Rain still clung to the city like a rumor that refused to leave. By 7:12 a.m., the plaza in front of Clock Corp shimmered with thin puddles and the ghost of last night's storm. Inside, the lobby hummed—espresso machines sighed, shoes clicked on marble, elevator chimes answered to a rhythm of urgency.
Mira rode up in silence.
She stood alone at the rear of the elevator, one hand around a paper cup she hadn't sipped, the other holding a slate-thin tablet. Her reflection stared back from the brushed steel: hair drawn into a low, severe knot; dove-grey blouse tucked into black trousers; eyes that refused to betray fatigue. The elevator numbers bled upward, thirty-eight, fifty-two, sixty-nine, and finally, the seventieth floor slid open to the board corridor, bright and cold as a surgical theater.
"Good morning, Miss Clock," said Jonas, her chief of staff, falling into step without quite meeting her gaze. He held a stylus like a weapon. "War room is ready. PR on-site. Legal dialed in. Sentiment is… fluctuating."
"Define fluctuating," Mira said.
"Two hours ago we were minus twenty-four net. We're minus thirty-nine now. Trending tags still the same: 'ShadowBetweenSisters,' 'ClockScandal,' and 'WhoIsMrAndy.' There's a new one: 'ConsultantOrLover.'"
"Kill that last one wherever we can," Mira said. "Use the guideline file. Inform partners if they want our ad spend to remain, they don't amplify slander."
"Yes, Miss Clock."
They reached the glass doors of the war room. Someone inside had dragged in a whiteboard from the innovation lab. Post-its colonized the edges like fevered thoughts. Seven screens lined the far wall—one a heat map of the city, one a waterfall of social comments, one a dashboard of stock fluctuations, another a sentiment graph—green and red in ruthless lines. On the long walnut table sat two enormous carafes of coffee, legal pads, power bars no one would eat.
Alana Chen, PR director, was already at the head of the table with a neat stack of "hold statements," each page tabbed and color-coded. Rafiq Hamdan, outside counsel, joined by video from a dim room where dawn hadn't arrived. Eveline Hart, the CFO, sat with her jaw locked, eyes on the stock chart like it might bite her.
All rose when Mira entered. Only Alana didn't bother to look nervous.
"Alana," Mira said. "Numbers first."
Alana gestured, and the biggest screen switched to a dashboard with a cheerful corporate font that now looked absurdly hopeful. "Globally, eight of our top twelve markets picked up the photo overnight. High-engagement posts came from gossip outlets, then mainstream. We tried to drown it with product clips—not sticky enough. Copycats spiked at 3:18 a.m. SEA time—memes, mashups, very funny if they weren't about us."
"Legal?" Mira said.
Rafiq's window flickered. "We have no privacy claim. Public space, public figures. However—there are five videos shot from inside the lobby without permission. We can issue takedowns for those."
"Do it," Mira said. "Every one."
Eveline pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're down two point eight in pre-market. If this continues to noon, we'll test the quarterly floor."
Mira set the coffee down. She didn't drink. "Share price is a fever. We treat the infection. Alana—talking points."
Alana slid a folder across. On top: HOLD STATEMENT A: CONSULTANT ENGAGEMENT. Beneath that: Q&A GRID: PERSONAL VS. PROFESSIONAL. Beside it, a laminated card with two columns: OWNED CHANNELS and BORROWED CHANNELS.
"We emphasize the consultant line," Alana said. "We have enough to support it—meeting minutes, your calendar note, the internal email from Jonas. We can push that to our newsroom and the investor portal in twenty minutes. Then brief partner outlets. Key line: 'Clock Corp routinely engages external consultants for discrete strategic initiatives. We do not comment on personal lives.'"
"Do not," Mira said, "say 'routine' like we are numb. Say 'standard governance.' And cut 'discrete.' Too spy novel."
Alana's mouth twitched. "Yes, Miss Clock."
Rafiq leaned in toward his camera. "My advice: do not name him beyond Mr. Andy. The less we define, the less they can twist."
"Agreed," Mira said. "But we will not insult the room by pretending he doesn't exist."
Eveline's eyes cut to Mira. "Do we know who he is, Mira?"
Mira let the question hang well beyond polite. "Yes."
"And?" Eveline pressed.
"And he is what I said he is," Mira replied. "A consultant. He will remain one until I say otherwise."
