The stone arcs through air. Splash.

  Ripples swallow House Azure's reflection, spires fragmenting in disturbed water. I select another stone. Smooth. Flat. Perfect for skipping.

  Three versions of myself flicker in my mind, layered like veils of silk catching different light: four-year-old-me lying on my back, staring up at cousin Septimus's sneering face; present-me standing where he once stood, stone in hand; and future-me—

  I push that one away. Not now. Focus on the stone.

  My grandmother's words echo. Demon. Hunger. Vessel. The stone flies from my hand, too hard, too angry. It plunges straight down. No skips. No grace. Just fury.

  I reach for my Inner Hell, trying to lock the rage away in that dark place where unwanted emotions go to burn. But today it fights back, slipping through my mental grasp like water through cupped hands, and the more I try to contain it, the hotter it burns. Another stone. Another throw. Each one a battle between the control House Azure demands and the chaos my grandmother's words have unleashed.

  The Azure part whispers its familiar litany: Preparation. Forms. Proof. This is how we earn worth, how we justify the space we occupy in a world that wishes we did not exist.

  The Netniem blood burns hotter, answering in my mother's tongue with words that have no translation, only feeling: She has no right. No right to name you demon when her own blood runs cold with prejudice.

  The survivor knows better. Knows that rage is a luxury I cannot afford.

  Not yet.

  "Your form is getting sloppy."

  Cyra. I do not turn, do not need to. Her presence fills the space behind me the way sunlight fills a room, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.

  "Should you not be preparing for the Festival of Retrospection?" The words come out sharper than intended.

  She moves beside me, her silver-blue robes shimmering in the light. "The pond keeper will wonder why the koi have fled to the far bank." A pause. Her voice shifts, grows softer. "I was younger than you when they came."

  They? The Nihil?

  The stone in my hand grows heavy. The Second Shattering. She never speaks of this. Never. Not in six years.

  "I remember the screams first." Her voice is soft, almost wondering, as if she is surprised the memory remains so clear. "How they seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing through corridors that folded in ways that made your eyes hurt to follow. Then the silence came. Not the peaceful quiet of meditation gardens or empty temple alcoves, but something else entirely. Something wrong."

  Her words fall like glowglobes into dark water, each one carrying weight she has held for six years.

  "The way the air itself seemed to die, as if the Nihil consumed not just matter but the very possibility of sound. Have you ever heard a world go quiet, Janus? Truly quiet, the way a world should never be?" She pauses, and in that pause I hear the question she is really asking: Do you understand what it means to watch everything you know unmake itself? "It is not natural. Nothing in all creation should be that still."

  I turn to her, and my throat tightens with words I cannot find. Her eyes are distant, seeing something beyond the pond, beyond now, beyond the six years that separate us from that day. I want to look away. Cannot. She has never spoken of this, not once in all the years since we fled through the Balah, and now that she has begun, I owe her the courtesy of bearing witness.

  "Mother grabbed me." The words come slower now, each one a stone she must lift and carry forward. "We ran through corridors that should not have existed, through spaces that hurt to look at, where geometry itself seemed to scream. The Nihil were everywhere and nowhere at once." She wraps her arms around herself, though whether for warmth or to hold the memories in, I cannot tell. "I saw what they did to people. How they unmade them, turned them inside out. Not just their bodies, Janus. Their souls."

  Unmade. The word echoes in the space between her revelation and my silence, connecting to the creatures in my vision, their forms breaking apart like sand sculptures caught in rising tide. Like me, perhaps. Something unmaking itself from the inside, piece by piece, identity fragmenting under the weight of too many names: Janus, demon, vessel, Balah-Born.

  The stone cuts into my palm. I focus on the pain, grounding myself in its sharp reality. Real. Present. Not vision. Not prophecy. Not the future pressing against the now.

  She watches the ripples fade into stillness, the way all things eventually return to their original state. "I still dream about it sometimes," she says quietly. "The unmaking. The silence. The way the world ended in stages, each one worse than the last, until there was nothing left but the Balah and the hope that we might survive it."

  Her eyes find mine, sharp and present, pulled back from six years ago to now.

  Tell her, a part of me whispers in my head. Tell her about the Veilstone. About the throne. About the word that will not stop echoing. But I cannot. Will not add my nightmares to hers. She has carried enough.

  I let the stone fall. It hits the ground with a dull thud.

  "Cyra, I—"

  "Young master. Optimate Cyra."

  Darius. His violet-gray eyes catch the light as he approaches. So like my own. The Mark of Nullification stands stark against his neck, a reminder of different paths and choices. A warning, perhaps. This is what happens when you fail.

