Chapter 22 / Golden

September 7th, 15.006 Great Hall, Command Tower, La Paz, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The Great Hall was already full when the bells rang ten. The hall—more a living circle of concrete, glass, and overlapping breaths—rose around them in spiraling geometry. Wide staircases curled upward to the floor that held the Command Chamber and the Elite quarters, balconies stacked like attentive eyelids. Above that: the dining floor, the rest lounges, and the half-completed communication and infirmary annexes branching off toward their respective Wings.

On the ground level, small offices and meeting rooms dotted the perimeter. And in the center of it all stood a simple stage. No banners. No ceremony. Just Ailin and the rest of the Elite—clean lines against open air.

Cadets, new and old, filled the floor in tight clusters: white shirts, gray bottoms in whatever form fit them best—pants, skirts, shorts. Homogeneity by design. At fifteen, you wore what meant you were learning. You did not wear rank.

Ailin lifted the microphone with a posture so calm it carried its own authority. Her voice rose without effort.

“Welcome to the heart of La Paz,” she said. “Today opens two doors: the ground we will all share, and the path only a few of you will walk a little further. We value clarity. We practice safety. And we make space for the kind of courage that doesn’t require an audience.”

Her words curved outward—precise, a little strange in their quiet poetry. The hall stilled. She didn’t smile; she didn’t need to. Her face alone carried warmth.

“This tower is not a throne,” she continued. “It’s a compass. You are not being measured against each other, but against the weight you can carry without dropping the person beside you.”

A nearly invisible nod toward the first row.

Jeda stood just off-stage, hands clasped behind his back, an unlit cigarette hooked behind his ear—Captain in everything but ceremony. Axis, immaculate as ever. Sukira, relaxed in that effortlessly cool way only she managed. Dominique, Eloise, Tech, and their seconds nearby. You could feel the structure even if you didn’t see it.

In La Paz, the chain of command left no room for doubt.

Above all sat the President—an enigma to most. But at the center of every operation stood Jeda, the Captain — the point where all Wings converged, responsible for whatever needed to be done.

The North Wing—the Academy—operated under Axis, General of Security, while Commander Sukira held the reins of field discipline and training. Ryn, her second, now covered a good portion of daily drills; missions and tactical decisions had turned Sukira’s schedule into a battlefield of its own. Elon—newest member of the Elite—taught magic and kept the library alive.

Eloise led the Medical Wing with Zira and K at her shoulders. Dominique oversaw the Civil Quarter, while the Triad—Helena, Sakura, and Lucius—managed the daily pulse of the city: supplies, education, infrastructure.

In the South Wing, Tech ran Research and Investigation like a silent warfront. Sami, his second, handled everything from experimental weaponry to communications, followed by a ladder of technicians and scientists who kept the base breathing.

Ailin and Aaron guarded diplomacy, intercontinental agreements, and political stability—maintaining the fragile balance that allowed this secret city to function instead of collapse. They were the invisible wall between La Paz and the world, ensuring every gear within this living dream kept turning.

La Paz — Operational Chain of Command

Operations Captain — Jeda

Academy Wing	Medical Wing	Civil Wing	Research Wing	Diplomacy & External
General Axis — security & city tactics Commander Sukira — wing lead Ryn — second (regular drills) Elon — magic studies & library	Commander Eloise — wing lead Zira — Magical branch second  K — Non-magical branch second	Commander Dominique — wing lead The Triad — Civilians representation  Helena — logistics Sakura — school  Lucius — housing & builds	Commander Tech — wing lead Sami — second; labs & comms teams.	Ailin — diplomacy & coordination Aaron — strategy & inter‑continental politics

Ailin lowered the mic slightly. “Faces to names,” she said, and stepped aside.

Sukira took a single step forward, hands loosely behind her back. “Training is not punishment,” she said, voice even. “It’s proof. You show up. You keep pace. You fulfill your purpose.” Her gaze skimmed the sea of white and gray—who leaned forward, who shrank, who tried to make themselves smaller than they were.

Axis added, dry as policy, “Standards are simple: be useful, be honest, be where your feet are.”

Elon followed with the cadence of a professor. “Control before spectacle. If your spell endangers your team, it isn’t skill—it’s noise.” His eyes moved across the crowd, noticing who hid their hands, who couldn’t stop flexing their fingers.

Eloise spoke next—soft, firm. “Care is an order. If someone falls, you move.” Zira and K stood half a step behind her: a quiet geometry of support.