Jonas cleared his throat, eyes on his tablet. "We also have staff chatter, Miss Clock. Internal social. Some are excited. Some… dismayed."
"Jonas, anyone who uses internal channels to speculate on my personal life can meet me and HR this afternoon," Mira said. "Draft a memo. Two lines, no more. Professionalism, confidentiality. We are a company, not a chatroom."
"Yes, Miss Clock."
She stepped closer to the screens. On the right, a hashtag map pulsed along with little spiky bursts of engagement. The phrase ShadowBetweenSisters glowed brightest. Someone had overlaid it with a looping clip of last night's entrance—the three of them walking, flashbulbs spitting, her face held like a blade, Myra grinning like a spark thrown on dry grass, Arkellin between, unyielding as stone.
Something in Mira's chest tilted.
"Kill the loop," she said, too calmly. "It distracts."
Alana switched views. The boardroom fell back into the practical hum of preparation—paper sliding, pens clicking, the low murmur of specialists who know exactly what to do until they don't.
"Timeline," Mira said.
Alana lifted a hand. "Owned channels at 8:15. Partner pushes at 8:30. Staff memo at 8:45. Press conference at—"
"No press conference this morning," Mira said.
Alana blinked. "You planned one last night."
"And last night I planned to sleep. Neither happened," Mira said. "If we go out now, we become the show. We will not be their entertainment. We drip feed until the market opens, then we drop ballast."
Eveline leaned forward. "Drop what?"
Mira turned. The stormlight beyond the glass gave her eyes a pale sheen. "Numbers. Announce the data-center upgrade ahead of schedule. Fold it into our expansion note. Say we accelerated the timeline because we refuse distraction. Give them steel, not gossip."
Eveline hesitated. "We… can. The PO is still pending on one vendor."
"Call the vendor," Mira said. "Offer a penalty clause they can't refuse. The money is less expensive than the rumor."
Alana interlaced her fingers. "And Mr. Andy?"
Mira's jaw tightened a fraction, the only slip the room would get. "We do not parade him. If asked, we confirm his role and nothing else. If pressed about the photograph—we smile and say nothing."
Jonas's stylus tapped the tablet. "Understood."
The door opened and a young analyst slid in sideways like a guilty thought. "Apologies," she breathed, cheeks flushed. "We picked up a new narrative. Some accounts are stitching images of Mr. Andy at the gala to older pictures. They're implying he's… not exactly a consultant."
"Meaning?" Alana said.
"Meaning criminal," the analyst said to the floor.
Mira's pulse slowed. She placed the cup on the edge of the table with surgical care. "Which accounts?"
"Mostly burner gossip handles," the analyst said. "A few… larger. A mid-tier outlet ran 'anonymous sources' claiming he has 'ties to underworld logistics.' No names. No evidence. But it's spreading."
"Legal," Mira said.
Rafiq was already nodding. "Defamation if they claim a crime as fact without evidence. We send letters now. We copy their advertisers. We will be swift."
"Do it," Mira said. She looked at Alana. "We need a counterweight."
"A human one?" Alana said.
Mira's eyes flicked once toward the door, as if she could see through the wood and across the floors to where the elevator cables sang. "No. A corporate one."
Eveline rubbed her temple. "We tie him to governance, not to us."
"Exactly," Mira said. "Jonas, pull meeting minutes with him at any point we can frame as diligence, not friendship. Alana, prepare a snippet for the investor Q&A: 'External analyst engaged for risk assessment.' Rafiq, send your letters. Eveline, get me a call with Chao at Meridian Bank. If he breathes a word about this in his morning note, I want it to be our phrasing."
Jonas touched his earpiece. "Miss Clock—press is already clustering downstairs. Some are in the lobby again."
"Security?" Mira said.
"Moving them back to the plaza," Jonas replied.
"Good," Mira said. She turned to the whiteboard, where someone had doodled a small, outrageous caricature of a man with a white streak in his hair and a question mark for a face. She took the cap off a marker and, without comment, drew a neat line through it.
"Message architecture," Alana said, undistracted. "We need three pillars. One: Leadership—we do not flinch from storms. Two: Continuity—the company is not an individual. Three: Clarity—we say what we can confirm and nothing else."
"Add a fourth," Mira said. "Privacy. We can be human without being appetites."
