No, no, no.
The Apex files snap through my memory—human trial preparation, voluntary acquisition protocols, essence integration through live fusion. The screams of those creatures still echo somewhere in my spine. I want to believe Luna couldn’t. That she wouldn’t.
But the sickness curling in my gut says otherwise. My sister’s always been brilliant, but lately . . . lately she’s been something else entirely.
“Kane,” my voice scrapes out lower than I expect, “what exactly did the announcement promise?”
He drags a hand through his already-ruined hair, the gesture more of a scrub. “Elevated housing in Everreach, stable employment, and enough lumes to lift a whole family out of poverty. They called it theEvolution Through Innovation. Claimed it was a medical breakthrough that would ‘enhance natural abilities’ and ‘unlock human potential.’ Said volunteers would be pioneers. Heroes.”
Pioneers.That’s the word they always use before the sacrifice and the rot.
My blood chills. It’s actually happening. They’re recruiting human test subjects, targeting the desperate, people who would do anything for a chance at a better life. The ones the city has already decided are disposable.
Kane’s describing it as if it’s just another medical trial, even a good opportunity. He has no idea what they’re really planning, what that “breakthrough treatment” will actually entail.
Maybe there was truth to those whispers about Luna and Alexander after all. How deeply had he sunk his claws into my sister? Had she really fallen so completely for that monster that she’d follow his every command, fulfill his twisted vision without question?
How can someone so brilliant be so fucking stupid?
The lights in StudioSeven emit a low, constant thrum. Everything here gleams with curated sterility. Walls awash in powdered cream, floors buffed to an artificial gloss made for camera lenses and illusions. The air is dense with the scent of varnish, hairspray, and quiet desperation. A dozen mirrored vanities stand in perfect formation, sanctified shrines to reinvention.
I sit before one, still cloaked in a silk robe that feels too untouched for how raw I am beneath it. Three girls orbit around me. Spellcasters in training, barely old enough to be out of the Academy, their movements deliberate and worshipful. The first winds pearl pins into my hair, coaxing it into glossy submission. The second sweeps highlighter across my cheekbones with a brush that tickles more than it enhances. The third studies her tray of lip pigments, forehead creased in concentration, as if the fate of the nation hinges on the right shade of rose.
They’re from the Aureum Quarter, I can hear it in the soft lilt of their vowels and slightly too careful politeness. Each wears a basic ruby bracelet on their wrist. I remember that district before Father’s promotion moved us up the chain. Chaotic and overbright, the air swollen with raw magic and restless invention. Streets teemingwith playwrights, potion vendors, and failed revolutionaries who thought inspiration could replace infrastructure.
I used to pass this very studio on my way home, dodging street performers hurling sparkles from cracked rubies and praying my shielding charm would hold. The atmosphere always buzzed, not with power, but with carelessness. When Father moved us to Crown Heights, it felt like finally being able to breathe. Clean air, controlled magic, purpose instead of passion.
Now I’m the one in the chair, and they can barely contain their enthusiasm, words tumbling over each other like eager ember puppies.
The girl working on my hair leans in, eyes bright with awe. “We’ve followed all your achievements at the Academy, Miss Ellis. Your thesis display is still there, you know—right between your Innovation Medal, and the Golden Quill for Academic Excellence.”
“Three consecutive wins for the Magical Theory Prize,” another adds, halting mid-stroke with the highlighter. “And your complexion is flawless.”
“Your hair is just divine,” the third adds, running her fingers reverently through my golden waves. “I’ve never seen such a perfect shade. The way it catches the light, is it a special treatment?”
I smile, angling my chin just enough to catch the overhead lights. “Crown Heights values refinement. Everything is cultivated, from hair care to education to breath itself.”
“It shows,” the youngest sighs, still clutching her lip palette preciously. “Everything about you is so perfect. You carry yourself so differently, like someone who belongs. You’re nothing like the rest of us from Aureum.”
“That’s what proper environment ensures,” I reply, my voice shaded with just enough humility to be strategic. “When you’re immersed in excellence, it’s only natural to evolve to match it.”
Their eyes shine with naked worship, and I bask in it. Until—
“It must have been amazing growing up with Aria Ellis as your sister,” the tall one ventures. “She’s so different from you. But in agood way! She just draws attention at events, especially lately, with Dominic Blackwood . . .” She falters, dropping to a hush. “People are saying they might be engaged. Is that—”
“The lip color,” I interrupt smoothly, my tone cooling several degrees. “The rose-petal pink, I think. We should keep it natural for the cameras.”
After my cold interruption, the girls go stiff as ironed collars. There’s a flicker of shared panic in the mirror, but then the youngest brightens.
“Oh! We should introduce ourselves,” she rushes, as if protocol might absolve the misstep. “I’m Mae. That’s Violet, the hair genius, and Rosie’s on gloss.” She gestures at the girl with the tray of lipsticks, who gives me a wide, hopeful smile. “We’re all fourth-year apprentices from the Academy. This is our first studio placement, and we are just truly honored.”
“And obsessed,” Violet blurts, cheeks flushed. “With you and Mr. Darkmoor. I have theWhispersilkspecial edition on the Founding Families, the issue with the fold-out spread ranking the ‘Ten Most Devastating Men in Magic and Politics.’ He was number one. Twice.”
Mae nods fervently. “The feature called him, ‘The storm behind Eclipsera’s silence.’ I clipped the article and stuck it on my dorm wall. My roommate kissed the photo.”
“They always say he’s taller in person, but gods . . . they weren’t exaggerating.” Rosie giggles.
They’re openly looking at him now and I don’t blame them.
