The first thing Nyxelle felt was the bite of the cold air. Her eyes snapped open, blinking against the sudden intrusion of light. As her vision adjusted, the hazy outlines of the basement solidified into a nightmare.
Joshim was there. He was leaning over her sister, Solvayne, with a look of pure, frigid malice. Nyxelle's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She tried to scream, to call out Solvayne's name, but her throat was a desert. When she pressed two fingers to her neck, she felt nothing—no vibration, no sound. Her voice had been stolen.
With a clinical, terrifying slowness, Joshim took Solvayne's limp hand. He produced a syringe, the liquid inside shimmering with an unsettling hue, and emptied it into her vein. He then turned his head, his gaze locking onto Nyxelle. He didn't speak; he simply offered a thin, razor-sharp smile before grabbing a brown bag and vanishing through the heavy door.
Nyxelle threw herself across the floor, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated. She reached Solvayne, trembling hands searching for a pulse.
Thump... thump... It was stable.
"Did he... just save her?" Nyxelle's voice returned as a bitter, jagged whisper. "Impossible. Everyone wants something from us. We're nothing but prized geese to be plucked."
In the upper floors of the manor, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive incense and underlying iron. Lady Eustus moved through the kitchen, her steps measured and calm despite the heavy sway of her pregnancy. She reached for her lace fan, her expression one of bored nobility.
Then, the world tilted.
A guttural gasp escaped her as a surge of white-hot pain tore through her abdomen. She collapsed, her knees hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud. Pots and pans cascaded around her, a discordant symphony of iron that alerted every maid in the building.
"The Lady! It's time!"
As Eustus was hurried toward her chambers, Joshim stood leaning against the corridor wall. He was casually paring an apple with a wicked-looking combat knife. He didn't look up as the frantic servants rushed past, only letting out a soft, mocking scoff as he bit into a slice of the fruit.
Meanwhile, the twins staggered into the kitchen, looking like ghosts. Their clothes were tattered, their skin ashen from whatever concoction Joshim had forced upon them. There, leaning back in a chair with her legs crossed, was a woman who looked like a flame brought to life. Her hair was a deep, violent crimson, and her eyes held a haunting, luminous blue hue.
Sheiyla Maravis lowered her teacup, her gaze sweeping over the bedraggled girls.
"Oh? Little girls?" Sheiyla's voice was like velvet over gravel. "I didn't realize Anasil's tastes were quite so... specific."
"What is going on, Lady?" Solvayne asked, her voice shaking.
Sheiyla winced. "Lady? Please, I'm twenty-two, not forty. And if you're wondering about the screaming, Eustus is currently bringing another soul into this miserable world."
"Giving birth?" Nyxelle murmured, her mind racing.
The door swung open, and two more figures entered: Bernie and Mikayla. They looked drained, their eyes bloodshot. Bernie was busy peeling off a pair of latex gloves stained with a dark, brownish crimson.
"Sheiyla, don't talk to the boss's subjects," Bernie said, his voice flat. "It's bad for the brand."
"C'mon, Bernie. I just like kids. Not in a 'you' way," Sheiyla retorted.
Mikayla turned a look of pure loathing on Bernie. "He says he likes them young. Are these two 'nine-year-olds' to your liking, you freak?"
Bernie looked the twins up and down with the eyes of a butcher inspecting meat. "Nine? No. Too old for my taste."
"Twenty-five and a total monster," Mikayla spat, turning on her heel.
Bernie only laughed, a dry, hollow sound.
"Why... why do you serve Uncle Anasil?" Nyxelle stepped forward, her small fists clenched. "You're stronger than him. I can feel it."
Sheiyla looked into the tea's reflection. "I'm looking for someone stronger to serve, kid. But it feels like that person doesn't exist. Besides, I can't justify being broke, can I?"
"What about the White Plague?" Nyxelle shouted, her voice cracking with desperation. "He is strong!"
Bernie paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "The White Plague? That campfire myth?"
"HE'S NOT A MYTH!"
The twins huddled together, their eyes wide. "We saw him," Solvayne whispered. "At the gala. Hair like a foggy morning, eyes like freshly cut rubies. He looked like a porcelain doll—so calm, so elegant—but he felt like a god standing among insects."
Sheiyla's eyes flickered with a spark of genuine interest. She reached out, patting Solvayne's head with a touch that was surprisingly gentle. "A porcelain doll, huh? Sounds like a fun guy."
"You're working for a monster," Solvayne hissed, pulling away.
"I know," Sheiyla said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And believe me, child... it aches me every single day."
The Hunting Grounds
Miles away, the sound of laughter echoed through the woods. Anasil stood among a group of nobles, their fine silks standing out against the greenery. They were "hunting"—which, in Anasil's world, meant releasing demi-human slaves and seeing how far they could run before the arrows found them.
"Anasil, I've heard rumors of your... 'fetishes,'" Count Veria remarked, adjusting his spectacles.
"I feel targeted, Count," Anasil chuckled, drawing a sleek black bow. "I prey on the weak, yes, but I'm no pedophile. That's far too messy."
"Then why the twins?" Viscount Miriam asked.
"Tools, Miriam. Collateral ligaments," Anasil said, his eyes narrowing. "You can never be too cautious in this climate."
He released the string. The arrow hissed through the air, piercing a demi-human man through the back of the skull. Anasil didn't even blink. He fired again, striking a young demi-human girl in the eye as she screamed.
He walked over to her twitching form, humming a light tune. With a flick of his knife, he worked with practiced efficiency. "I really must have a souvenir," he muttered, dropping a fresh eye into a specimen jar.
"The man rejected by the gods," Miriam whispered.
"Careful," Veria warned. "Say that too loud and he'll have you served in a teacup."
In stark contrast to the bloodshed, Leornars stood in a field of blooming lilies in Asheviliah. The wind ruffled his hair as he watched Salene walk away, a heavy sigh escaping him.
"Leornars," a voice echoed directly into his consciousness. It was Althelia, speaking from the depths of his Core. "It is time. You need to evolve. If you do, I can finally manifest a physical form."
"Evolving?" Leornars sat down on a stone bench. "By the stretch of my imagination, I'm not sure how useful you'd be with a body, Althelia."
"I have replicated all your skills," she replied smugly. "I am incredibly efficient in everything from bookkeeping and finance to agricultural revolution. I would be your perfect administrator."
"Sounds... efficient. Fine. I'll take the deal once I solve this case of five million deaths. I'm bringing stability to this land, whether they want it or not."
"I can wait. I'm dying to actually feel the world," Althelia said.
"You can just use mine when I'm not busy," Leornars offered.
"Fair." There was a pause. "Who is holding the fort at Avangard?"
"Sumi and Ayesha. Sumi has the tactical knowledge of the royal mages, and Ayesha... well, Ayesha is a walking apocalypse. With her scientific tools and succubi abilities, Avangard is a fortress."
"And Bellian?"
"Training the knights. Between him and Stacian, no one gets through. Stacian is my ace in the hole. No one passes her and keeps their life."
"Out of sight, out of mind," Althelia remarked. She suddenly took control of Leornars's left hand, picking up a small stone.
As a bird flew overhead, she flicked a finger, casting a phantom illusion. To the bird, the stone looked like a lunging viper. The creature shrieked, folding its wings in terror and falling straight into Leornars's lap.
Leornars looked down at the shivering bird and smiled faintly. "Incredibly efficient indeed."