The observation suite dominates one curved wall, its smart-glass barrier offering an unobstructed view of the treatment chamber below. No dramatics here, just clinical perfection. Monitors hum, essence stabilizers pulse, and beneath the illusion of restraint, power waits to be revealed.
“What you’re about to witness,” Eric announces, “is the future of enhancement. Through precise genetic modification using stabilized phoenix essence, we can rewrite the very code of human limitation.”
The subject is escorted into place. She is ideal—young, symmetrical, aspirational. The daughter of wealth, but not of name. Expensive enough to grant consent, insignificant enough to disappear.
The reporters lean in, their cynicism dissolving, replaced by awe.
Below, the chamber thrums, and the screens radiate manufactured success. Every variable pre-set, and every reaction orchestrated. They see salvation, I see branding.
When the press retreats, drunk on the promise of legacy, only Eric and I remain. The chamber below dims to functional light, technicians recalibrating instruments in silence.
“A masterful showing,” I offer. He basks in the praise, smug in the aftermath of his own illusion. “Though I am curious about the actual progress on the stabilization formulas. The ones we don’t publicize.”
His smile wavers. “We’re holding at ninety-three percent integration. The serum is stable. Mostly.” A pause. “Though some long-term subjects are showing . . . deviations. Genetic drift, subtle mutations, nothing critical.”
I raise a brow. The silence invites honesty.
“Minor,” he insists. “Adaptations, really. We’re adjusting protocols, nothing we can’t handle.”
Nothing you can’t handle.I suppress a smile.Oh, Eric. You have no idea what’s coming.
“Of course.” I keep my tone neutral, supportive. “Shall we check on our other test subjects?”
His body tenses ever so slightly. He knows what awaits downstairs. The true heart of our work, hidden beneath the polished floors and public success.
The sublevel observation room is nothing like its counterpart above. No marble here. No pretense of medical elegance. Just reinforced steel and containment wards, designed to hold something far more volatile than healing magic.
Through the observation window, rows of subjects float in darker chambers. Lower Ringvolunteers, though that word means something different when starvation and desperation drive the choice. Their bodies contort around essences never meant for human integration.
In one chamber, a girl spasms as Deathshade Widow toxin corrodes her nerves, capabilities already manifesting in waves of hallucinogenic energy that make the observation glass ripple. In another, a man convulses as Bloodmist Wraith power tears through him,his form beginning to unravel into crimson vapor that can phase through solid barriers and dissolve organic matter on contact.
At the far end, a soldier thrashes. Rotvein Scorpid venom pulses in his veins, his skin streaked with black latticework. Acid drips from his jaw, hot enough to sear through enchanted plating.
He will be magnificent once we shatter whatever remains of his mind.
“The military applications are promising,” Eric says cautiously. “Though the stability issues—”
“Are being addressed,” I finish smoothly. “Luna’s recent refinements to the binding serum have yielded remarkable results.”Unlike your clumsy attempts at dominance, which end either in psychosis or a corpse.
His jaw tics at her name. Predictable. “Yes, well.” Eric straightens, voice tilting toward defiance. “The girl’s work, while notable, is hardly irreplaceable. Our internal teams are close to perfecting the stabilization sequence. We won’t need her much longer.”
“How fascinating.” I let a thread of amusement lace my tone. “Though you should know that Luna has accepted my marriage contract. Any action taken against her would be interpreted as a direct assault on the Darkmoor family.” The color drains from his face and I savor the shift. “But please,” I add, “continue detailing your plans to eliminate my future wife.”
“Marriage?” His pristine composure cracks. “But Vivienne . . . surely you can’t—”
“Can’t what, Eric?” I step closer, my smile never wavering. “Secure the most brilliant mind in essence manipulation? Ensure the integrity of our research with proper oversight?” I pause deliberately. “Protect my investments?”
He falters. “The other families won’t stand for this,” he says, but the certainty is gone from his voice. “A second wife? And so young—”
“Think bigger,” I murmur. “Her innovations have already tripled your profit margins. Imagine what she’ll accomplish with fullDarkmoor patronage.” The transformation is immediate, his indignation collapsing beneath opportunity. Morality folds and calculation takes root.
This is what I’ve always respected about Dr. Vale: his ethics are precisely as resilient as his revenue stream.
“The waiting list has expanded substantially,” he admits, recalibrating his stance.
“And with Luna as my wife,” I say, “those treatments become proprietary to Vale Grace. Exclusivity ensures prestige and safety.”
I watch the realization bloom behind his eyes. Power. Leverage. Ownership. The idea of letting such advancement slip into another hospital’s hands in Veldrith is unthinkable.
