I bit back the urge to argue then. This wasn't the time.
By noon, I stood at the gates of Vermillion's mansion. The building loomed like a predator watching its prey-tall, dark, and silent. Beside me, my wife, Stacy, adjusted her gloves, eyes narrowing.
"You clear the mansion," I told her. "I'm going straight to the basement. If he still has the blood, he'll be there."
"Will do, honey," she replied, a faint smile flickering across her face. Her voice was steady, but I knew she understood the urgency.
We breached the front doors without ceremony. I took the left corridor, descending the winding stone steps two at a time. The basement air was cold and damp, laced with the metallic tang of blood. Rounding the corner into the laboratory, I froze.
The Duke stood over a table. A child-no more than ten-lay strapped to it, skin pale, silver eyes dull with exhaustion. She was breathing, barely. The Duke's hands cradled an injector filled with swirling black-red fluid.
"Who dares barge into my lab?!" He barked, whirling toward me.
"Duke, you are under arrest for stealing from the royals," I said evenly. "The King will be far less lenient if you force my hand."
His grin widened. "Too late, Marquis Draig!" And before I could reach him, he slammed the needle into the child's chest.
I lunged, rage burning in my veins, and my blade flashed. His head hit the floor before his body collapsed. There was no place in this world for men like him.
Turning to the child, I saw her chest rising shallowly, her silver gaze locking with mine. She smiled-a small, tired thing-and breathed, "Thank you," before her body went still.
"No..." My stomach dropped. "No! I was too slow!"
I kicked the Duke's corpse with enough force to send it crashing through the stone wall. Stacy's voice cut through my haze.
"Honey, you almost hit me with that," she said, her tone sharp.
"Huh? Stacy-sorry. I lost myself."
Her eyes swept the room. "What happened? Why is he dead? Weren't we ordered to arrest him?"
"I tried to stop him from injecting her... but I was too late." I gestured to the table. "She's gone."
Stacy's expression softened, and she stepped forward to wrap her arms around me. "Honey, you can't save everyone."
I barely had time to feel the weight of her words before Stacy stiffened. "Dean... what's happening to her?"
I turned back-and froze. Black liquid was seeping from the girl's skin, pooling beneath her. It shimmered unnaturally before surging upward, encasing the table. Then it ignited-not with a normal flame, but with a fire that seemed to eat at the air itself. Sinister. Hungry. Threads of crimson and shadow writhed within it, and every few seconds, arcs of matching lightning snapped through the blaze.
The temperature dropped sharply, my breath fogging. Instinct took over. I grabbed Stacy and pulled her back, drawing my weapon.
The flames began to withdraw, crawling back into her flesh until only her right arm burned with slow, constant motion-black-red fire licking at skin that did not blister. Strange markings-tattoos that writhed faintly-crept along her forearm. Cursed. I knew it instantly.
Her left arm was different. Lightning crackled across it, the same dark hue as the fire, but frozen in place like glass.
"Why would a dead person be cursed?" I muttered.
"Dean... she's breathing again." Stacy's voice trembled, but there was awe in it too.
I stepped closer, scanning her. "So she is. Whatever those curses are, they're powerful. Let's get her to the palace. Someone needs to examine her."
From there, events moved quickly-though the king's reaction in the throne room was anything but satisfactory.
"What do you mean you permitted him to do the experiments?!" My voice echoed off the marble pillars. "Over a hundred children are dead because of your inaction!"
The king's gaze was cold. "Marquis Draig, remember your place. The Duke promised to create a weapon to defend the kingdom. I allowed him the freedom to work. I never ordered him to use treasury resources. As for the children-they were orphans. No one will miss them. Now leave."
"That," came another voice, "is where you are wrong."
The nobles shifted as Marquis Anlit stepped forward. A moment later, the crown prince himself entered.
"Grandfather," the prince said, his voice steady, "it is time you step down."
The king's face darkened. "This is not your concern."
"I am the crown prince. It is exactly my concern." The prince turned to me. "Marquis Draig, tell me everything."
I did. Stacy's evidence sealed the matter. The prince nodded. "That will suffice. We will open a trial. My mother will support it. Marquis-take the child. Train her. If she truly carries primordial blood, the kingdom may need her one day."
The trial ended with the king's execution. The prince took the throne, and his mother was named adviser-though she spent more time doting on her twins than governing. Life moved on. But the child remained.
