As they climb the stairs, neither dares to say a word. But Elian has only one thought in mind, a thought that causes sharp stabs in his chest: ?Not only have I failed the exam and will never become a scout, but I will no longer be able to stay beside Giada?.
Zech, instead, is far more concerned about their future than the impossibility of becoming an explorer. Many unpleasant scenarios exist for those who prove unfit for any role of note within the Castle. Chief among them is forced labor in the mines, not far from the rest of the colony. Then there is the Factory, also close to the Castle—a place where two like them, without prestige or specific skills, would not end up among the engineers, but among the laborers, performing repetitive, grueling, and monotonous work for the rest of their lives. If only Zech had listened to his mother and dedicated himself to cataloging all the fruits and vegetables produced by the Greenhouse, perhaps he would have a different future as a grower. But now it is too late; soon they will enter the General's office and discover what role they will hold forever.
***
The office of General Valerius was less a room and more a fortress of austerity and raw power. High upon the stone wall behind him hung a medieval shield, its surface scarred but proud, bearing the heraldic crest of the colony: a lone, defiant tower. Just beneath it, a vast tactical map stretched across the masonry, a sprawling web of ink and vellum depicting every inch of the wilderness reclaimed by the scouts of the High King’s Castle.
Valerius was a man built of dense muscle and hard angles. A thick, jagged scar sliced across his right eye—a permanent record of a life spent on the frontier, surviving both the elements and the militia’s wars. He did not sit. He remained standing behind his desk of dark, heavy oak, hands clasped firmly behind his back, wearing his fatigues with a crisp, lethal precision. The reflection of the lamps on his clean-shaven face and scalp gave him an almost artificial quality, like an ancient marble statue unearthed from the ruins of the Old World.
?Inspector Cortez has delivered his report,? Valerius began. His voice was a profound bass, a low frequency that seemed to make the very windowpanes shudder in their frames. ?He claims you are two dead weights. Scraps that the Castle can no longer afford to feed.?
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Zech’s gaze instinctively dropped to the floor, his messy red hair falling over his brow. But Elian forced himself to maintain eye contact, his pale features set in a mask of quiet persistence. Valerius noticed the gesture. A small muscle in the General’s prominent jaw twitched—a silent acknowledgement of the boy’s internal defiance.
?However,? the General continued, his tone cooling, ?the name Serpieri still carries weight in these archives. Your father is a man of order, Elian. Your mother is a pillar of this community—a physician. I cannot simply cast you over the walls... not yet.?
Valerius leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the oak surface. ?I have decided to station you at the Castle Library. You will serve as assistants to Master Silas. You will move crates, scrub the dust of centuries, and obey every whim of that old bookworm. Consider it a social quarantine. You are stripped of your rank, removed from the scout hierarchy. You are now... second-class civilians.?
?But General...? Zech tried to interject, his voice cracking with a mix of shame and frustration.
?Silence, Murphy! This is not a negotiation. It is a mercy you haven’t earned. Julien Martel and Giada Ricci will continue their training beyond the walls with the rest of your cohort. They will carry the torch of human progress. You two will remain among the rubble of the past with Silas.?
The two boys struggled to keep their expressions neutral. Zech’s face darkened with a clear, simmering pout, his shoulders slumped. Elian, however, felt a strange, unexpected spark—a flicker of curiosity at the prospect of entering the Library’s forbidden depths.
?There is, however, a condition,? Valerius added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. ?Some believe—perhaps wrongly—that too much time alone with dusty relics has made Master Silas... dissident. It is possible he has stumbled upon strange texts, ideas ill-suited for the world we are trying to build. No one truly knows the contents of every volume recovered over the last three hundred years. Once, we had many experts, men loyal to the colony’s cause. Now, only Silas remains.?
The General exhaled a heavy, weary sigh. ?Therefore, while these are surely slanders, you will observe. Discern if Master Silas harbors thoughts incompatible with our community.?
Valerius gave a sharp, final jerk of his head toward the door. ?Go. Surrender your insignia and report to the Library gates. And pray that Silas takes you in. If you fail him, the Castle will have no more rooms left to house you.?
The heavy command door thudded shut behind them, the sound echoing like a funeral bell. Outside, under a thin, biting rain, Elian and Zech began the long walk toward the Monastery. Elian could still feel the phantom weight of Valerius’s stare. It wasn’t the look one gave a failure; it was the look of a man watching an interesting prisoner.
They reached the Monastery, where the silence felt unnatural, heavy with the weight of unread words. Elian raised his hand and struck the wooden gate with resolve. He would find a way back to Giada, even if he had to carve a path through the past to do it.