Luc did not explain where we were going, only that it was "customary."
I was still recovering from the dream I had, but strangely, with Luc by my side I thought even if such things happened in real life she would co and save .
However, "customary" was never comforting.
I dreaded breaking rules, but following the rules was no easier. There were always questions - What are the rules? Do I understand them correctly? What if there are so rules that I missed? What if rules have changed? What if I’m with a group of people who actually hate these rules? Wouldn’t acting ’customary’ make look bad?
Rules. They were all just suffocatingly scary whether they existed or not.
Nevertheless, I followed now my trustworthy assistant through another hidden hallway that I wasn’t sure I could find again by myself. This wing of the Roen Tower felt like a sanctum, untouched by footsteps, or if they did, any and all traces were erased. As if nothing happened.
Velvet carpeting muted the sound of our movent. Dim lights hung on the walls.
The deeper we walked, the older the air felt - not dusty, but heavy, like it had absorbed the silence of generations.
2
"This room is typically not visited by the heir," Luc said, her voice quiet, respecting the silence. "Traditionally, the items are curated. Delivered in selection."
"What items?"
"Gifts for the new heir."
"Gifts?"
"Offerings."
That made rember again that this place wasn’t normal. I don’t know what CEOs are normally supposed to be like, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t like this in other companies. In this tower, I was royalty. A saint. An icon.
So my ’subjects’ provide offerings as I ascended to the throne in my office...
And it bothered .
"You an you ’typically’ choose what the heir get to see?"
"Heirs are not actually interested in the offerings. There is nothing they can’t acquire themselves. It’s more for amusent. I just pick things that the new heirs might find entertaining."
"Why bring here then...?"
"Because you are different, Miss Roen. I thought you might prefer to look through them yourself."
Her words made sothing stir in my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt.
The door at the end of the corridor lood. It wasn’t ornate, but it stood taller than usual, frad in deep walnut and polished brass.
Luc opened it without any grandeur.
Inside was a gallery-like room. Dim, climate-controlled, pristine. Long tables covered in white cloths stretched out before like banquet tables for the dead. Hundreds of gift boxes lined them. So were extravagantly wrapped in velvet, silk, or gold foil. Others were plain, even humble.
I stood frozen. Overwheld by the sign of affection that my so-called employees were showing .
Luc remained behind . Silent, but watching. Waiting.
I made myself walk.
The gifts ranged widely. So were inexpensive but adorable. Key rings, flower shaped brooch, even so cute cartoon character goods. On the other hand, so were luxury items. Designer bags, shoes, classy ink pen. There was a silk scarf the shade of midnight, and another one the shade of purest white. They shimred, glittered, and shone - all of them all too brightly, all too sincerely.
"Thank you for returning hope."
"For our future."
"For her grace."
It should have made happy. And I was.
But at the sa ti, it made nauseous.
I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t earned any of this. I was just a frightened girl in a suit pretending not to drown.
Still, I whispered "thank you" to each one. I felt them all. I rubbed each one of them with my thumb. Examined their color, felt the texture, and took its weight into my heart. It was for all of them, and also for . Even if I couldn’t return a smile to every single one of them, I wanted to take a mont to appreciate every single gift that I was showered with.
I was halfway down the third table when I saw it.
A small box wrapped in elegantly rough-textured paper - matte black.
My fingers hovered over it. Sothing drew in.
I picked it up gently and unwrapped it, trying not to rip the paper.
The box itself was also black and had the feel of a cardboard.
I opened it.
Inside was a high school na tag.
My high school na tag.
There was no way I couldn’t recognize it. I wore this na tag for three years.
It was the one clipped to my uniform blazer as I nervously walked to school. It was the one I fiddled with when I didn’t know what to say to people.
Lin Roen. Plain font. Plastic fra.
It shouldn’t be here.
My throat tightened. My hands trembled. For a mont, I forgot to breathe.
Luc appeared at my side, gently pulling my hand away from the box, which she put back on the table.
"Step back," she said softly.
I obeyed, still in shock.
She knelt beside the table, not touching the box. Only studying it.
Then she stood.
"Nabir."
I felt like the lights dimd suddenly, but realized that it was because a shadow was cast over us. I turned to find an impossibly tall man dressed in black suit and trench coat. He was wearing a black mask, or more like - a muzzle, covering half of his face. It seed to be made of leather.
He knelt. Not to , but to Luc.
"Yes, Mistress."
Luc picked up the na tag from the box, placed it on her palm, and brought it close to Nabir’s face.
"Find them."
Nabir leaned in to bring his muzzled nose. His nostrils flared once, breathing deep, taking in the scent.
I looked at Luc. Totally lost, confused at what was happening. But when my eyes turned to Nabir again, he was gone.
Just gone.
The silence that followed felt unnatural.
Luc turned to .
"Soone wanted you to see this," she said.
"What... what for...?"
"This will be dealt with, Miss Roen. I’m terribly sorry for bringing you here. "
I was disorientated. My past was rging with the present, and I hadn’t learned to gaze into future yet.
"Is it dangerous?"
Luc didn’t answer. Not directly.
She stepped closer to .
Close.
Closer.
Her gaze softened, just a little. Enough for to see the shadow of sothing behind it.
"You belong here more than they do," she said.
My knees buckled.
Luc caught before I hit the floor.
She didn’t say anything else.
She just held - steady, unmoving, like a statue that outlived ti itself - until I could stand again.
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