9:48
A lone lamp sat on a table in the corner, its dim amber glow casting long, broken shadows that danced across the walls. The light flickered faintly, as though fighting back the encroaching darkness that crept in from every corner of the high-ceilinged room. Heavy drapes, deep burgundy and dust-lined, hung over tall windows like funeral veils. The scent of aged paper and polished wood filled the air—nostalgic, but tinged with something metallic, like old blood.
Caspian reclined in a massive leather armchair, its deep cushions cracked and worn, the leather darkened in places from years of use. It groaned softly beneath his weight, but he didn't move. He sat in still contemplation, statuesque, save for the occasional rise and fall of his chest. His suit, deep blue with fine silver pinstripes, clung to his frame with quiet precision. The lapels caught the light just enough to glimmer like a blade.
He lifted one pale hand to his head and slowly combed his fingers through his stark white hair. Each strand parted easily, slipping between his fingers like silk wet with rain. The movement was automatic, mechanical—a small ritual performed out of habit rather than need. His expression remained blank, but his eyes—icy gray and sharp as frost—betrayed a tension just beneath the surface.
With a soft rustle, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a battered metal cellphone. It was old—ancient by modern standards—and clearly well-used. Its body was dented, its corners dulled from years of being dropped, scraped, and handled in haste. The once-shiny silver casing was now dulled and covered in an intricate web of scratches. Caspian ran a fingernail along one of the deeper gouges, slowly, absently, as if navigating the scars of an old battlefield.
He pressed the slim plastic button on the side. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the screen flickered to life—dim, grainy, and slightly green-tinted. The light illuminated his face from below, carving shadows under his eyes and giving him the brief appearance of a corpse resurrected.
No messages.
No updates.
Nothing from Julius.
Caspian let out a quiet sigh, low and hollow. He slid the phone back into his pocket, then glanced at the heavy silver watch on his wrist. Less than fifteen minutes until the ball. He stared at the ticking second hand for a moment, then slowly leaned his head back against the chair.
Was he nervous?
Yes. Of course.
Only a fool wouldn't be.
But it was happening, whether he liked it or not. The plan was already in motion, and the weight of inevitability pressed down on him like gravity.
He stood.
The chair creaked as he rose, and his shoes—polished black leather loafers—tapped softly against the dark wood floor. He moved across the room with quiet elegance, each step deliberate. As he passed one of the tall windows, a flicker of motion caught his eye.
He paused.
A pigeon sat perched at the corner of the glass balcony railing, just beyond the windowpane.
It was... odd.
Its feathers were pitch-black—not the sooty gray of city pigeons, but a pure, inky black that drank in the light. Even its eyes were dark, too dark, like polished obsidian. For a moment, it simply stared at him, head tilted slightly to the side.
Caspian frowned. He approached the window, his hand reaching for the handle. The door—a tall glass pane with a steel frame—clicked as he unlocked it. A thin gust of night air curled into the room, cool and sharp, carrying with it the distant scent of rain and smoke.
He stepped out onto the balcony. The white marble beneath his feet was smooth and cold, and his loafers clicked with each step. The city lights shimmered far below like spilled jewels. Wind tugged at the edges of his coat.
The pigeon didn't fly away. Instead, it fluttered its wings slightly, then stilled. Its eyes locked onto his with unsettling intensity.
Then it chirped.
Just once.
High-pitched. Piercing.
Caspian blinked.
The pigeon's left wing began to twitch. At first subtly, then violently. It jerked upward in a spasm that looked painful. There was a snap—not the flutter of wings, but the brittle, unmistakable sound of breaking bone.
Caspian took a slow step back.
The wing contorted grotesquely, stretching, elongating, the bones pushing outward beneath the feathers until the structure no longer resembled a bird's. The right wing followed, snapping and reshaping into something arm-like. Feathers molted off in clumps, drifting into the wind like black ash.
The transformation accelerated. Legs grew longer, twisted into humanoid limbs. The body convulsed, expanded, warped. Muscles knit themselves over unnatural joints. The head split open with a wet crack, reshaping itself into the silhouette of a human skull. A viscous black substance poured from beneath the feathers, spreading across the creature's body like ink spilled in water.
Within moments, the pigeon was gone—consumed by a writhing mass of shapeless black goo that pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. It stood now as a fluid shadow, tall and vaguely feminine, its form swaying with eerie grace.
