Novels by Xyvelle

The threshold of Bellamy’s Effigies felt less like an entrance and more like a membrane between two states of being. As Cyran crossed it, the heavy scent of boxwood and turpentine—once a comforting embrace of his professional life—now smelled of chemical decay. The silence inside was absolute, yet it possessed a predatory quality, as if the hundred wooden masks lining the walls were holding their breath, waiting for the final, inevitable collapse of the man who had carved them.Cyran didn't bother with the lights. He moved by the frantic, pulsing rhythm of the system interface, its pale blue light casting long, skeletal shadows across his workbench. He was cold—a marrow-deep chill that had nothing to do with the bitter autumn air outside and everything to do with the fact that he was beginning to feel... thin.He reached the center of the shop and collapsed into his chair. His hands, resting on the scarred wood of the table, looked like strangers. They were pale, the veins beneath the

The air in the subterranean corridor tasted of wet copper and ancient, recycled breath. It was a suffocating pressure, a weight that pressed against Cyran’s chest, reminding him that the city above—the world he thought he knew—was currently being folded, spindled, and mutilated by the system.Cyran, Nina, and Peter Hales moved in a tight formation, their footsteps muffled by the layer of grime coating the subway tiles. Peter took the lead, his flashlight cutting a desperate, wobbling beam through the gloom. Every few yards, the walls seemed to shiver, the ceramic tiles rippling like skin before resetting into a mockery of structural integrity."Check the signs," Peter whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't think we’re in the same station we entered three blocks ago."Cyran stopped, his gaze sweeping over the station wall. It was a chaotic tapestry of architectural failure. A mosaic of subway maps had been overwritten by impossible, sprawling webs of digital code that glowed with a fa

The air inside the abandoned St. Jude’s Hospital wing was thick enough to chew, a suffocating cocktail of stale medicinal alcohol, ozone, and the cloying, sweet rot that defined the new world. Cyran moved with his back pressed against the peeling linoleum walls, his breathing measured and shallow. Every footfall felt like a provocation, a rhythmic announcement of his presence in a graveyard that refused to stay buried.Beside him, Rachel Sutter moved with a surprising, quiet efficiency. Her face remained a mask of professional detachment, though the tremble in her hands as she checked the charge on her handheld scanner betrayed the depth of her fear. She wasn't a soldier like Gareth; she was an archivist, a woman who had spent her life categorizing the past, and now, that past was actively trying to consume her."The archives are on the sub-level," Rachel whispered, barely audible over the distant, metallic skittering echoing from the ventilation shafts. "If the Mother worked here, if

The lock tore out of the doorframe with a screech of shearing steel.Cyran threw his weight forward just as the synthetic double lunged. The creature didn't move like a human being; its joints snapped into hyper-extended angles, its jaw unhinging slightly as the skin along its cheekbones stretched taut, revealing a web of pulsating blue fibers beneath pale, artificial flesh."Get back!" Cyran yelled, shoving Gareth hard into the plaster wall.The replica’s hand whistled through the space where Gareth’s throat had been a fraction of a second earlier. Fingers ended in sharpened, needle-like chitin tips that gouged four deep trenches into the concrete wall, sending a shower of gray dust and plaster flying into the air."What the hell is that thing?" Gareth gasped, his tactical composure completely shattering as he stared at his own face grinning back at him from the dark corridor.Cyran didn't answer. He couldn't. His mind was already moving through the catalog of faces stored within his

The transition from the workshop to the concrete reality of the office complex was a blur of grinding gears and static-filled nausea. One moment, Cyran was gripping his chisel amidst the wood shavings of his past, and the next, he was shoved against the cold, damp plaster of a hallway illuminated by the flickering, sickly hum of emergency red lights.He didn't need to look up to know who had him. The grip on his shoulder was mechanical in its efficiency—no wasted movement, no hesitation."Check his pockets," a voice commanded. It was blunt, stripped of any warmth. Gareth Cole.Cyran didn't resist. He stood perfectly still, his heart hammering against his ribs in a syncopated, artificial rhythm. The last thing he had seen before the world rebooted was his own face on a workbench, staring back with an unblinking, alien vacancy. Now, he was a prisoner of the living.Nina Dempsey’s fingers ghosted over his jacket, her touch clinical. She pulled the heavy carving chisel from his pocket, he

The mirror did not shatter, though the sensation of impact rattled Cyran’s very marrow. He tumbled backward, landing hard on the sawdust-strewn floor of his shop. The glass, once a reflective surface, had become a translucent aperture into a space that defied geometry. He lay there, gasping, his heart drumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. The system, usually a cold, predictable overlay, was stuttering, its blue light bleeding into harsh, strobing violets.[ SYSTEM ALERT: IDENTITY RECOVERY FAULT ][ CRITICAL STABILITY: 42% ][ WARNING: FRAGMENTED DATA DETECTED IN LOCAL ARCHIVE ]Cyran pushed himself up, his hands shaking. He looked at his palms; they were his own again—pale, scarred from years of handling chisels—but they felt heavy, detached, as if they belonged to a mannequin. He turned his gaze back to the workbench. The mirror had gone dull, returning to its mundane reflection of a cluttered, wood-shaving-filled room. But he knew what he had seen. The reflection had not be