Alana's brows lifted a millimeter. "We can try."
Rafiq's window buzzed again. "A second mid-tier outlet is about to publish something more aggressive. I can smell it. They asked for comment on an 'unverified video' at the docks."
Mira's chest stayed very still. "Unverified?"
"They haven't seen it. They want to bait us into a denial. Then when they get whatever sliver they think they have, they'll claim a 'gotcha,'" Rafiq said. "We ignore. We do not dignify phantom evidence."
"Agreed," Mira said. "But we prepare. Alana, if a dock narrative appears, we say what we always say: 'We do not comment on unverified third-party content.' Then we pivot. Talk about the expansion. Talk about jobs. Talk about what the city cares about at noon when they're hungry and scrolling."
Alana's pen scratched. "Pivot lines ready."
The doors opened again, this time with less panic and more choreography. A slim catering cart glided in—croissants no one would eat, fruit no one would touch, more coffee everyone would. The scent of butter and orange zest cut through the steady tang of toner and warm circuitry.
Mira glanced toward the far window. The storm had thinned to something like a memory, the clouds breaking in sheets that drifted away to show a pale slice of sky. The skyline of Aurelia steadied. Her grip did not.
"Miss Clock," Jonas said, approaching with his tablet turned for her to see. "Staff memo draft. Two lines, as you asked."
She read it once, made two edits—'colleagues' to 'team', 'expect' to 'insist'—and handed it back. "Send."
He lingered. "There's one more thing."
"Say it," Mira said.
"Mr. Andy is on his way up."
For an instant the boardroom's hum seemed to step back, as if sound itself were waiting. Alana did not look up; she was strategically incapable of being rattled. Eveline's eyes flicked to the door then away, as if she had looked at the sun. Rafiq's window remained implacable; he had no idea what any of them looked like in real light.
"What time?" Mira said.
"Now," Jonas replied. "He just cleared the biometric gate. Myra is… not with him."
Mira exhaled. She did not decide whether that meant anything.
"Good," she said. "Escort him in when I call for him. Until then, he waits."
Jonas inclined his head and slipped out.
Alana lowered her voice. "Do you want him visible today?"
Mira didn't answer for a heartbeat. She considered the graph, the words on Alana's page, the breach between person and company she had built a career on widening.
"We will use him as a fact," she said finally. "Not a character."
Alana's mouth curved. "That's your department, not mine."
Rafiq broke in again. "Letters sent. We will get at least two quiet retractions. They'll be buried on page nine. No one will read them. But advertisers will."
"That's enough," Mira said.
From the corridor came the soft percussion of shoes. Through the frosted glass, a figure paused: tall, sharp lines under a black suit. A streak of white cut the shadow's head like a blade of winter. He stood with the easy patience of someone who had learned to be seen without ever giving anything away.
"Ten minutes," Mira said, not looking at the door. "We finish our architecture. Then he comes in, and we remind the room what a consultant is."
Alana nodded. "If he speaks?"
"Two sentences," Mira said. "Prepared by me."
Eveline snorted softly. "And if he ignores your script?"
Mira looked at the screen again where the city pulsed with their name, where strangers' words wrapped around them like weather. Her tone iced. "Then he learns what a script is for."
She set her untouched coffee aside and stepped to the head of the table, palms flat on polished walnut, posture drilled into steel.
"We are not a rumor," she said. "We are a company. We move the burden from people to product, from gossip to governance. If we are asked who he is, we say: a consultant. If we are asked what we are, we say: a machine that does not stop for rain."
The room aligned around her like filings to a magnet. Alana straightened her stack. Eveline's mouth set into a line of reluctant admiration. On the screen, green flickered up a fraction from red—a stutter, not a miracle, but something that could be built upon.
"Eight-fifteen," Mira said. "Push the newsroom item. At eight-thirty, brief partners. Nine-oh-five, the investor portal note. Nine-thirty, I will speak to the floor."
"And Mr. Andy?" Alana said.
Mira's eyes cut to the door where the shadow waited, still as a promise. "Ten minutes," she repeated. "Then we see if the city prefers poetry or discipline."
Outside, the last thin rain traced the glass in patient lines. Inside, the storm organized itself into bullet points and orders.
Mira lifted her chin, and the room obeyed.
