Grace looked at Vaeliyan and said, “You know, we’re lucky nobody seed to be in that building, because they definitely would have asked about your wings. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Legion armor with wings before. What’s that about?”
Vaeliyan rolled one shoulder in a small shrug, the segnted plates of his armor shifting with a faint, controlled movent. “It’s a boon from one of the gods,” he said. “My armor and my jacket are basically one system. Sa structure, sa response.” He hesitated just long enough for it to be noticeable, then added, “And I’m not going to tell you about the rest of it.”
Grace studied him for a second, clearly weighing how much to push. In the end, she just smiled. “Fair enough.” She settled beside him, resting one hand lightly against the rail and turning her attention to the window, watching the city slide past in silence.
Vaeliyan sat on the train as it glided through the city, the motion smooth enough that it barely registered in his body. Bastard was curled in his lap, solid and warm, his weight grounding in a way Vaeliyan appreciated more than he liked to admit. Roundy floated in the middle of the cabin like a hovering disc, perfectly balanced and entirely indifferent to the speed or direction of travel.
Vaeliyan’s attention kept drifting, circling the sa problem over and over. Gleck. He tried to picture the man, to assign him a shape or a posture or a voice, but nothing stuck. All he really had were reputations and fragnts, none of them reassuring. He wondered what kind of person chose to live the way Gleck did, and what kind of person survived it.
Outside the windows, the city stread past in layers of futuristic color. Neon signs slid overhead and along the sides of buildings, their reflections stretching and warping across the glass. At one point, he was almost certain the train passed straight through the middle of an advertisent. For a brief slice of ti, the view blurred fractionally, as if reality itself had been sared, then snapped back into focus. When he looked again, an enormous ad hovered behind the train, already shrinking into the distance. That was… honestly kind of incredible.
He leaned closer to the window, trying to spot the transition points, the seams where physical space gave way to projection and back again. No luck. Whatever system controlled it was clean, elegant, and completely hidden.
He finally looked around the cabin, taking in what little there was to see. The space was comfortable but sealed, all smooth surfaces and quiet lighting. There were no exposed chanisms, no panels to remove, nothing to study. That disappointed him more than he expected. He wanted to see the guts of it, the rails, the drives, the logic that made sothing like this possible. Still, even without that, the ride itself was enjoyable, and the view alone almost made up for it.
If not for the fact that he was on his way to et a madman, it would have been perfect. He imagined Wren standing beside the window, Belle cradled securely in his arms. Wren would be pointing things out to her. Bright colors would slide past the glass, neon and motion and light, and Belle would just giggle and burble, delighted by the movent, the shifting hues, the simple joy of watching the world go by. She would not care where they were or how it worked. She would just be happy, wrapped in his arms, soaking it in. Vaeliyan would be watching her the whole ti, morizing the sound of that laughter, the way her attention caught on light and color, wishing he could give her more monts like that.
Instead, everywhere he went seed to be was full of insane people.
Not that he was innocent in that regard. He knew exactly what he was capable of, and most of the ti he knew when he was the most dangerous person in the room. That awareness usually kept him alive. Here, though, he could not guarantee it. The man he was about to et might be exactly that kind of threat, the sort you only recognize once it is already too late. Grace, too, was almost certainly stronger than him, in ways that mattered.
If it ca down to a fight between the three of them, Vaeliyan was fairly sure he would end up on the bottom, and that certainty sat heavy in his chest as the train carried him deeper into the city.
The trip did not take very long before Grace stood up and said, “We’re here.”
Where here was, Vaeliyan was not entirely sure.
He followed her gaze as she looked out through the glass, trying to catch whatever signal or landmark she was using. From what he could tell, it was just another building, tall and polished, its surface catching the city’s light in a way that made it look expensive and deliberately unremarkable. It blended in too well, indistinguishable from half a dozen others they had passed on the way in. There was no dramatic skyline shift, no sense of arrival. No obvious landmark or flourish to announce importance. Just another slice of the city pretending to be ordinary.
Grace walked toward the glass without hesitation, her confidence making it clear she had done this before. As she approached, the train responded imdiately, panels sliding apart with smooth, almost anticipatory precision. The doors opened seamlessly, and they stepped forward together, passing through another layer of glass and directly into the building itself as if the boundary between transit and destination barely existed.
Inside, the space was busy.
