Chapter 16: A Meeting with the council

Ezra's shaky grin vanished after he saw no hint of humor in Mireille's eyes. 

Her words weren't a threat, but a cold, hard statement of fact. 

He wasn't just a curiosity; he was a potential breach in their carefully maintained order.

She kept speaking, calmly and clinically. "They'll likely scan you. Blood tests. Psychological assessments. Maybe stress-response trials if they're feeling thorough. If the readings don't match expectations, they'll run more invasive diagnostics. Possibly containment. That's standard for high-risk anomalies."

Ezra's lips parted, but no sound came out. She really knew how to make people uncomfortable with her words.

Mireille's gaze flicked to him again, sharp as a scalpel. "Better to accept it now. You're not walking into a Council meeting. You're walking into evaluation. And evaluations don't come with rights."

Arya turned sharply.

"Mireille, enough," she said, her voice sharp with warning. "You're scaring him." She turned to Ezra, her expression softening though tension remained coiled in her shoulders. "The Council wouldn't... they're bound by protocol. Due process." But even as she spoke, her eyes were nervous with uncertainty. "You'll be fine."

Ezra saw through her. Not even she believed the words she was saying. She was trying to convince herself as much as him.

His stomach turned, but he managed a crooked smile and responded ."Thanks Arya, and it's good to know that I'm not in danger. I'm still young, got dreams to chase. Not big on the whole 'cage' situation." He raked a hand through his hair, forcing lightness into his tone that he didn't feel.

'I really Should call Ysmeine. Or Aeris.' The thought struck him like a lifeline. 'Ysmeine has connections with Athea. And Athea, is from the royal family. And royal blood carries weight with the Council. She'd pull strings for me, right?'

He'd only met Athea once, back when he was swapped for Ysmeine's daughter. After that day, she disappeared, and he never heard anything from her again, she didn't even write him a letter. 

Ezra couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that came with that silence. Why wouldn't she even try to reach him? Was he really nothing more than a stranger in her eyes?

She was his mother, at least in name. The woman tied to the body he now wore. But that body wasn't him. Not really. He wasn't reborn; he'd been transmigrated. Did that change everything?

The semantics of transmigration versus reincarnation made his head spin. 'Does it matter? To her, I'm still her son. That has to count for something.'

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Ysmeine's contact. The call failed immediately, no signal. He then tried his girlfriend Sage's number, but same thing happened. 

"Don't bother," Mireille said without looking up from her datapad. "We're approaching the Citadel. Complete communications blackout, meaning you can't make calls or access the net. Security protocol, so that no one tracks our location."

Ezra pocketed the device, frustration flaring. 'At least I have the system now. That's got to be worth something, right?'

The confidence felt hollow. The Eros Engine thrummed faintly in his veins, a whisper of potential power, but he wasn't delusional. He couldn't take on War-Ladies like Mireille, let alone whatever elite forces the Council commanded. Not yet when he hadn't even trained to become strong. Fear cut through his bravado like ice water.

Outside the viewport, the city's lights blurred into streaks as their cruiser carved through the night. Without warning, the transparent aluminum went opaque, sealing them in.

"Classified location," Mireille explained, unapologetic. "No exceptions."

"Lovely," Ezra muttered sarcastically, sinking back into his seat. The cabin's recycled air felt sharp with ozone and antiseptic, pressed against his lungs. The walls seemed to close in.

The cruiser's hum shifted, engines winding down. Arya unclipped her harness, her voice gentler now. "We're here."

Ezra unclipped himself from the seat and stood up too.

When they stepped outside, the hangar that greeted them was vast enough to swallow a city block. 

Sleek patrol drones circled overhead like mechanical vultures, their searchlights carving stark shadows across towering walls inscribed with glowing runes. Rows of cruisers and military transports lined the space in perfect formation, their bodies shining under harsh artificial light.

War-Ladies in ceremonial armor patrolled the perimeter, their gazes tracking Ezra's movement with focus. He caught their varying expressions that went from surprise, curiosity to some darker emotion he couldn't name.

He wasn't surprised by that. Not like he didn't already get those kind of looks at his academy or just walking in public. A male walking freely through the Citadel's hangar was an anomaly.

The air tasted of metal and electricity, sterile and sharp, a world away from the city's familiar grit and exhaust.

'So this is the Council's secret stronghold.'Ezra squared his shoulders, masking his unease behind a sardonic grin. Whatever waited inside, answers, judgment, or bars, he'd face it. He had to.

They entered a lift that whisked them from the hangar into the Citadel proper. The corridors beyond were equally imposing: polished floors that reflected the ceiling's embedded lighting, walls lined with portraits of stern-faced women in formal uniforms. 

Around them, the air was filled with feminine energy, as administrative staff walked through the corridors with predatory elegance, heels striking the polished floor in a rhythm that seemed to pulse through Ezra's chest. Unlike Mireille and Arya's practical gear, these women were dressed more formally, some in pencil skirts that hugged every curve, silk blouses that caught the light, and heels that transformed each step into a deliberate provocation.

