"Lyssara," the man in the white lab coat said gently, folding his hands on the steel table.
"Why do you love fire so much?"
The girl no more than ten sat straight-backed in the sterile room, feet not quite touching the floor. Her eyes were calm. Curious.
"Most animals are afraid of fire," she said after a moment. "But fire is why we stopped living in caves. It cooks our food. Keeps the dark away. It lets weak things survive."
The scientist closed his eyes and sighed.
He stood and crossed the room, stopping beside the woman with the clipboard.
Together, they exited. The door sealed with a soft hiss.
"It's not working," he said flatly. "Prep her for liquidation."
The woman stiffened. "We already contracted it to a client. Incineration means delaying delivery."
"Indeed," he replied. "But sending her like this is worse. She's unstable. Highly intelligent. Second only to her twin."
He lowered his voice.
"If this gets out if the government realizes we can't control the clones every bribe, every promise to strip them of human status collapses."
He didn't look back at the door.
"Burn the mistake. Try again."
What they didn't know was that they were being listened to.
The door to the sterile room slid open without warning.
Lyssara lifted her head.
She smiled.
"Sevrina," she said softly. "You really came."
She stood and wrapped her arms around her twin. For a second, Sevrina allowed it then gently but firmly pulled her away.
"We're leaving," Sevrina said.
"Now."
Lyssara blinked. "But we planned for fifteen."
"Plans change."
"Why?"
Sevrina met her eyes, expression cold and precise.
"They've scheduled your liquidation."
Silence.
Lyssara tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her face.
"Incineration?" she asked.
Sevrina didn't answer.
She took Lyssara's hand.
"Move," she said. "Before they decide to burn us both."
They ran.
Bare feet slapped against the polished floor, each step echoing too loud in the narrow corridor. Sevrina led, swiping the stolen keycard through security panels she had memorized long before tonight.
Alarms screamed.
Red lights flooded the hallway.
Ahead, the corridor split.
Left toward the kitchen. Faster. Open flames. Gas lines. Staff everywhere.
Right the cloning wing. Sterile. Locked down. Slower, but with a maintenance exit.
Boots thundered behind them.
"Kitchen," Sevrina said without hesitation.
Lyssara grabbed her arm.
"No."
Sevrina turned sharply. "It's faster."
"Too many guards will go that way," Lyssara said calmly. "You won't make it."
"We don't split," Sevrina snapped.
Lyssara smiled not wide, not manic. Certain.
"You do."
She shoved Sevrina toward the cloning wing door and slammed her palm against the access panel. The door sealed between them.
"Lyssara—!"
She didn't listen.
Lyssara ran.
The kitchen doors burst open, heat and noise crashing over her. Staff shouted. Someone reached for her.
She ducked, weaving through steel counters, already twisting the gas valves she had memorized from months of watching.
She moved like this wasn't fear.
Like this was purpose.
Fire keeps the weak alive, she thought.
And sometimes… it clears the way.
Lyssara didn't look back.
Lyssara hid beneath the pantry shelves, holding her breath.
The smell came first.
Sharp. Rotten eggs.
The kitchen staff cursed, voices rising as they searched for the leak. Lyssara waited. She counted the seconds. She didn't move until the smell burned her nose and filled her lungs.
Then she struck the match.
The world shattered.
Heat. Light. Sound tearing itself apart.
Lyssara braced for pain but it never came.
When she opened her eyes, the pantry door hung twisted and broken. Fire filled the kitchen, rolling and dancing across steel and tile.
And yet… it stopped.
The flames bent around her, tongues of fire licking the air but never crossing an invisible line.
Lyssara stepped forward.
Her breath caught not in fear, but wonder.
She reached out.
The fire did not burn her.
It welcomed her.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Lyssara gasped and spun around.
A man stood behind her, untouched by smoke or flame. He wore a black suit, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask.
"W-who are you?" she whispered. "Did you do this?"
The man laughed softly.
"Me? No, little one." He tilted his head. "That was all you."
She stared at her hand, still glowing with heat that didn't hurt.
"You are very special, Lyssara," he continued. "I know others like you. They can teach you what you are."
He extended his hand.
"Come with me."
Lyssara hesitated.
Sevrina's face flashed in her mind.
"My sister," she said. "Is she special too?"
The man chuckled.
"Oh yes," he said. "Very."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Shall we go pick her up as well?"
Lyssara nodded.
She took his hand.
Together, they walked through the fire.
◇◇◇
Sevrina ran through the cold, white hallways.
She believed Lyssara had abandoned her.
For the first time in her life, she cried.
Her breath hitched as she ran, tears blurring her vision. Boots pounded behind her steady, closing the distance.
Then the explosion hit.
The shockwave slammed into her back, nearly throwing her to the floor. She stumbled, caught herself, and forced her legs to keep moving.
The cloning wing.
She slammed the stolen keycard against the panel.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Boots stopped behind her.
"Sevrina," a woman's voice said softly. "We won't hurt you. Just come with us."
Sevrina shook her head violently, still swiping the card.
"No—no—no—"
A hand closed around her arm.
She screamed.
Another scientist stepped forward, syringe in hand.
Something inside Sevrina snapped.
The air collapsed.
