A thrumming ache pulsed in Kallia’s wrist, a phantom echo of the searing light. Her eyelids parted beneath the chalk-white ceiling of a Synaxis healing hall. The scent of antiseptic and healing herbs stung her nostrils. She was sprawled on a cot, a rough wool blanket covering her. The radiant braid had vanished, but a vibrating tremor remained beneath her skin. It felt like a nerve had been plucked and woven into an impossibly fine thread, stretching taut and invisible from her wrist. Her mind, usually a cold steel trap, felt sluggish. The last thing she remembered was Vekaris’s hand closing around hers, the blinding flash, and then the sickening lurch backward. She pushed herself up, wincing at the protest of bruised ribs. Escape. The thought was a primal urge, overriding all else. She swung her legs over the cot, bare feet finding the cool flagstones. The hall stood silent, lit by dim lumen-globes along the plaster. Rows of unoccupied cots stretched into the shadows. A single figure sat hunched at a table in the far corner, head bowed, apparently asleep. Vekaris. Even slumped in the chair, his heavy build dominated the corner. His dark hair fell over his brow, obscuring his face. The faint, persistent thrum in her wrist intensified, tugging her gaze towards him. She needed to be gone. Now. Stealth was her only advantage against him. She eased off the cot, moving with the practiced silence of a shadow, her gaze fixed on the double doors at the far end of the ward. Every step away from Vekaris pulled at that invisible thread. A strange resistance, like wading waist-deep through mire. It was inconvenient, but not debilitating. She pushed faster, her breath quickening, adrenaline sharpening her senses. Fifty paces. The pull grew stronger, a persistent drone in her bones. Seventy. A harsh bite seized her joint, ratcheting tighter with each inch. Her pace faltered. Ninety. A hot brand flared where the obsidian core had met her skin. The thrum became a tearing flame, shooting through her forearm and collarbone. One hundred paces. The world imploded. An unimaginable agony ripped through her. Her knees buckled, sending her sprawling onto the cold stone floor, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The pain was absolute, physical, as if her arm was being torn from its socket, her very essence stretched thin and snapping. She writhed, clutching her wrist, the pain stealing her breath, blurring her vision. It was a scream without sound, a silent, internal rending. Vekaris was suddenly there, a dark, imposing silhouette against the lumen-globes. He knelt beside her, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something, perhaps grim recognition, crossed his eyes. He, too, clutched his own wrist, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching in his temple. The magical pain, she realized through her haze, was mutual. “One hundred paces,” he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of inflection. He reached down, fingers digging hard into her collar. “That is the limit.” He hauled backward. The torment spiked white-hot, then subsided by degrees as she scraped across the flagstones toward his seat. She kicked and dug her heels against the stone, but the unseen leash held fast. It bent her will, her body, to its demand. Her terror was a cold, bitter taste in her mouth. “Let go!” she spat, her voice raw, tears of agony stinging her eyes. “What have you done?!” “Not I,” he countered, his fingers clamped tight upon her linen sleeve. “The relic. It forged a ligature between us. An ancient blood-covenant, according to the records. Inescapable. Proximity binds us both.” He paused, a strange, considering look in his eyes. “It seems you cannot leave my side.” He let go only after dragging her inside three paces of the desk, then sank back, massaging his forearm. Kallia scrambled back, retreating as far as the cord permitted. She huddled against the cot, glaring at him, her chest heaving. “This is… this is a nightmare. I’m tied to you? To *you*?” The sheer injustice, the monstrous irony of it, twisted her gut. Bound to her past-life executioner. It was a cruel jest from the fates. “Indeed,” Vekaris said, leaning back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “Given the nature of pre-cataclysm relics, the effect may be permanent. Barring death, or some lost counter-rite.” He paused, his dark eyes narrowing. “Which means you remain here inside the Synaxis walls. Under my direct observation. Explain yourself, servant. The locket. Your terror. The vault. And now this. I grow tired of your mysteries.” Before Kallia could frame a lie, the ward doors groaned inward on brass hinges. Councilor Malakos strode in, his pleated robes singed at the hems, pale lime-dust coating the weave. His face, normally composed in a mask of benevolent cunning, was etched with a rare, furious displeasure. Two of his personal guards, their faces grim, flanked him. Ice flooded Kallia's belly. She could not afford his scrutiny while suspicion hung in the air. “Lord Commander,” the councilor snapped, his voice rough and stripped of courtesies. His glance swept the rows, fixed on Vekaris, and dismissed Kallia curled by the frame. “A disastrous night. The Under-Crypts breached. A *servant* interfering where she had no business being. The damage to the vault is… extensive.” A jagged bolt of fear struck her chest. *Hide.* Yet the binding held her on an iron leash. She glanced frantically around the sparse room. There was nowhere to go. No closets, no screens, only the looming figure of Vekaris. Her eyes fell upon the heavy, polished desk where Vekaris had been sitting. It was broad, its front paneling reaching almost to the floor. A desperate, humiliating plan formed. Malakos advanced, his eyes like flint. “I expect an accounting, Vekaris. And answers for this breach.” “Naturally, Councilor,” Vekaris replied, his tone flat. He pushed back his chair slightly. As he did, Kallia made her move. She dropped to her hands and knees, scrambling forward, diving under the desk with the grace of a startled serpent. The tether pulled, forcing her to stay close, forcing her to press against the Commander’s armored shins. It was humiliating, undignified, and utterly desperate. She felt the tremor of his shifting boots, iron greaves pressing into her ribs and temple. The councilor halted before the timber, unaware of her. “The lower crypt was stripped. The obsidian knot, specifically, is gone. An irreplaceable core, vanished.” He cast a pointed look at Vekaris’s wrist, then his eyes flickered to Kallia’s cot, still observing the crumpled blankets, apparently oblivious to her absence beneath the desk. “Indeed,” Vekaris said, his voice perfectly even. Crammed beneath the oak, Kallia felt the soldier go rigid above her. He was aware of her, hyper-aware. “The damage has been contained, Councilor. The rest of the relics remain secure.” Malakos sneered. “For now. But this incident exposed deeper rot. Mercenaries took the fall, yet an internal conspirator guided their blades. Someone seeking to destabilize our very foundations. Someone who has been secretly working against the Exalted Houses for months.” His voice dropped, becoming a venomous whisper. “And I believe I know who.” Air seized in Kallia's throat. Rough wool rasped against her cheek, smelling of oil and cured hide. She strained every nerve, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Who had he discovered? Could he possibly know? The councilor leaned forward, palms flat on the wood. Kallia shrank back against the soldier's shins. “I have drafted an emergency writ of execution. For treason against the state, for colluding with foreign powers, and for the attempted assassination of an Exalted Councilor.” He paused, drawing a cylinder of sheepskin from his sash. “The evidence is incontrovertible. This individual, this… viper, must be removed before he can do further damage.” He unrolled the parchment, smoothing it flat on the desk. Kallia, straining her neck, could see a stylized seal, the crimson crest of the Synaxis, at the bottom. She could only glimpse the first few, elegant curves of the name, but her blood froze. A name she knew. A name she protected above all else. “Nyros,” the councilor proclaimed, venom sharpening every syllable. “The boy’s insolence has reached its zenith. He goes to the block at dawn.”

One Hundred Paces