The private tearoom istoo curated to feel casual. Every detail, from the embroidered linens to the precisely spaced china, serves a purpose I haven’t yet deciphered. Octavia dismisses the servants with a single graceful motion. Her usual sharpness has dulled at the edges, movements fluid but missing the venom they once carried. Something in her is unsettled, but contained.
“Aria, darling. Come sit.” She pats the chair beside her, too ornate to be inviting. Her smile barely lifts her cheeks. I don’t move until Margaux’s hand presses firmly between my shoulder blades, guiding me forward.
The ScryVision flickers to life, bathing the room in synthetic light. Luna’s face appears, perfectly composed and radiant, while a haunting melody plays underneath. The camera work is masterful. Soft focus makes her glow like some angelic prophet of progress as she speaks of “Evolution Through Innovation.”
They’ve layered her interview with targeted imagery: a child’s shattered arm mending in seconds; an elderly man’s tremors vanishing beneath a wash of gold. Each miracle accompanied by Luna’s soothing voice explaining how they’re “transcending the limitations of blood magic.”
“Imagine a world,” my sister’s voice caresses the air, “where healing no longer demands sacrifice. Where natural magic aligns with essence-engineered treatment.”
Phoenix feathers dissolve into streams of radiant energy. Human cells shimmer as they absorb it, the footage slowed for emphasis. It’s beautiful, but unsettling.
Cut after cut interlaces Luna’s calm explanations with images designed to manipulate: patients weeping with gratitude, families embracing. Floating DNA helixes orbit her hands like conjured symbols of progress.
“The future of magical medicine isn’t just healing,” she says, eyes luminous. “It’s transformation.”
The final shots show Luna in a pristine lab, her white coat immaculate as she handles glowing vials with reverent care. “And at Darkmoor Industries, we’re making that future a reality.”
The screen fades to the Apex emblem. My stomach turns at its calculated beauty.
A phoenix—sleek, mechanical—rises in profile. Its wings are sharpened to blade-points, its tail a spiraling helix of silver-threaded DNA. Two more helixes curve upward beneath it, barbed, cradling the creature like a set of knifes poised to strike. Above them, three words burn onto the screen:
BORN AGAIN BETTER.
A scroll of clinical messaging follows:Trials commencing. Consult your local medical provider for eligibility requirements.
“Subtle as ever,” Margaux drawls, though for once her usual biting sarcasm seems forced, almost rehearsed. She stands by the ScryVision, her silhouette stark against the fading images.
Octavia’s spoon clicks against fine china with an irregular rhythm as she stirs her untouched tea. The sound echoes unnaturally in the room. “You know, the role of a Blackwood wife carries such weight and responsibility. We have traditions dating back centuries.” Her smile stretches a fraction too wide. “Have you given any thought to the ceremony venue?”
The chair beneath me tightens by the second, cushions pushing back as if rejecting my presence. “I hadn’t really—”
“And of course, there’s the blood-binding ceremony,” she continues, her eyes darting to the doors before fixing on my face with unnatural intensity. “Kian has such exacting visions for how it should unfold. He’s always been so passionate about tradition. So devoted to keeping the family strong.” She pauses, her smile curving slightly like she’s telling a private joke. “Sometimes that passion reads as harshness, I know. But it only means he cares. Especially about you. About Dom. He sees the bigger picture so clearly, it’s easy to forget the smaller pieces still matter.”
The words hang in the air. I wait for Margaux’s usual jab about her father’s idea of affection, but she says nothing. She prowls the room’s perimeter, her casual circuit betrayed by the precise way she pauses at each entrance.
I follow her path, noting the exits. Two French doors to the garden. The main door behind us. A servant’s passage half-obscured by tapestry folds. Each time Margaux crosses one, a sound registers, barely audible, but there. A soft mechanical click, precise and repeating.
A lock rearming. Or a trap resetting.
They wouldn’t actually kill me here, would they? Not in this curated parlor of delicate china and crystal chandeliers. That would be insane. But Margaux secures each exit, and the tremor is barely concealed in Octavia’s hand as she adjusts her teacup. Something is happening.
Panic presses at my throat, but I bury it. If this is a test—or worse—I need to keep them talking, hold the rules of the game in sight, even if they’re about to change.
“How many rooms are there?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “I keep losing my bearings. The east wing alone seems endless.”
“One hundred thirty-seven,” Octavia replies with practiced grace, her gaze fixed entirely on me. “Though some rooms shift duringcertain moon phases. The library tends to expand during full moons. Something about the ancient texts preferring lunar energy.”
“And the staff?” I sip the potentially poisoned tea, watching Margaux complete another circuit of the room. “It must require an army to maintain everything.”
“Forty-three permanent staff.” Octavia trades a pointed look with her daughter. “Twenty more rotate through daily. Each thoroughly screened. Kian is meticulous about who may enter the family wing.”
“The gardens are exceptional,” I continue. “The blood roses alone would require specialist training.”
“Oh, certainly,” Octavia replies. “The gardeners undergo years of preparation before approaching the rarer breeds. We lost three last season to the ghost orchids. They were especially talented with the moonblossoms. A pity.”
“And the void hounds?” I ask. “Do they remain stationed to certain grounds?”
“It’s wonderful to see you taking such interest,” Octavia beams, though the expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re adjusting to the role beautifully. I told Kian you would, given time.”