Tech adjusted the microphone as if its existence personally offended him. “The labs are open when they’re open. If you break a prototype, you’d better come up with something new.”

Sami called from the side of the stage, “Or don’t break it. That’s also an option!”

A ripple of restrained laughter—the safe kind—passed through the hall.

Dominique stepped forward with the ease of someone born on the back of a moving car. “We keep the city breathing so you can keep it safe,” she said—light, but not unserious.

Helena: “Civil logistics. The city works because volunteers do.” Sakura: “School. Your classes anchor the day. Keep them.” Lucius: “Housing and maintenance—always happy for an extra pair of hands!”

School was mandatory. It anchored time. And if you picked an extra branch, life layered itself: drills, magic modules, clinic rotations, lab hours, civic shifts; they weren’t mandatory. Schedules lived inside the official app installed on the phones issued at registration. Nano-tattoo channels belonged only to the Elite and official staff; cadets did not carry the city in their skin.

“A few clarifications,” Ailin said, answering general questions in clean strokes: mess halls by Wing, class and training timetables posted in every building, evacuation routes you’d be able to walk blindfolded by week’s end. Two quick questions, two precise answers. Then silence again.

“Thank you. That will be all for now,” she said—and the gratitude sounded real. “If your name is called, remain seated. Everyone else: your schedules are now available on your phones.”

A collective glance at pockets as screens lit up. The large doors at the far end of the hall opened; the room’s edges began to shift and empty.

Axis took the list Ailin handed him—paper, not hologram. Some things were meant to make noise. He read without ceremony:

“Returning cadets: Riku Tanner. Renji Tanner. Zevran Luunel. Yuki Li.” A short pause. “New cadets: Reno Vexmere. Haru Paz. Lola Drask. Nima Luunel. Risha Fenroth-Varn.”

He lowered the paper with the same precision he’d lifted it.

And when most of the hall had emptied, their echoes softening, a group of teenagers remained—exchanging looks made of nerves and expectation.

The exam had taken place on the first of the month—a stack of problems and exercises that bent judgment where tricks couldn’t reach: teamwork against the clock, ethics under pressure at the hinge point, skill where it mattered.

The new batch—Risha (15), Reno (15), Haru (16), Lola (16), Nima (15 today)—had just reached the minimum age to take it. The older cadets—Riku (17), Zevran (17), Yuki (17)—had the mileage to face the evaluation without issue; Renji was the only one already of age (19).

Some performed better than others, and not everyone shone in the same areas, but all of them passed.

The large doors shut. What remained was a quieter circle: nine cadets, the Elite, and the steady hum of the building’s lungs.

Sukira stepped down from the stage, choosing the floor with them. She leaned lightly against the stage’s base, arms crossed—not unkind, but unmistakably direct.

“You weren’t chosen to feel special,” she said, conversational in tone but offering no softness. “You were chosen to carry weight.”

She let the sentence breathe.

“You already attend regular classes, and today you selected the branches you’ll specialize in. And still—still—you chose to take the Golden Program exam. That means you understand what this implies. From today on, you’ll train under my direct supervision.”

Her gaze moved slowly across the nine cadets.

“Yes, you’ll keep your schedules in every Wing. You’ll complete tasks and modules like any other cadet. But you will also have integrative training with me. You’ll fail quickly. And then you’ll get better.”

A brief pause. A longer look, name by name.

Some lowered their eyes, unsure what to do with the weight suddenly pressing on them. Others straightened their backs, as if only now understanding they stood in a place very different from the one they’d imagined when they sat for the exam.

Risha felt his chest vibrate—not from fear, but from the sudden certainty that this could change everything. Reno bit down on his fang openly, restless by nature, proud of having been called. Haru swallowed hard, already reorganizing schedules, modules, and possible collapses in the weekly calendar. Zevran held his chin steady—refusing to show nerves to anyone—breathing deep like someone accepting a responsibility he already understood. Nima’s eyes shone with the sharp focus that birthdays brought when they came with promises. Lola smiled, just barely—that fresh little smile she wore whenever something was difficult… but exciting.

Each of them remembered, even if only for a heartbeat, that they weren’t here by luck. They had knocked on a door not everyone dared to touch… and Sukira had opened it fully.

