🏛️ Ashenwell – Abandoned Archives, Level 6 Subnet
The hallway flickered with ghostlight, the dim glow of expired enchantments humming faintly in the walls. No alarms. No active surveillance. Just dust and the weight of secrets.
Grim knelt before the cracked console, fingers hovering above the broken runes etched into the interface. The encryption was outdated—probably a trap—but he wasn't here to be safe.
He was here to remember.
Lines of code shimmered as he slid in the stolen keychip Kaia had smuggled into his dorm two nights ago. It sparked once, stuttered, then unfolded a silent window in the air. Files. Dozens. Hundreds. Most corrupted. Some locked behind red warnings.
But one thread pulsed. Labeled:
[PROJECT: SOLACE] – LINEAGE STATUS BRIEF
Grim hesitated. Then opened it.
The screen didn't scream alarms or flash glyphs. It simply breathed to life, projecting data in soft light across the dusty floor. Four profiles slid into view—familiar names… and one that twisted in his chest.
Ayesha.
Hadi.
Tristan.
Max.
Each of them alive.
Each of them touched by the Court's hand.
Ayesha's file pulsed first. "Subject Abyss. Status: Active. Location ping: Eastern Wastes. Vocal anomalies detected—sound-based interference suggests identity integrity unstable. Possible rogue signature." Grim's throat tightened. Ayesha wasn't just alive. She was… compromised. Maybe even weaponized.
Hadi came next—Destruction. "Subject contained. Vault 03-A, Deepcore. Emotional instability severe. Aura volatile. Null-chains required to suppress energy bloom. No verbal output in 27 cycles. Responds to keywords: 'Grim', 'Sparks'… negatively."
He clenched his jaw. Contained. Not cured. And Sparks—her bond with Hadi—still triggered something deep in her core.
Then came Tristan.
The screen flickered, the file heavier somehow.
"Subject Rapture. Deployed to Outer Isles. Public engagement mission: humanitarian evac op. Broadcast ID 6D-KA1. Operative presents stable emotional profile. Loyalty: uncertain. Surveillance tagged a delay in response to reference: Ashenwell. Possible memory tether?"
There was even a still frame—Tristan in Court uniform, helping civilians board a floater ship, eyes calm, expression unreadable. Cold, perfect. Almost... too perfect.
Grim's breath caught as the final file unlocked.
Max.
"Subject Nether. Last ping: Ashenwell perimeter. Location unconfirmed. Aura trail matches shadow-warp manipulation. Surveillance blackout encountered. Possible stealth infiltration. No command markers detected. Suspected independent operation. Objective: Unknown."
The last sentence chilled him.
"Termination authorization: pre-cleared in the event of contact with Subject Grim."
He stared at those words until they blurred.
They weren't just scattered anymore. They were being used—as tools, weapons, ghosts of the war they'd never finished. The Court hadn't erased their history. It had simply buried it—under protocol and silence.
And now… they were moving again.
The screen dimmed, and Grim slowly stood.
Behind him, a flicker sparked in the air. A sharp crackle of static. Then a voice—warped, clipped, but unmistakable.
"Hey... flamebrain."
He turned sharply.
A glitching shimmer buzzed at his shoulder. Sparks. Her form half-formed, just a burning silhouette of hair and eyes, her voice layered like broken frequencies.
"You took your time," she croaked, then flickered out of view, reappearing by the wall. "I had to fight code devourers, a firewall shaped like your teacher's ego, and something called 'empathy lock'. Ew."
"You're—" Grim took a step forward, then stopped. "You're still corrupted."
She snorted. "You try getting disassembled by a simulation AI while riding a Lume storm, see how you feel." A pause. "But I'm coming back. Piece by piece."
He swallowed the knot in his throat. "You remember them?"
"I remember us," she said softly. Then her glow dimmed. "And I remember what the Court did. You're not the only one with pieces missing, Grim."
Silence hung between them for a long moment.
Then Grim looked back at the file, still flickering faintly on the console.
"We find them," he said. "All of them. Before the Court does anything worse."
Sparks flickered at his shoulder, her voice steadier now.
"Then you'd better hurry."
She gestured at the screen.
The image of Tristan—Rapture—had just changed.
Not a still frame anymore.
A live feed.
Tristan was moving. Talking. Smiling for cameras.
And walking with a figure cloaked in Court shadowgear—someone holding a case marked with the same rune Grim had seen burned into his own skin years ago.
The Court was already in motion.