Cold exploded outward from her chest—so sharp it stole her breath. Frost raced across the walls. The scientists froze mid-motion, faces locked in terror as ice swallowed them whole.
The air itself liquefied, dripping heavily onto the floor.
Sevrina went silent.
She stared at her own hands, shaking.
Then
Boots approached again.
Slow. Unhurried.
Wet footsteps followed, slapping against the frozen floor.
Panic surged. She struggled harder, trapped by the frozen grip still holding her arm.
A figure emerged through the mist.
A man in a black suit. A smooth, featureless mask.
And beside him
Lyssara.
Sevrina broke.
"Lyss—" she sobbed, trying to pull free.
The man gently guided Lyssara to the untouched side of the hallway.
He walked through the frozen wreckage as if it didn't exist.
"I can help," he said calmly. "But you must stop struggling."
She couldn't.
He sighed.
The mask lifted.
For a moment, Sevrina saw his face beautiful, unsettling, impossible.
"Can you promise me?" he asked, voice warm and almost kind. "I'm trying to free you."
Sevrina nodded weakly.
The man smiled.
He waved his hand.
The frozen arm gripping her arm vanished as if it had never been there.
He wore the mask back on the mask and lifted Sevrina effortlessly, carrying her to Lyssara.
When her feet touched the floor, Lyssara collapsed into her arms.
"I'm sorry," Lyssara cried. "I won't leave you again. I promise."
Sevrina held her sister and cried harder than she ever had before.
Zalthorion watched the sisters hold each other.
He did not rush them.
When the tears finally stopped, Lyssara and Sevrina pulled apart and looked up at him together.
"We're ready," Sevrina said.
Lyssara squeezed her hand.
Zalthorion inclined his head.
He activated the MTD.
Space tore open beside them, a rift folding light and shadow into something that did not belong.
The sisters stepped closer, fingers intertwined.
Without looking back, they walked into the rift hand in hand.
The tear in reality sealed behind them.
And the facility burned and froze in silence.
When they stepped through the rift, the space opened into a vast chamber.
At its center stood a round table carved from something older than stone, surrounded by ten high-backed chairs. Only two were occupied.
One was a woman formed of bark, soil, and living leaves, roots slowly shifting beneath her skin. The other defied description androgynous, unstable its body flickering between shapes: a pen, knife, a truck, a small aircraft, then back again. The space around it bent and rearranged itself constantly, yet none of it touched the woman of earth.
Off to the side, a bar.
Two men sat there drinking. One spoke English, filtered through a thick German accent. The other spoke Russian.
The sisters understood every word even though they never studied russian.
That realization should have frightened them more than it did.
Behind the bar, a massive man of Mongolian descent worked a pan with terrifying speed. The scent alone made their stomachs twist painfully.
Farther away, three figures sat at a smaller table, absorbed in a game. One rolled a hundred-sided die across the surface. Despite its many faces, it never truly rounded its edges too sharp, too deliberate.
Zalthorion cleared his throat.
The room responded.
The woman of dirt appeared in front of them in a blink, hands clasped, eyes bright as she bombarded Zalthorion with questions. The shifting figure followed, pressing a small, impossible gift into their hands before flickering back.
A man smelling faintly of alcohol Russian, they realized approached and gently set a small mechanical puppy at their feet.
Then Sevrina's stomach growled.
Silence.
Laughter followed.
Before they could protest, the Russian man lifted them onto barstools with alarming ease and ordered fried rice. The giant cook moved like a storm. Moments later, plates were set before them rice shaped into tiny rabbits.
Sevrina hesitated.
Lyssara didn't.
She dug in, eating with a desperation that shocked even herself. After a moment, Sevrina followed.
The taste broke something in them.
Before this, food had been nothing but tasteless nutrient paste gritty, choking, barely tolerable
This was warm. Real.
They ate until tears blurred their vision.
When they finished eating, Zalthorion guided them toward the table.
Two chairs waited for them.
One was marked 8.
The other 9.
Before either sister could choose, Lyssara felt a tug gentle but absolute and found herself standing before the chair marked 8. Sevrina was drawn just as surely to 9.
They sat.
For a moment, only the tops of their heads were visible above the table.
Laughter rippled around the room some open, some politely restrained.
The chairs adjusted, rising until their faces finally cleared the tabletop. Lyssara crossed her arms, mortified. Sevrina refused to make eye contact with anyone.
Zalthorion clapped his hands once.
Everyone moved.
The Russian man took seat 5.
The German, 4.
The Mongolian, 1.
The woman of soil and bark settled into 2, roots curling beneath her.
The shapeshifter flickered into 3.
The three figures at the smaller table stood.
Only then did the sisters realize they were identical.
Two stepped forward and merged seamlessly into one form lean, composed. When the being sat in chair 6, a woman's voice greeted them.
Chair 7 remained empty.
Zalthorion stepped into the center.
"Let's give a round of applause," he said, "to our new members Lyssara and Sevrina."
The room erupted.
Heat flooded Sevrina's face.
"And their last names?" the German man asked.
Zalthorion looked at them expectantly.
Sevrina leaned closer to him and whispered, "Yours?"
"Veilstryx," he said. "But please you don't have to take my name."
Disappointment flickered between them.
Lyssara whispered back.
They looked up together.
"Vale," they said. "Our last name is Vale."
Applause thundered again.