The room was still, bathed in the soft, artificial glow filtering through heavy velvet curtains. Wanda sat perfectly composed in a high-backed chair, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on the polished arms. Only the faintest crease between her brows betrayed the placid surface. A subtle shift in the unseen currents, a discordant ripple in the tapestry of fate she constantly monitored, had disturbed her meditation.
So, she thought, the word forming silently, cold and sharp. He still lives.
A delicate sigh escaped her lips, barely stirring the air. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Her foresight had been clear, the path laid out with meticulous precision. First, the scavengers – crude, disposable, meant to wound and bleed him, to drive him deeper into the predetermined territory. Then, the lure: the camp, deliberately staged, obviously her handiwork, a warning flag designed to make him hesitate, to choose flight over confrontation. Finally, the forest – if that sun-scorched, skeletal expanse could even be called such – a natural kill box, devoid of shade, offering no refuge from the dawn.
Every step had been calculated, every contingency considered. The plan had unfolded perfectly. The bait taken, the trap sprung. The sun had risen. He should be ash and memory.
Unless…
Her eyes snapped open, fixing on a point in the empty air before her, a space that shimmered almost imperceptibly to mundane sight. A faint frown touched her lips again, deeper this time. Had the foresight been flawed? No. The sequence was correct, the outcome preordained. What was wrong wasn't the vision; it was the stubborn persistence of his life.
"It was you, wasn't it?" she asked the emptiness, her voice low, devoid of inflection, yet carrying an edge of tempered steel.
Silence answered, but the very quality of it felt different – charged, almost smug. A phantom pressure, the barest hint of amusement from the vast, indifferent presence she served.
The Eye.
A tremor ran through her, rattling the cage of her composure. Anger, hot and sudden, flared in her chest. "What is so special about that child?!" she spat, the words sharp fragments hurled at the silent observer. Her voice rose, tight with years of suppressed resentment. "All these centuries, you've never interfered directly! Not like this! Why him? Why now?!" She was breathing heavily, the mask of control cracking.
She forced a long, slow breath, pushing the rage back down. Calm. Another breath. Control.
"Haven't I entertained you enough?" The question was softer, laced with a weary bitterness, but the anger simmered beneath, a low flame threatening to reignite. "All the wars I engineered?" The flame flickered higher. "The plagues I guided? The petty, absurd requests I grant for gutter-trash nobles and power-hungry fools, all for your amusement?" The heat intensified, her voice gaining a dangerous edge. "And it's still not enough? You Bastard!" The word exploded from her, raw and unrestrained, echoing impotently in the opulent room.
Silence. Always silence.
She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands, forcing the storm within back into its cage. She would not break. Not completely.
"Don't think you've won," she whispered, the fury now condensed into cold resolve. "I will make sure that fucker dies. I will handle it myself. I will kill him."
Another sigh, this one carrying the weight of centuries. She walked towards the tall window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. Below, the city teemed with life, a vibrant artery pulsing against the encroaching decay of the outside world. Horse-drawn carriages shared the cobbled streets with sputtering, steam-powered automobiles. Pulled rickshaws , their runners lean and swift, navigated the throng, alongside simpler, sturdy push-carts adapted with seats, maneuvered by strong-backed porters carrying passengers short distances. Brightly lit shops spilled light onto the bustling sidewalks where people hurried, laughed, argued – lived. A testament to resilience, one of the last bastions of organized humanity.
She stared, unseeing, the vibrant scene blurring. The noise faded, replaced by the memory of dust motes dancing in the forbidden sunlight of an attic room, long ago. A young girl, barely tall enough to reach the highest shelf, fingers tracing the worn leather spine of a book bound in symbols that felt both strange and deeply familiar. An heirloom, forgotten, dismissed. Curiosity, sharp and irresistible, had led her to open it, to trace the patterns, to whisper the words she didn't understand. Ignorance had been no shield. A pact made in childish wonder, a bargain struck with something ancient and vast, waiting in the spaces between stars. The Eye. And ever since, she had danced to its silent, capricious tune.
A sharp rap on the door shattered the reverie, pulling her back to the present, the weight of her long servitude settling heavily upon her once more.
"Come in," she called, her voice regaining its customary cool authority.
The door opened, and a man in the severe grey uniform of the Consul's administration stepped inside, bowing stiffly. "Madam," he began, his tone respectful but clipped, "The Consul extends his formal invitation. Your presence is requested at the opening ceremonies of the Foundation Concord."
He paused, allowing the significance of the event to settle. The annual celebration, marking the city's founding, commemorating the unity and hope that allowed it to endure as a sanctuary against the wild dangers beyond its walls.
Wanda remained by the window, her back to the messenger, her gaze lost somewhere between the bustling street below and the chilling certainty of the task that lay ahead. An invitation. A celebration of survival. How ironic.