Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 46: Letter

I stare at Cain, the blood draining from my face. "Is... is this normal?" I ask, voice tight with panic. "The King himself getting involved in something like this?"

Cain just shrugs, twirling the sealed letter midair with a flick of his fingers. "No. No, it's not."

My stomach sinks.

He continues, voice calm, almost bored. "Typically, when an Elite steps out of line, kills civilians, loses control, or breaks a law etc. they're hunted down by other Elites we have special groups formed exactly for that. Rogue Elites can't be held by normal humans obviously. Even without using their mark, they're just... too strong, too fast."

That much I already knew. It's why so many soldiers and normal townsfolk flinch when we walk past them.

"But," Cain adds, glancing at me, "since I was there to secure you, a hunt isn't necessary."

I nod slowly, my mind racing. "Right, that makes sense. But still why would the King want to see me for this?"

Cain cracks his neck with a pop and a groan, like this whole thing is giving him a migraine too. "Because you're a three mark bearer," he says plainly. "And that makes you interesting. Dangerous. A tool. A threat. Take your pick." He stretches his legs out. "The politics in Lusa have probably made it impossible for him to summon you outright at least not until you did something loud. Which, congratulations, you have." "I'm sure you are at least somewhat aware that not everyone is exactly pleased by what your existence represents."

I grimace, rubbing my temples. "Yeah... I had a chat with that old man Lark."

Cain raises an eyebrow at my tone but lets it slide shaking his head.

"Anyway," he continues, "Count Ashland probably dumped all his remaining Merits into pushing your rampage through the proper channels right to the Imperial Council. I'm sure he's hoping the King will kill you outright."

He smirks faintly.

"But I suspect," he says, voice amused, "he's going to be very disappointed."

I shift upright, my back pressing against the headboard, trying to settle the sudden buzzing in my head. Everything feels like it's moving too fast. I glance at Cain and ask, "What are Merits, exactly?"

He flicks his fingers again, and the letter begins to spin slowly in the air, a lazy orbit of parchment and sealed wax. "Merits are a system put in place to reward those who go above and beyond in service to the Empire," he explains, his tone casual but laced with something older, heavier. "For example... do you know how I received the title of Spellbreaker?"

I blink in surprise at the question. "Yeah... Howard told me."

Cain snorts. "Ahh, of course he did."

I hesitate, then push a little. "Is it true? That you fought fourteen enemy Elites and won?"

His expression darkens slightly. His eyes normally full of mischief and bemused superiority dim with something closer to pain. Regret. "Yes," he says quietly. "I did." Then his voice drops even lower, almost a whisper. "It was a trap. I was betrayed. The real number was fifteen. But..."

He trails off. And I know not to press further. There's a line, and I won't cross it.

The letter falls gently back into his hand, and Cain straightens his posture like he's shrugging off a bad memory. "Anyway, yes. I won. Barely. And for that, His Majesty granted me the title and five Merits. The higher the request you make of the Crown, the more Merits it requires. Sometimes, even that's not enough."

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "So Count Ashland used his Merits which already sound like a pain in the ass to earn by the way just to shove his report about me up to the Imperial Council?"

Cain grins at my phrasing and nods. "Exactly. Normally, the King or his Council wouldn't involve themselves in a disciplinary case like this. And since my official report puts the bulk of the blame on Sergeant Blake for inciting you and ignoring my orders... well, that makes me, as a Spellbreaker, the authority on the matter."

He pauses, letting that sink in.

"Count Ashland didn't like that," Cain continues, "so he went over my head. Used his Merits who knows how many to appeal to the King directly bypassing all the normal hoops. And now His Majesty has a convenient excuse to summon the infamous three mark bearer damned of what some in his circle may say about it."

I groan, running my hand down my face. "Of course he does."

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Cain stretches, unfolding his legs with a quiet grunt as he sits up straighter. "Within a few hours of the good Count filing his complaint, one of the Couriers arrived. They were ready to take you back to the Royal Palace in Lusa then and there."

