They stopped calling Kael by name.
Not openly. Not in the mess halls, the sparring rings, the corridors between assignments.
Just eyes. Muted greetings. A low current of cold professionalism that said everything without a word.
The surveillance glyphs came next.
The Mark
He spotted the first one under his bunk. A tiny sigil, etched into the woodgrain like a splinter of shadow.
Tenebris hissed softly.
They have marked us.
Kael didn't need translation.
The second sigil was worse—painted behind his shoulder on the mirrored wall in the sparring hall. Not a surveillance glyph, but something older. A mirror lock: a memory siphon.
It drank reflection. Watched the space around your thoughts.
He smashed the mirror that night.
Nobody stopped him. Nobody asked why.
But in the morning, he was summoned.
The Interrogation Room
Kael had been here once before—after returning from the cult town. The same dim stone. Same blank-faced scribe with no scent. Same silver table, bolted to the floor like a confession altar.
Across from him sat Inquisitor Halden, one of the Crown's "Cleaners."
He looked like a statue someone had given too much meat. Expressionless. Not cruel—just efficient.
"Initiate Veyne," he began, "your records have been flagged for... deviation."
Kael said nothing.
Halden tapped a page—his report from the Duskveil mission. "Your account shows inconsistencies. Discrepancies in sensory data, emotional readings, and shadow reaction."
"I told the truth."
"No," Halden said flatly. "You told a truth. There's a difference."
He slid over a second page. Kael blinked.
It was a version of the mission report—with altered events. According to this, Kael had hesitated when confronting the cultists. His use of shadow had been described as erratic, bordering on uncontrolled possession.
"I didn't write this."
Halden nodded. "Correct. But others witnessed it."
"That's a lie."
Halden didn't even shrug. "Then prove it. Otherwise, the record stands. You will be subject to containment evaluation."
Kael's stomach turned. He knew what that meant. Not prison. Not execution.
Observation cells. Memory edits. Emotional scouring. A slow erasure.
Tenebris flared like a struck match.
They will cut away what we are.
Ser Whitmer
Kael found the old man on the lower training tier, sparring with a half-lame leg and still managing to humiliate a trio of recruits.
Whitmer turned to him without surprise. "They've started watching you openly, then?"
Kael nodded. "They changed my report. Twisted it."
"Of course they did. Makes it easier to justify the leash."
"Why?"
Whitmer wiped his brow, leaned on his staff. "Because you're not afraid enough. And because you survived the Duskveil."
"I thought that was the job."
"No," Whitmer said. "The job is surviving with scars visible. They want their monsters broken in predictable ways. You? You bend the wrong direction."
Kael exhaled. "So what now?"
Whitmer tossed something at him.
A copper ring.
Veil-inscribed.
"A second key. It won't stop the watchers. But it'll let you see who they are."
Kael closed his fingers around it. It was warm.
"You're not alone, boy," Whitmer added. "But you'll feel like it."
That Night
Kael lay in bed, awake, listening.
The ring whispered.
He slid it on and closed his eyes.
Sensation shifted.
The walls pulsed faintly—wards everywhere. But it wasn't until he turned to the door that he saw it.
A silhouette.
Not a guard. Not a spy.
Eline.
Watching through the sliver of opened door. Not moving. Not approaching.
Tenebris coiled tight.
She weighs the knife.
But she turned away. Silent.
And Kael didn't sleep.