When he turns, I catch a flicker of the man who once slipped me sweets when no one was watching. But the warmth in his eyes is gone now, replaced by cold unforgiveness.
“Five years is a long time to reflect on one’s future, Aria. Especially for someone like you.” His smile sharpens at the edges. “While other children played with dolls, you were solving advanced equations, and demonstrating remarkable promise in your parents’ work. Such . . . natural talent.”
Natural talent.
He wasn’t there when Father made me sit for hours, eyes blurred from tears, forced to recite formulas until I got it right. Me demanding to know why I couldn’t just play like the other kids. Why I had to be different. Exceptional.Better.
I force myself not to flinch beneath his gaze. “I want to be sure.”
“Your parents’ division needs you, Aria.” The use of my first name is deliberate. A reminder of our history, of obligations deeper than employer and employee. “You understand that.”
“I do.” I grab my bag, already edging toward the door. “I just need more time.”
His gaze follows me out, pressing between my shoulder blades until the doors finally seal him behind me.
The elevator descends fromthe top floor of Darkmoor Industries, ward-lines threading through its glass walls like veins of light. Below, Crown Heights stretches wide, its obsidian-and-platinum skyline knifing into the orange-stained sky. Every structure shimmers with containment wards, the Darkmoor family’s greatest legacy etched into steel and stone. Not mere protection spells, but permanent arcane infrastructure. Blood-anchored systems that watch, record, and retaliate.
Ten years, and every echoing step through this place still conjures the memory of weathered stone paths and garden soil beneath my feet. A home where sorcery meant discovery, not spectacle. Our old townhouse in the Aureum Quarter had character, worn smooth by time and quiet enchantments. Gardens where Luna and I practiced in secret, away from our parents’ eyes. The wards there were simple. Door locks and window alarms powered by modest household blood rubies. Nothing like the omnipresent security web Alexander built here, where even the air hums with surveillance spells.
My AetherLink chimes in my pocket. I pull it out, remembering how Mom used to curse the old runic scrolls they relied on at the Academy—messages that took hours to manifest and often vanished before you could reply. Now, everyone carries palm-sized crystal devices, their sleek displays making ancient methods laughably primitive.
The message unfolds in Dom’s elegant script, the letters flickering like they’re alive.
Dom:Still on for tonight, love? I got something special planned.
Me:Wouldn’t miss it. Though your latest ‘special’ nearly got us in trouble.
His response is immediate.
Dom:That’s half the fun, darling.
The elevator opens into the lobby, where enchanted fountains project shifting constellations across polished marble floors. Security drones hover near the entrance, sleek metal shells glowing with embedded protective enchantments as they scan every visitor. The latest Darkmoor innovation. Half machine, half magic, all annoyance. One breaks formation to trail me, its glass eye pulsing a soft blue as it whirs and clicks, scanning for a badge I reluctantly fish from my pocket.
“I work here,” I mutter, swatting at the persistent thing as it circles my head like an oversized, mechanical hummingbird.
I’ve complained about these particular drones before, about the way they fixate on me despite my full clearance, and the way their engines whine at a frequency designed to make my molars throb. Maintenance swears they’re functioning perfectly. Just another charming quirk of cutting-edge magitech, they say. Thoughsometimes I wonder if Alexander had them programmed just to piss me off.
Seventy-three steps.
That’s the exact distance between Darkmoor Industries and the residential tower Alexander claimed would suit us best.
Same path every day.
Past the Marrowgreen Park, where no one actually sits. Beneath the looming billboard of yet another flawless family basking in the glow of their blood rubies.
I know every beat of that holographic ad by heart. The sweeping aerial shot of their Crown Heights mansion. The daughter’s first ruby ceremony, complete with the mother’s artfully-timed tear. The son casting advanced wards—no blood sacrifice required, of course.
Then, right on cue, the father’s voice dips into that solemn, oh-so-concerned tone.“Remember when power demanded sacrifice?”
Cue the tonal shift—flashes of bloodied palms, drawn faces, suffering in tasteful slow motion—before the screen warms again to their smiling family, rubies gleaming like medals at their throats.
The Blood Ruby emblem fills the screen, my parents’ masterpiece reduced to a marketing symbol. That perfect ruby floating above the ageless palm, the drop of blood suspended in its core representing years of their research and brilliance. Even the veined pattern encircling it was Mom’s design, meant to honor the sacrifice behind the science.
Elevate Your Magic. Elevate Your Life.
The Gift of Magic. Without the Sacrifice.
I could time my walk to each frame by now. You’d think after six months they’d at least update the script. But I suppose when you’ve perfected the formula, why bother changing it?
