The nursery was submerged in shadow, lit only by the pale, silver moonlight slicing through the lace curtains. It was deep into the night, the hour when the manor finally stopped breathing and settled into silence.
Elma sat cross-legged on the center of her rug, her posture rigid, her face a mask of terrifying concentration.
In her left hand, hovering just an inch above her open palm, was a sphere of water. She held it suspended with the invisible extension of her will. It was a sample. A finished product.
Her right hand was empty.
She stared at the empty palm, her small fingers twitching slightly as she tried to force the air to obey a command she didn't understand.
Copy, she ordered her Aegis.
Replicate.
She could feel the water in her left hand. She knew its weight, its temperature, its surface tension.
But she couldn't find the how.
Christa had spoken of the Aether. Of geometry. Of a vibration that preceded matter.
Elma poured her will into the empty space above her right hand. She pushed her Aegis to the limit, straining her senses to find the invisible lattice Christa claimed existed.
She looked for the lines. She looked for the hum.
Nothing.
Just empty, silent air.
Her eyes burned. The strain of maintaining the suspension in her left hand while interrogating reality with her right was taking a physical toll.
Her brain throbbed, heavy and relentless, pressing against her skull.
Where is it? she demanded, frustration clawing at her discipline. Where is the mechanism?
Then, the focus snapped.
It wasn't a sound that broke her concentration. It was a smell.
Elma froze. The water orb in her left hand wobbled as her Aegis wavered, but she clamped down on it instinctively, her attention shifting entirely to her nose.
It hit her olfactory senses like a physical slap—
sharp, metallic, and warm.
Blood.
Her head snapped toward the window.
Bird? No. The scent was too rich. Too saline. It lacked the musky, gamey undertone of an animal.
Human.
Elma dropped the water orb. It splashed onto the rug, soaking into the wool, but she was already moving.
She scrambled off the floor and padded silently to the window. She gripped the sill, pulling her small body up until her nose barely cleared the frame.
She peered out into the darkness.
The gardens below were empty. The shadows of the cypress trees lay still on the grass. There was no movement, no sound of struggle.
But the smell was stronger here. It was drifting on the night breeze, carrying a heaviness that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
She tracked the wind. It wasn't coming from the main gate, nor the servants' quarters.
She turned her gaze to the left, toward the high stone walls of the enclosed courtyard.
The Training Ground.
Crystalline disks of water solidified in the midnight air, one after another, ascending from the dark training grounds below to the height of her window like a translucent staircase. Each disk perfectly spaced.
Elma's eyes widened, her pupils dilating as her tactical mind screamed a single word: Infiltration.
She retreated instantly, turning her back on the window and bolting toward the nursery door. She needed to alarm the guards, to find Christa—
But she never reached the handle.
The darkness behind her eyes flared with a sudden, blinding emerald light.
The twin green suns she had seen at the moment of her birth—the gaze of the entity that had sent her here—flashed through her mind.
S̷T̷O̷P̷.
The command was a physical blow. It didn't just echo in her mind; it seized her muscles. Thin, luminous green veins erupted beneath the pale skin of her arms and legs, pulsating with a rhythmic, sickly light that hummed through her bones.
Panic surged. She tried to scream, to move a finger. Nothing.
She was a passenger in her own skin, locked behind the glass of her own eyes.
Her body began to move.
It was a slow, jerky rotation, her small feet dragging across the rug as the unseen puppeteer turned her back toward the window.
The green veins throbbed, glowing brighter against the shadows of the room.
She watched, helpless, as her own hands reached out to grip the window sill.
Don't, she pleaded internally, the veteran warrior screaming at the void. The ground is too far. We'll die.
The entity didn't care. Her body hoisted itself onto the sill. She stared down at the dizzying dark abyss below.
Her heart hammered in her chest. The only muscle that worked as it should.
Then, with a smooth, terrifying precision, her right foot extended into the empty air, finding purchase on the surface of the first water disk.
It felt cold—impossibly solid—as she stepped out into the night, walking into the sky on a staircase of still water.
The descent was a slow, rhythmic torture.
Step after step, Elma's body moved with a grace that wasn't her own, her bare feet pressing against the freezing, crystalline surface of the water disks.
Her eyes darted frantically across the dark courtyard.
Where are the sentries? Where is the guard? The silence of the manor was absolute, save for the faint, rhythmic thump of her feet landing on each platform.
She was a ghost walking through a graveyard.
As she reached the final disk, her body stepped off and onto the cold, hard stone of the training ground.
The green light in her veins dimmed, but the paralysis remained, holding her upright and facing forward.
A silhouette stood near the center of the yard, partially obscured by the shadow of the granite fountain.
Mother? Elma's mind grasped at the hope. Christa? Is this another lesson?
The woman stepped forward, moving out of the darkness and into the pale moonlight.
The hope died instantly.
This wasn't Christa. The figure exuded far too much authority, her shoulders broad and thick with corded muscle that spoke of a lifetime of violence.
Her posture was unnervingly straight, military and rigid. She wore dark, practical leather armor, its surface marked with long, jagged streaks of deep crimson that traced the chest piece and greaves.
She was masked. A sleek ceramic covered her entire face, black and red, molded with sharp, catlike features that left no skin exposed. In her right hand, she gripped a short, heavy blade.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Fresh, hot blood dripped from her fingers, splattering against the stone floor. The scent was no longer a distant promise—it was a suffocating reality.
The woman stopped five paces away, her gaze raking over Elma's small, frozen form.
Then, the woman spoke, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. It was distorted, carrying a strange, metallic quality that rippled through the air like an echo reflecting off cold steel.
"Elma Altheris," she said, the name sounding like a curse in the quiet air.
Then, she stepped closer, the rasp of her voice dropping into a low, terrifying vibration that bypassed Elma's ears and echoed directly in her skull.
"D—66."