Cavalon grabbed the offender by the front of his shirt and threw him into a group of nearby soldiers. A few sidestepped and others attempted to catch the man as he crashed into them.
But instead of surging past to enact revenge, the men and women froze briefly, then rushed to attention, fists to chests. Those nearest him groaned in pain and keeled over as they gripped the black Imprints on their arms. A hush fell over the room along with a wave of uncertainty.
A narrow but unusually strong forearm locked around Cavalon’s neck, choking off his air supply. Silver and copper squares buzzed furiously across the intruder’s olive skin.
Cavalon gripped the arm with both hands, his royal Imprints rushing to help. But even in this short fight, he’d already managed to overexert them, and he couldn’t match the strength. Cavalon growled as he blindly cursed the unknown assailant.
Though he already had a pretty good idea of who it was. Which was fucking perfect.
His vision danced as his air supply dwindled. He focused on slowing his pulse, then willed his Imprints to reset. They abided, returning to their default formation, and his adrenaline receded.
The arm released its hold, and Cavalon fell to the ground. He landed on all fours, hacking painfully as he regained full access to his respiratory functions. After a few steadying breaths, he looked up at the soldiers.
They stood in perfect formation, backs rigid, gazes straight. Even the ones who’d been hurt in the fight stood upright, sweat and blood glistening on their faces. Though their black Sentinel Imprints no longer appeared active, the pain they’d caused seemed to linger, and the soldiers fought back grimaces while cradling their right arms.
Cavalon turned over to look up at exactly who he expected to find—Excubitor Rake, glaring down at him with amber-eyed fire. She lifted her scowl to sweep it across the rest of the men and women in the hall. Each and every one of them looked guilty as shit, but they didn’t say a word.
Despite the epically foreboding circumstances, Cavalon couldn’t help but be a little impressed. Rake could walk into a room and command a degree of respect his grandfather would kill for. Probably did kill for. And not a respect born of fear, but of … something else. Humility? Admiration, maybe.
After a few heated moments, Rake’s look returned to Cavalon.
“My office.”
She turned and marched toward the exit, and the crowd peeled away before her.
With a squeak of boots, two bronze-skinned hands tucked under Cavalon’s armpits and lifted him off the ground. Puck gave a distressed grimace, then nodded toward the marching EX. Cavalon regained his balance, pulled the apron off, tossed it on the ground, then followed.
He trailed Rake through the halls in dejected silence. Though he kept his attention focused on the heels of her worn, black boots, he could feel the heat of the soldiers’ glares as they passed.
After a painfully awkward lift ride up to the top deck, Rake turned down a short hallway and a door slid open before her. Cavalon followed her into a clean, formal office, similar in style to the intake room where he’d met her earlier that morning, though about three times the size. Rake rounded the wide, aerasteel desk at the center and sat on the cushioned high-back chair behind it.
Cavalon eyed the two rigid chairs in front of the desk, unsure whether sitting or standing would be considered proper protocol for getting reamed out.
“Sit.” Rake opened the display on the holographic terminal above her desk.
Cavalon shuffled sideways and sat. Rake flicked through files in silence. He ran his thumb back and forth across the edge of his badges of rank, eyes drifting around the austere room—barren walls, a golden astrolabe the only item atop the desk. The intricately etched, revolving spheres and rings were stationary. A brushed gold plaque sat recessed into the top of the desk, EXCUBITOR A. J. RAKE etched into the metal.
“AJ?” He smiled and looked up from the plaque to find her staring at him.