Location: Fenwick District — The Aetherium Foundry — Training Quarters — Evening
The training quarters were a labyrinth of steel and shadow.
Corridors stretched in every direction, their walls lined with doors that led to dormitories, lecture halls, and combat chambers. The ceilings were high, lost in darkness. The floors were polished concrete, their surfaces worn smooth by years of footsteps. The air smelled of ozone and sweat and something else—something metallic, like blood that had been cleaned but not forgotten.
Trainees moved through the corridors in groups.
Some wore the dark uniforms of the program, their faces sharp, their eyes alert. Others wore civilian clothes—jeans, hoodies, sneakers—their postures relaxed, their laughter loud.
Elijah walked among them.
His face was not his own—younger, sharper, the face of a trainee who had been at the Foundry for months. Grace walked beside him, her hand brushing against his arm, her smile warm.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About the tournament."
"You don't have to compete, Leo."
"I know."
"You don't have to prove anything to anyone."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to."
Grace's eyes searched his face.
"You're not the same," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"You're different. More confident. More—"
She paused.
"—more present."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
She smiled.
"It's a good thing. A very good thing."
---
They reached the arena.
It was not a room—it was a cavern. The ceiling arched high above them, its surface covered in screens that displayed rankings, matches, and the faces of the trainees who had earned their place at the top. The floor was a grid of combat zones, each one marked by holographic boundaries that flickered and shifted.
At the center of the arena, a holographic figure hovered.
She was beautiful—not in the way of mortals, but in the way of dreams. Her face was pale, her eyes bright, her hair cascading in waves of silver light. She wore a gown that seemed to be made of liquid, its surface shifting with every movement.
Her voice was warm. Almost human.
"Greetings, trainees of the Aetherium Foundry!"
Her arms spread wide.
"I am delighted to announce the upcoming tournament! The Crimson Ascension—the event that will determine who among you is worthy of becoming a full operative!"
The trainees cheered.
"Those who wish to participate must submit their names within the next three days. A random selection process will determine the matchups. The top two hundred will qualify for the main event!"
She clapped her hands.
"And for those who do not qualify—do not despair! There will be other opportunities. Other chances to prove yourselves. Other—"
She paused.
"—roads to glory."
The hologram flickered.
"Now, enjoy the music. You've earned it."
A melody began to play—soft at first, then swelling, its notes weaving through the air like threads of silver light.
"Run away, run away, from the weight of the world," a voice sang.
"Run away, run away, let your flag unfurl."
"The night is dark, but the stars are bright."
"Run away, run away, into the light."
The trainees swayed.
---
Elijah's eyes were fixed on the hologram.
Through his perception, he saw her differently.
Not as light—as frequency. Waves of pale gold and silver that pulsed and flickered. She was not a projection. She was something else. Something that had been woven into the fabric of the Foundry itself.
An oracle, he thought. A lower vibrational entity. A deva of the beast bloodline.
She's not just a hologram. She's alive.
Or something like alive.
Wonko's voice was sharp.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"One implies fascination. The other implies analysis."
"I'm analyzing."
"You're fascinated."
Elijah's eyes didn't move.
"Why would they allow something like this to speak to trainees? To guide them?"
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Because it's dangerous."
"It's not dangerous to them. It's useful."
"Useful?"
"The oracle is a tool. A weapon. A way to control the masses without them realizing they're being controlled."
Wonko's voice was cold.
"What do you expect? A band of lunatic freaks given authorization to control technology they don't understand. They assemble it, they present themselves as architects, and the masses blindly follow the lie."
"You're grumpy today."
"I'm always grumpy."
"True."
"Don't compare me to those amateurs."
"I wasn't comparing you."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Elijah's lips curved.
"Fine. I was."
"Hmph."
---
A group of trainees stood near the edge of the arena.
Four of them. Their uniforms were crisp, their postures rigid. Their faces were the faces of people who had been trained since birth.
One of them—a young man with sharp features and cold eyes—spoke.
"My father was a client of the Mysterium clan. He worked on classified projects. Traveled the world. Saw things that would make your hair turn white."
"My mother was the same," another said. "She was part of the drilling program since she was five. She taught me everything I know."
"My parents met at a facility in the Frostlands. They were both operatives. They trained me from the moment I could walk."
"My family has been in the Mysterium's service for three generations. We've always known what we were getting into."
The first trainee nodded.
