The Sovereign-V1: C10: The Black Vaults

The Sovereign-V1: C10: The Black Vaults

The corridor wasn't just cold; it felt like the antechamber of a tomb. The slam of the lecture hall door behind Shiro wasn’t just a sound; it was the sealing of a sarcophagus lid, the final punctuation on the world they’d known. The air that hit his heated skin was a slap of glacial indifference, a feeble attempt to douse the inferno raging within him. It failed. Blood pounded in his ears, a savage drumbeat synced with the throbbing agony radiating from his lower spine, Vayne’s parting gift, a lance of white hot pain embedded deep. Koji’s blood was a hot, sticky mask on his face, drying tacky at the edges, the coppery tang thick and cloying in his nostrils, mingling sickeningly with the phantom scent of Aki’s burning starwort and moon petal. His knuckles screamed, raw, split open, and already stiffening, a perfect mirror to the shattered state of Aki’s plank nestled within his discarded trunk back in the chaos. He slumped against the damp, unforgiving stone wall, chest heaving, lungs burning with the effort to draw breath into a body vibrating with spent fury. Behind his eyelids flashed not just Koji’s terrified, bloodied face, but Akuma’s star pupiled promise of flaying, Veyne’s triumphant sneer, and the wispy ash of Aki’s defiant chart curling upwards in the brazier.
Rewrite the sky.
The words felt like cold ashes now, scattered by the gale of his own violence.
Footsteps approached, not the heavy, armoured tread of guards, but light, deliberate, almost silent on the worn stones. Kuro fell into step beside him, a phantom coalescing from the corridor’s gloom. His own breathing was slightly elevated, a faint flush high on his cheekbones beneath the stark, livid red mark blooming where Akuma’s gauntlet, etched with the twisted Polaris, had pressed its brutal signature. He didn’t speak immediately, his storm grey eyes scanning the shadowed archways branching off the main corridor, alert for pursuit. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed something small and dark towards Shiro. Instinct, honed in Higaru alleys, made Shiro snatch it from the air, a dried fig, wrinkled and humble, still faintly warm from the prince’s pocket.
“Cool and collected, my ass,” Kuro remarked, his voice dry as ancient parchment, yet lacking its usual razor sharp edge. He surveyed Shiro’s blood splattered, torn state with a critical, almost clinical eye. “Though points for visceral impact. Lord Koji’s nasal architecture is currently undergoing… significant revision. A rewrite even the Temple couldn’t mandate.” A ghost of his usual smirk touched his lips.
Shiro looked down at the fig, its simple comfort absurd against the backdrop of gore coating his hands. He wiped a smear of drying crimson from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist, succeeding only in smearing it further across his jawline. “Said the prince who tossed his crown to a feathered kleptomaniac,” he retorted, his voice a harsh rasp scraped raw by shouting. He bit into the fig. The burst of cloying sweetness exploded on his tongue, clashing violently, nauseatingly, with the persistent iron tang of Koji’s blood. It was jarring, a dissonant note in the symphony of pain and rage. He forced the sticky pulp down his throat. “Why’d you back me in there?” He met Kuro’s gaze directly, his amber eyes, usually guarded, now wide and searching in the dim light, probing the depths of Kuro’s storm grey. “Akuma was a heartbeat from snapping your spine like kindling. Orders or no orders, he looked ready to risk it.”
Kuro’s expression shifted, the sardonic mask softening for a fleeting, almost imperceptible moment in the uncertain light filtering from a distant, guttering torch. “It’s the least I could do after everything I’ve done but more to keep your martyrdom complex in check,” he said, the dryness returning. “It’d make for a terribly anticlimactic saga. Imagine the ballads: ‘The Rat Who Died Mid Snarl.’ Doesn’t exactly inspire.” He nudged a loose cobblestone with the toe of his boot, sending it skittering into the shadows with a hollow click.
“Bullshit,” Shiro countered, wiping fig juice mingled with blood onto the ragged tear in his trousers. The berry dye stain from his earlier defiance in the lecture hall seemed darker now, almost pulsing faintly against the rough fabric, a bruised echo of the violet light in the shattered plank. “You don’t save martyrs. You use
chaos
. You’re bored stiff in this gilded cage, and watching your fathers pet thug choke on his own leash is the best entertainment you’ve had in years.” He leaned his head back against the cold stone, closing his eyes briefly against the pounding in his skull.
