian."

"Working on it."

She backed toward the door.

Not panicked.

Cautious.

Her eyes remained fixed on the corners of the room.

"If you need Lady Jeane—"

"No."

"If that thing hurts you—"

"He'll shout."

Fehrir looked at him sharply.

Julian hadn't spoken.

The woman's voice had.

Fehrir's face lost color.

Julian moved to the door and opened it.

"Probably best if I handle this before Mother turns my bedroom into a military operation."

Fehrir looked between him and the empty room.

Then she picked up the tray again.

"No."

"What?"

"The food stays."

She placed it firmly on the table.

Julian stared.

"If you're going to argue with invisible women all night, at least eat."

Despite everything, Julian laughed.

"Yes, ma'am."

Fehrir paused outside the door.

"Julian?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't assume because you survived something once that it wants you alive for a good reason."

Then she left.

The door closed.

Julian's smile disappeared.

That was an annoyingly intelligent sentence.

A woman's voice whispered behind him.

"I like her."

Julian turned.

"Show yourself."

The room became cold.

Not winter cold.

Moonlight cold.

The kind of cold that existed in places untouched by sunlight.

Shadows gathered around the mirror.

They moved like liquid, climbing the frame and spreading across the glass until Julian's reflection disappeared completely.

He approached.

"Enough games."

The darkness inside the mirror rippled.

Then a face emerged.

First the eyes.

Red.

Not ordinary red, but the color of fresh blood caught under moonlight.

Then pale skin.

Almost impossibly pale.

Long black hair spilled around the woman's face in loose, rebellious curls, far more alive than the darkness surrounding her. Her lips curved into a smile, and the faint points of canine teeth showed beneath them.

She was beautiful.

Julian distrusted that immediately.

The rest of her form took shape.

Dark fabric wrapped around her in layers that resembled noble mourning clothes stripped of every concern for human modesty. Black blended into deep crimson. Lace dissolved into shadow around the edges. She looked simultaneously aristocratic and feral, as though someone had taught a predator court etiquette and regretted the experiment.

Julian stared.

She stared back.

"You're the woman from Fort Giden."

"Very observant."

"What are you?"

"How disappointingly predictable."

"Name first, then."

She seemed to approve of that.

"Better."

The woman stepped forward inside the reflection.

Julian did not.

"Why did you save me?"

"Save?"

She tasted the word.

"Do not make this sentimental."

The mark on Julian's chest warmed.

"You were dying. I offered an alternative."

"You put a sword through my chest."

"And yet here you stand."

"Not a defense."

"An excellent result."

Julian's hand curled into a fist.

"What did I agree to?"

The woman's smile faded slightly.

For the first time, something ancient looked back at him instead of merely amused.

"Life."

"That isn't enough."

"It was at the time."

Julian remembered the cavern.

Blood in his mouth.

Bones refusing to move.

The certainty that there would be no tomorrow.

She was right.

He hated that.

"The sword?"

"Ours."

"No."

Her smile returned.

"Oh?"

"Nothing is 'ours' until I understand what you did."

Interest flashed across the red eyes.

Julian stepped closer to the mirror.

"I don't belong to you."

The shadows trembled.

For an instant, Julian wondered if that had been a mistake.

Then she laughed.

Not insulted.

Delighted.

"There you are."

"What?"

"The thing worth saving."

Julian's jaw tightened.

"You didn't answer anything."

"I answered plenty. You simply dislike the answers."

"Who are you?"

The woman moved closer within the glass until only a thin impossible boundary separated their faces.

Her hand rose.

Inside the reflection, two pale fingers touched the image of the mark on Julian's chest.

In the real room, the sigil burned.

Julian inhaled sharply.

The woman smiled.

"My name is Zerodawn Archworth."

The name seemed to alter the room.

Not because of magic Julian could identify.

Because something about hearing it made Fort Giden suddenly feel less like an accident.

Zerodawn's red eyes never left his.

"And you, Julian DeRose, are the human foolish enough to accept my pact."

Julian stared back at her.

"A pact."

"Yes."

"What does it do?"

"Many things."

"What does it cost?"

Her smile became slow and predatory.

"Now you're asking the interesting questions."

The black shape of a sword appeared behind her in the mirror.

The same blade.

The same thorns around the guard.

The same darkness that had entered Julian's chest.

Zerodawn leaned closer.

"Fifteen days until your little Paladin tries to break you in Rudorfild."

Julian's eyes narrowed.

"You were listening."

"Darling."

Her fangs showed.

"I live closer than listening."

The Black Sword materialized in Julian's hand.

He nearly dropped it.

Solid.

Cold.

Real.

The shadows in the room bowed toward Zerodawn's reflection.

She watched his expression with obvious pleasure.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, "we begin teaching you how not to die."

Julian looked at the weapon.

Then back at the woman who had put it inside him.

His life had spent eighteen years refusing to give him power.

Now power had finally arrived.

And it was smiling at him from the mirror.