"Excuse me."
The man's voice broke the silence as he stepped into a room consumed by funereal darkness. Sitting there, still as a statue, was a woman.
Pale, her eyes were covered by a strip of white linen, her hair tightly bound in a rigid bun. She wore a long black dress that disappeared into the surrounding shadows.
"It's been a while since I last saw you, Yev."
He stepped closer, only to be met by the soft, spectral voice of the woman.
"Indeed, it has been quite some time, General Corloch. What do I owe the honor of your visit?" she spoke, always facing the sound of his footsteps. She could not see, but she perceived much.
Yev Bershan.
Head of the Psychological Unit of the Border. A platoon that operated in the shadows of the Frontier itself, specialized in detecting lies, manipulating minds, and predicting failure before it occurred.
"I need your help screening the new cadets. Your detection skills will be useful." His order was firm.
Corloch squinted into the darkness, trying to pierce the veil with his one remaining eye.
"As always, our unit only becomes useful when it suits you, doesn't it?"
He turned and found Yev standing. Her movements melted into the dark, her steps made no sound, and her lips didn't move when she spoke.
"Don't say that." Corloch's voice softened.
He stepped closer.
"You are too precious to be thrown into the battlefield. Besides, we're the ones who protect you from the Aurorians… our precious avatar of Arianrhod, the Moon Goddess."
"Uff…" she sighed deeply.
"And how many this time?" she asked.
"Fifty-eight cadets. The highest number since Gragur took the throne."
The woman sat again, her black dress pooling across the dark floor.
"Fifty-eight poor souls…"
Her voice faded into the air.
"…who will suffer in demon territory." Tears leaked from beneath her blindfold, carving paths along her pale cheeks.
"Very well. I'll see you in ten days then," Corloch said as he passed through the doorway. "Remember, Yev Bershan. You owe me more than you can ever repay."
His words dissolved into the gloom of the room. And its lone inhabitant remained, engulfed in solitude and oblivion.
---
Corloch marched heavily through the inner corridors of the Frontier, buried in thought:
"That damned brat Gragur. Retaliating against the Frontier just because I refused to be one of his bodyguards… Now we're stuck with the worst cadets."
His pace quickened. Some knights saluted as he passed. He entered his office, more disordered than usual.
"I've been waiting for you, Commander…" came a voice from beside the door. A figure stood firm and still, holding a set of perfectly aligned papers. Corloch ignored the knight and sat down.
"You're right on time, Bruno," he said, pouring himself a cup of tea.
The knight stepped forward and laid the documents on the desk.
"Here is the list of incoming cadets, sir."
"Let's see…" The General set down his cup and picked up the list. He flipped through it. "What?..." He froze, the brow above his lone eye arched as he spotted the information of a particular cadet.
Layla Darkwood.
[POV – SAMO]
This trip is taking forever.
It's been two days since I left Zielitz in a cart headed for the capital, Aurora. Alongside me, five other cadets talked amongst themselves, thankfully ignoring me.
I've been trying to read some of the books I borrowed from the library. This one is titled:
"Aura Control: Arc."
"...Shaping the Aura into a perfect semicircle. No flaws or disproportions. Once formed, it can be launched using a blade or bare hand, though this requires significant control."
I remember this technique well. Sir Antony used it against Daeva. In his case, it was an Arc of Light.
But for some reason, I can't remember—or even imagine—a perfect semicircle, like the book describes. Maybe it's easier in practice. I'll have to wait until we make camp.
It's night now, tents are set and the fire is lit. After dinner, with most already asleep, it's a good time to train.
I slipped away from the camp to an area near a small creek, its waters mysteriously silent. The forest was still, filled only with insect sounds. The waning moon lit the flowing stream, offering just enough light for my training.
I swung Fäste, my blade shrouded in my dark Aura. For some reason, when infused with my energy, the Damascus steel markings glowed a deep, almost pulsing red.
I tried imagining the semicircle, but nothing came of it.
Panting, I wiped the frustration-sweat from my brow when a voice came from behind:
"A bit late for training, isn't it?" said the mysterious man. I turned to see him.
An old man, his hunched posture made him seem smaller than he was. He wore simple clothes—brown trousers and a shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. On his face, a constant crooked smile and piercing blue eyes. His greying hair was slicked back.
"A coachman," I thought.
"One can never train too much, right?" I replied with a smile. The old man picked up a stick.
"You're young, son. Are the questions in your mind bothering you so much that they keep you awake?"
A direct question. He began drawing something on the ground. A perfectly shaped spiral.
"How is he doing that?"
"Something perfect, cut in half… is it still perfect?" he asked, eyes fixed on me.
"Excuse me?" I was confused by what he said.
"Look..." He stepped away from the spiral and, with graceful movements, drew a perfect circle.
"A perfect circle cut in half—does it remain perfect?" He drew a line across the circle.
I watched, trying to grasp his point.
"I don't think so. Something incomplete couldn't be considered perfect," I countered.
"Is that so…" the old man muttered. Then, he pointed the stick toward the waning moon—a perfect arc slicing through the night sky.
"So, this incomplete moon is imperfect, even knowing how majestic she appears during her full nights?"
It was a good question. The waning moon is "imperfect" simply because it isn't… full.
"This old man's going to drive me insane…"
"All things in the sensible world are but shadows of perfect and eternal forms." He spoke again, enigmatic.
His words struck something.
"So you mean everything we see is a reflection of something perfect?" I murmured.
My blood suddenly boiled—hot, extremely hot.
That perfect semicircle I've been striving for... may not even exist. Is that why I struggled?
I gripped Fäste and focused, channeling my mana through the fine blade.
A perfect and eternal arc—even if incomplete—still governs with majesty. That is the waning moon.
I struck a powerful vertical slash, and for the first time, a small black arc formed above the silent creek — scattering its cold waters.
"I finally did it!" Joy took over me.
"Hey, old man…" I turned to thank him. But only the dark forest remained.
On the ground, resonating under the silver light that ruled the sky, the spiral glowed with a soft blue hue.