The scent of antiseptic and old linen clung to the Koltova infirmary. A single oil lamp cast wavering shadows on the cots, painting the room in shades of sepia and gloom. Mikkel sat on the edge of a cot, watching the noble scion who lay with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, a bandage wrapped loosely around his calf. It was a superficial graze staged for the arena, yet silence curdled between them.
“A hero doesn’t win like that, Mikkel,” Rostova said, his voice flat. No shouts, only a dry flatness that grated on Faelan's pride.
His manuscript had mapped out pure, unblemished valor. But the young scion had been forced to limp on cue, dragging deceit into his record. The scripted idol was gone; a stubborn youth stared back instead.
“Sometimes,” Mikkel began, his voice raspy, “the world demands you play a different part. Sometimes, you must choose what to sacrifice.”
Rostova turned his head, chin tilted toward the lamp. “Or who to sacrifice. Like your own honor?”
The accusation landed squarely. The intended protagonist had compromised his code, driven by a scripted lie. Rilla had snapped the youth's alignment with the world's fortunate currents, bending the spine of the tale.
“Get up,” Mikkel said, rising abruptly. Mikkel refused to linger under that judgmental stare. “There’s something I need to show you.”
The youth pushed off the cot, limping onto the cold flagstones without protest. Mikkel led him through the dimly lit corridors, past the snoring guards and the echoing silence of the late hour, until they reached the auxiliary sparring grounds. It was a smaller space, usually reserved for solo practice or late-night drills, enclosed on three sides by frosted glass that offered glimpses of the snow-dusted grounds outside. Two older recruits, Einar and Lyev, were still locked in a desultory practice match, their movements sluggish, predictable.
“You wanted to know why I could tell you to limp, why I knew Vayne would fall for it?” Mikkel’s voice was low, almost a whisper. He watched the sparring duo, a strange, distant look in his eyes. “It’s because I’ve seen it. All of it.”
The boy's brow furrowed. “Seen what?”
“Your destiny. Your path. Your future,” Mikkel elaborated, the partial truth a bitter taste on his tongue. He couldn’t speak of 'novels' or 'plots', not yet. Not without collapsing the boy's sanity entirely. “I have… visions. Glimpses of what is meant to be. Of a pre-written story, if you will, laid out for you.”
Rostova scoffed, a dry rasp. “Visions? What, are you touched by the Whispers now? A Seer, Mikkel?”
“Watch,” Mikkel said, ignoring the skepticism. He pointed to Einar, who was circling Lyev, his stance wide. “Einar will feint right, then go for a sweeping left kick to the knee. Lyev will block low, then counter with a jab to the chest that Einar won’t see coming.”
As if on cue, Einar lunged, a theatrical feint to the right. Lyev shifted, anticipating. Einar swung a heavy left kick. Lyev dropped his guard, arm snapping down to block, then whipped his free hand up, knuckles aiming for Einar’s sternum. Einar staggered back, clutching his chest, winded.
Rostova froze, pupils shrinking in the lantern glare. “Coincidence.”
“Perhaps,” Mikkel conceded, his gaze now fixed on Lyev. “But watch Lyev. He’ll celebrate with a spin, then drop his guard to tease Einar. Einar, furious, will rush him, ignoring form, and Lyev will sidestep, using Einar’s own momentum to trip him into the wall.”
Lyev indeed executed a clumsy celebratory spin, then lowered his hands, a taunting grin on his face. Einar, red-faced and enraged, roared and charged, his movements wild and uncoordinated. Lyev, with an almost imperceptible shift of his weight, stepped aside. Einar, propelled by his own fury, stumbled past him, crashing into the stone wall with a grunt.
A tense silence settled over the sparring ground. The two duelists panted by the perimeter, too winded to notice the spectators. Rostova, however, stared at Mikkel, arms slackening at his sides.
“How…?” the scion managed, breath rasping in his throat. “How did you know?”
Mikkel met his gaze, the chill in his own eyes betraying none of his internal turmoil. “I told you. I see the threads. I see the design. And you are at the center of it.” Mikkel had offered a splinter of truth, enough to hook the young lord's curiosity without snapping his mind. It was a dangerous gamble, but with Rilla actively reshaping his world, subtlety was no longer an option.
Rostova dragged a sleeve across his damp forehead, still searching Mikkel's face for a tell.
Before the youth could answer, a brass siren screamed across the outer wall. It was the Koltova Institute’s outermost alert, a sound rarely heard, reserved only for the gravest threats. It echoed through the grounds, shaking the very foundations of the building, a raw cry of danger.
Then, a deeper, guttural roar followed, a sound that vibrated in Mikkel’s chest, a sound he knew intimately from the pages of his unfinished novel. A creature from the Veiled Lands. The ancient, corroded defenses of the Institute’s outer perimeter had been breached. This event, this monstrous intrusion, was meant to occur years from now, a pivotal moment in the middle arc of ‘The Bastion’s Sun’. Not here. Not now. Not when Mikkel Aalto was still a comic-relief sidekick, still slated for his unwritten demise.