The war room bled into a lull once Mira dismissed the core team. Legal and PR scattered to their corners, Jonas remained tethered to his tablet, and the screens rotated to a quiet ticker crawl of markets yet to open.
It was then that the door opened, unhurried, almost theatrical.
Myra stepped in.
She had changed from last night's silk dress into something deceptively casual: a cream blouse that hung off one shoulder, cinched at the waist, paired with a skirt whose hem teased with every step. Her hair, dark and shining, fell loose down her back, a few strands curling where the rain had touched her earlier. She carried no tablet, no papers, no evidence of concern—only herself, and the glow that followed her like an aura.
Mira noticed it instantly.
Her sister's skin had a flush that no blush palette could fake, lips a little fuller, eyes brighter, body language looser than usual—like wine still lingered in her veins, like laughter still hummed in her bones. She drifted into the room with a sway that seemed to hum with music no one else could hear.
"Good morning," Myra sang, voice light as if the word itself had never been attached to scandal.
No one replied at first. Eveline glanced up from her laptop, brows tightening; Jonas's stylus froze over his tablet; Alana, immune to melodrama, simply tilted her head back to observe.
Mira's eyes, however, sharpened.
"Myra," she said. "We're working."
"I can see that." Myra slid into a chair two seats away from Mira, setting her phone down with deliberate care. She poured herself a cup of coffee, added sugar, stirred once, then sipped. All the while, her smile lingered—soft, secret, dangerous.
Arkellin's shadow still waited outside the frosted glass. He hadn't moved since Jonas reported his presence. Myra's gaze flicked to that blur of white-streaked hair, and the curve of her lips deepened almost imperceptibly.
Mira's chest tightened.
"You look…" Eveline began, then caught herself. She was not one to indulge adjectives. "…different."
"Do I?" Myra's lashes swept up. "I slept well."
Mira's fingers curled against the edge of her tablet. She had heard the shuffle in the corridor late last night when they returned. She had seen her sister slip away without explanation. And now, this glow. This looseness in her shoulders, the softness in her smile. It didn't take an algorithm to know.
"We have no time for your antics," Mira said, voice even, colder than intended.
"Antics?" Myra tilted her head, hair sliding across her collarbone. "Drinking coffee? Sitting in a chair? Smiling?"
"Smiling like you know something," Mira said.
Myra's smile only widened. She reached across the table, plucked a grape from the untouched fruit tray, and bit into it slowly, deliberately. The juice glistened on her lip for a beat before she brushed it away with her thumb.
Alana cleared her throat. "Miss Clock, perhaps we—"
"Not now," Mira cut her off, eyes still locked on her sister.
The silence stretched. Outside, lightning was gone, but the glass still dripped with the remnants of the storm. Myra leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, skirt slipping high, unbothered by the eyes that flicked toward her.
"Don't look at me like that, Mira," she said softly, almost a purr. "You're going to make people wonder which one of us is glowing."
Something in Mira's chest burned, though her face revealed nothing. She turned back to her tablet, scrolling through the morning's drafts, but her hand was too tight on the stylus, her motions too precise.
Jonas shifted, whispering into his comm, clearly eager to flee the tension. Eveline busied herself with figures. Alana wrote another bullet point.
And Myra simply smiled, sipping her coffee, eyes flicking once more toward the door where Arkellin waited. The curve of her mouth said everything Mira refused to hear.
The frosted glass of the war room doors shivered once as Jonas reappeared, clearing his throat.
"Miss Clock," he said. "He's here."
Mira gave a single nod, spine lengthened against the back of her chair. "Send him in."
The doors opened.
Arkellin stepped inside with a silence that was heavier than noise. His suit was charcoal black, sharp lines over a frame built not for boardrooms but for alleys and storms. His hair—black streaked with that white shard in front—was still damp from the mist outside. He carried no folder, no device, no weapon but himself.
The air shifted.
Staff along the walls stiffened. Two analysts bent over their screens pretended harder to type. Eveline Hart's fingers froze on her calculator. Alana Chen, whose pulse never changed, still lifted her gaze to watch him like a new headline. Whispers hissed in the corners—barely audible, but unmistakable: that's him.
Arkellin ignored them all.
He didn't scan the screens, or the whiteboard cluttered with post-its, or the buzz of numbers racing across digital tickers. He simply moved with measured steps to the seat opposite Mira, pulled it out with a scrape that cut through the room, and sat.