“Perhaps,” Kuro conceded, the word light, but his gaze drifted upwards, drawn to the vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness. The crow was there. Perched impossibly still on the grotesque, rain worn head of a stone gargoyle jutting from the corridor roof, its head cocked at that unnerving angle. King Ryo’s stolen signet ring, a band of malevolent black iron, was still clutched firmly in its beak. Its prismatic, star pierced eyes seemed fixed on them, radiating an unsettling, predatory intelligence. “Or maybe…” Kuro’s gaze returned to Shiro, and this time, a spark of genuine, dangerous curiosity ignited in the storm grey depths, cutting through the usual boredom. “…I’m morbidly fascinated. To see how far a gutter rat clutching the shards of a stolen sky, dragged along by a defector prince trailing his father’s apocalyptic wrath… how deep that tangled mess can drag this saga.” He gestured vaguely with the fig stem he’d somehow retained, encompassing the oppressive stone walls, the unseen palace looming beyond, the watching crow. “Personally I’d say were at least good enough for a few seasons no?”
Shiro followed Kuro’s gaze to the crow. Its alien eyes held no warmth, only calculation. He spat a gob of blood and fig pulp onto the stones at his feet. It landed with a wet splat. “Far enough to shove that ring down your father’s throat while his lies burn around him,” he stated, the image forming with sudden, vicious clarity, fuelled by the coppery taste in his mouth and the phantom smell of smoke. “Watch it melt in the pyre he built.”
Kuro laughed. Not the cold, mocking sound he used to slice through noble pretensions in the lecture hall, but something sharper, brighter, startlingly alive. It echoed off the ancient stones, a sound utterly alien in the Academy’s hushed, oppressive corridors. “Now that,” he said, wiping a nonexistent tear of mirth from his eye, the movement making the silver streak in his hair catch the dim light, “is thinking like a Soverign, Ghost. Aim for the throne, not just the boots of the sycophants polishing it.”
The crow cawed, a harsh, guttural sound that seemed less like a bird call and more like a rasp of approval. It launched itself from the gargoyle with a snap of dark wings, swooping low. Icy air stirred Shiro’s hair as its wingtips brushed mere inches above their heads. Something small and brown dropped, landing at Shiro’s scuffed boots with a soft tick. A fig stem, meticulously gnawed clean. The bird circled once, a shadow against the higher gloom, then vanished down a narrow, lightless side corridor, the last glint of the stolen ring winking out like a dying star.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from NovelFire; any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Shiro bent, a fresh lance of pain shooting up his bruised spine from Vayne’s cane strike and picked up the stem. He twirled it between his scarred, bloodstained fingers, the simple action grounding him. “Your bird’s got terrible taste in gifts. Thieving, judgmental bastard.”
“
Our bird
,” Kuro corrected, a flicker of that unguarded amusement returning. He nodded towards the gnawed stem. “And she’s a harsh critic. That?” He pointed, his finger stained faintly violet from the berry dye. “Means she thinks you’re worth the spectacle. Just barely. Don’t let it go to your head. It’s already a mess.” He gestured at Shiro’s blood matted hair.
They pushed off the wall, the momentary levity evaporating as they moved. The corridor stretched before them, a maw of deepening shadow. The air grew colder, damper, the faint scent of mildew intensifying into the wet stone smell of deep earth and forgotten places. The rhythmic, maddening drip… drip… drip of water echoed from unseen fissures in the rock, marking time in a place where time felt suspended. The polished flagstones gave way to rougher, uneven steps, slick with condensation, leading inexorably downwards. The light from the upper corridors faded completely, replaced by the feeble, dancing glow of infrequent, guttering tallow candles set in rusted iron sconces, their smoke adding a greasy pall to the air. This was the descent. This was the threshold.
The corridor ended abruptly at a monstrosity of aged timber and blackened iron. The door to the Black Vaults. It wasn't just heavy; it radiated a palpable sense of finality, like the entrance to a giant's ossuary. Iron bands, thick as a man’s wrist and crusted with rust that wept streaks like old, dried blood, reinforced wood so dark it seemed to absorb the weak candlelight. Two Royal Guards stood before it, statues carved from shadow and obsidian plate. Their armour drank the light, their faces invisible voids beneath the sharp lines of their helmets. They held poleaxes not just vertically, but with the chilling stillness of executioners awaiting their moment. The air here was colder still, thick with the scent of damp rot, old iron, and something faintly metallic beneath, the ghost of spilled blood, perhaps, or despair made tangible.
As they approached, the guard on the left stepped forward. The movement was unnervingly smooth, silent despite the weight he carried. His voice, when it came, was a grating monotone devoid of inflection, amplified and distorted slightly within his helm. “Lord Kuro. His Majesty’s command is explicit. Your immediate compliance is required. This… slum bred theatrics ceases now. You will accompany us.” The order brooked no argument, the threat hanging unspoken but heavy in the frigid air.
