Interlude 4


    The Cold Beneath Our Feet


    Penelope''s shoulders heave as her breathing steadies. The chamber''s silence presses against her eardrums, broken only by the soft patter of blood dripping from Aria Velstrin''s body onto the stone floor. The crimson pool spreads outward in thin rivulets, seeking the grooves and imperfections in the ancient stone.


    The torq clasped around her neck pulses with an icy burn. Words etch themselves into her consciousness:


    Victorious.


    Opponent: Aria Velstrin.


    Conquered: Reflection Claimed.


    Echoes Assimilated: +7 Fragments.


    Above her, Prisma, her Skathrith hovers—a kaleidoscopic point of ever-shifting light. Within its crystalline depths, fragments of the battle replay in endless loops. Aria''s graceful defensive stance. The flash of sliver-light sheathed arms. The moment Penelope''s hand found its mark. The widening of Aria''s eyes as realization struck.


    The final, rattling exhale.


    Her gaze drifts downward to the expanding pool of blood at her feet.


    The uneven surface creates small mirrors, and Penelope sees herself fractured across them. In one reflection, her chin lifts with pride, a victor worthy of House Vermilion. In another, horror twists her features as the weight of taking a life settles into her bones. A third shows nothing at all—a mask of perfect emptiness.


    The logical part of her mind—the part trained since childhood to be a weapon of House Vermilion—catalogs this as a necessary step. A milestone. Proof of her commitment to the path ahead. But somewhere deeper, in a place she usually keeps carefully walled away, something cracks. Her hands begin to tremble, and she clenches them into fists to still the motion.


    A single thought emerges through the chaos of her mind: she has become what they wanted. What they needed.


    The perfect instrument. The flawless weapon.


    The obedient daughter.


    Penelope stares at Aria''s body, and the present moment fractures. The metallic scent of blood fades, replaced by the crisp autumn air of a different day, months ago.


    Sunlight streams through tall windows in the tactics classroom, casting long shadows across ancient texts and battle maps. A girl with amber eyes and hair like burnished copper approaches Penelope''s desk, hand extended.


    "You''re Penelope Azure, right? Castor''s sister?" Aria''s smile radiates warmth, genuine and open. Her aura pulses with vitality, fierce and bright as a living flame.


    Penelope''s response comes measured, careful. "Urisius. House Vermilion." The correction is gentle but firm. She accepts the handshake with practiced grace, already calculating the probability they will meet in combat.


    The memory shifts.


    They circle each other on training mats, wooden practice blades clashing in perfect rhythm. Aria matches her step for step, their movements a deadly dance. During strategy lectures, they exchange knowing glances when other students miss obvious tactical flaws. In quiet corners of the library, they debate historical battles in whispered tones.


    "The Seventh Legion''s flanking maneuver was brilliant," Aria murmurs, eyes bright with passion. Her fingers trace the battle lines on aged parchment.


    "But ultimately flawed," Penelope replies, their shoulders touching as they lean over the same text. "They left their center exposed."


    The memories splinter like shattered glass, each fragment catching the light before falling away. Reality crashes back—the cold chamber, the spreading pool of blood beneath Aria''s still form, the absolute silence pressing in from all sides.


    The memory of the duel floods back with crystalline clarity.


    Aria''s hands had blazed with controlled fury, each gesture releasing arcs of flame that turned the air itself into a weapon. The chamber had filled with waves of scorching heat, but Penelope remained unmoved, her breathing steady and measured.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "You can''t dodge forever, Urisius!" Aria''s voice had carried both challenge and respect as she launched another barrage of fiery projectiles.


    Penelope''s response came not in words but in action. Her semblance activated, and suddenly the chamber filled with perfect reflections of herself—each one moving with identical grace, each one a potential threat. The mirrors of light danced through Aria''s flames, untouched, unburned.


    Aria''s flames intensified, desperate to find the real target among the duplicates. Her skathrith pulsed with energy, adding to the inferno. But with each attack, she left smaller openings, tiny gaps in her defense that Penelope''s trained eye caught and cataloged.


    The decisive moment came when Aria committed too heavily to an attack, her flames consuming three of Penelope''s duplicates at once. In that split second of overextension, Penelope struck. Prisma flared with brilliant light, momentarily blinding Aria. Penelope''s hand entered flesh with surgical precision.


    Shock registered on Aria''s face first, then pain. Her skathrith''s glow faded as she fell, her flames extinguishing in an instant. For a fraction of a second, Penelope''s carefully maintained composure cracked—a tiny fissure in her perfect facade as she watched her friend''s eyes go dim.


