The gates of Nocturne did not loom; they judged. Carved from a single, seamless piece of obsidian, they rose into the bruised twilight sky, drinking the last of the light and giving nothing back. The city beyond was a forest of black spires, their peaks like shards of glass aimed at the heavens. No watchfires burned, no sentries paced the walls. The only light came from captured motes of moonlight that drifted along the unnervingly clean streets, casting long, predatory shadows. The air was cold, still, and heavy with the silence of a perfectly preserved tomb.
Veridia felt Seraphine's tension through the bond, a low thrum of anxiety that was a stark contrast to the city's profound calm. This place was ancient, its power a slow, deep tide compared to the frantic, crackling energy of the Network.
They were met not by a legion, but by a single figure. Lord Caius stood before the gate, his armor the color of dried blood, polished to a mirror sheen. He was beautiful in the way a perfectly crafted dagger is beautiful—all sharp angles and lethal purpose. His eyes, the color of old wine, swept over them with an expression of profound, weary contempt.
"Network demons," he said, his voice a silken rasp. "Your vulgar broadcasts reach even our shadowed corners. You have come a long way to be denied." He made a languid, dismissive gesture. "Be gone. Your fleeting celebrity holds no currency here."
Seraphine stepped forward, her face a mask of cold pragmatism. "Your gate's western arch is supported by a keystone showing signs of magical erosion. The north spire has a blind spot a single infiltrator could exploit. I count six structural vulnerabilities from this position alone." Her voice was a low murmur, but each word was a precisely aimed dart. "We could bring your pretty gate down before your guards could muster."
Caius's serene expression tightened, the mask cracking to reveal a flash of cold fury. His hand drifted toward the pommel of his longsword. "A threat from a Cancelled whelp?"
Before the vampire could escalate, Veridia glided forward, a placating smile on her lips. "A professional assessment, my lord, nothing more. My sister has a… brutally practical mind. Forgive her lack of courtly grace." She gave Seraphine a look that was both a warning and a command. "We are not here as conquerors. We are merchants with a time-sensitive business proposition."
Veridia let the words hang in the silent air. "We possess intelligence. Fresh, actionable intelligence on the movements of King Theron's forces, and more importantly, on the precise location of the zealot who hunts your kind as well as ours: Castian the Vowed."
Caius's eyes narrowed. The fury remained, a banked fire, but a flicker of avarice joined it. He was incensed by Seraphine's threat but intrigued by Veridia's offer. After a long, tense moment, he gave a curt, vicious nod.
"Enter," he hissed. "The Court of Nocturne will grant you its mercies." The gate swung inward without a sound, opening into the silent, waiting dark.
***
The salon was a masterpiece of decadent stillness. Vampires lounged on divans of crimson silk, their forms as motionless as the statues lining the walls. No music played, no servants bustled. The only sounds were the faint whisper of silk on stone and the wet, coppery scent of the blood that filled their crystal goblets. Every eye in the room was on Veridia and Seraphine, their gazes heavy and analytical, assessing them like exotic prey introduced into a serpentarium.
A woman detached herself from the shadows, her gown a cascade of black silk. She was ancient, her beauty sharpened by time into something dangerous. "I am Matron Elara," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Lord Caius is a creature of limited vision. I, however, am always interested in new assets. Welcome to my salon."
As she spoke, a servant approached, bearing a silver tray with two chalices filled with a dark, swirling liquid. Seraphine's eyes, honed by her time as a host, caught the flicker. The servant's hand trembled, a micro-expression of fear tightening the corner of his eye. A drop of sweat traced a path down his temple.
Seraphine lunged, a blur of motion utterly out of place in the languid hall. She intercepted the servant, her hand clamping around his wrist. A sharp, dry snap echoed in the oppressive quiet. The servant dropped without a sound, the tray and its poisoned chalices clattering to the floor. Only Elara's expression shifted, her eyebrows raising a fraction of an inch.
Veridia never broke her gaze from the Matron's, her smile serene, as if a servant collapsing with a broken wrist was the most common of occurrences. "As you can see," Veridia said, her voice smooth, "we are not naive guests. We understand that in a court as… refined as this, one must be wary of unsolicited gifts."
Elara's lips curved into a genuine, predatory smile. "Indeed."
Veridia pressed her advantage. "Lord Caius's welcome was predictable. Stagnant. The play of a traditionalist who fears new currents in the river of power. But you, Matron… you strike me as one who knows how to use such currents to her advantage."
Veridia spoke of politics, of leverage, of the delicate balance of power between the old houses of Nocturne, demonstrating an understanding of their world that no mere broadcast celebrity should possess. The combination was potent: Seraphine's silent, lethal pragmatism, and Veridia's sharp, court-honed intellect.
Matron Elara recognized the new dynamic for what it was. A weapon. Two chaotic, unpredictable, and brutally effective assets had just fallen into her lap—a perfect tool to be wielded against her rival, Caius.
"Very well," Elara purred, her eyes glittering with newfound interest. "You wish for an audience with the Progenitors. I will sponsor your request."
***
The council chamber was a place of absolute cold. Three thrones of black, unadorned stone sat on a raised dais, and upon them sat the Progenitors. They were beyond age, their forms so still they might have been carved from the thrones themselves. The air was thin, the silence so profound it felt like a physical weight on the chest.
Veridia did not waste time with pleasantries. She presented their case with the clean, concise logic of a business proposal. They had information the council needed. The council had a way to sever their bond. It was a simple, mutually beneficial transaction between powers.
She finished, and the silence stretched, each second an eternity. Finally, the central Progenitor, a being whose gender was as ambiguous as its age, inclined its head a fraction. Its thoughts did not come as words, but as a cold, direct impression in their minds, like a needle of ice against the soul.
*Your proposition has merit. The information you offer is… valuable.*
A flicker of relief passed through Veridia.
*However,* the Progenitor continued, its mental voice devoid of all emotion, *we are scholars of the esoteric. Your unique condition, this life-link, is a metaphysical novelty of which the Network broadcasts have only shown the most vulgar aspects. Our curiosity is piqued.*
The Progenitor's gaze fell upon them, a gaze that felt like being dissected on a cellular level.
*Information is a rare vintage, to be savored. The price for ours is a demonstration. You will prove the nature of your bond. The shared sensation. The linked fate. Here. Now. For our private edification.*
The unspoken command hung in the frozen air. Veridia stared at Seraphine, the triumph of the last few hours curdling into a familiar, sickening dread. They were trapped, their own gambit turned against them. Across the cold stone floor, her sister's face was a mirror of her own horror, now laced with an incandescent, shared fury. The game was over. The performance was about to begin.