Axis stepped forward, his voice slicing through the ambient quiet:

“Starting today, there will be an adjustment in the Academy’s structure. Ryn will assume command of the general training for all regular cadets.” A brief pause—just long enough for the information to settle. “Commander Sukira will head the Golden Program. Her supervision will be direct and exclusive to this group.”

Ryn, steady as ever, gave a small nod. She didn’t speak. Sukira answered with a half-smile—acknowledgment, nothing more. Between them, something simple passed: professional respect, and a quiet understanding of the load each would now carry.

When Axis stepped back, Sukira continued:

“This path didn’t fall on you because of duty or accident,” she said, voice returning to a practical clarity that left no room for misunderstanding. “You chose it. So from now on, act like people who know why they’re here.”

Golden wasn’t a uniform. There was no insignia. The difference was in the calendar blocks that appeared in the app—blocks invisible to anyone else. It was in who waited for you at dawn, and who still expected you late at night. It was in who looked for you when the alarms lit the sky, and sometimes when they didn’t.

“The schedules are already in the app on your phones,” Axis said, more to the room than to them. The app chimed and projected a hologram into the air—Wing by Wing, names falling into place.

Medical Wing Risha Fenroth-Varn Riku Tanmor

Research Wing Riku Tanmor Haru Paz

Academy Wing

Training Renji Tanmor Yuki Li Zevran Luunel Risha Fenroth-Varn Reno Vexmere Nima Luunel

Magic Classes Risha Fenroth-Varn Lola Drask Nima Luunel

Civil Wing Renji Tanmor Yuki Li Lola Drask

Ailin spoke next. “You may change Wings if you want. Simply notify the Commander of that section, and they’ll make the appropriate adjustments.”

She let them feel the size of the system closing gently around their lives.

Before anyone else could speak, Sukira turned slightly. “One more thing.”

She reached into her void and pulled out a small, flat box—something that looked like a promise wrapped in black.

“Renji.”

“Oh? A gift from the Commander?” His grin widened—bright, impossible to hide.

She crossed the short distance between them and stopped close enough that he couldn’t turn this into a spectacle, even if he tried. She opened the box.

Inside: a black tie.

Renji stood—not dramatically, but as if startled still—nineteen and suddenly aware of his own hands. He lifted the tie with a reverence he’d never admit to.

Ties weren’t fashion here. They meant duty. White meant medical or academic roles. Gray meant the city—civic operations, volunteers, local security. Black meant the hands that carried weight into the field.

They were always given at adulthood, at the start or close of an academic cycle, directly from the Wing Commander whose work would claim your hours. No one bragged about them. They didn’t have to. The city noticed.

“You’re old enough,” Sukira said. “You’ve been doing the work. As of today, you do it as staff. Welcome to the Elite, kid. You’re going to be a pain in the ass.”

“Pff—yeah, you bet. Thank you, Commander.” Renji nodded once—less a reply, more a vow.

The others looked at the tie the way you look at a door you can’t open yet but now know is real.

From the side, Dominique’s voice drifted in—softer, not quite entering the circle. “Lean on the city when you need to,” she said. And left it at that.

The Civil Quarter lived under her command: permits, rations, queues, schools, roofs that didn’t leak when the desert turned cruel. The Triad—Helena with logistics, Sakura with curriculum, Lucius with housing—kept the streets from becoming another battlefield. The Golden would need to learn this early: half their work would be moving among civilians without breaking their day.

Ailin’s voice followed, light and steady. “Questions?” Not inviting chatter—just allowing it, if it mattered.

No one spoke. The silence came from someplace deeper.

“Good,” Sukira said. “Then it’s simple.” She nodded toward the northern staircase. “We’ll meet in the blue room on the Academy’s second floor.”

Ryn would handle the training of the regular cadets while Sukira carved this narrower path. Elon would see them in the classroom beside the library a couple of times a week—the one with chalk scars that never quite disappeared. Tech would rewrite their risk forms. Eloise would prepare kits until the shelves began to make a different kind of sense. The city would breathe around them like a sleeping patient, unaware of the hands already learning how to keep its chest rising and falling.

They filed out in ones and twos. Renji stayed a moment longer, adjusting the tie by touch, fingers settling around the knot.

Ailin watched the last of them reach the first stair and then exhaled—just once—like someone closing a book between chapters, careful with the spine.

“Welcome to your year, Goldens,” she said—to the room, to the echo, to whatever might have been listening.

Then the Great Hall was only a circle again, and the work went on.

♥︎