Professor Stone was a pragmatic man. Even here, in the muted gold glow of his private sitting room, he looked like soone who had already made every calculation worth making. His silk cream pajamas draped neatly over a fra still broad from his younger years; the only hint of indulgence was the expensive cigar burning slowly in the cut-glass ashtray on the side table. Its smoke curled upward in thin, blue-grey ribbons, weaving with the scent of old paper and night air drifting in from the balcony.
He was waiting for the inevitable.
Jonathan Clarke would call, or co in person, or send one of his children to do it for him. Either way, the rumor that Victor had pulled Elias out of the university labs and into the Nun manor would have reached him by now. Jonathan was predictable in that way, unable to leave a piece on the board when soone else had touched it.
Stone exhaled a long stream of smoke and watched it dissipate. He liked the boy. As he’d told Victor, he always needed soone capable and hardworking, soone who would actually read the journals instead of only citing them. But between a god and a man playing with a barely ascended god, the smart man knew where the horizon really was.
He tapped a fleck of ash into the tray, lips curving wryly. Jonathan would co looking for leverage, and he would offer Stone money, promises, and shares. Perhaps even try to dangle Elias back like bait. But Stone had already taken Victor’s call. Already weighed the odds.
He chuckled while scrolling through the research project on his tablet, the one he’d sent ahead with Elias to Victor, a joke disguised as a grant proposal. Even then, he’d known his student was more. He’d known about Adler’s research too, the gaps in the data, and the bias threaded through every line like bad wiring. Incomplete, slanted, and desperate. Elias was sothing different entirely: a stabilizer, a filter, maybe even sothing else altogether. The na didn’t matter; what mattered was that the Clarke family had never understood the tool they were holding.
The screen dimd for a heartbeat before it lit again, casting a square of cold light across the silk of his sleeve.
Jonathan Clarke.
Stone let the cigar hang between his fingers, the ash bending but not breaking. He didn’t rush to answer. He watched the na blink once, twice, and thought, as he always did, about how small n looked when they tried to bargain with storms.
Then he reached for the phone.
The ash finally gave way and dropped into the tray as Stone thumbed the green icon. He lifted the phone to his ear without bothering with a greeting.
"Professor," Jonathan’s voice ca smooth, pitched to sound cordial, but Stone could hear the tautness under it. "I assu you’ve heard the news."
Stone blew a thin stream of smoke away from the receiver. "Adler’s ascension," he said, as if naming the weather. "Congratulations. All that fasting and family politicking finally bore fruit. Your investnt paid off."
A faint pause. "It did," Jonathan said, pride leaking through. "And with Theobald’s rise cos opportunity. You’ve always known how to recognize potential, Professor. We’d like you close to him. Advise him. Help shape what he’s building."
Stone reclined deeper into his chair, the silk of his pajamas whispering against the leather. "You think dangling a god at is incentive enough to change my footing?"
"Not just any god," Jonathan pressed, lowering his voice as if confiding a secret. "Our god. Theobald trusts us. With your experience and his power, you’d be part of sothing no one can rival."
Stone chuckled, low and genuine, letting it roll through the line. "Oh, Jonathan. You make it sound like a mystery box. But I’ve already peeked inside."
Another pause. "aning?"
Stone tapped his ash again, eyes half-lidded. "aning Theobald didn’t tell you what kind of god he is. Did he?"
A beat of silence.
"He’s a god of nation," Stone continued, voice dry but edged with amusent. "A minor god. Territory, borders, bodies stacked neatly in parades. That’s all." He exhaled smoke and smiled to himself. "Powerful, yes. Pretty, yes. But still bound to maps and chants."
Jonathan’s breath hissed faintly through the line. "And you’re telling this because...?"
"Because you’re already trying to use him like a hamr for nails you don’t even see," Stone said, tone mild. "I like power and I like chaos, Jonathan, but I like knowing which one I’m playing with. You might want to learn the sa before you stand too close to his altar."
He stubbed out the cigar, the last curl of smoke rising like a warning between them. "Now. What exactly is it you’re offering ?"
Jonathan’s chuckle rasped faintly down the line, a sound that tried for warmth but ca out like dry paper. "Stone, he is still a god. And the dissidents are ours; a little worship, a little careful tending, and he’s going to climb ranks faster than anyone expects. But..." Jonathan’s voice dropped, confiding again, "I’d prefer to keep that path for my grandchild."
Stone’s brows arched, though his expression stayed neutral. He reached for the cut-glass ashtray and rotated it slowly between his fingers, the cold weight grounding him. "Ah," he murmured. "So that’s the real altar."
"Family legacy," Jonathan said smoothly. "Adler clears the way. The child ascends further. Everything we’ve built will finally pay off."
Stone let a small, humorless smile curve his mouth. "You’ve built a scaffolding on a fault line," he said softly. "And you’re still treating a god like an unpaid intern."
Jonathan made a dismissive sound. "He owes us. We made him."
Stone’s chuckle was low, the kind that ca with smoke and old books. "No, Jonathan. You gave him chants and blood and thought you were steering him. But you don’t make gods. You just open the door and hope what walks through is still your pet."
There was silence on the other end for a heartbeat, with the faint crackle of Jonathan’s breathing over the line.
Stone leaned back, folding one arm over the other. "If you’re asking to stand in that hall and whisper your lines in his ear, understand what you’re really offering . You’re handing a knife and asking to juggle it."
Jonathan tried for another chuckle, but this one ca out thin. "You’ll be well paid."
Stone’s smile widened a fraction, a glint of teeth behind the smoke. "I’m sure," he murmured. "But paynt doesn’t fix the problem of which way the blade points when it falls."
There was a faint pause on the other end of the line, then Jonathan’s voice slid back in, softer, more insinuating. "Bring Elias to a neutral zone and we will make sure that nothing will touch you. Victor may be a god, but he can’t kill without consequences."
Stone humd, low and amused, flicking a bit of ash into the tray. The sound was almost pitying. Jonathan had no idea about anything. "Ah. That’s what this is really about." He shifted the phone to his other hand and leaned back in his chair, cream silk whispering against the leather. "You’re still playing contracts with n while the one you’re baiting is a god who writes his own."
"Victor’s not untouchable," Jonathan pressed, but there was a flicker of unease now, the kind of tone Stone had heard from a thousand clients who thought they were still in control.
"No," Stone said mildly, "he’s worse. He’s unbothered. That’s why I already took his call before yours." He let the words hang there for a heartbeat, then added, still soft, "Fine. Send your plans, Jonathan. But be very sure you can pay for my work."
He ended the call before Jonathan could reply, the screen going black and leaving only the faint curl of cigar smoke between his fingers. For a mont Stone stared at his own reflection in the dark glass, lips curving into a small, private smile.
Reviews
All reviews (0)