They’re looking at me like I’m supposed to understand something. Like my presence here should mean more than it does.
The first is perhaps fifty. Tall, lean build, dark hair graying at the temples. His eyes are flat brown, but they burn with intensity as he takes me in. His expression carries expectation.
The second is younger—maybe forty—with a more athletic build. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that gleam withintelligence and calculation. He moves like a fighter. Like someone who’s killed before and will again without hesitation.
But right now, both men are looking at me with something close to amazement.
It makes my skin crawl.
They approach slowly. Deliberately.
I keep my expression neutral. Give them nothing.
The older man stops at the table’s edge. For a moment, he simply looks at me. Then he places his right fist over his heart—a gesture so formal, so archaic, that my own chest tightens in recognition I don’t understand.
“I am Roland Vex,” he says. “This is Alastair Creed.” He pauses. “We apologize for the… unpleasantness of your retrieval. I believe there was some rough handling involved, and I can assure you that the culprits have been suitably disciplined. But circumstances demanded we act. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him bluntly.
“Of course,” he says quickly. “So foolish of me to forget. You need context. The clans have grown weak. Corrupted. Only you—” He stops. Swallows. “Only you can restore what must be restored.”
Only me?
The words sound like they should mean something to me.
They don’t.
“You have me confused with someone else,” I say. Flat. Toneless.
Creed’s eyes narrow slightly. “You cannot mean that.”
“I do.”
Silence falls. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Vex leans forward. “I understand your… reluctance. But surely you understand the state of things? The modern clans. Their weakness. Their integration with inferiors.” His jaw tightens. “You know what must be done.”
I don’t. But I’m starting to understand that they believe I know.
“Why have you brought me here?” I ask directly.
“To offer you what you deserve,” Vex says. His earlier uncertainty vanishes, replaced by zealot’s fire. “What you’ve always deserved. Your rightful place at the head of our movement.”
“Your movement,” I repeat carefully.
“The restoration.” Creed leans forward. “Of natural order. Of proper hierarchy. Our kind should not hide in shadows. Should not bow to human weakness. Should not dilute our bloodlines with inferior genetics.” His voice drops. “You know this. You’ve always known this.”
Pure blood. Hierarchy. Dominion.
The language sends warnings through my system.
“You speak of conquest,” I say.
“We speak of restoration.” Vex’s hands flex. “Our kind built civilizations. Ruled continents. We are superior in every measurable way—strength, longevity, power. Yet we hide. Bow to human authority. Pretend to be less than what we are.” His eyes burn. “The modern clans have forgotten what it means to be pure. To be worthy of the gift.”
I’ve heard rhetoric like this before. Know it in my bones, though I can’t place when or where.
It always ends in blood.