(Hospital)
I knew Stacy wouldn't take this well.
"He wants you to make her a weapon?" she demanded, pacing the room. "Dean, she just endured years of torture. And you want to train her immediately?"
"It's not my choice," I said. "We don't know when the next war will-"
"Don't you dare," she snapped, stepping close. "If you think I'll let you turn her into a weapon, we're done. I'll take her myself."
I rubbed my temples. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Let me live with her at the border mansion. I'll help her adjust. I'm retiring as your vice-captain."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."
"What about our daughter?"
"You know she's a daddy's girl," Stacy said with a faint smile.
"That's true."
"I'll leave tomorrow," she said, already heading for the door. "I need to pack."
And just like that, she was gone.
avataravatar
RE: Chapter 3: New House
"Ugh. Why do I have a headache? Even in the afterlife, I have headaches. This universe really hates me."
My voice came out rough, the kind of rough that scrapes your throat and leaves grit behind. Air felt too big going in and too small coming out.
The bed beneath me was criminally soft. Not just comfortable-dangerously comfortable, like it had conspired with the pillow to keep me here forever. The mattress cupped my hips and shoulders, the blankets were warm without being heavy, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender and sun-dried linen. For a second I let myself sink, to see if the pain would forget me.
It didn't.
This bed is so comfortable... Did I reincarnate again? The thought slithered in, cold and mean. Don't let this be another lab. I won't survive a third time. I mean it. I won't.
I opened my eyes. White ceiling. Clean, matte white. No rust, no peeling paint, no fluorescent glare. I focused on the faint hairline in the plaster. My heartbeat unclenched a fraction. No metal plates bolted across the corners, no mounted restraints, no observation slit cut into the wall.
I tried to move, and my body informed me that it hated me. Pain rolled through my ribs and shoulders like I'd been used as a practice dummy for a team of very enthusiastic horses. Muscles trembled with effort; I hadn't even started yet.
Slowly, breath by tight breath, I pushed myself up and eased back against the headboard. The room slid into focus. Cream walls with simple molding. Polished wooden floor, the kind that holds warmth and smells faintly of lemon oil. A small side table with a folded cloth and a porcelain bowl. A window with heavy curtains, the edge drawn back just enough to admit a blade of night-silver-blue, quiet. Not a cell. Not a lab. A guest room.
I looked down at myself. Same height, same general frame, but fuller. There was meat on me now-muscle weight that made my arms feel heavier in a way that wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar. My fingers skimmed my forearm-and froze.
Black and crimson markings coiled along my right forearm like flame trapped under glass. They didn't glow, exactly; they... shifted, as if the flame were breathing. My left forearm wore lightning in the same colors, jagged lines that seemed poised to snap and strike. Neither hurt. Both felt watchful, like a pair of sleeping animals that might open their eyes if I stared too long.
Not ink. Not the kind you choose.
A hinge creaked. The door opened.
"Sigh... poor child. I wonder when she'll wake up." The voice was low, warm, and worn at the edges. It carried the kind of tired that comes from long days and longer nights.
She stepped in-a woman with black hair coiled into a neat bun and a crisp black-and-white maid uniform fitted to a capable body. She moved like a person who could turn the whole house upright by herself if she had to. A wooden bucket hung from her hand and clinked softly as it swung.
Someone I haven't seen. Here to clean me? Or check if I'm still breathing? Or both.
"Good morning," I rasped, testing my voice, testing her.
"It's night," she said without looking at me, crossing to the table.
"...Huh?" I angled toward the window. The slice of sky beyond the curtain was a deep, velvet blue. "It is?"
"Yes. Just look outside-wait." Her head snapped toward me so fast the bun threatened to come loose. Our eyes met. Hers widened. "You're awake!?"
"Yes... hello?"
"I need to tell Stacy. I'll be right back." She spun, hauled the door open, and leaned into the hall. "You! Go get Lady Draig. Tell her the young miss woke up!"
"Yes, ma'am!" came a muffled reply from somewhere outside.
She-Rebecca, my brain supplied, because she felt like a Rebecca-returned, set the bucket down, and pulled the chair closer. She sat with her knees angled slightly outward, forearms on thighs, and hands loosely clasped. The posture of a woman who could spring up or stay put, who had chosen to stay put.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Like shit." Honest answers cost less. "Everything hurts. My head is trying to crawl out of my skull. I think I hate breathing right now."