    But training took over.


    Her spine straightened, her expression smoothed, and she stepped forward to complete her task. Now Prisma holds that final moment in its crystalline depths—Aria''s face forever frozen in that last expression of disbelief and agony, a permanent record of Penelope''s victory and her loss.


    Penelope''s gaze drifts between the scattered reflections in the blood, each surface offering a different version of herself. The polished walls and Prisma''s crystalline facets multiply the effect, creating a hall of mirrors that fragments her identity into distinct pieces.


    In one reflection, she sees herself with head held high, lips curled in a familiar smirk—Castor''s smirk. The expression sits unnaturally on her features, yet carries the same unwavering confidence her twin brother wears like armor. This version of her shows no remorse, only satisfaction in proving her strength.


    Another reflection catches her eye, and her chest tightens.


    This Penelope''s shoulders shake with silent sobs, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle any sound. Tears track down her cheeks, and her fingers tremble as they reach toward Aria''s fallen form. The raw emotion in this reflection makes her stomach turn.


    The third reflection stares back with perfect composure—the ideal scion of House Azure. Cold. Calculating. This version of her shows no trace of internal conflict, as if the death before her is merely another step on a predetermined path.


    Castor''s voice echoes in her mind: "Mercy is weakness, sister. The strong survive." She imagines his reaction to her hesitation, his disappointment in her momentary lapse of resolve. The weight of his expectations presses down on her shoulders like a physical burden.


    Yet beneath that pressure, questions surface. Her mother taught her to value precision over passion, strategy over brute force. Her teachings emphasize the beauty of restraint, the power of calculated action. But here she stands, surrounded by the messy reality of death, her victory achieved through violence rather than wisdom.


    Her thoughts turn to Janus.


    The memory of his violet-gray eyes cuts through her defenses, and she wonders how he would look at her now.


    Would he see the calculated killer, the weeping friend, or the proud warrior? The thought of him facing his own trial, his own moment of transformation, makes her chest constrict.


    The chamber shudders with a deep, resonant groan.


    Penelope''s feet shift to maintain balance as water begins gushing from concealed openings in the walls. The clear liquid meets the crimson pool beneath Aria''s body, creating swirling patterns that spread across the stone floor.


    The rising water catches the chamber''s dim light, multiplying Penelope''s reflection across its rippling surface. Each wavelet shows a different version of her face, and her chest tightens as she realizes these reflections move independently of her own movements.


    A reflection to her left turns its head, lips curling into a satisfied smile.


    Another reflection pleads silently, hands pressed against an invisible barrier.


    The water continues its relentless rise, now ankle-deep.


    Among the shifting faces in the water, Aria''s features materialize with stark clarity. Her eyes snap open, fixing Penelope with an accusatory stare.


    The weight of that gaze presses down on Penelope''s shoulders, heavier than her saturated clothes, heavier than the torq around her neck. Her throat constricts as guilt threatens to overwhelm her.


    The water surges past Penelope''s hips, its icy grip shocking her from her fractured reflections.


    Above, moonlight spills through a circular opening in the ceiling.


    Her gaze traces the chamber''s walls, seeking a path upward.


    Her semblance activates without conscious thought, and suddenly the chamber fills with dozens of Penelopes. Each reflection tests a different route—some leap for distant handholds, others methodically pick their way up the rough stone.


    Three reflections attempt a direct ascent up the eastern wall. They fall as loose stones crumble beneath their fingers. Two more try the western face, making it halfway before a smooth section proves impossible to traverse. But one reflection moves with fluid grace along the northern wall, finding purchase where shadow and moonlight meet.


    Prisma pulses above her head, then suddenly she is the one scaling the wall, the one shoving hands wreathed in silver light into stone. She pulls herself higher, water streaming from her clothes.


    Despite her determination to focus upward, Penelope''s gaze is drawn down. Aria''s face stares up through the bloodied water, unnaturally still among the churning surface. Her amber eyes remain fixed on Penelope, accusing and eternal.


    Penelope wrenches her attention back to the climb.


    Another handhold glows under Prisma''s guidance. She reaches for it, muscles straining as she continues her ascent toward the moonlight above.


    Penelope''s arms strain as she pulls herself through the circular opening, emerging onto a smooth dirt platform. Her sodden clothes cling to her skin as she draws in deep, ragged breaths of cool air.


    Moonlight bathes the open space in silver, casting long shadows across the dirt floor.


    Penelope rises to her feet, hollowed by the knowledge that she has climbed from the abyss, but the cold beneath her feet will follow her always.