  He bows, precise and formal. "Dularch Titus requests your presence. Immediately."

  My spine stiffens. Requests. As if I have a choice.

  Cyra straightens, mask sliding back into place. But her words linger, heavy as stones in deep water.

  "Of course," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "We would not want to keep him waiting."

  Darius's eyes hold a flicker of sympathy as he turns to lead us. He knows, as we do, that a summons from Titus Ragnos is rarely cause for celebration.

  Cyra's hand brushes mine as we follow. A silent reminder: whatever comes next, we face it together.

  Above us, House Azure's spires pierce the sky like frozen lightning, watching. Always watching.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Darius leads us along a winding path that shifts and blurs with shadows, the tesseract geometry folding space in ways that make distance meaningless, until we emerge into the harsh light of day. The Grand Causeway stretches before us, a span of ivory marble linking House Azure with the Dularch-Temple, neutral ground between the two great houses.

  Uncle Titus stands at the head of the gathering, his ceremonial armor gleaming under the sun. The Chatelaines flank him in their formal robes, a sea of silver and blue that ripples with each breath of wind. Behind them, the other scions who passed their testing stand proud, their faces masks of serenity I wish I could mirror.

  My skin prickles. So many eyes. So many thoughts of demon and hunger and vessel.

  "Stand tall," Cyra whispers, taking her place beside me. "Let them look."

  I drop into a deep bow before Uncle Titus, arms crossed in the formal gesture of House Azure. "My Qilin, I present myself as—"

  "Did you intend to keep us waiting all day?" His voice cuts through my greeting like steel through silk.

  The words catch in my throat. My throat closes. The Inner Hell churns, feeding on the silence, on the weight of all those eyes. "Chatelaine Elethra forbade me from attending the Festival."

  "Who rules here?" Titus's eyes bore into mine. "She or I?"

  Ice spreads through my chest as the weight of the question settles. The wrong answer could shatter more than just this moment. It could define the next six years, could determine whether I walk toward the First Baptism as a scion of House Azure or as a nameless orphan tolerated only by obligation.

  The Azure part whispers: careful, careful, weigh every word.

  The Netniem blood burns hotter: Neither of you rule me. Neither has that right.

  But the survivor knows the only truth that matters in this moment, standing before witnesses who wait to see if the demon-child understands hierarchy.

  "You do, my Qilin."

  "Then take your place."

  I move to the back of the gathering, where the lesser scions stand. The marble feels cold beneath my feet even through my boots, and though the sun beats down with all the fierce heat of midday, I cannot feel its warmth.

  The other scions shift as I approach, creating a pocket of space around me with the unconscious precision of bodies avoiding contagion. As if failure might spread through proximity. As if demon blood might dilute their own. As if whatever I am could somehow unmake what they are.

  My jaw locks. Teeth grinding.

  Cyra glides forward to stand beside our uncle, her robes whispering against the stone. She takes the position reserved for the High-Chatelaine, the space where Mother should be. The empty air beside her feels like an accusation.

  Talon and Enna, the golden twins, stand on either side of the group. Enna's smirk cuts across the distance between us. Their contempt is as pure as their lineage.

  I lock my spine straight. Keep my eyes forward. I will not look to Cyra for reassurance. Will not give them that satisfaction.

  We proceed down the Grand Causeway toward the Dularch-Temple. As we approach, the air changes. Thicker. More charged. The neutral ground between House Azure and House Vermilion holds a certain gravity, a reminder of both unity and rivalry.

  Within the grand halls of the Dularch-Temple, tension and ceremony blend like incense and smoke, impossible to separate, creating an atmosphere that sits heavy on the shoulders. The air itself seems to buzz with the weight of tradition and expectation, with the accumulated significance of hundreds of years of festivals held in this very chamber.

  Meeting us in the central chamber is Helena Urisius, the High-Chatelaine of House Vermilion. Her platinum-blond hair is braided with red and black gems that catch the light and throw it back transformed, and her double pupils, the mark of an Eidolon, survey us with a mixture of intensity and curiosity that makes my skin prickle. Her presence is commanding, wrapped in ceremonial robes that speak of power and elegance.

  I have seen her before. In memories that feel like dreams. In moments that slip away before I can grasp them. Something about her pulls at the edges of my consciousness, familiar and foreign at once.

  Behind her stand several boys my age, first sons of the Grandmasters of the Conclaves. They wear their duty like armor, sent to House Vermilion through the Rite of Fidelity the way first daughters come to us. Their expressions carry resolve and uncertainty in equal measure.