The air felt different, denser sohow, filled with motion and quiet urgency. People moved with purpose, crossing paths, stopping to speak in low voices, checking displays, then disappearing into side corridors and lifts. Everything about the place suggested constant activity, transactions and decisions stacked on top of one another without pause. Vaeliyan could not pin down exactly what kind of building it was, only that it felt important in a quiet, administrative way, the sort of place where power wore neutral colors and never raised its voice.
He straightened his posture and tried to be inconspicuous.
It did not work.
People stared.
Their eyes tracked him as he passed, drawn to his back, to the clean lines of his armor, to the wings folded tight and disciplined against it. A few people slowed as they walked, curiosity breaking their rhythm. Others stopped outright, pretending to check ssages or displays while openly watching him instead. Once they noticed him, they noticed Grace too, if only because she was walking at his side.
Grace sighed under her breath, her mouth tightening just slightly. “Well. This is annoying.”
She did not slow down or attempt to explain anything. Instead, she reached back and took hold of him with casual authority, fingers closing around his arm as she pulled him along. Bastard stayed close at his side, alert but calm. Styll followed without comnt, moving as if she barely registered the attention at all. Roundy drifted along behind them, a quiet, floating presence that seed to confuse people almost as much as the wings did.
They cut through the flow of foot traffic, Grace angling them around clusters of people with practiced ease, until she reached a bank of elevators set into a broad wall. Vaeliyan assud they were about to step into one of the open lifts, but instead she stopped short and placed her hand flat against the wall to the right, exactly where there did not appear to be anything of interest.
The wall shifted.
Panels slid apart and reconfigured themselves with a subtle hum, surfaces rearranging until a third elevator erged where there had been none a mont before. The transition was clean and precise, as if the building itself was politely revealing a secret.
Vaeliyan studied it, then looked at her. “Penthouse?” he asked. “Basent? Subsub basent?”
Grace shook her head as they stepped inside. “No. It’s not that.” She waved one hand vaguely, as if brushing aside the idea altogether. “Yuri said people always assu you’re either hiding at the very top or buried underground sowhere. Those are the first places anyone looks.”
The doors slid shut behind them.
“So, he built it in the middle instead,” she continued. “We’re going down to floor thirteen. It’s a floor no one can reach without the right access. If you don’t know it’s there, you don’t even think to look for it.” She exhaled softly; a sound caught sowhere between amusent and resignation. “I still think it’s super paranoid, honestly. But it worked for him, and that’s hard to argue with.”
She glanced over at Vaeliyan as the elevator began its smooth descent. “So,” she said, settling back slightly, “let’s go.”
“There are a few things you should know before you interact with Yuri,” Grace said, her tone shifting just enough to signal that this was not casual advice. This was a list. “First, never walk on his left side. He doesn’t like that.”
Vaeliyan glanced at her, asuring her expression. “Because of an injury?”
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“No,” she said imdiately, almost reflexively. “There’s nothing wrong with him. His eyesight is perfect. Better than most, actually.” She paused, then added, “He just does not like the idea of soone being on his left. I don’t know where it started. He’s very particular about it, and it matters more than you’d expect.”
Vaeliyan absorbed that, filed it away. Rules like that were rarely arbitrary, even when they sounded like they were.
Grace continued without breaking stride, clearly not finished. “Second, if he offers you anything to eat or drink, politely decline. Always. No exceptions.”
Vaeliyan frowned. “Poison?”
Grace let out a short breath that might have been a laugh, though there was no humor in her eyes. “Not intentionally. He doesn’t think in those terms. But nothing he offers is ever safe for consumption. Not for you. Not for . Not for anyone. Including himself.” She shook her head slightly. “Most of the ti, I’m the one who has to get him actual food, just to make sure he eats sothing that won’t dissolve him from the inside out.”
Vaeliyan looked at her for a mont longer than he needed to, then said, “It sounds like you take care of him.”
She tilted her head, considering the phrasing. “Kind of,” she said at last. “He’s always busy. He forgets things that don’t directly relate to whatever he’s working on, including himself.” Her expression softened just a fraction, not enough to be sentintal, but enough to be telling. “I think you’ll understand why once you et him.”
The elevator doors slid open in front of them, revealing a smooth, enclosed space that looked no different from any other high-end lift. Grace stepped in without hesitation, and Vaeliyan followed.
Out of habit, Vaeliyan waited.
He half-expected Grace to press another hidden panel, to trigger so additional layer or concealed chanism. He watched her hands, ready for it.
Nothing happened.
The doors closed smoothly behind them, sealing with a soft, airtight sound that he felt more than heard.