I frown, the word snagging on something unfamiliar. Courier?

Cain keeps going, oblivious to my confusion. "However, when they saw you were unconscious and clearly not going anywhere, they left this." He gestures to the letter. "A formal summons. They told me to contact them the moment you woke up."

I seize the pause. "Wait—what the hell is a Courier, exactly?"

Cain glances at me and chuckles like I just asked if the sky is blue. "Once again, if you just paid attention... The Couriers are a group of Elites with teleportation-based marks. The mark itself isn't rare, but the strength and range varies wildly. The King keeps the best of them on standby in Lusa. If something important happens, he can send them anywhere in the Empire instantly. No need for carriages or trains. Its very convenient. "

He grins. "He calls them his Couriers. Or, when he's feeling cheeky his pigeons."

I look at him with suspicion not believing it. "He calls them pigeons?"

Cain snorts. "His Majesty is... an interesting man, to say the least."

Then he stands up, brushing imaginary dust off his robe. "Sadly, since you've been unconscious for nearly two weeks, they've not exactly been thrilled. They've checked in a few times, just to make sure you were still here."

He tosses the letter toward me. I catch it clumsily, feeling the weight of it in my hands like it's a stone.

"You probably have an hour. Maybe two," Cain says. "Read the summons. Then take a shower.

My stomach churns. The King. The King. I try to focus on breathing as my thoughts spiral. This isn't just any noble. This is King Augustus Malik, the man who claims divine right to rule, who leads armies and conquers nations like it's a game. The man whose charm is matched only by his reputation for ruthlessness.

"Are you coming with me?" I ask, trying to keep the fear from my voice.

Cain smiles sadly "No. I can't come. This is a summons just for you. But if you mind your words and your tone, you'll be fine. The King doesn't waste potential over mistakes like this." He hesitates. "I'm sorry I can't do more for you, Ayato."

I just stare at the letter in my lap, hands tightening around the edges. Funny. I've hated everything the King stands for my entire life. And now, the only reason I'm not in trouble for killing thirty five people is because the King has a complete disregard for human life and values power and usefulness over anything.

Cain doesn't say anything else. He steps out quietly, leaving me alone in the room with the letter.

*****************************

In the end I shower and change first retreating back to my old room.

My fingers tremble as I break the seal, the wax crumbling beneath my thumb like dried blood. The parchment is thick, unnaturally smooth. When I unfold it, the writing gleams faintly in the soft light. The letters are precise, curling in elegant sweeps that practically breathe nobility.

To Awakened Ayato Daath,

Word of your recent incident has reached my ears, as things of great interest often do. Reports speak of a young three-mark bearer tearing through a trained battalion of men with violet flames in his eyes and madness on his breath. A brutal, bloody mess, they say. Yet I find myself more intrigued than offended. 

Let me be clear this is not a letter of punishment. You are not being dragged before me just to die by hands. If that were my intent, you would already be dead I have no need for dramatics.

No, this is a summons — formal, yes, but not hostile. You are to come to the capital, to stand in my presence, not as a criminal, but as a curiosity. My court speaks of you endlessly. Some with fear, others with admiration. My generals squabble over the truth of your marks. The Inquisition here is split with some saying you are also chosen of the divine like me and others saying you are some false prophet. I must admit I sit here amused and so I prefer to see for myself. . 

I have no doubt your strength is real. But strength without purpose is wasted. Raw power means little to me unless it can be shaped into something useful. I want to look you in the eye and decide if you are something worth keeping. You seem to be a blade one that's so sharp, unshaped, unsheathed—yet promising. 

Consider this your opportunity. Arrive with your mind clear and your tongue measured, and you might find this meeting far more generous than you expect. 

Signed in my own hand,

Augustus Malik God Emperor of Elarion. Sovereign of Avrael. Blessed Of The Divine. Vive Sicut Serpens

The bottom of the parchment is sealed with deep crimson wax, pressed with the Imperial Sigil: a serpent coiled tightly around a struggling bird of prey.