Riven's lips parted as he stepped onto the Sovereign Veil.
The name itself felt like a warning—secrecy dressed up as grandeur, dominance disguised as elegance. Not just a ship. A fortress.
The air smelled sterile, scrubbed of every trace of pheromone. Too clean. Too controlled. His skin prickled. Every wall here had ears, every hallway a lens. Suites were soundproofed, ballrooms wired for suppression and tracking. A cage, even if its bars gleamed.
And the man behind it all—Raventhorne Holdings, Nexus, this floating empire—was the Chairman himself. Suddenly it made sense why the anniversary had outgrown hotel ballrooms. Why this year, the Emperor would appear.
The Sovereign Veil was dazzling, yes. Black marble floors streaked with silver. Violet lights that shifted with the mood of the crowd. Surfaces polished until they reflected him back like a stranger. But no warmth. No welcome. Beauty sharpened into blade-edge.
Everywhere he looked, wealth pressed down like weight:
Butlers who moved by biometric cue.AI menus that adjusted to hormonal shifts.Silent attendants masked and unblinking.Suites with panoramic views—and ventilation that stripped the air bare of scent.
It was surreal. It was suffocating.
And then the masquerade space—the Upper Deck Atrium. Dusk overhead, railings mirrored to infinity, lights flickering like artificial constellations. Beautiful, clinical, wrong.
The moment he stepped in, the system found him. His pheromones slipped through the safeguards, tagged him instantly. Drones stirred overhead, silent as vultures. Any spike, any slip—and alarms would bloom in silence.
Riven swallowed hard. He could feel it: the Emperor watching from some private suite above, wrapped in screens and predictions, waiting.
One misstep, and he'd be seen bare.
Riven hadn't expected this. Not the scale. Not the precision. And certainly not the gift waiting for him inside his suite.
On the bed, laid out with military exactness, was a suit that looked less like clothing and more like a command.
For a moment, he stood frozen in the doorway, pulse caught between awe and suspicion.
"The Emperor had it made for you," Thayer said at his shoulder, arms crossed, smug as if he'd planned it himself. "Custom design. Every detail."
Riven's mouth went dry. "For me?"
"Apparently, he wanted you to feel like you belonged here."
Belonged. The word coiled tight in his chest.
Still, he stepped forward. His fingertips brushed the fabric—smooth, cold, too deliberate. The jacket was black silk, sharp enough to cut, sculpted to his frame as though it had been waiting for him. Silver embroidery climbed across the chest like circuitry vines, flashing in the light with a pulse of their own.
The trousers were poured midnight, glossed just enough to catch the light like water at dusk. Obsidian boots with silver buckles gleamed at the foot of the bed, ceremonial and final. A platinum chain rested against folded silk, minimal but intimate. A ring heavy with the Nexus insignia gleamed beside it—less adornment than a seal.
And the mask—winged silver filigree curling upward like a predator's gaze—waited like the last move in a game he hadn't realized he was playing.
Riven reached for it, then stopped.
Thayer's silence pressed at his back, patient, expectant.
So he yielded. Piece by piece, he let the suit claim him. The violet undershirt slipped over his skin like smoke restrained in glass. The jacket locked across his shoulders, cuffs fastening with a soft metallic click that sounded too much like shackles. The chain circled his throat. The ring slid onto his finger with the weight of an oath.
By the time he turned toward the mirror, his breath was uneven.
For a heartbeat, he didn't recognize himself. The man staring back was sleek, commanding, untouchable. Awe surged through him—he looked like he belonged here, among titans. But the awe soured quickly.
The silk clung like armor. The chain burned like a collar. The embroidery glimmered like veins of control.
He leaned closer, watching his breath fog the glass, the mask sharpening his eyes into something that wasn't his. The softness was gone, buried beneath silver and command.
This wasn't him. It was the version the Emperor had decided he should be.
Riven's lips parted, but no words came. Only silence, taut and echoing.
The cuffs weren't just cuffs. They bound. The crown motifs weren't legacy. They were ownership.
The Emperor hadn't given him a suit. He'd given him a role.
And staring into the mirror, Riven understood: he wasn't being dressed for celebration. He was being claimed.
The air outside was velvet—dusk bleeding into violet as the sea swelled below. Lanterns flickered along the railings, casting silver halos across the polished deck. Masked figures drifted through shadows, their laughter muffled by silk and secrecy.
Then he arrived.
Riven stepped onto the upper deck like a break in the pattern. His suit—black and violet, veined with silver—caught the dying light and fractured it, as if the stars themselves had been stitched into his frame.
His scent followed—gardenia, violet—soft at first, then undeniable. It curled through the air, bypassing Nexus suppression tech like a whispered defiance.
The crowd turned. Conversations stilled. Eyes widened. Reverence, intrigue, a flicker of unease.
The CEO of Nexus had arrived.
His mask—winged silver filigree—framed his eyes, hardening them into something regal, unreadable. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. Every step rang deliberate against the marble floor, each breath a quiet dare.
"Papa—" Lior whispered, tugging at Eli's sleeve.
He moved to run, but Eli crouched quickly, holding him close.
"Wait," he murmured, gaze steady on Riven. "Let him settle first."
Thayer approached from the side, scanning the room as though he could feel the atmosphere shifting around Riven.
For a heartbeat, Riven's gaze swept the deck and locked on Eli. The noise, the masks, even the sea—all of it fell away. Just Eli. Just Lior. And the storm pressing against his ribs.
"It's time," Thayer said quietly, stepping beside Eli.
Eli adjusted his glasses, crouched again to meet Lior's eyes. His tux was simple, his hair a little tousled—unremarkable beside Riven's brilliance. And yet, somehow, grounding.
"Hey, buddy. Uncle Thayer's gonna stay with you for a bit, okay?"
Lior's mouth trembled. "I want to go to Papa."
"You will," Eli promised, brushing a hand over his hair. "Just not yet. Be good for me."
He straightened Lior's bowtie, then looked at Thayer, his tone iron. "Stay close to him."
"I will," Thayer said.
Lior's small hand slipped reluctantly into Thayer's. His brows furrowed, distrust clear—but he didn't pull away. His eyes stayed fixed on Riven, drawn by the gleam, the scent, the distance.
That fragile tether held, even as the storm moved farther from reach.