In the sequestered depths of the palace's forbidden wing, the air hung heavy with the scent of old parchment and the cold, unyielding weight of stone. Ministers sat like statues along the flanks of a massive table, their eyes darting nervously toward the head chair. There sat Liam, a figure of frozen command, his face a mask of stoic indifference. Beside him sat Rory and Warner, his inner circle, watching as Warner presented the deteriorating situation in Firestark.
Warner's face was a map of suppressed rage, flushed a deep, hot crimson. "We should raze the district where the potions are being brewed," he spat, his voice trembling with heat. "If they refuse to surrender the alchemists, then let them burn alongside their glass."
Liam finally moved. It was a subtle shift, yet the room went deathly silent. When he spoke, his voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"And provide the rebels with a martyr to rally behind? No. That is impulsive, Warner." He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the room with a predatory chill that made the ministers wither. "Illegal alchemy thrives because the people believe they are trading for safety. We shall not destroy their market; we shall turn it into their cage."
"Your Majesty?" Rory asked, a brow arching in genuine intrigue.
"We will not seize the potions," Liam said, the ghost of a predatory smile touching his lips. "We will flood the market with our own. We shall produce brews that look, smell, and taste identical to theirs—but with one subtle addition."
A heavy silence descended as the realization dawned on Rory. He understood the cruelty of the design: a slow-acting decay.
"Every soul who drinks our brew will carry a trace," Liam continued, his tone terrifyingly calm. "It will not kill them—not yet. Instead, they will become living compasses. We will track every meeting they attend, every cellar they haunt, and find exactly where the Firestark leaders are hiding. They will lead us to their own execution, believing all the while that they are being healed."
There was a slight, jagged edge to his tone—a tremor of dark satisfaction.
Warner looked down at the map, his jaw set. "Give the order, Sire. We burn the labs tonight."
"No," Liam corrected, his voice flat and final. "Double their production. Filter the catalysts into the black market by dawn."
The room erupted into a frantic murmur. "But Your Majesty," one minister stammered, "that will arm the resistance! It is suicide!"
Liam did not deign to answer with words. With a single, freezing glance, the minister's protest died in his throat.
"Warner, prepare the pulse-grid. Rory, ensure the distribution is seamless. I want every bottle tainted by tomorrow night."
Warner stiffened as the full weight of the strategy hit him. He shared a grim, knowing look with Rory, who let out a sharp, jagged laugh. They understood now: Liam wasn't arming an army; he was tagging a herd for slaughter.
"Meeting adjourned," Liam stated, rising without further explanation. He strode toward the doors, leaving a wake of frantic whispers behind him.
Time slipped away as Liam found himself in the High Crystal Hall, a magnificent structure of water-blue glass that seemed to hold the light of a trapped ocean. A flash of memory tugged at him as his hand brushed the parchments and vials he carried. He had come to this sanctuary—the repository for all royal alchemical endeavors—a place entrusted to his family since his grandfather's time.
"There you are, Liam Atkinson," a voice rasped. An elderly woman was hunched over a desk, her quill scratching busily against parchment. "Did the sun rise in the west today? I thought you'd forgotten the way here."
"I need you to help with the wither essence," Liam replied, his voice calm and indifferent, ignoring her jab.
"Where's Rory?" the lady asked.
Liam looked around, his gaze grazing the various pots and glass vessels. "Probably fooling around to quench his own amusement."
A chuckle left the old woman's mouth. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"
Liam remained stoic, offering no reply.
"Hmm. It seems someone has truly pushed your buttons this time," she remarked, taking a vial from Liam's hand. "This has been spreading for some time... making it difficult to find the rogue vampires in disguise." She began mixing catalysts, her eyes darting intensely between the liquid and her notes. "You have a real problem on your hands this time," she murmured.
Outside, Floria Saipon stepped from her carriage at the foot of the long, crystalline path. She held a massive, leather-bound volume to her chest. She had never been to this place before; she was merely here to return the tome to Lady Salvatore.
As the air hit her, a lingering sense of familiarity hovered in the wind. Her boots clinked softly against the glass floor as she approached the main entrance, where a lean man stood holding a ledger.
"Excuse me, sir," she said. "I am Floria Saipon. I am here to return this to Lady Salvatore."
"Pardon me, My Lady, but you cannot enter," the man replied, blocking her path with a polite but firm gesture. "Please, wait in the outer garden until Lady Salvatore is summoned."
With a polite bow, an attendant escorted her toward the greenery. Her eyes scanned the breathtaking grounds. The air smelled heavenly, saturated with the scent of roses. But these were not the usual crimson blooms; they were black roses, dark as a starless night.
An odd sensation shivered through her soul.
"A simple prick from those thorns, and you would stand in heaven."
The sudden interruption made Floria recoil, pulling her hand back from a velvet petal.
"Pardon me, I didn't mean to touch them," she said, her heart beginning to drum against her ribs. "It's just... they are too alluring to resist."
Liam, having excused himself from his work, watched her from the shadows. She was dressed in a gown of cherry-black silk that made her look bold, haunting, and utterly unapproachable.
"Alluring? Does the lady not know that curiosity killed the cat?" His deep crimson eyes locked onto her back, noting the way her half-tied blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. "Humans. Such petty creatures. It always makes me wonder if any of them possess even a modicum of intellect."
"Always better than an empty void," she countered, her voice rasping with a tight, formal edge. She did not turn, yet she spoke as if she could see him through her back.
"Humph. Emotions," he mocked, moving closer to provoke her. "Emotions are what drive humans to throw their fellows to the wolves just to ensure their own survival."
"Not everyone is of your kind," she snapped, her voice gaining a sharp edge, her eyes still fixed on the enchanting flowers.
"Indeed. Humans may lack civility, but they possess a marvelous talent for finding offense in anything that does not serve their whims," he continued, poking at her resolve.
She finally straightened and turned to face him. "In my world, we do not make slaves of others, regardless of the wealth we possess."
"They don't... really?" His tone was a mocking drawl as he stepped directly behind her.
She turned fully to face the man. For a fleeting, dangerous second, a flicker of something lost appeared in Liam's crimson eyes. She looked the same—the same as they were back then. He felt a surging urge to pull her into his arms.
Floria was suddenly overwhelmed by a ghost of emotions—longing, amusement, rage—before the sensations vanished as quickly as they had appeared. She stared at the man before her. He was the same "void" she had sensed before. His clothes were of the finest make, a white shirt and trousers beneath a long black cloak that spoke of a fortune. Her eyes trailed up to his handsome, cold face, and then to his hair...
Her heart ran wild, as if she had been running for miles. Her eyes went wide with a sudden, jolting shock of recognition.