The ballroom glittered beneath low candlelight, but the real fire burned in the guests’ blood. The wine flowed like ink, thick with something stronger than alcohol, an alchemical blend favored by the old nobles of the Order. Laughter peeled across the domed ceiling, loud and hollow.Julius stood near a gilded archway, dressed in his assigned uniform; sharp lines, silver insignia, and the black sash that marked him as House Ashborne’s personal guard. His eyes, however, scanned the room with the cold detachment of a soldier, not a servant.He saw masks slip behind fans, coded rings flash in covert gestures, and brief glances passed between men who ruled nations in whispers.Then, the Earl of Margrave stumbled toward him. A relic of a man with clouded eyes and a red-veined nose, he clutched a half-empty decanter like a weapon and leaned too close.“Have we met before?” The Earl slurred, voice cracked with age and wine.“No, my lord.”The old man squinted, then jabbed a crooked finger a

The full moon loomed like an ivory sentinel above the Ashborne Mausoleum, its light cold and unforgiving as it spilled across the marble forecourt. The iron gates stood open tonight—an ancient tradition reserved for only the most sacred rites of the Order.Julius adjusted his ceremonial cloak, its deep green trimmed with gold thread. The mask of bone and onyx covered half his face, but his eyes remained sharp beneath it, tracking each noble as they passed through the archway carved with the Order’s creed: From ash, reborn. Through blood, made pure.Inside, the mausoleum had been transformed. Candles flickered in controlled rows, their wax pooling onto limestone. At the center, a stone dais rose like a sacrificial altar, etched with the names of every Grand Warden before Silas. Their shadows loomed behind the living, watching.Julius kept to the periphery as nobles murmured in clusters—families bound by old alliances and quiet threats. Their sigils were woven into silk sashes, their sm

Julius sat in the cold hush of the conservatory, the etched chit still resting in his palm. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving behind a drenched world that glittered in the moonlight. But inside him, a different storm raged—old memories unearthed like bones from shallow graves.He barely remembered her—his mother. A flicker of warmth in a life gone cold. Her name had been Auric. She vanished when he was three, the official story claiming she died in a storm while returning from a military assignment. A tragic casualty of service, the brass said. The truth, as always, was quieter. Meaner. Slipperier.His father, General Marcellus Colton, remarried just a year later. Laura. A woman with cold eyes and colder hands, her lineage clawing upward from minor nobility. She wore her ambition like armor, smiling only when someone bled for it.Kenneth was born when Julius was five. Fair-haired and loud, Laura’s pride, and the favored heir from the moment he drew breath. Julius remembered the s

The blizzard had buried most of the old winter outpost beneath meters of snow and silence. What remained above ground was skeletal—crumbling guard towers, half-eaten signage, and the faint silhouette of a barbed fence line twisted by decades of ice storms. The entry hatch to the medical bunker was frozen over, its edges rimmed with white crystals sharp as razors.Julius exhaled once and drove his shoulder into the lever. Metal screamed. The door gave way with a shudder, and stale air escaped like a breath trapped for twenty years.Miley stepped in behind him, flashlight beam cutting across the gloom. The corridor yawned before them—a narrow spine of rusted walls and frostbitten conduits. The bunker had been built for function, not comfort. Every pipe, every vent, every bolt was part of something clinical. Calculated.The smell was faint but sharp—chemical antiseptic layered under rot and time.“Place gives me the creeps,” Miley muttered.Julius said nothing. He pressed on.They passed

The lab’s lights buzzed overhead as Julius stared at the DNA scan flickering on the portable holo-screen. There was no room left for doubt.“Genetic match: 99.98% identity to Subject 17 – Aurelia Vire.”Underneath, in cold blue type: Origin: Clone Protocol // Directive: Replacement Asset.Julius shut the screen with a sharp snap, like the sound of a verdict slamming down.Miley stood across from him, still holding the medscanner that had confirmed it. Her mouth parted, but no words came out—not yet. Not while Julius stood so still.“She’s not her,” he said. Not a question. A statement. A warning.“No,” Miley agreed. “But she was made to be.”Julius’s gaze drifted to the cryo-pod now thawed and silent. The clone had been moved to a recovery cot beside the lab’s control desk, surrounded by diagnostic cables and low hums of automated care.Then she stirred.The clone’s eyes flew open—pale and sharp, but unfocused. Her breaths came fast, shallow. She jerked upright, fighting the cords, fi