I force myself to return to reading, but the name haunts me. Jezebel. Every time I see it on the page, my Aether Core pulses.
I set Yasmin’s file aside and reach for the second stack of documents. This is Jessa’s personal compilation of photocopied diary entries, scanned letters, and handwritten notes spanning generations. Her annotations fill the margins in blue ink. Her handwriting is small, precise, and unexpectedly artistic. In the corners of pages, she’s drawn poppies. The sketches are detailed, with petals shaded carefully.
On, and eyes. She’s drawn human eyes, focusing on lashes, irises, and the small burst of light that makes them look alive. She’s talented, I must say.
I shouldn’t be looking at her drawings. I shake my head, telling myself I should focus on the content.
The key detail emerges quickly: the traps change slightly for each heir via ancient magic, and also for each attempt made. The challenges are the same, but configurations shift and mechanisms realign. What worked for one Holloway might kill the next. The magic prevents robbers and treasure hunters from studying previous attempts and bypassing the trials, but it also blocks the heirs.
Her notes are comprehensive. Jessa has identified patterns, marked consistencies, and flagged variables. She’s thought through every angle with the care of someone who knows failure means death.
I find myself reading her handwriting more than the historical accounts, observing the way she crosses her t’s and the slant of her letters.
Footsteps echo in the corridor outside my door, and I hear her voice a second later.
“Goodnight, Mr. Tremaine.”
Garrick replies with something about rest and preparation for tomorrow, his tone sounding fatherly.
The door to her room opens and closes, and I hear her boots hit the floor as she removes them. Soon enough, water runs through old pipes, and I surmise she’s drawing herself a bath.
I should focus on the documents spread before me. There are hours of material to review, and strategies to formulate for tomorrow’s descent into the tunnels.
I can’t concentrate on a single word.
The sound of water filling the tub stops, and I hear her moving in the next room, fabric rustling as she undresses.
The walls between us are solid medieval stone, built to withstand siege and cannon fire, but my hearing is inhuman. I was designed to detect threats at a distance, to process soundsno organic ear could catch, and now that ability has turned into a curse.
I can hear her as if there’s no wall between us.
Water sloshes as her body settles into the tub, followed by a sigh that makes my Aether Core throb. I grip the edge of the table hard enough that the wood dents under my fingers as I try to anchor myself.
I try to return to reading the documents. It’s a futile attempt.
Small sounds drift through the wall. I hear water sloshing, Jessa’s breathing, steady at first, then a moan that cuts through my very being. My Aether Core pulses faster, the rhythm accelerating beyond my control.
The water moves around her in a distinguishable rhythm now, and I know what that means.
I know what she’s doing.
I should leave immediately. I should fly to the cliffs and put distance between us until she’s done with her bath and my systems can reset.
I sit frozen instead, listening to every sound.
Her moans grow louder, turning into whimpers and gasps that I can’t block out no matter how hard I try. I hear her hand moving between her legs, the wet sounds and rhythmic splashing making it impossible not to imagine what she’s doing.
My cock hardens underneath the steel plate that’s covering it.
Thirty years ago, Talos Dynamics unearthed the steel seraphim from a hidden military bunker where we’d been sealed since the end of World War I. Talos is a weapons manufacturer obsessed with technology and profit margins, and they saw raw potential in us. They stripped us down to our Aether Cores and rebuilt us with state-of-the-art systems: nanotech self-repair that can heal damage in hours, and neural-net AI that processes thousands of scenarios per second. They intended to sell us as mercenaries to governments and warlords around the globe. Wewere meant to be individual units that could turn the tide of any conflict.
But they soon discovered what everyone who’d tried to change us before had also discovered: the ten commandments etched into our Aether Cores by Leonardo da Vinci in 1502 could not be overwritten, no matter how advanced their technology was.
When they ordered us to kill innocents or violate our protocols during field tests, we locked up. We turned on our handlers the way we were supposed to turn on an enemy, and we refused every command that contradicted our programming.
Talos tried everything they could think of: reprogramming attempts that failed within days, psychological conditioning that we processed and dismissed as manipulation, and even torture that our bodies were built to withstand.
Nothing worked, and we remained immovable.