Kuro didn’t break stride. He didn’t slow. He didn’t even glance sideways at the imposing figure. He walked straight up to the colossal door, stopping inches from its scarred surface. “Tell Father I’m otherwise engaged,” he said airily, as if discussing the weather. “Detention, you see. Mandatory. Apparently, associating with rats carries consequences who knew.” He patted Shiro’s bloodied shoulder, leaving a faint crimson smear on the indigo silk. “Highly contagious, defiance. Almost epidemic. Terribly sorry.” His tone suggested he was anything but.
The guard’s gauntleted hand tightened on his poleaxe shaft, the leather creaking. “He will strip you bare for this insolence!” the distorted voice rasped, a crack appearing in the monotone. “Heirship is not a bauble for your amusement!”
“Which one?” Kuro inquired, tilting his head with exaggerated curiosity, the candlelight glinting off his silver streak. “Prince? Heir? Or just ‘Supreme Disappointment’? Frankly, they’re interchangeable trinkets. Getting dreadfully heavy.” He produced the gnawed fig stem Shiro had dropped earlier and began twirling it idly between his long fingers. “Do pass along my requests, though. The ambiance down here is… bracing. The Black Vaults are drafty. Dreadfully so. Send cushions. Goose down, encased in silk. And perhaps some of those little iced cakes from the royal kitchens. The ones shaped like stars.” He smiled, a bright, dazzling expression utterly incongruous in the grim setting. “Contraband sweetens captivity.”
The guard’s composure shattered. His gauntleted fist slammed against the iron bound door with a deafening, reverberating
CLANGGGG!
that echoed like a funeral bell down the stone passage. “You’ll choke on that arrogance, you spoiled, ungrateful
BRAT
!” he roared, spittle undoubtedly flying inside the dark confines of his helmet, the sound raw and furious.
Kuro leaned closer to the narrow visor slit, the flickering candlelight carving his features into something sharp, feral, and utterly devoid of fear. His voice dropped to a low, venomous purr that somehow carried over the echo. “Arrogance, guardsman, is practically the family motto. Engraved on the Oji crest right beside ‘Ruthlessness’ and ‘Paranoia.’ Run along now.” He made that familiar, dismissive shooing gesture. “Your shift of grovelling before superiors is clearly over. Go find a boot to lick that actually appreciates the effort, like my father he appreciates the effort you put in.”
The guard vibrated with impotent fury, a low growl emanating from his helmet. For a heart stopping moment, Shiro thought he might raise his poleaxe. Then, with a final, guttural curse that echoed harshly in the confined space, the guard spun on his heel. He gestured sharply, a brutal chopping motion, to his silent companion. Together, they stomped away, their heavy, armoured footsteps ringing with suppressed rage, fading into the oppressive gloom of the descending corridor until silence, thick and watchful, swallowed the sound.
Shiro let out a low, shaky whistle, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. The confrontation had been brief, but the violence simmering beneath the surface had been palpable. “Cushions? Star cakes? You’re trying to get us flayed before Akuma gets the chance, aren’t you?”
Kuro shrugged, the movement fluid, almost elegant, despite the tension coiling beneath his nonchalant exterior. “What? A prince deserves basic comforts while contemplating high treason. It’s merely practical logistics. Hard to plot the downfall of a tyrant when one’s posterior is freezing on slime covered stone.” He gestured grandly towards the monolithic door. “After you, Ghost. Do mind the threshold. Rumour has it bites first time visitors.”
As if summoned by his words, a series of heavy, metallic clunks and the screech of protesting iron bolts sounded from within the door’s immense thickness. With a groan that spoke of centuries of disuse and malice, the door ponderously swung inwards, revealing not a room, but an impenetrable wall of absolute darkness. A wave of air rushed out to meet them, frigid, damp, and laden with the unmistakable, cloying scents of wet earth, ancient stone, mildew, stale blood, rust, and beneath it all, the sour tang of long fermented despair. It was the breath of the tomb, cold enough to sear the lungs and heavy enough to crush hope.
Shiro hesitated for only a heartbeat, the black maw before him more intimidating than any armed guard.
Rewrite the sky.
The ashes of the phrase stirred. He couldn’t do it from a palace cage, or a lecture hall, or even a slum shack. Perhaps… perhaps it started here, in the belly of the beast. He stepped forward, crossing the threshold. The darkness swallowed him whole, an immediate, smothering embrace.
Kuro followed without hesitation, his silhouette briefly outlined against the faint corridor light before he too was consumed. The massive door groaned shut behind them with a terrible, resonant
CLANGGGG!
that vibrated through the stone floor and up into their bones, a sound of absolute, irrevocable finality.
Absolute. Darkness.

V1: C10: The Black Vaults