The black marble walls seemed to close in around us as we moved deeper into the castle's heart. The air grew colder, and the crimson light from the Spire filtered through occasional high windows, painting bloody streaks across the polished floor. This was it - our first real test in the den of the lion himself. I flexed my fingers slightly, feeling the power coiled within me, ready if this meeting turned sour.
They navigated us through the cold, black marble halls, their footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. We passed several other people moving in groups or alone, but everyone gave our little procession a wide berth. Their eyes darted away quickly, not wanting to be associated with whatever trouble we were in.
A few guards nodded greeting to our escorts and leered at us with clear schadenfreude. Their smirks said they believed we were being hauled in for punishment, which, to be fair, we might just be. I kept my expression neutral, storing their faces away for later; arrogance made people predictable, and predictable people were useful.
After winding through a maze of corridors that I meticulously mapped in my mind, the atmosphere began to shift. The sound of distant cheering and rhythmic thumping grew steadily clearer, cutting through the castle's usual gloom. The noise was a stark, living contrast to the deathly quiet of the administrative wings, a pulse of raw energy.
We arrived at the source: a massive gambling hall even more densely packed and raucous than the Memory Market. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of desperation. I caught a glimpse of a short, energetic girl in the centre of one crowd, cajoling other gamblers with infectious fervour. Before I could confirm if it was the Aiko from the novel, our Guard escort pulled us firmly towards a different, slightly quieter corner of the cavernous room.
And there, amidst the chaos, was Gemma. He was not a large man, but he carried a palpable aura of contained violence, like a coiled spring. He sat at a heavy wooden table, ignoring the riot around him as he calmly cleaned a vicious-looking dagger with a cloth. His eyes, sharp and calculating, lifted from his task and settled on us, and the world seemed to shrink to that single, assessing gaze.
Our escorts stopped a respectful distance away, one of them muttering, "Sir, the ones with the jacket." Gemma didn't respond immediately, his focus entirely on Sasrir and me. He finished wiping a non-existent speck from his blade, the motion slow and deliberate, a silent display of control. The din of the gambling hall faded into a dull roar, the space around our group becoming an island of tense quiet.
"So," Gemma began, his voice a low, gravelly thing that carried easily over the noise. "You're the new meat who's been wearing my colors." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he looked me over, then Sasrir. "You don't look like much. But then, the ones who survive the Labyrinth rarely do." He was probing, testing our reactions with a casual insult.
I met his gaze, keeping my posture non-threatening but not submissive. "We found it on a corpse," I stated plainly, repeating the same story. "We were told it belonged here. We're just here to return property." Gemma's lips twitched in what might have been a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew there was more to the story, and the fact that we were standing there calmly in front of him was its own kind of confession.
He gestured with his chin towards Sasrir. "Your quiet friend. What's his problem?" I glanced at Sasrir, whose shadow-cloaked form was utterly still. "He's not much of a talker," I replied. "But he's very good at listening." Gemma snorted, a short, harsh sound. "I bet he is. You two stick out like a sore thumb. A pretty-faced kid and his personal shadow-man." His assessment was blunt, but accurate.
Gemma finally sheathed his dagger, the sound a sharp click that seemed to finalize something. "You killed one of mine," he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. It wasn't a question. The Guards flanking us tensed, their hands drifting toward their weapons. This was the moment of truth, the precipice we had been walking towards since we entered the castle.
I didn't deny it. There was no point. "He attacked us first," I said, my voice still calm. "It was him or us. We chose us." Gemma watched me for a long, heart-pounding moment, his expression unreadable. The gambling continued unabated around us, a stark contrast to the life-or-death negotiation happening in our corner. He was weighing our value against the insult, the loss of a soldier against two potential new assets.
A slow, genuine smile finally spread across Gemma's face, though it was a cold, predatory thing. "I like that," he said. "No excuses. Just facts." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "A weak Hunter gets himself killed, that's on him. But killing one of my Hunters... that creates a debt. You understand how this works?" I nodded slowly. This was the deal, the bloody transaction I had sensed coming.
"The debt is paid one of two ways," Gemma continued, his eyes glinting. "I take your lives now, to balance the scales. Or... you work off the debt. You prove you're more valuable to me alive than that fool was." He let the option hang in the smoky air between us. It was the offer we had hoped for, the dangerous opportunity we needed to worm our way into the power structure of this place.
"We'd prefer to work," I said, without hesitation. Sasrir gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of agreement beside me. Gemma's smile widened. "Good. You start tomorrow. I've got a little pest control problem in the eastern ruins. You can be the bait." He waved a hand in dismissal, already turning his attention back to his dagger. Our escorts nudged us, and we were led away, leaving the Hunter primarch to his thoughts. We had passed the first test, but the real trial was just beginning.
From what little the story had given, Gemma didn't seem to be the worst of the Primarchs here in Bright Castle, but he had his own vices and would also side with his men over justice or morality. The fact Kael was already dead, and apparently not particularly well liked, was probably the reason we weren't attacked on sight. Instead, he intended to bleed us dry of any value. Whether he would let bygones be bygones after that, who knew?
"So," Sasrir spoke up lowly beside me, "Are you still planning to take his spot as the leader of the Hunters and Pathfinders? It would be better if you were Ouroboros after all, since luck meant you would never get lost. Medici would definitely be more suited than a weakling like you."
"You know Sassy," I sighed at him, "I noticed that whenever you're worried for me, you try to put me down with negative words, like you're hoping to dampen my spirits and rein me in. And while I appreciate your concern, it's not necessary-I can handle myself here."
"Just know your limits" was all he said in return.
A needless worry, by all accounts. After all, the first person a Spectator observes in none other than themselves. I knew exactly what I was doing, and what I would do in the future. Yes, it was all coming together now...I had already designed the first draft of my story, a little play I would prepare for the arrival of the main characters. But first and foremost...
"I need to burn that goddamn tree" I spoke grimly.