The Arrival of the "Practical" Uncle
The air in the Von Granz estate was usually thin and cold, but as the black carriage pulled into the drive, the atmosphere didn't just chill—it soured.
Nyxelle, still nursing the ache in her lungs from the courtyard, stood beside Solvayne in the foyer. They were perfectly aligned, heels touching, spines like iron rods. Their father stood before them, smoothing his gloves with a rare, thin smile.
"Your Uncle Anasil has arrived," their father said. "He is a man of... unique results. You will show him the absolute peak of your symmetry."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. Anasil didn't walk in so much as he invaded the space, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and something metallic that the girls couldn't quite name. He didn't look like a monster; he looked like a gentleman who had just heard a very private, very funny joke.
He stopped in front of the twins. He didn't look at their faces. He looked at their throats, then their hands, then the way the light hit their identical hair.
"Ah," Anasil hummed, the sound vibrating with a dark, melodic glee. He reached out a gloved hand and tilted Nyxelle's chin up. "The masterpieces. But one looks a bit... weathered today, doesn't she? A bit frayed at the edges?"
He turned to their father, his eyes glittering with a terrifying hunger. "Tell me, brother. If I were to take one apart, could you truly build another exactly like it? Or would the 'symmetry' finally scream?"
Nyxelle felt the blood drain from her face. In her father's house, she was a ledger entry. But in her uncle's eyes, she was something far worse: raw material.
The foyer remained deathly silent after Anasil's question. Even their father, a man who prided himself on absolute control, seemed to stiffen slightly at the suggestion of "taking one apart."
"They are not for your experiments, Anasil," their father said, though his voice lacked any protective warmth. It was the tone of a collector warning a guest not to touch the porcelain. "They are the future of the Von Granz name. I expect them to be presented to the High Council in six months as a singular, flawless unit."
Anasil let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. He released Nyxelle's chin, but as he pulled his hand away, his thumb grazed the pulse point on her neck. He felt the frantic, terrified thrumming of her heart.
"Six months? How tedious," Anasil sighed, turning his back on the girls to walk toward the grand staircase. "You spend so much time polishing the glass, brother, that you forget how much more interesting it looks when it shatters. The way the light catches the shards... that is true beauty."
He stopped on the third step and looked back over his shoulder. His gaze didn't land on the "perfect" Solvayne. It landed on Nyxelle, who was still trembling from her run in the heat.
"The heavy one," Anasil whispered, loud enough for only the twins to hear. "The one who hungers. Tell me, little bird... does your heart beat so fast because you are afraid of me, or because you are afraid you'll never be enough for him?"
Nyxelle couldn't speak. Her throat felt as though it were being constricted by the very silk of her collar.
"Come," their father commanded, gesturing for the girls to follow. "We will have tea in the conservatory. Anasil has brought... gifts."
The Tea of Terrors
The conservatory was a glass cage filled with exotic, suffocatingly sweet-smelling flowers. The twins sat on their respective stools, hands folded in their laps.
Anasil sat across from them, opening a small, ornate wooden box. Inside were two identical chocolates, dusted with silver leaf. He pushed them toward the center of the table.
"One for the perfection," he said, nodding to Solvayne. "And one for the... surplus." He looked at Nyxelle with a predatory glint. "Eat. I want to see if the ledger accounts for the weight of a gift."
Solvayne looked at the chocolate, then at her father. She saw the trap immediately. If she ate it, she would no longer be the standard. If she didn't, she insulted her uncle.
But Nyxelle was staring at the chocolate with a different kind of horror. To her, it wasn't a sweet; it was another mile in the sun. It was more crushed glass in her lungs. It was the "burden" her father had accused her of being.
"Eat," Anasil repeated, his voice dropping to that low, terrifying hum. "I spent a great deal of time selecting the ingredients. It would be a shame if I had to find a... more practical use for them."
He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over the table, eclipsing the twins.
"I once knew a woman who refused a gift of mine," Anasil remarked casually, swirling his tea. "I didn't get angry. I was practical. I simply waited until she was asleep and ensured she would never have to worry about the 'burden' of eating—or breathing—ever again. Now, be good girls. Show me that Von Granz discipline."
Nyxelle reached out a trembling hand. As her fingers touched the silver-dusted chocolate, she looked up and caught Solvayne's eyes. For the first time, the "mirror" didn't show perfection. It showed a reflection of absolute, unadulterated fear.