A neutral voice filled the space, perfectly even and entirely uninterested in their comfort. “Hello. This is decontamination. Please hold still.”
Vaeliyan stiffened, instinct pulling his shoulders tight.
“Hair loss and skin irritation are part of the process,” the voice continued calmly, as if reciting routine weather information. “Please do not be alard. It is recomnded that you hold your breath during your descent.”
Vaeliyan did not look away from the doors. He drew in a slow breath, then held it, very aware of Grace standing beside him and how unfazed she seed by the entire procedure.
The descent was long, far longer than felt reasonable, and Vaeliyan had no doubt it would have killed a normal person outright. The pressure alone would have crushed lungs, burst capillaries, and left nothing but a body that never even realized it was dying. For him, though, it was rely uncomfortable. Holding his breath was not a problem, not anymore. His lungs held steady, uncomplaining, adapting to the strain as if it were just another environntal variable to solve.
Grace stood beside him as if nothing unusual was happening at all. Her posture never changed. If the duration bothered her, she gave no sign of it. She looked forward, calm and grounded, like soone who had done this many tis before and found it unremarkable.
As the seconds dragged on, Vaeliyan felt his scalp begin to itch and prickle. He resisted the reflexive urge to reach up, forcing his hands to stay still at his sides. The sensation spread across his skin, faint at first, then sharper, crawling downward in an orderly progression. It felt less like pain and more like sothing being thodically removed, as if invisible hands were carefully stripping away layers he did not need anymore.
Styll, all fur and impatience, wriggled in his arms. She shifted restlessly, ears flicking, body tense with curiosity. She craned her head upward, clearly wanting to see what was happening, and tried to breathe in despite his grip, driven more by instinct than fear.
Roundy reacted instantly.
One of his limbs snapped out, smooth and precise, intercepting Styll mid-motion. In a single, practiced movent, he pulled her inside his body before she could draw a breath. Vaeliyan glanced at the little murderbot and gave a short nod. “Thank you.”
Roundy attempted sothing that might generously be called a nod in return, his body shifting in a way that suggested acknowledgent.
Then he lurched violently.
Styll began rampaging inside him, claws scraping, teeth snapping, indignation radiating through every frantic movent. Being locked away was very clearly not her ideal situation, and she made that opinion known with enthusiasm.
Bastard watched the entire exchange with placid indifference. His posture remained relaxed, eyes half-lidded, as if this was well within the range of normal behavior. He did not intervene, did not react, and did not look concerned in the slightest.
It did not last long, though Vaeliyan suspected Roundy would rember it. He doubted the little machine would let the disruption go unanswered, and whatever correction followed would likely be thorough.
Gradually, the motion slowed. The oppressive pressure eased, lifting just enough to be noticeable. Vaeliyan let the tension drain from his shoulders as the environnt stabilized around them.
The doors slid open.
“You may now breathe,” the neutral voice announced. “Thank you for not dying. Please enter the laboratory of Yurimdaal Gleck, High Chancellor of the Green Zone.”
There was a brief pause, the silence stretching just long enough to be deliberate, and then the voice added, “Welco, Grace. Welco, Vaeliyan. Welco, other guests.”
Vaeliyan stepped into a laboratory that felt like it had been stitched together from his dreams and his nightmares, not blended or harmonized, but crudely joined at the seams. The space pulled at him in opposite directions at once, fascination and revulsion twisting together in a way that made his pulse quicken.
Machines filled the space in every direction, layered and interconnected, humming with restrained power. Cables ran like veins along the floor and walls, disappearing into housings that clicked, whirred, and adjusted themselves in quiet conversation. So of the machines were elegant, precise, and beautiful in a way that made his fingers itch. Their construction was deliberate, almost affectionate, as if whoever had built them had cared deeply about efficiency, balance, and long-term function. They spoke directly to the part of him that loved systems, chanisms, and clever solutions. He felt a genuine, almost physical pull toward them, a quiet hunger to understand how they worked, how they could be improved, how far they could be pushed before sothing fundantal gave way.
And then there was the rest of it.
Weird, wrong things occupied whole sections of the lab, intruding on that beauty like an infection. Vile-looking fluids flowed through transparent piping, pumping steadily into a massive open vat that dominated one corner of the room. The contents churned slowly, a nauseating mixture that looked like vomit and fecal matter blended together and kept warm. The sll alone felt aggressive, as if it would burn his eyes if he focused on it for too long. Even breathing shallowly did not help. He was almost certain sothing was swimming beneath the surface, disturbing the sludge in slow, deliberate arcs that suggested purpose rather than accident.