The corner of her mouth tugged like she was suppressing a smile she didn't think I wanted. "We'll have the doctor check on you later. For now-do you remember anything about the experiments?"
That word walked a cold finger down my spine. "Experiments?" My throat tightened. "So... I didn't die?"
She shook her head once, slowly. Her eyes didn't leave mine. "No. You survived. Five years of that hell. That alone would be a miracle." Her voice lowered, gentled. "And you survived primordial blood injection."
The room narrowed. I blinked, and the window seemed farther away.
White light. Metal tray. A gloved hand turning a syringe so the bubbles rise like beads.
"Count down from ten for me."
Ten-nine-burn
"No one has ever done that before," she finished.
The bedsheets were too soft under my hands. I let out a breath that tasted like old smoke. "Guess I'm special." I looked around again, more sharply, as if the name of the place might be hiding under the table. "Where am I?"
"You'll find out when your-"
The rest of her sentence didn't survive what happened to the door.
It didn't open. It detonated. A crack like thunder, a spray of splinters, a cascade of broken hinges, and a handle doing its best impression of shrapnel. The sound hit my nerves like a whip, and something in the back of my skull flipped a switch.
Boots in the corridor.
The door bangs open.
Mask. The sweet, stinging bite of antiseptic.
Steel touches skin.
I moved on instinct, hands reaching for the flying pieces-but my body lagged, uselessly late. The fragments clattered harmlessly against the floorboards and skittered away in embarrassed arcs.
Useless. I ground my teeth. My body is a puppet with cut strings.
"STACY!" Rebecca's voice cracked like ice. She was already on her feet, positioned to intercept, her palm braced on a silver-haired head that had just burst through the wreckage.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca." The silver-haired intruder looked properly chastened, which didn't match the reckless glow in her eyes. Cat ears twitched atop her head. A silver tail flicked once, guilty-maybe. "I couldn't help myself. I wanted to meet Kitsuna as soon as possible."
"And if something had hit her?" Rebecca's glare could have stopped a horse. "She's still recovering, Stacy."
Up close, the dynamic between them wrote itself. Stacy radiated momentum even when she stood still, the kind where a person's thoughts outrun their body and the body races to catch up. Rebecca had grace with good posture.
"You two look like sisters," I said, because sometimes laughter is cheaper than fear. "Big sister, little sister. You can decide who's who."
"If I were her big sister, I'd be far less lenient," Rebecca said, and flicked Stacy's forehead with precision.
"Ow..." Stacy's ears flattened, tail swishing a little sulk into the air. "I said I was sorry."
"Anyway," I said, because my heart wanted out of my chest and I didn't want it to. "Where am I? And who exactly are you two?"
"Why are you asking her?" Stacy brightened immediately, as if chastisement were a gust of wind to tack against. She stepped closer, silver eyes shining. "I'm your mother."
"You don't look particularly reliable," I said without heat, glancing back to Rebecca. "I'll keep asking your big sister."
Rebecca laughed, quick and genuine. "I like her already."
"I can't believe my own daughter is looking down on me..." Stacy's tail drooped dramatically, like a theater curtain. Ears tipped out to the sides, performing sadness.
"Wait." The word crawled out of me, smaller than I meant it to be. "Mother?"
Now that I had time to look: demi-human. Silver fur. Balanced on the balls of her feet even when she wasn't moving. Pretty, yes, but bright with a kind of chaos that made your palms itch if you've ever had to dodge knives.
"Yes," Stacy said, perfectly matter-of-fact. "We adopted you."
"Why?" I asked, letting my suspicion show because pretending otherwise felt like asking for trouble. The word "adopted" slid against something raw in me.
"Because we were ordered to."
My mouth tasted like I'd bitten a coin. "So I'm supposed to become a weapon."
"Yes and no." Her tone shifted a half-step lower, ears angling forward as if to make sure the words didn't miss me. "My husband was ordered to train you. I refused. I brought you here instead, to our territory. You'll stay here until you're fifteen, and then we'll return to the capital." She tilted her head, and a lock of silver slid over her shoulder. "How does that sound?"
Not like a lie. Not like the truth, either. Something in between that real life favors. "Better than I expected you to say," I admitted. "My mind is... fine." Mostly. "My body's a mess."
