Location: Fenwick District — Viktor Volkov's Private Residence — Main Hall — Evening
Valerik's hand was still raised.
The silver light around his palm flickered—not steady, not controlled. It pulsed in uneven waves, bright then dim then bright again, like a heart that had forgotten how to keep time. The emblem on his coat glowed in sympathy, mercury light bleeding across the silk, tracing the curves of serpents and mirrors.
His eyes were fixed on Elijah.
"I'll kill you," he said again.
His voice was not loud. It was certain.
Elijah's heart rate spiked.
Thump.
The sound filled his ears, drowning out the distant chime of the clock, the soft hum of the chandeliers, the slow, deliberate breathing of the Sutran noble standing between him and death. Blood rushed through his veins. His temples throbbed. His vision narrowed to a tunnel.
No, he thought. I can't go out like this. Not here. Not now. Not like—
Thump.
His chest tightened.
Thump.
The warmth that had been sleeping in his sternum—the warmth that had been there since the Hollow, since the Martian frequency, since the first time he had felt the Astraseal stir—woke.
---
Through his perception, something changed.
Not the room. Not the light. Not the pressure of Valerik's attack pressing against his skin.
Tenryu stirred.
The units that had been scattered through his body—dormant, patient, waiting in his blood, his bones, the spaces between his organs—began to move. They didn't flow like water. They didn't drift like smoke.
They spiraled.
Thin threads of pale gold and deep crimson emerged from the darkness of his inner vision. No thicker than spider silk, they wound around each other, around his ribs, around the beating core of his heart. They moved with purpose—not his purpose, something older, something that had been waiting for this moment.
Not Kokoro, he thought. Not the emotion of others. Not the fear or desire or rage of the crowd.
Something else.
Something that's been inside me since the beginning.
Something that I've been feeding without knowing it.
The threads tightened.
They didn't break. They twisted.
A cyclone—not of wind, of energy—formed at the center of his chest. The threads spun faster, brighter, pulling the scattered Tenryu units toward them like a whirlpool drawing ships to the depths. They compressed. They condensed. They folded into something smaller, denser, hotter than anything he had felt since the Severance.
Form change, he realized. It's not just stored anymore. It's becoming something else.
Something I can use.
Something that—
The warmth spread.
From his chest to his shoulders. From his shoulders to his arms. From his arms to his hands. His fingers tingled. His palms grew hot. His skin prickled with the sensation of power that was not quite his but had decided to answer him anyway.
And somewhere deep in his perception, he saw it—
A silver line, thin as a thread, cold as winter, racing toward his face.
---
Valerik's attack had already left his hand.
The Mirror Tap—full force, no restraint, no mercy—crossed the distance between them in the space between heartbeats. The silver line trailed behind it, splitting the air, leaving afterimages that burned against Elijah's retinas.
Too fast, he thought. Too fast to dodge. Too fast to block.
Too fast to—
His hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... there.
His palm met the silver line.
The impact sent a shockwave through the room. Chandeliers swayed, their crystals clinking against each other like nervous teeth. Paintings rattled against the walls. Cracks spiderwebbed across the marble floor, spreading outward from Elijah's feet like the roots of a dead tree.
But Elijah didn't fly backward.
His feet stayed planted. His arm didn't break. His chest didn't cave.
The silver line pressed against his palm, sizzling, sparking, trying to push through—trying to crush him, to break him, to end him—
But something pushed back.
Tenryu surged.
The cyclone in his chest spun faster, threads winding tighter, the pale gold and deep crimson bleeding into each other, becoming something that was neither one nor the other. The warmth in his palms intensified, spread to his fingers, formed a barrier that the silver line could not cross.
And the silver line rebounded.
It shot sideways—not at Valerik, not at Viktor, but at the wall to Elijah's left. It struck the marble, carved a trench through the stone, and embedded itself in the dark wood paneling beyond. Dust fell. Plaster crumbled. The chandeliers swayed for a moment longer, then stilled.
The room was silent.
Valerik's eyes were wide.
His hand was still raised. His palm was still facing Elijah. But the silver light had dimmed—not faded, retreated.
"That feeling," he said.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"It's the same as what held my attack. But different."
He stared at Elijah.
"Stronger. More... dense."
His throat moved.
"This... this is—"
"Valerik."
Viktor's voice was calm.
"That's enough."
---
Elijah's hand was still raised.
The warmth in his chest was still spinning. The threads were still tight. The cyclone was still hungry.
The Mandate, he thought. The power I used at the Hollow. The power that turned a woman into mist. The power that made the seven rings appear behind my back.
I could use it now. One punch. One strike. End him before he—
"Don't."
Wonko's voice was sharp.
"Don't you dare."
"I can—"
"You can't. Not yet."
"I've used it before—"
"Against mortals. Against people who didn't know what they were facing. Against people who had no idea that the Mandate even existed."
Wonko's mental voice was urgent.
"Valerik is different. He's Sutran. He's trained. He's connected to families and factions that would notice if one of their own was killed by a technique that hasn't appeared in millennia."
"So?"