Nearby, industrial-strength forges roared quietly, their heat contained by layered shielding and heavy clamps. The glow from within them painted the surrounding tal in dull oranges and reds. Half-finished experints lay scattered across worktables and raised platforms, frozen mid-process. Vaeliyan could tell they were incomplete, abandoned at so crucial stage, but he could not tell what most of them were ant to beco. Too many systems overlapped. Too many unfamiliar principles collided. Biology bled into tallurgy. Chemistry leaned into chanics. The scale of the place was enormous, a sprawling expanse of controlled chaos that stretched far beyond a single person’s ability to manage.
And yet, soone did.
There was one man.
Vaeliyan froze when he saw him.
The man was thin and reedy, almost fragile in build, his shoulders narrow beneath a wrinkled lab coat that had seen far better days. His skin was sallow, stretched tight in places, his head completely bald. His posture was slightly hunched, as if the weight of thought pressed down on his spine. But his face was unmistakable.
It was the face of Gregor.
The Emperor’s face.
The man walked toward them with small, unhurried steps, slippers slapping softly against the polished floor. One slipper had a hole worn clean through the front, exposing a pale toe. He wore glasses that slid constantly down his nose, which he pushed back up with a distracted finger as he approached, already half-lost in his own thoughts.
He was not Green Zone perfect. Not polished. Not intimidating. There was no cultivated authority in his stance, no aesthetic dominance.
He was not what Vaeliyan expected.
And sohow, he was exactly what he should have expected.
“Ah, Vaeliyan, my boy,” the man said. His voice was reedy and thin, almost small, entirely at odds with the face he wore. “It is so good to see you. I have been waiting.”
Vaeliyan knew, distantly, that in the Old Legion, so people wore the Emperor’s face. Just as the enforcers wore the face of Bonaparte, identity could be replicated, standardized, reused as a tool. Knowing that did not make this any easier to accept in practice.
“Do you know why I brought you here?” the man continued, peering at Vaeliyan as if trying to see past him. “Did Grace tell you the secret?”
“Grace?” he cut in sharply, turning toward her. The movent felt wrong sohow, hollow, like the mont lagged behind the intention. Before Vaeliyan could say more, the man laughed.
“Ha ha ha ha.”
The sound was identical.
Four sharp laughs in a rapid cadence, chanically precise. Forced, or perhaps genuinely unhinged. Vaeliyan could not decide which possibility unsettled him more.
Grace t his gaze calmly, unflinching. “No,” she said. “I didn’t tell him anything, Yuri.”
“Ah,” Yuri said, brightening suddenly, the shift abrupt enough to feel unnatural. “Did you bring snacks?”
“Yes,” Grace replied. She reached into her kimono and pulled out what Vaeliyan could only describe as a blue apple, its skin faintly luminous.
Yuri’s eyes widened. “Oh. A cruthian, my favorite how did you know?” He took it with reverence, turning it slowly in his hands, holding it up to the light as if checking for flaws that only he could see. His fingers were stained with old residue, colors that did not belong together, and yet he handled the fruit with a care that bordered on tenderness. “Hmm. I haven’t had one of those since…” His brow furrowed, his attention visibly drifting away from the room, the machines, even the people standing in front of him. “What were we talking about again?”
He shook his head, dismissing the thought with a small, irritated motion, then held the apple out toward Vaeliyan as if the idea had just occurred to him fully ford. “Never mind. Would you like this?”
Vaeliyan hesitated. The offer felt wrong in a way he could not articulate, like stepping into a chanism without understanding where the pressure points were. At that mont, Styll finally wriggled free of Roundy, landing on the floor with an indignant shake of fur and a sharp, offended posture. She imdiately fluffed herself up, glaring at the world as if daring it to comnt. Roundy sagged slightly, his posture adjusting as if conceding defeat after a mostly useless struggle and recalibrating his internals.
Vaeliyan looked at Grace, searching her face for confirmation, for warning, for anything at all.
Yuri laughed again. “Ha ha ha ha.”
Before Vaeliyan could answer, Grace said evenly, “No, Yuri. That’s for you. I brought that for you. Why are you offering food to your guests when I handle that? Please move on to the business at hand.”
Yuri blinked, processing. Then he smiled, the expression settling into place a beat too late.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said. “Let us proceed.” He turned and gestured deeper into the lab, already drifting away. “Please follow .”
“Ha ha ha ha.”
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