  My gaze locks onto a pair of striking blue eyes among the group, and something in my chest shifts. Recognition without memory, familiarity without context. Penelope. The name surfaces from somewhere I cannot identify, as if it has always been there, waiting. Her platinum-blond hair falls in waves around her graceful, watchful face, and our eyes meet across the space between House Azure and House Vermilion with an intensity that makes the air feel charged.

  My chest tightens, a physical response I cannot name or control. I have seen her before. I know this with the certainty of bone-deep truth. But where? When? The memory slips away like water through bent claws, leaving only the ghost of recognition and the echo of something important forgotten.

  By her side stands Castor, his athletic build and intense blue eyes mirroring his sister's. He assesses us with barely concealed arrogance, a smirk playing on his lips. I recognize that look. Have seen it on Talon's face often enough. The confidence of those who have never been called demon.

  Helena Urisius steps forward.

  "My Qilin." The formal bow, precise to the degree. "Six years since you assumed the seat. The Festival must feel different now." A pause, weighted. "I still remember watching Leocian stand where you stand. He had such certainty about duty."

  Uncle Titus's jaw tightens. "My brother understood what was required. As do we all."

  "Required." Helena's lips curve. "Yes. Taking up his mantle. His responsibilities." Her gaze drifts. "His family."

  The implication hangs between them.

  "The past is settled, High-Chatelaine. We honor it by focusing on present duties."

  "Present duties." Helena nods slowly. Her eyes find me, and the temperature drops. "Though sometimes the past returns in unexpected forms."

  She steps closer, studying me like a puzzle with missing pieces.

  "Leocian's features, certainly. The bearing. But the eyes." She leans closer. "Darker. And the skin. Warmer." Her head tilts, examining me like a specimen in a collector's case. "These are not Azure traits, are they?"

  A pause, weighted.

  "Though I suppose I should not be surprised. Your mother always did have distinctive coloring. We attended the Collegium in the same year, she and I." Something brittle enters her voice. "We were close once. Sisters in transformation. Until Leocian caught her eye and she forgot she had friends who bled beside her."

  Another step toward me. Close enough now that I can see the double pupils contract.

  "So this is Leocian's and Kaelenya's git?"

  The word detonates.

  "HELENA!" Uncle Titus's roar shakes the chamber. His hand shoots out, catching Cyra's arm as she lunges forward. "Direct your insults at me if you must, or save them for those who have entered Nenuphar and can answer with steel!"

  The Codicil blazes across his forehead.

  Helena steps back, smile fixed. "Forgive me. The joyousness of this day has made me lose all sense of propriety."

  Lies wrapped in silk.

  Uncle Titus's face contorts. The Codicil spreads like liquid fire. Words spill from his mouth. Ancient. Scraping against reality itself. The syllables make my teeth ache and my bones hum.

  The air splits.

  Reality tears open before us, edges curling like burning paper, and through the gap I glimpse New Larin's frozen surface far below. Our adopted home since the Second Shattering, the world we fled to when the Nihil reduced our original planet to ash and silence. The tesseract structure of Malkiel rests upon this frozen ground, hidden beneath facades of normalcy, dimensional impossibilities folded into spaces that appear merely grand to those who walk New Larin's icy surface.

  The portal pulses. A reminder. A warning.

  Helena's smile falters.

  The gathered crowd draws back. Even the smirking Conclave boys straighten, reminded of the raw power the Codicil grants its bearer. The words of power may be beyond my understanding, but their effect is undeniable.

  Power. Real power. The kind that tears reality itself. The kind that makes people step back. The kind I need.

  I catch Cyra's eye across the space of the chamber, and her face is tight with concern, but there is something else there too. Calculation, assessment, the working of a mind that understands power and its displays. She sees what I see: Uncle Titus losing control, or appearing to lose it, allowing Helena's barbs to pierce through his carefully maintained composure. It is unlike him to react so strongly, unlike him to waste power on such a dramatic display when mere words could have sufficed.

  Or perhaps it is not waste at all. Perhaps it is message, carefully crafted despite its appearance of rage: This is what happens when you push too far. This is the power that awaits those who insult what is mine.

  The portal waits, edges shimmering like heat over stone, a reminder of power I do not yet possess.

  My breath comes steady now. Controlled. The rage locked away where it can feed the Inner Hell, where it can transform into something useful, something sharp. Where it can make me stronger.

  One more day until the First Baptism.

  One more day until I prove every last one of them wrong.

  Or die trying.