Bustling attendants. Clacking heels. Rustling wind seeping through the cracks of the high stained-glass windows.
These and a dozen other murmuring sounds filled the opulent ballroom of Blackwood Tower, a space vast and gleaming with polished marble, towering columns, and chandeliers that shimmered like captive stars. The grand hall was awash in warm golden light, glowing brighter as the clock edged ever closer to 10pm, to the commencement of the year's most anticipated event: the Blackwood Ball.
Despite the flurry of coordinated activity—streamers being adjusted, tables being aligned, floral arrangements being turned just so—there was an air of composure. Calmness, yes, though taut and slightly forced, like a violin string drawn tight. After all, one did not host the city's most illustrious gala without nerves. And yet amidst the quiet determination of the staff, one individual stood out in stark contrast—visibly unsettled and radiating agitation.
That individual was Layla.
Already dressed for the evening, she was a picture of elegance in a fitted dark green gown, the fabric smooth and lustrous under the warm ballroom lights. Along its side, intricate black embroidery formed a curling pattern of flowers and thorns, as though ivy had climbed up from the hem. But while her appearance was calm and composed, her pacing betrayed her inner frustration. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble as she strode back and forth across the room, eyes darting from corner to corner in search of someone who was, in fact, no longer there.
Unbeknownst to her, Alexander—her grandfather and the evening's unofficial centerpiece—had already left the tower precisely three minutes ago, accompanied by Jackson. The absence had not yet stirred panic among the guests or staff, but Layla felt it deeply. Alexander always insisted the Blackwood Ball wasn't about him, but that had never been true. Not really. Everyone came to see how he was holding up—how he looked, how he spoke, how the empire he had built was continuing to weather time. Without him here, the affair felt hollow. Like a circus without its ringleader. A cake without its frosting. Ornate, yes—but not complete.
As she turned once more, caught in a restless loop, a sudden motion at the edge of her vision drew her gaze upward. At the far end of the ballroom, descending the elegant curved staircase that swept down from the upper floors, came two familiar figures.
Andrew and Camael.
They descended in perfect unison, both clad in sharply tailored pitch-black suits, the fabric absorbing the light like ink. Pinned to their chests were identical golden brooches in the shape of a shield—an insignia Layla didn't recognize but sensed bore meaning. Andrew, as always, moved with a quiet confidence, while Camael—less familiar in his current form—carried an eerie stillness, the kind that belonged to beings not entirely of this world.
It was the first time Layla had seen Camael in a proportioned, human-like form. Startled, she hurried to him with open curiosity, inspecting him as if unsure whether she was looking at a person or a projection. She lifted his arms lightly, leaned in to study his face—though to call it a face was generous.
He was light given shape. A radiant outline of a man, vaguely humanoid, with features just clear enough to suggest expression. Where a mouth might be, there was a glowing crevice drawn in a firm line of disapproval. Above that, two horizontal slits burned faintly, angled into a look of utter distaste.
Layla recoiled instinctively, retreating a step to give Camael space. Though her expression softened, there was still a visible tremor of surprise in her features—she hadn't expected him to be so unnervingly present in this form.
Still visibly flustered, she pivoted toward Andrew, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
"Hey Andrew, where did my grandpa go?" she asked, voice taut with urgency, her words cutting through the low hum of conversation around them.
Andrew's brow creased as he glanced toward the staircase, then across the vast ballroom. "He's not here?" he replied, his tone laced with surprise and the faintest undercurrent of concern.
Before either of them could speak further, a young attendant approached with quiet precision. The man wore a cream-colored vest over a crisply pressed shirt, his expression unreadable. A clipboard rested under one arm, and he moved with the poised detachment of someone delivering instructions they weren't privy to.
"Mr. Blackwood asked me to inform you all," he said, his voice smooth and professional, "that he is currently attending to urgent business and will return before the commencement of the ball."
He gave a courteous nod, then turned and vanished seamlessly into the ebb and flow of the ballroom staff, as though swallowed by the rhythm of preparation.
Layla blinked in disbelief, her mouth parting slightly. "Out of all the times," she muttered bitterly under her breath. Her hands clenched at the sides of her dress, the fine silk wrinkling beneath her grip. "Well, he better keep his promise and be on time!"
Above them, the chandeliers continued to cast their golden glow, light dancing like fire across the polished floor. In the far corner, the string quartet began tuning their instruments, their notes drifting across the room in elegant, uneven waves. Footsteps echoed against the high ceilings, voices blurred into the ambience, and still—the clock ticked forward, indifferent to her growing frustration.
Each passing second sharpened the sense that something—someone—was out of place.
23 minutes until the ball
"What do you mean 'dead'?" Zach asked, his brows knitting together as he took a slow step forward, the dim overhead light casting a long shadow behind him.
"I mean I know what death is," Caspian snapped, voice cracking slightly with frustration, "but what is a child your age doing wearing a pendant with the image of a dead person in it?!"
