I see a white light. It is warm, steady against my skin. I could stay here without moving, let it take everything else. It is already decided. My body has no reason to leave.

  Something crashes into my ribs.

  A sharp blow. Precise. It forces the air out of me.

  Wait… am I being hit?

  Fortuna stands over me. I am flat on the sand, grains stuck to my cheek.

  “Get up. Training’s over.”

  Finally. Something useful.

  “I survived…”

  évra watches from a short distance, posture loose, expression calm.

  “Very good. Now you are, in a way, my disciples. Follow me. After effort comes comfort.”

  I push myself up and scan the arena. Valie is gone. The pressure on my senses has lifted. Nothing blocks our movement. For the first time, we walk freely inside the base.

  I want to see it. The place that keeps me here.

  We leave the Colosseum. A corridor of dark stone stretches forward, long and narrow. Candles line the walls. Their flames remain perfectly still. The air does not move. Our steps echo against old stone, faint but constant.

  At the end stands a massive stone door. évra stops and presses her palm against it. Blue light blooms beneath her skin and spreads across the surface. Words carve themselves into the stone, precise, aligned, ordered. They glow without heat. No sound accompanies them.

  The door slides open.

  An immense chamber unfolds. High ceilings rest on wide arches of ancient stone that vanish into shadow. Lines of Words run directly through the walls, thin veins of light embedded in the structure. They appear where needed, then fade, as if the building follows its own internal sequence.

  Nothing ornamental. Every surface has a function.

  People move in every direction. Some wear heavy armor of ancient design, scarred and used. Others carry modern exoskeletons fused to their frames with cold efficiency. No one drifts. No one speaks without purpose. Each movement leads somewhere. The flow is dense, controlled, continuous.

  The space is so large that its limits blur. It keeps running without pause.

  évra turns.

  “Welcome to HQ 3.”

  My mouth stays slightly open as I take it in. We stay close behind her. Getting separated here would be a mistake. She walks, and the structure adjusts. Steps form inside a wall. A slab shifts aside. A passage reveals itself without hesitation.

  “Here is the armory,” she says, satisfied.

  We enter.

  The room is vast and quiet. Rows of weapons extend in straight lines, arranged with exact spacing. Blades. Firearms. Devices I do not recognize. Crates stacked to the height of the walls. Everything labeled, reachable, ready.

  Nothing on display. Everything stored for use. Fighters walk in, select what they need, leave. Others review lists, write on sheets filled with Words, and the paper reshapes instantly into ammunition or components.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  A tension settles in my chest. Violence here is organized ahead of time. Stored. Counted. Issued without hesitation. I look around. Nothing pulls at me. Nothing answers. The weapons exist, but none align with me.

  évra keeps moving.

  “We don’t stop.”

  She is already ahead.

  Another corridor stretches forward. Then she turns sharply and faces a blank wall. A dead end. She places her hand against the stone. A low sound escapes, like a slow breath. The floor trembles beneath us. An opening forms under the wall. We descend. A white stone door slides aside.

  A corridor entirely white stands before us.

  “This is the infirmary,” évra says, continuing forward as if it required no emphasis.

  We follow.

  The contrast hits hard. Everything is bright, sterile, exact. Long windows line the corridor. Behind them, rooms repeat in sequence. Beds aligned. Some occupied by still bodies. Others by wounded who stare at the ceiling in silence. Farther down, machines encircle patients, connected directly to flesh, adjusting, correcting, stabilizing what remains functional.

  Nurses in white move quickly. Their gestures are controlled. No raised voices. No visible urgency. The injured do not complain. They wait. Some already stand, prepared to return.

  Survival here does not mean restoration. It means maintenance. Something tightens inside me. This is a checkpoint. évra does not slow.

  “We continue.”

  We step into an office. Everything is aligned. Papers squared. Pens placed in exact order. No object sits out of line. The air feels measured.

  évra stops before a painting. A stylized eye is painted there, rendered with such precision and detail that it cannot be mistaken for simple decoration. The colors draw the gaze without softness, and I feel watched before anything actually moves.

  “This zone is forbidden to most personnel. Few know it exists. If I bring you here, it is not a privilege. It is necessary.”

  The eye shifts.A blue light scans évra from head to toe in a slow, methodical movement that carries no warmth and produces no sound. It then turns toward us and settles on each of us in sequence.

  I blink. The office dissolves. We stand in darkness lit by steady blue flames. Four stone tables are aligned in front of us. A map rests on each. I step closer. L?UVRE appears divided into four zones.

  Zone 0 — Morgus.

  Zone -1 — Corpius.

  Zone -2 — Turus.

  Zone -3 — Sensus.

  A voice speaks from nowhere.

  “Focus your Word energy into your eyes.”

  No one questions it. We obey. I do not look at Aris or Fortuna. I know they see it too. The maps open. The city lies exposed beneath our sight, active and precise. Morgus and Corpius register briefly.

  My focus shifts to Turus. Three red dots appear, marking Fortuna, Aris, and me. They indicate where we stand inside the city. They are making sure we understand our place inside it.

  Another red dot flickers in Morgus. It appears. Then disappears. No explanation. Enough to remain. Silence returns. The office snaps back around us.

  A mechanical clicking breaks the stillness. Slow. Regular. Like lenses adjusting. He stands against the desk. Motionless. Eyes closed. On each shoulder, a camera pivots independently, scanning the room in smooth arcs.

  He wears a white coat without a crease. His brown hair falls long and slightly wavy, tied loosely behind his neck. A short beard frames a composed face. He never looks at us. Still, nothing about our presence escapes him.

  évra stands beside him.

  “This is Sorto. He is in charge of the infirmary…”

  Sorto’s voice is low.

  “Let’s go.”

  évra glances at him, surprised for a second, then allows a small smile.

  “You too let yourself be charmed by his talent.”

  Sorto gives no answer. He straightens and walks. The cameras adjust instantly.

  We pass through the infirmary again. Fortuna speaks as we walk.

  “You… you don’t heal people here?”

  His response is steady.

  “I do not heal. I monitor.”

  Fortuna nods. She does not insist.

  We walk several more minutes through dark corridors until we reach a massive door. A soft scent seeps from behind it, warm and familiar, enough to slow my steps without me realizing it.

  évra pushes it open. The smell of food fills the air.

  “This is the cafeteria,” she says, with unexpected ease. “The main reason I agreed to take a break from war is here.”

  It is the first time I have seen her like this. Even Sorto feels altered. Nothing visible. But something has shifted.