THE WEAPON OF HOPE
OBLIVION
Distraction was an unfamiliar irritation.
But that girl… fuck, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
It crept in quietly at first, threading itself through moments that normally required nothing from me but instinct and authority. Seated upon my throne of carved obsidian and bone, warmed by the constant thrum of power pulsing up from my club, I allowed my attention to drift. Drifting for the third time in as many minutes, in fact, and the realization of it left a sour taste in my mouth.
Below me, the club pulsed as it always did. Music rolled through the stone floor, and bodies moved in obedient rhythm. Their reasons for being here were like whispers carried to me by an unseen element. The hints of fear and desire braided together so tightly they were almost indistinguishable.
A distinct flavor my demon consumed hungrily.
For those of my kind, this place existed as neutral ground. My club, Veneficus, was a crossroads of power where business was conducted and information was exchanged…although never without cost.It certainly made my role as an Enforcerfar more convenient. Particularly when there were those who earned their living in this realm by selling me the knowledge I needed to hunt down rogues. Which was, after all, my primary task. As this was my domain, my sanctuary, my hunting ground. Every breath taken within these walls bent to my will.
And yet, there seemed to be just the hint of something that didn’t belong here… no, not something,but someone.
“My lord.”
The voice reached me through the noise with practiced deference, and yet I didn’t look toward it. The hesitation was brief, but it did not go unnoticed as I was too busy trying to hone my senses to pinpoint what I was feeling…who I was feeling.
I felt my distraction register among those nearest to me, a subtle tightening of the space around the throne as my inner circle paused, waiting to see whether I would acknowledge the interruption at all. Asking themselves what was wrong with me, and the thought made me grit my teeth.
“My lord?” the voice came again, this time said as more of a question.
Sharp annoyance flickered across my features, and I let my gaze lift at last. Vor stood a few paces from the throne, head bowed, hands folded neatly before him. His sightless eyes stared into nothing, unseeing in the mortal sense and yet far more perceptive than most who still relied on their vision. Vor was no simple sentinel. He was a necromancer of a rarer, far more dangerous kind. One whose power did not reach for the living, but for the soul itself. Death did not blind him, it sharpened him.
Where others saw flesh, Vor felt the tether. The weight of a soul bound to its host. The pull of it against the veil, the question of whether it still belonged to this side of existence at all. He could not raise mortals from their graves, nor would the gods allow such an imbalance. But among the supernatural, he was something else entirely.
A weaver.
A judge’s tool.
When a soul had not yet been claimed by Hell, Heaven, or any realm beyond. When it lingered in that fragile space between release and condemnation, Vor alone could bind it back to its vessel. Stitching essence to host with a precision that made even ancient beings wary.
It was why his presence served me so well. As Judge of the Damned, my work often required certainty, and Vor dealt not in guesses. He knew whether a soul could be reclaimed, whether it was lost beyond reach, or whether the gods themselves had closed the door. His blindness was the cost of that knowledge. Sight traded willingly for dominion over what lay beneath his skin.
He had served me for centuries now, long enough to understand the weight of interruption and to know better than to speak without cause. As it had to be said, I was not exactly known for my patience.
“What is it?” I asked, my tone even, betraying nothing of the frustrations that plagued me.
As Vor began to speak, my attention should have sharpened, should have focused on whatever problem he was about to present me with. Instead, my thoughts slipped sideways, dragged inevitably back to a moment that should have meant nothing at all. A brief collision with an unknown woman that had left a far deeper impression than it had any right to.
A body striking mine with enough force to certainly be memorable. Yet I had not even seen her face, only the impression of warmth and the curve of her body as my hands caught her instinctively. The echo of something far more dangerous than simple attraction rippled through my senses in an instant before she was gone. Even hours after the incident, Icouldn’t get that name out of my mind, still questioning if it had been her.
Shadowmere.
The reason I had been there in the first place. The reason I had insisted on attending a meeting I never should have bothered with. All because a single surname had clawed its way up from memory and refused to loosen its grip. It had been a foolish indulgence, and yet here I was, paying for it now with my fractured focus.
I shifted slightly on the throne, irritation tightening my jaw. I did not indulge distractions. I did not chase coincidences. I certainly did not allow the unknown to linger in my thoughts like an unanswered challenge, and yet here she was, lingering all the same.
Not because I wanted her to, I told myself, but because timing had made her presence questionable, and that name spoken by my mother now bore even more weight.
Sirens had long been spoken of amongst my kind, like a promise withheld by Fate itself. Lost… forbidden… a prophecy uttered in quiet tones among the King’s Enforcers. As though daring to hope for one of our own was a sin in itself. For centuries, they had remained just beyond reach, like some holy fable, half real, half fantasy.
But Greed’s situation had changed that.
For the Lost Sirens were lost no more. Not when three had already been claimed, and there were said to be eleven in total. Which meant every Enforcer wouldn’t simply be on the lookout, they would soon be actively hunting for them.