No bow. No nod. Just presence.
Myra's lips curved. "Morning, Andy."
The single word landed like a pebble in still water, ripples spreading. Two aides glanced up in open startlement. Mira's stylus paused in midair.
"Mr. Andy," Mira corrected sharply, eyes still on her tablet.
Arkellin glanced from one sister to the other, the ghost of amusement brushing his mouth. He didn't speak. Silence was his opening gambit.
Alana broke it with professional calm. "Thank you for joining us. As discussed, you'll be referenced as external consultant. If you're asked, you'll confirm risk assessment, nothing more."
Arkellin leaned back, one arm slung on the chair, the streak of white catching the overhead light. "And if I don't answer?"
The air thickened. Mira's eyes snapped up.
"Then you learn why consultants usually do as they're told," she said, voice steady as stone.
Myra laughed, soft, bubbling, provocative. "Oh, I don't know. I like him better unscripted."
Her gaze lingered on him, openly, unashamed. The tilt of her smile, the angle of her body—half challenge, half memory of last night. She leaned forward on her elbows, blouse slipping just enough to suggest more than it revealed.
Jonas shifted in his seat, throat working. Eveline exhaled sharply through her nose. Someone dropped a pen.
Mira's jaw tightened.
"Professionalism," she said, each syllable clipped. "This is not a lounge, Myra."
"It feels like one," Myra murmured, still watching Arkellin. "Maybe that's the problem. You fill it with numbers and screens, but look—everyone's staring at him anyway."
Arkellin's eyes slid to her, then back to Mira, who held his gaze with cold precision. For a moment, the entire floor of Clock Corp seemed to balance on that triangle of silence.
Then Arkellin spoke, voice low, measured, unbothered. "What matters isn't what they call me. What matters is who controls the narrative."
Mira inhaled once through her nose, exhale razor-thin. "Finally, something we agree on."
"Then let them stare," he said, leaning back farther, eyes flicking toward the glass walls where blurred staff shapes hovered, whispering. "It doesn't change the fact that this city eats stories and forgets names. We give them a story they choke on, and they'll stop asking who I am."
The room stilled.
Even Mira, despite herself, felt the force in those words. Alana's pen scratched once, underlining. Eveline muttered, "He might not be wrong."
Myra's smile bloomed. "See? Uns—scripted."
Mira's eyes cut to her sister, sharp enough to wound. "Control yourself."
But Myra only sipped her coffee, still glowing, still daring.
Arkellin remained at ease, untouched by the sparks flying over his head. Cool, unreadable, a storm folded into a suit.
And every whisper outside the war room grew louder.
By ten o'clock, the Clock Corp press hall was packed.
Rows of chairs gleamed under white lights, cameras perched like metallic vultures on tripods. The air smelled of coffee gone cold, hairspray, and the faint static of too many devices competing for signal. Reporters shuffled in restless waves, notebooks open, fingers hovering over keyboards, lenses trained on the polished podium beneath the sigil of the Clock family crest.
Mira stood behind the podium.
She wore a navy jacket cut with military precision, a white blouse sealed at the throat by a slender gold chain. Her hair was pulled back smooth, her posture a line of unbroken steel. When the cameras flared, her face did not move; the light carved her cheekbones into marble.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, voice calm and cool, calibrated to cut through noise, "thank you for coming on short notice. We are aware of the photograph circulating since last night. We are also aware of the speculation it has invited. I am here to clarify only what is relevant to Clock Corp as a company."
She paused, the silence deliberate. A sea of pens and microphones leaned forward.
"The man pictured with us," Mira continued, "is Mr. Andy. He has been retained as an external consultant for risk assessment on certain supply chain initiatives. His role is professional. Beyond that, we do not comment on personal lives."
A hand shot up from the third row. "Miss Clock—can you confirm whether Mr. Andy is living with you or your sister?"
A ripple of laughter moved across the hall. Myra, seated on the front row, legs crossed, flashed a slow grin.
Mira didn't blink. "No."
Her tone carved the word like stone. The question died in its own echo.
Another voice rose. "What about reports linking Mr. Andy to underworld activity at the East Dock?"
Before Mira could reply, the crowd stirred. Arkellin had entered.