Then, just as suddenly, it began to solidify.
The blackness receded, revealing skin the color of warm porcelain. Fingers emerged. Hair, long and dark, whipped in the wind. Eyes formed—deep, amber, feline. A mouth curled into a smirk.
A dress—sleek, seamless, and shimmering like liquid night—wrapped itself around her body. It was short, dangerously so, riding high on her thighs and clinging to her curves like a second skin. The hem danced in the wind, revealing a sliver of her upper thigh—and a dark tattoo inked just above it.
Caspian didn't need to look closely.
He knew the mark well.
A swirling symbol of black and red—the insignia of the Oblivion Syndicate.
The same tattoo Julius bore.
She sat on the railing now, one leg crossed over the other, poised like a queen addressing her subject. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. Her lips curled upward, smooth and cruel.
"Hello again," she said, her voice velvet-soft but carrying a dagger's edge.
Caspian stared at her, unmoving.
Lucille.
Lucille leapt gracefully from her perch on the balcony railing, landing in a smooth click of black heels against the marble. The echo rang out sharp and confident, like a gunshot in a cathedral. She straightened, dusted nothing off her dress, and fixed her gaze on Caspian.
Her eyes—piercing green, sharp as broken glass—scanned him from head to toe. There was something predatory in her stare, like a hawk sizing up a mouse that didn't yet know it was in danger. She didn't blink. She didn't smile.
Caspian didn't flinch under her scrutiny. Though younger by only a few years, he stood just slightly taller than Lucille—but it hardly mattered. She was tall—strikingly so—and carried herself with the quiet dominance of someone who had long since learned to command any room she walked into. Her height wasn't just physical; it was presence. Even without speaking, she filled the air between them like smoke—impossible to ignore, hard to breathe around.
She stepped forward slowly, her heels tapping in deliberate rhythm. When she spoke, her voice was smooth but charged with amusement.
"You know, Caspian," she said, "it's rude to stare."
She tilted her head just slightly, her voice taking on a mocking lilt. "Especially at a girl."
Then something shifted behind her expression. A spark of hesitation. She opened her mouth to continue—Did your parents never teach you manners?—but caught herself mid-sentence. The word "parents" hovered unsaid on her tongue like poison she dared not swallow.
No matter how high she climbed in the Syndicate, invoking him so casually—so irreverently—could get her killed. Or worse.
She cleared her throat quickly, smoothing over the moment like it hadn't happened.
Caspian was already massaging his temples, his fingers pressing into his brow as if trying to push her presence out of his skull.
"Why are you here, Lucille?" he groaned. Not with fear. Just pure, practiced irritation.
She clicked her tongue and gave a breathy laugh, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
"Oh, come on," she said. "You're not happy to see me?"
It was a ridiculous question. They both knew it. But Caspian had always let her provocations slide. He wasn't like the others. Not as cold. Not as cruel. Not as bound by the unwritten codes of the upper echelon.
She looked around lazily, then locked eyes with him again.
"Well," she continued, voice shifting into something cooler, more formal, "I'm here to deliver a message."
She was just about to speak when Caspian raised a hand, cutting her off.
"I actually have a question for you, Lucille," he said, tone suddenly razor-sharp.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Are you still getting orders directly from Ezra?" he asked.
The weight of the name dropped between them like an anvil. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Caspian studied her closely now, watching every twitch, every shift in her expression. Something didn't sit right. Lucille was too low-ranked to have direct lines to Ezra. The idea had gnawed at him for days. It didn't add up.
Lucille blinked, then gave a small shrug.
"No," she said. "And to be honest with you… I never did."
Caspian's brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed, skeptical.
Lucille gave a playful smile and mimed grabbing her own neck—exactly the way Caspian had restrained her days ago. Her voice turned syrupy with sarcasm.
"I only said I got orders from Ezra so you wouldn't kill me," she said, grinning. "Worked like a charm."
Caspian didn't react. He simply stood in silence, watching her like one might watch a loaded weapon on the table.
A long pause followed.
Finally, he spoke, each word slow and measured.
"Then who," he said, "was the one giving you orders?"
Lucille's smile faltered.
She looked away for the first time.
Her shoulders tightened. For a moment, she seemed to consider lying. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again. She knew the consequences. Lying now—here, in front of him—wouldn't just be foolish. It would be fatal.
She looked back at Caspian.