"So if you use the Mandate now, you won't just kill him. You'll announce yourself to everyone who's been looking for the Mandate. The three families. The Mysterium clan. The Unseen Accord."
He paused.
"Viktor doesn't know who you are. Not really. He suspects. He guesses. But he doesn't know. If you use the Mandate now, he'll know. And if he knows, others will know. And if others know—"
"I'm dead."
"Yes."
Elijah's hand lowered.
The warmth in his chest faded. The cyclone dissolved. The threads loosened, scattered, returned to their dormant places—waiting, patient, hungry.
"Fine," he thought.
"Fine."
---
Valerik's eyes were still on Elijah.
His hand was still raised. But the silver light had dimmed to almost nothing. His chest rose and fell. His breathing was slow. Controlled.
"You're not ordinary," he said.
"I know."
"You're not Sutran."
"I know that too."
"Then what are you?"
Elijah's lips curved.
"A dishwasher."
Valerik's face contorted.
"You—"
"Valerik."
Viktor stepped between them.
His silver hair caught the light. His pale eyes were calm. His posture was loose, relaxed—the posture of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome and knew that he would win in all of them.
"It's best we leave things as they are."
Valerik's jaw tightened.
"Continue running wild, Viktor. Let me tell you something."
He stepped back.
"You're in Crestwood now. Things are run differently here. Not like the Frostlands. Not like your frozen palaces and your silver towers."
He paused.
"I didn't dare imagine your strength was at the second bridge. The threshold to the Quantum Flow stage."
His eyes narrowed.
"Though I doubt that's your real limit. You're hiding something. I can feel it."
Viktor's expression didn't change.
"Perhaps."
"If the three families don't get answers about why the Ashwick corridors aren't paying their dues, it won't be on me."
Valerik's eyes moved to Elijah.
"It'll be on him."
He stepped back again.
"Be careful, insect. Your tricks—your little parlor games—won't amount to anything against real strength."
He turned.
His boots clicked on the marble.
He walked away.
---
Viktor's expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough. The calm remained, but something else joined it—a weariness, a recognition, a quiet understanding.
"You should leave," he said.
"The Ashwick corridors. The Muchachos. The Long Walk. Kuvitich."
He looked at Elijah.
"What's coming... you might survive it. But your people won't. Valerik's superiors will send backup. They'll bring trouble. The kind of trouble that doesn't leave witnesses."
"In that case," Elijah said, "I'll take everyone with me."
Viktor's eyebrow rose.
"Everyone?"
"Everyone."
"You're interesting, kid. But be careful how you move forward. The eyes watching this place—they're everywhere. You can't escape their senses. Not forever."
Elijah's lips curved.
"It's fine. I know a place where they can't find us."
Viktor studied him for a long moment. His pale eyes moved across Elijah's face—the soft features, the wide eyes, the forgettable disguise.
"Then hurry," he said. "If I were you, I'd leave soon."
He turned to walk away.
Paused.
"I don't care if you're some immigrant punk. Or an Australian degenerate. But when you see Erickson and the other lad—the one with the glasses—tell them that the Artemis family sends their regards. And that they should contact me. Immediately."
Elijah's brow furrowed.
"Why?"
His eyes lit up.
"Wait—before you leave—do you know someone named Hermos?"
---
Viktor froze.
Not his body—his presence. The air around him grew cold. His shoulders tensed. His hands—previously relaxed at his sides—curled into fists. The silver hair seemed to lose its luster, the pale eyes to darken.
He turned.
His hand shot out.
His fingers closed around Elijah's throat.
"How do you know that name?"
His voice was low. Quiet. More dangerous than any shout.
"How?"
Elijah's hands rose—not to fight, to plead. His fingers brushed against Viktor's wrist. His nails scraped the skin. His vision swam. His breath came in short, choked gasps.
"Erickson—" he managed. "Erickson asked me—when we first met—if I knew him—if I had contact with him—"
Viktor's grip tightened.
Elijah's throat burned.
"I don't—I didn't—"
Viktor stared at him.
His pale eyes searched Elijah's face—the soft features, the wide eyes, the disguise that had fooled so many.
Then he let go.
Elijah stumbled back. His hand went to his throat. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. The room spun around him.
Viktor turned.
He walked toward the door.
His boots made no sound on the marble.
"One word of advice, kid," he said.
His hand touched the doorframe.
"Don't utter that name anywhere. Not in Crestwood. Not in the corridors. Not anywhere."
He stepped through the doorway.
"It might lead to your cover being blown."
The door closed behind him.
---
Elijah stood alone in the hall.
His throat was sore. His chest was burning. His hands were shaking. The chandeliers glittered above him, indifferent to what had just happened.
Hermos, he thought. Who is Hermos? Why did Viktor react like that? Why did Erickson ask about him?
What am I missing?
He clenched his fists.
I need to get stronger. Faster. Smarter.
I need to find out who Hermos is.
I need to—
He looked at the door.
—survive.
He walked toward the exit.
His footsteps were soft on the marble.
The chandeliers glittered.
And somewhere in the distance, the clock struck the half-hour.
---