"We're not like the others. We're not here by chance. We're here by blood."
---
Elijah's expression flickered.
Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to be felt.
Wonko's voice was thoughtful.
"Don't be so surprised. The difference between their training and yours is like comparing the sun to a candle. Those who partake in the Epsilon program are all connected to the subclans in some way. These—"
He paused.
"—these are illuminated buffoons. Mortals who will only end up as cannon fodder for the Mysterium clan's agendas."
"That's..."
"Harsh?"
"True."
"True is not harsh. True is true."
Elijah was quiet.
"If that's the case—if this is what it looks like here—then what does it look like in the rest of the world?"
"What do you mean?"
"The Mysterium clan. They're building hidden armies. Training soldiers. Preparing for something."
"Yes."
"Against who?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
Wonko's voice was distant.
"Against who?"
---
Grace's voice was soft.
"Leo?"
Elijah's head turned.
"What?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Spacing out. Going somewhere else."
"I was just thinking."
"About what?"
"About the tournament."
"You don't have to compete."
"I know."
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to."
Grace's eyes searched his face.
"You're not the same," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"You're different. More confident. More—"
She paused.
"—more present."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
She smiled.
"It's a good thing. A very good thing."
---
They parted ways at the entrance to the Jerkins residence.
The building was a fortress within a fortress—its walls thick, its doors reinforced, its windows dark. Guards stood at every entrance, their faces hidden behind helmets, their hands resting on weapons.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Grace said.
"Tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Leo."
"Goodnight."
She walked away.
Elijah watched her go.
Then he turned and entered the residence.
---
The interior was as lavish as the exterior was forbidding.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Paintings that had probably been stolen from museums, or bought from people who had stolen them from museums. The walls were paneled in dark wood, carved with scenes of hunts and battles and gods who had long since stopped caring about mortals.
Elijah's eyes moved across the room.
A photograph hung on the wall—large, ornate, its frame gilded. It showed the Jerkins family in their prime.
The patriarch sat at the center, his expression proud, his posture rigid. His name was Jericho Jerkins. He was the senior of the family, the one who held the Sigil Stone, the key to the vault.
Beside him stood his first wife—a woman with sharp features and cold eyes. Her name was Evelina. She was a high-ranking military engineer, responsible for the design of the Aetherium Foundry's most advanced aircraft.
Next to her stood their daughter. Her name was Seraphina. She was an aircraft engineer, like her mother. She had contracts with intelligence agencies across the world.
On the other side of the patriarch stood his third wife. Her name was Margot. She was the mother of Caspian Jerkins.
And in the corner, barely visible, stood a young woman with a sad smile. Her name was Liana. She was Leo's mother. She had died when he was born.
---
Leo's voice came through the earpiece.
"That's my family. The ones who look down on me. The ones who think I'm nothing."
"I noticed."
"My mother—Liana—she died giving birth to me. They've never let me forget it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your fault."
"I know."
Elijah's eyes moved across the photograph.
"Your brother Caspian—"
"What about him?"
"He's not your only sibling."
"No. There's also Seraphina. My half-sister. She's an aircraft engineer. She designs the war machines that the Foundry uses to—"
"I know what she does."
"Then you know that she's the golden child. The one who can do no wrong."
"And you?"
"I'm the one who will be forgotten."
"Not anymore."
Leo was silent.
---
A figure appeared in the hallway.
Young. Sharp-featured. Her name was Lilia Jerkins. She was the daughter of Jericho's first wife. Her eyes were cold, her posture rigid.
She walked toward Elijah.
Her elbow collided with his arm.
"Watch where you're going," she said.
Her voice was flat.
"You crippled savage."
Elijah's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His fingers closed around her arm.
"Just because you're flowers doesn't mean you're it. You stink like sour milk."
Lilia's eyes widened.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me."
"You—"
"I said what I said."
Lilia's internal thoughts churned.
Since when has this boy gotten so courageous? He always bowed his head in front of me. Always. Now he's—
He's—
"When my husband arrives," she said, "we'll see who will be laughing and crying."
She pulled her arm free.
She walked away.
---
Elijah watched her go.
"That went well," he thought.
Wonko's voice was dry.
"You're going to get us killed."
"Probably."
"And you don't care."
"I don't."
"Why?"
"Because I've been through worse."
"Worse than a family of Sutran-connected lunatics?"
"Worse."
Elijah's eyes moved to the photograph.
"Much worse."
---