He did not walk fast. He didn't need to. The hall shifted around him, whispers climbing like smoke, lenses turning like sunflowers tracking the light. His suit was the same charcoal as earlier, immaculate. He moved to stand a step behind and to Mira's right—close enough to be seen, not close enough to imply belonging.
The flashbulbs went wild.
Mira raised her chin, unflinching. "As for unverified rumors, Clock Corp does not respond to fiction. We answer to our partners, our employees, and our investors—not to gossip."
Arkellin didn't speak. He didn't even look at the press. He simply stood, hands at his sides, eyes hooded, a streak of white hair catching the camera's glare. The image was enough: dangerous, unreadable, magnetic.
And then Myra moved.
She rose from her seat, slow enough for every camera to catch the sway of her skirt, the curve of her smile. She drifted toward the stage as if she owned the floor, a coffee cup in hand she hadn't touched. Crossing in front of the first row, she leaned against the edge of the podium, her body angled toward Arkellin.
"Is there a problem?" she asked sweetly, though her words were pitched to carry.
The reporters erupted with fresh energy.
Mira's jaw clenched. "Myra, sit down."
But Myra only tilted her head, letting her gaze linger on Arkellin, eyes half-lidded, teasing. She raised the coffee cup, offering it toward him with a smile.
He didn't take it. He didn't even glance at her. But the cameras caught everything—the curve of her hand extended, the curve of his refusal, the fire in her smile, the frost in his silence.
And the hall burned alive with whispers.
Mira forced her voice through it, louder, steel wrapped in velvet. "Clock Corp will continue to operate with the integrity it has for decades. One photograph does not change who we are. One rumor does not change our foundation. We are committed to growth, to security, and to discipline."
She glanced sideways—at Arkellin, who stood like a blade unsheathed; at Myra, who leaned like temptation given flesh.
And for a heartbeat, the perfect façade of Clock Corp cracked—not in words, but in the picture that flashed across every screen as the cameras clicked in furious staccato:
The cold, commanding heir at the podium.
The glowing, reckless twin at her side.
And the shadow between them, cool and untouchable, the city's obsession made flesh.
Night fell heavy over Aurelia, but the city never truly darkened. Screens still pulsed on every corner, feeds still churned, gossip never slept.
In the Clock penthouse, silence had become its own storm.
Mira stood by the window, jacket shed, blouse sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hands rested on the railing, knuckles pale from pressure, as the skyline glowed back at her. She had survived the press hall, managed the talking points, pulled the company from the cliff's edge with little more than words. Yet beneath the hum of the air system, beneath the muted traffic far below, she felt the fault lines spreading.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Jonas had sent a link with no subject line. No explanation. Just a link.
Mira tapped it. The browser opened in an instant.
And there it was.
A grainy but unmistakable photograph, blown across the top of a gossip site already on fire with clicks: Arkellin, black suit slightly loosened, hair damp, stepping out of a hotel suite. Behind him, the door still ajar. Inside—only visible for a sliver—Myra's silhouette, barefoot, hair loose, blouse slipping from one shoulder.
The headline screamed in neon font:
FROM BOARDROOM TO BEDROOM: THE SHADOW'S TRUE PLACE
Mira's breath didn't hitch. She had trained herself not to give tells. But something inside her shifted, sharp and low, like a blade turned in its sheath.
Behind her, a laugh.
She didn't turn immediately. She didn't need to. She knew that sound, light and dangerous, sweet and merciless.
Myra.
Her sister strolled into the room, robe tied in a loose knot, glass of wine in hand. She leaned against the doorframe, smile blooming like a secret finally spoken aloud.
"They move fast, don't they?" Myra said, tilting her phone to show the same photo already trending, hearts and flames flooding the comments. "Almost as fast as we did."
Mira's hand tightened on the railing. "You knew this would happen."
"Of course." Myra sipped, unbothered. "And now everyone else knows what you've been pretending not to see."
Mira turned, eyes like steel in stormlight. "You're playing with fire."
Myra's grin widened, teeth catching the glow. "Maybe. But tell me, Mira—doesn't he burn beautifully?"
The city thundered below. The gossip feeds lit brighter. And for the first time, the crack between the sisters yawned wide enough for the world to see.
Arkellin, somewhere in the shadows of the city, remained silent. But the photograph had already chosen his side.
And Mira, for once, had no words.