Eyes hard. Voice low.
"I got the orders from Rowen
Caspian froze. His thoughts tangled, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and calculation. Rowen? That name didn't fit here. Not in this context. Not with her. Rowen had his own attendants—disciplined, loyal, handpicked from the core of the Oblivion Syndicate. He didn't deal with Lucille's tier. He didn't need to.
It didn't add up.
Lucille, ever unreadable, simply waited. Her posture relaxed, arms draped loosely at her sides, but her eyes were sharp, watching him process every word like a cat watches a mouse trying to find the exit.
"Get on with it, then," Caspian said finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What's the message?"
Lucille straightened, cleared her throat, and recited with theatrical flair—her tone light and musical, as if quoting a line from a bad sitcom.
"'Hey bro, I need you to not damage the city or its civilians. Topple the leadership, then I'll handle it from there. Be safe!'" She lifted her eyebrows. "End quote."
Caspian stared at her for a long beat. Then sighed—long, deep, and world-weary. "How cheerful."
Lucille chuckled. "He always was a little too optimistic. Though to be fair... he did take a liking to you when you first joined."
Her voice dipped, touched faintly with something softer—nostalgia maybe, or a carefully placed imitation of it. Caspian wasn't sure.
He turned slowly to face her, gaze sharp, the weight of his silence heavier than words. Her smirk flickered under it—but only for a moment.
Then they both went quiet. No words, no movement. Just the distant hum of the city and the breeze shifting around them like something alive. Below, the skyline stretched endlessly—rooftops, towers, bridges—half of it bathed in soft electric glow, the other half lost to shadows. The city slept, unaware of what its morning might look like.
The sky was unusually clear. Stars blinked above them, sharp and cold, uncaring in their quiet vigil.
Caspian folded his arms across his chest, his posture rigid, but his thoughts spinning. Somewhere out there, Julius was making his move. Somewhere beyond the mountains, Rowen was coming—steady, deliberate, unstoppable. And here he was. The fulcrum between them. Waiting. Watching. Trying to hold the middle ground in a collapsing world.
He glanced at his watch. Barely five minutes had passed.
Good. Still time.
Lucille shifted beside him. The wind caught the hem of her dress. She exhaled through her nose.
"You know," she said quietly, "this is the longest we've stood in one place without trying to kill each other."
Caspian didn't look at her. "Don't tempt me."
Lucille snorted. "How chivalrous of you."
The moment stretched. She took a slow breath, like someone about to say something important—then thought better of it.
"Well then," she said softly, turning on her heel. Her heels clicked against the marble—sharp, final. "I'll take my leave."
Caspian didn't move.
"Wait a moment," he said.
Lucille froze, one foot already past the threshold. Her silhouette was framed by the open door, the light behind her soft and golden.
She didn't turn immediately.
Caspian drew in a breath. His gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted again, slow and hesitant.
"How..." He stopped, searched for the right words. "How is Rowen these days?"
Lucille turned slightly, just enough for him to see her profile. Her smirk was gone. In its place, something quieter, more sincere.
"He's..." she said softly. "He's alright."
Caspian reached into his shirt, pulling out a thin pendant on a chain. The metal was old, dulled from wear, but still caught the low light like a memory refusing to fade. He closed his fingers around it, letting its cold surface warm against his skin.
"That's good to hear," he murmured, more to the wind than to her.
Lucille watched him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she stepped back onto the balcony and vaulted smoothly onto the railing. The city glowed behind her like fire beneath glass.
She turned her head toward him, eyes catching in the dim light.
"Hey," she said.
Caspian looked up.
"Have you ever had cheesecake?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Um... not that I remember."
She smiled—quiet, almost wistful. Like she was offering him something fragile.
"When this is all over," she said, "let me treat you to some."
She lingered there a beat longer, letting the wind play with her hair.
"Until then, Caspian..." Her smile widened. "Don't die."
Then she tipped backward over the edge, vanishing with a laugh—free-falling into the dark. No scream. No sound of impact. Just the echo of her voice and the lingering scent of something floral and impossible to place.
Caspian stood still, staring at the empty railing.
The stars above sparkled like distant fires, cold and unreachable.
He looked down at the pendant in his hand. Then out again into the night.
"Unfortunately, Lucille," he whispered, "this will never be over."
The wind shifted once more, brushing past him like the last breath of something ancient and tired.