Fall sunlight splinters throughthe warded windows of Darkmoor Industries, casting the conference room in shifting hues of amber and gold. I trace the same blood-magic amplification formula for the hundredth time, envisioning Father’s disapproval at finding his heir—the daughter of Eclipsera’s most formidable minds—doodling in the meeting like a child.
I shift in the leather chair, too aware of Alexander’s presence at the head of the table. Even after all these years, I still hunch my shoulders, and my voice shrinks in his presence as if I’m that same little girl hiding behind specimen tanks in his private labs. Back then, he would smile when he caught me, a disarming flicker of warmth softening those dark, unfathomable eyes as he crouched to meet me at eye level.
“Curiosity is a gift, little one,” he would say, offering a hand while Mom lingered in the doorway, lips drawn tight with disapproval. “How else will the next generation of brilliant minds ascend?” He’d wink at me then, as if we shared a secret, and Mom’s concerns about safety protocols would dissolve beneath his quiet authority.
I never told him the truth. That it wasn’t wonder that pulled me into his labs—it was fear. Fear of disappointing Father, fear of not being enough. But Alexander’s workrooms, alive with hummingspecimens and wards that thrummed, felt safer than facing those expectations head-on. He let me believe the lie about curiosity, and I let him believe his kindness was why I kept coming back.
Now, watching him move through the room with that same calibrated authority, I wonder if he always knew. If that smile held calculation, not comfort. If his protection was just another way to bind the Ellis heir closer to Darkmoor’s web of influence.
“We opened our borders twenty years ago under a strict selection system, designed to give outsiders a chance at a better life in Eclipsera, in accordance with our treaties with other regions.”
Alexander’s voice strikes the perfect balance between authority and compassion, a tone he’s mastered over decades of public speaking. The magitech display glows between his steady hands, projections of data and ward schematics blooming into sharp, three-dimensional models that cast fractured shadows across features that haven’t aged since my childhood.
“We offered hope,” he says smoothly, “to those willing to earn it. A chance to share in the prosperity we’ve built.”
Each checkpoint glimmers on the map, their protective barriers represented by translucent veils of red light. With a flick of his hand, Alexander zooms in on the Lower Rings, where thousands of glowing dots represent the refugees we’ve supposedly “saved.” His expression holds just the right amount of concern as he continues:
“While the Wastes and Vairen seem content to spiral into chaos, Helisvein continues pressuring us to take in more. But they don’t carry the weight of responsibility—of ensuring every individual we admit can meaningfully contribute to Eclipsera.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “The Lower Rings are already overcrowded. Our enforcers are at capacity. We must reinforce the checkpoints and expand personnel before . . .”
I find myself zoning out again. Outside, leaves scatter across the pavement, a blur of copper and crimson in the wind. Security concerns are Alexander’s problem, not mine. Let him stress over refugees, and resource allocation, and whatever else keeps Eclipserasecure from the rest of the world. Though sometimes I wonder if we’re keeping dangers out, or sealing secrets inside?
“Are we boring you, Miss Ellis?” Alexander’s voice slices clean through my thoughts, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or have you uncovered some hidden truth in those leaves?”
Quiet laughter ripples around the table, more from relief at the break in tension than actual humor. I sit up straighter, pulse prickling at the back of my neck as twenty pairs of eyes shift toward me. Alexander’s always had that gift, dressing his criticisms in charm and turning humiliation into something that feels almost warm.
“I apologize, Mr. Darkmoor.” The words taste stale on my tongue. Mother might let it slide, but Father—gods, Father will wear that look when he hears about this. That precise, surgical arch of his brow that says:Five years clawing your way from intern to junior analyst, and this is how you prove yourself?
As if starting at the bottom wasn’t already scandal enough.The Ellis heir, climbing ranks like some unvetted graduate?I can still hear the horror in his voice, like I’d threatened to torch his beloved labs rather than earn my place in them.
Alexander’s lips curve at one corner, that familiar expression that that once turned even his reprimands into shared secrets. “As I was saying,” he continues, “perhaps it’s time we sealed our borders. Temporarily, of course.”
“Sir,” Tyler says, his voice steady where the rest of the table stays silent, “the treaty with Helisvein explicitly states—”
“The agreement,” Alexander interrupts, light and shadow carving his face into something merciless, “has served its purpose. Our generosity, however, has limits.”
Across the table, shoulders draw tight, and gazes drop in a ripple of silent compliance. Even those who know he needs the other Founding Families to ratify any real action won’t voice it. Not here. Not in his domain. Not when his presence presses into every corner of the room and his word might as well be law.
Sometimes, in moments like these, I wonder if I should have taken Kian’s offer instead. Working for Dom’s father would’ve been a minefield of discomfort, sure, but at least the entertainment sector promised more intrigue than border security. Part of me would’ve relished the look on Father’s face. His perfect heir choosing Blackwood’s empire of vice over his sacred research labs. But I couldn’t do that to Mom. Not when she’s been trying so hard lately to keep our family from splitting at the seams.
And Luna . . .
Knowing what happens in those labs isn’t the same as surviving them. I’ve told her everything—well, the sanitized version Father allows me to know. Surface-level research. Controlled disclosures. The bits deemed “appropriate” for now. She listens with that same unnerving stillness, always trying to understand why our parents keep her out. Why she got left behind. I see the ache in her—being theprotectedone, always on the outside, always second-guessing her place.
But I’ve also watched Mom’s gaze go glassy the second she steps past the lab threshold, seen how she shifts from mother to scientist with unnerving ease. There are things I’m glad Luna only knows through my stories. Some truths are better passed down in whispered confessions than carved into memory.
The meeting drags, each minute stretching longer than the last and, by the time Alexander finally dismisses everyone, my notebook holds more formulas than actual notes. Chairs scrape against polished floors as people shuffle to gather their things, eager to start their weekend.
“Miss Ellis.” His voice halts me mid-rise. “Stay a moment.”
Acid churns low in my stomach as I gather my papers, each movement deliberately slow, watching the others file out until only the two of us remain. The setting sun bleeds shadows across the conference room. Alexander stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, black hair catching in the amber light.
I used to admire him. Back when I believed power equaled progress. Strange how his own son walked away from all this while I’m still shackled to my parents’ legacy. You’d think Alexander would’ve fought harder to keep his only heir.
“You’ve had time to think about my offer?”
It’s the same question every time, delivered with measured cadence and an expectant calm. He treats my hesitation as a technical delay, not a decision, as though he’s only waiting for me to come to my senses and accept what was already chosen for me.
“I’m still considering it.” The lie leaves me before I can think better of it.
