“Show me,” I murmur. “The line between right and necessary.”
He smiles—a crooked, tender curve. “Then we walk it together.”
I let his arm circle my waist. We stand side by side beneath the neon halo, two silhouettes in alignment—justice and power woven inseparably.
I grip the rail again, but this time purpose steadies my grip. The skyline no longer looms as grey unknown. It’s a frontier.
Power isn’t purity. It’s the shaping of reality. And I’m wielding it—crime and reform, blood and system.
I take a shaky breath, turning to Aebon. “Then let’s build the next shard of this world.”
His lips touch mine. Brief. Electric. A silent vow.
Behind us, the city hums—alive, shifting, illuminated by our hands.
We step back inside.
Because this is only the beginning.
CHAPTER 25
AEBON REXX
The medley of neon lights and distant laughter fades as I step into my private sanctum—vaulted walls, violet braziers, the flicker of holo-screens reflecting on polished basalt. Aria’s gone to our strategy room; I’m alone. But solitude isn’t safety. Not tonight.
I pause before the central console, lingering in the heavy silence. The city hum bleeds up through the structure—distant engines, the hum of refractors overhead—yet in this chamber, every sound is drowned beneath the weight of power. Every surface tastes of ambition and lingering blood, of bone and blood runes etched into stone. A legacy built in pieces.
My implant chimes. A single message: red emblem—a Nine sigil, angular and cold. The words that follow are not directive, but land like ice in my gut:
You’re growing too big.
No signature. No goodwill. Just five words—and semantics to shiver over. It’s not a threat. It’s a test. A warning. A knife held to throats across nine fractured states, not pointing, but threatening.
I exhale, slow. The braziers gutter. Shadows lengthen.
Power trembles. Every empire at its peak invites the Nine’s appraisal. Either you’re contained—or consumed.
I reach up, unbuttoning my suit. Silk slides off my skin. I slide into black combat weave—the gear we wear in ceremonial violence or cold councils. Button it up. Each click solidifies resolve.
I cross to the wall mirror—my reflection stares back: bone-spurred, scarred, Reaper reclaimed. A layer of purpose settles over me. I trace a scar near my throat—I remember the woman who saved me from the courtroom and the woman I made partner.
I patch the message into my neural feed, letting it loop.
You’re growing too big.
That’s not a complaint. That’s an ultimatum.
I crunch the words. I see the Nine’s concern: a human second. A sect reclaimed as shadow state. A city that doesn’t vanish your citizens anymore. We’ve evolved. Fast. Too fast.
The Nine value balance. Not stability. Not growth. Just equilibrium—keep the lesser strong enough to pay, the greater weak enough to comply, and no one gets too ambitious.
They just implied I am.
I tilt my head. “If they wanted to kill me,” I whisper, “they’d have done it years ago.”
Or they’d use the Nine’s resolution: dismantle an empire without bloodshed. The Nine’s hallmark. Quiet death in committee.
An unanswered question flickers:am I ready?
