The air in the preparation room didn't smell of perfume or silk; it smelled of ozone, copper, and the lingering, metallic tang of desperation.
For forty-eight hours, Nyxelle had existed in a state of waking death. She had poured every drop of her mana into Solvayne's shattered frame, knitting bone and sealing hemorrhages with the frantic intensity of a weaver trying to fix a tapestry while the house burned.
"Don't move," Nyxelle whispered.
The sound was barely a rasp, her voice stripped raw. She looked at her hands—her skin was a translucent, sickly grey, and her hair came away in brittle clumps when the masked maids brushed it.
"Just... just stay a statue, Solvayne. If we look perfect, he won't have a reason to touch us. Not tonight. Not if we're perfect."
Solvayne didn't blink. She stared into the ornate mirror, draped in bruised-purple silk that felt like a spider's web against her skin. She looked like a masterpiece. She felt like a corpse.
The doors groaned open, and Lord Anasil stepped in. He looked every bit the noble in his charcoal wool suit, a silver carnation pinned to his lapel. He paced behind them, his shadow swallowing theirs.
"Exquisite," he purred, his hands descending onto their shoulders like vultures. "Symmetry restored. You see, Nyxelle? Your 'effort' saved you from a very messy evening. You've proven that you can be useful when your life is on the line."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the tops of their heads. "Now, come. A very important guest has arrived. He's flown all the way from the Avangard Administrative District to discuss your... future."
As they entered the grand ballroom, the "Gala" revealed its true face. It wasn't a party; it was a catalog. Along the walls, "assets" were displayed with cold efficiency: a merman suspended in a pressurized mana-tank, a row of identical demi-human dancers with vacant eyes, and a display of enchanted weapons that hummed with trapped souls.
At the head of the room sat a man who radiated a different kind of terror. He wore a blue tuxedo, his white hair pulled back with surgical precision. He didn't look at the dancers or the wine. He looked at a glowing crystal tablet.
"Lord Anasil," the man said, his voice like cracking ice. "You're late. The restructuring of the Durmount territories is moving ahead of schedule. I have fifteen other recovery sites to visit before dawn."
"My apologies, Leornars," Anasil said, his voice dripping with oily humility.
"I don't recall being friendly with you, Anasil." The man didn't look up from his screen. "Don't call me by my name unless you are a peer. Address me as Lord Auditor."
Anasil flinched, his grip on the girls tightening. "My apologies, Lord Leornars... but I believe you'll find the delay worth it. May I present the Twin Resonance Assets? The last of the Count's bloodline. Pure, high-caloric mana reserves, perfectly synchronized."
Leornars finally looked up. His eyes were crimson—not the burning red of rage, but the flat, clinical red of a ledger.
"Walk for me," he commanded.
The sisters moved. One, two, three steps. Perfectly in sync. The training of a lifetime of fear took over.
"Althelia, scan them," Leornars said.
A blue beam of light swept over them. Nyxelle felt a sickening throb in her gut where the Resonance Gem was embedded. It felt like a hot needle threading through her nerves.
"Results," the Auditor muttered.
"Asset A (Nyxelle): Mana reserves at 4%," Althelia's voice was a monotone drone. "Structural integrity compromised by chronic over-extension. High risk of burnout. Market value: Low."
The Auditor's eyes flicked to Solvayne.
"Asset B (Solvayne): Structural integrity high. High-trauma resistance detected. Potential for long-term experimental use: High."
Anasil's smile faltered, a nervous twitch starting in his eye. "Now, hold on. They are a set! The resonance—"
"The resonance is a luxury we can no longer afford, Anasil," Leornars interrupted, tapping his tablet with a sharp clack. "The 'Summoned Heroes' are currently tearing through the Demon Trade Zone. They've created a massive liability for our insurance providers. We need processing materials to fuel the recovery Golems immediately. High-trauma units like Asset B are perfect for the core-extraction process."
He looked at Solvayne with a thin, professional smile.
"As for the other one... Asset A. She's burnt out. She's garbage," Leornars said, dismissing Nyxelle as if she were a broken chair. "She's not even worth the cost of the silk she's wearing. She won't survive the extraction."
"Please," Nyxelle whispered, her knees trembling. "Don't take her. Take me instead. I can... I can learn to be better."
Leornars didn't even blink. A small child ran up to him, grabbing his hands, and the Auditor began to be led away.
"We don't 'teach' assets, child. We utilize them," Count Cedric said calmly as he walked over to finalize the transaction. "Anasil, I'll take the healthy one for the Golem core. You can dispose of the runt. Or keep her for your... hobbies. She's off the books."
The world tilted. Off the books. Anasil's fingers dug into Nyxelle's collarbone, his nails drawing blood. A sickening, wet giggle bubbled in his throat.
"Off the books? Well," Anasil whispered into her ear, his breath smelling of expensive wine and rot. "I suppose that means I don't have to worry about 'maintaining the value' anymore. I believe we have an unfinished wager, little bird. I wonder how many pieces I can take before you stop singing?"
In the center of the room, a massive silver Golem lumbered forward. Its iron hands reached out for Solvayne.
"Nyxelle..." Solvayne whispered.
For the first time that night, Solvayne looked away from the mirror. She looked past the Auditor, past the Golem, and through the tall ballroom windows.
High above the horizon, the darkness was being torn apart. A column of violet-white fire erupted into the sky, so bright it turned the ballroom's shadows into jagged knives. The Heroes were coming. And they weren't coming to save anyone—they were coming to burn the world that had dared to put a price on them.