Ezra's mouth went dry. 'Focus,' he told himself, but his eyes kept drifting to the sway of hips etc.

Here he was, walking toward potential imprisonment, and all he could think about was how the sterile perfection of this place made every woman look like a goddess carved from marble and dressed in silk.

"Interesting," someone murmured as they passed. A group of officials paused their conversation to stare. "A male, walking these halls freely."

"'He's with us, and he has been authorized to come in by high commander Lysara." Mireille said as they continued walking. 

"Any advice before I meet the brass?" Ezra asked, keeping his voice steady.

Mireille's expression hardened. "You killed a Faded. Even in self-defense, that's illegal. Males, Faded or not—are protected under the Preservation Act. You're fortunate we're not processing charges immediately."

Ezra's jaw dropped. "Fortunate? That thing was trying to tear my throat out!" He gestured at the marks near his ribs, and another ones near his arm. "This isn't exactly a hickey, it's a result of a struggle between me and the fade." He reminded them. 

"The law has... complexities," Arya interjected, shooting Mireille a warning glance. "It was designed to protect males from false accusations. Too many incidents where citizens claimed self-defense after harming men they suspected of being Faded."

"But you'll vouch for me, right?" Ezra looked at her, something desperate creeping into his voice. "You saw what happened."

"I'll testify to what I witnessed," Arya said, her hand briefly touching his shoulder. "Self-defense is still a valid legal defense."

"Has this happened before? People attacking men under false pretenses?"

Arya's expression darkened. "More than we'd like to admit, especially in the early years after the Fading began. The legislation reduced incidents significantly, but..." She sighed. "Projections indicate things may worsen. In the next ten years or so, if a cure or vaccine is not found, men more men might turn into the faded."

"You seem bothered by that. Unlike some people."

"Some harbor genuine hostility toward men," Arya admitted. "It's... institutionalized in some educational systems. Fear disguised as protection."

"And you?" Ezra questioned. Genuinely curious. "You don't strike me as someone who discriminates between genders, it's refreshing."

Arya smiled at his complement. "Thank you. And you're right." She met his eyes directly. "I don't see threats or protected specimens. I see people. That's apparently becoming a minority position."

Ezra turned to Mireille. "What about you Mireille? What do you think about men?" He questioned.

Mireille looked at him, "That's none of your business." 

Ezra was caught off guard by her coldness. 'What the hell is wrong with this woman?'

"Uh, calm down, I was just curious."

Mireille said nothing. 

Silence settled over them as they walked deeper into the Citadel's gleaming corridors, toward whatever judgment awaited.

After a few minutes' walk, they stepped into a towering antechamber.

The ceiling curved high above like a church, glowing with soft lines of energy woven into silver patterns. Floating banners hung in the air, showing the Council's symbol: a woven circle of stars held by an open hand, symbolizing unity and strength.

A line of armored female guards stood along the marble path to a huge round door. They all had attractive but stern faces,dressed in sleek, battle-ready armor. Polished gold and silver chest plates hugged their forms, paired with deep blue and white leather accents.

They looked like the definition of strength and elegance. 

As they got close, the door slid open smoothly, revealing a big council room inside.Twelve tall chairs sat in a half-circle on a raised platform. Only six had people in them. 

The women seated across the chamber were varied in age and attire, some in decorated military armor, others in sleek dresses that whispered power with every fold. But one thing was painfully clear: beauty seemed to be a requirement.

It was as if the Council only selected women who were absurdly gorgeous, each one looking like she belonged on the cover of a magazine, not sitting in judgment of someone's fate.

Like scientists observing an unfamiliar lifeform. Like predators deciding if he was a threat… or prey. They all watched Ezra with the same expression. Cold. Focused. Not curious. Analytical. 

At the center of them all sat High Commander Lysara, no longer a projection. Her real presence was somehow taller than expected, her posture perfect, her dark eyes like obsidian shards cut from the earth itself.

She was absolutely gorgeous.

To her right, a silver-braided woman with the calm dignity of someone who'd survived five civil wars and still had time for tea raised her voice. It was smooth and sure. "The male is here."

Ezra stepped forward, feeling their eyes press against his chest like a second gravity. But he was calm.

A stunning woman leaned forward, one leg crossed over the other beneath a navy-blue skirt, her blouse so perfectly fitted it was likely custom-grown. 

She had brown hair. Her name was Lady Valerius, and she studied him like a puzzle she meant to solve.

"Name?" she asked, voice clean and deliberate, like crystal tapping glass.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then answered, firm and clear:

"Zaeryn. Zaeryn Noctis."

Mireille handed a tablet to one of the aides, while Arya stepped up and passed a slim data stick to Lady Valerius.

"He took down a Faded," Arya said. "Self-defense. We were seconds behind him. He wasn't infected. Doesn't seem like there is any mental collapse either. Clean."

Commander Lysara narrowed her gaze on Ezra, like she was trying to figure out how in goddess Marea's name did he survive a fade attack?

"And the proof?" she finally looked away from Ezra and looked at Mireille and Arya. "No video feed. No synced biometric logs," she said.

The words hit like an accusation that made Ezra think it was about to get worse.