Zach's eyes narrowed, his voice laced with incredulity. "That's not exactly a common accessory, is it?"
"We both know age doesn't mean jack shit!" Caspian exploded, his voice sharp and unrelenting as it ricocheted off the cold, concrete walls.
Zach recoiled slightly, genuinely taken aback. The fury in Caspian's voice wasn't performative—it was real, burning hot beneath the surface, laced with something more than anger. It was desperation. Panic. The need for control.
"Alright, alright," Zach said, raising his palms in a placating gesture. "Just—hey. Take a breath. You're clearly on edge."
"No! No, I'm not alright!" Caspian growled, turning away from Zach and dragging both hands through his hair, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. The rhythm of his boots echoed in erratic pulses across the floor. "Nothing's going the way it's supposed to!"
The air grew heavier. A quiet hum settled over the room, the kind that arrives just before a storm breaks.
"I need my plan to unfold perfectly," Caspian said, practically spitting the words. "And now everything's spiraling!"
Zach's mouth tightened. He leaned against the nearest pillar, arms folded, studying Caspian with a guarded gaze. "How can you possibly know that?" he said, his tone skeptical but still measured. "From what I've seen, your plan's on track. No alerts, no alarms, no blown cover."
"You don't get it," Caspian muttered under his breath.
Zach tilted his head, watching him closely. "No, I don't. So why don't you explain it to me?"
"I needed Alexander and Seymour alone," Caspian said, his voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. "Alone. That's how the conversation was meant to go. That's how the leverage was supposed to work. One-on-one. Controlled. Precise."
His voice faltered as he inhaled deeply, chest rising and falling with visible effort.
"And now?" he continued, eyes darkening. "Now there's a third person involved. Someone who shouldn't be there. Someone who could unravel everything."
Zach's brow creased. "How do you know that?"
Caspian paused. His hands lowered to his sides. He didn't look at Zach when he answered.
"I have… assistance."
Zach's eyes narrowed further. "Assistance?"
Caspian's gaze flicked up, cold and sharp. "Someone tailing Alexander's car."
A flash of black in his mind—Julius on a motorcycle, weaving through traffic like a phantom, silent and unrelenting, the headlights of the trailing convoy glinting off the wet pavement behind him.
Zach exhaled slowly. "Of course you do."
For a moment, silence fell between them—tense, suffocating. The only sounds were Caspian's shallow breathing and the soft, high-pitched whine of a distant ventilation fan overhead.
"But let me get this straight," Zach finally said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. "If your plan is to wipe out everyone in Blackwood Tower except for Andrew, Camael, and Layla… why the hell does it matter if someone else is with Alexander?"
Caspian turned to him slowly, as if that question required effort to process. His mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smirk.
"You've misunderstood everything," he said, voice flat. "I'm not some brute with a grudge and a list of names. I'm not here to just kill."
He stepped closer, shadows dancing across his face. His eyes, once merely sharp, now glowed with a feverish clarity.
"I have two missions," he said.
Zach raised a brow. "Alright… I'm listening."
Caspian held up a hand, one finger raised. "First: seize control of Nimerath. Or, if that fails, pass the city's reins to someone I can trust. Someone who won't let it collapse into chaos."
"And the second?" Zach asked, though his voice was no longer casual—it was cautious now, wary of what might come next.
Caspian hesitated, his shoulders tensing. His gaze drifted, unfocused for a moment, lost in some distant calculation or memory.
"The second is....something harder," he said at last, his voice so quiet Zach had to lean in to hear it.
Zach blinked, lips parting slightly in disbelief. "Harder than taking control of an entire city?"
Caspian's eyes met his again. There was no fire now, no immediate fury. Only cold certainty.
"Much harder," he murmured.
Zach stared at him, studying the boy who stood before him like a soldier at the edge of unraveling. The longer he looked, the more he realized how little of Caspian's true self he'd actually seen. There were layers here—anger, ambition, guilt, grief—and none of them were stable.
"You're running yourself into the ground," Zach said softly, breaking the silence. "Whatever you're chasing—it's burning you alive."
"I know," Caspian whispered.
Zach tilted his head slightly. "Then why keep going?"
Caspian didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned away again, facing the window at the far end of the hall. Rain slithered down the glass in long streaks, blurring the city lights beyond into smears of gold and gray.
"Because if I don't," he said finally, his voice distant, barely more than a breath. The weight behind his words lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a storm held at bay.
His eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked briefly to Zach—but something in his expression faltered. He parted his lips, ready to speak.
But then, he stopped himself.
His jaw clenched. The moment hung—fragile, suspended.
"Never mind," he muttered, the words low and sharp, like a blade sheathed too quickly.
He turned away, the shadows swallowing the side of his face as he stepped into the dim hallway beyond. Rain beat softly against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a clock chimed.
And the silence that followed felt colder than any answer he could have given.