The Spire's west wing was a graveyard of memories.
I shouldn't have been here.
Julian had barricaded himself in his study again, the sound of breaking glass echoing through the stone halls like gunshots in a cathedral. He was unraveling. I could feel it through the walls, in the way the very air seemed to tighten, like it held its breath along with me.
But I couldn't sit still. Not after hearing that word.
Soulweaver.
It haunted the edges of my thoughts, wrapped itself around my spine like a question I couldn't unask.
The corridor stretched narrow and long, swallowed in half-light. The sconces had long since gone cold, leaving only moonlight spilling through the fractured glass windows, painting the floors in a lattice of silver and shadow. The walls were lined with veiled portraits, draped in linen like corpses awaiting identification. The air smelled of old wood, candle wax, and forgotten things.
I moved slowly, my fingers trailing the stone as I passed, as if the wall itself might reach back and tell me something. One of the sheets had slipped a little—just a corner—but it was enough. A slash of oil paint peeked out beneath the dust, defiantly vibrant against the gloom.
Curiosity tugged me forward.
I reached up and pulled the sheet aside.
It fell in a hush, like a secret being exhaled.
Beneath it, a portrait cracked with age, but still alive with color. A young man seated at a grand piano, his fingers poised above ivory keys. His expression was gentle, wistful almost, as though he were listening to a note only he could hear. His smile barely touched his mouth but radiated from his eyes.
My stomach lurched.
Because I knew that face.
It wasn't exactly mine but it might as well have been. The curls were looser, the jawline softer, the features etched in a gentler time. But the resemblance was undeniable. The same dark hair that refused to be tamed. The same tilt of the head, as if always questioning the world. The same stubborn mouth that never quite learned how to smile without consequence.
I looked down at the nameplate, tarnished with time but still legible:
Elian, 1498.
The year Julian had whispered in that broken memory. The year his Soulweaver had burned.
My breath snagged.
Elian.
Was that… me? A version of me? A predecessor? Or something far more impossible?
I stepped back, pulse thrumming. The silence in the hallway had deepened, thickening like fog. The walls seemed closer now. Listening. Waiting.
Then—creak.
A floorboard behind me groaned.
I spun, heart hammering against my ribs. The hallway was empty. Just the long stretch of shadow, the watching portraits, the stale air humming with a silence that felt too deliberate.
Nothing.
And then something fluttered softly to the floor near my feet.
A note.
I crouched slowly, hand shaking as I reached for it. The paper was rough, old. Ink bled at the edges, as though written in haste or desperation. Two lines, scribbled in jagged, unsteady script:
"The Orchestra hears you."
"Come play."
I stared at the words, every hair on my body standing on end.
The west wing had always been forbidden. A place Julian avoided, like a wound he refused to touch. But something lived here. Something that remembered me—or someone who wore my face.
And now it was calling.
***
The Conclave's tower pierced the night sky like a shard of black diamond, its obsidian surface faceted and gleaming, casting warped reflections of the city below. What should have been familiar buildings became twisted in its mirror; a grotesque parody of New Avalon's elegance. A bridge of frosted glass connected the tower to the rest of the city, lit from beneath by pulsing violet lights that cast our shadows in serpentine motion. They writhed beneath us, as though something ancient and forgotten stirred in the depths.
My shoes—too tight, borrowed from one of Julian's many closets—slipped on the slick surface. My breath caught, and I stumbled forward. Beneath the transparent bridge, the city sprawled like a dying creature, its neon arteries flickering uncertainly. The sight of it—glorious and decaying—sent a jolt of vertigo through my chest.
"Don't look down," Julian murmured beside me, his voice low and measured.
I felt his hand at my elbow, firm and cold even through the thin silk of my borrowed shirt. A chill spread from where his fingers touched, as though he could steady my bones just by willing it.
"I wasn't," I said.
A lie.
He smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Liar."
The tower's entrance loomed ahead, vast and gleaming like a predator's grin. Twin statues flanked the doorway—gaunt, stone creatures with too many arms and hollow eyes, their hands held out in gestures of endless prayer or endless hunger. I wasn't sure which.
The air here was thick: expensive perfume over blood and steel. Beneath it all, a scent I couldn't quite place: something metallic and intimate. Like a memory of violence.
"Remind me why we're doing this again?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
Julian's hands moved to his cuffs, adjusting them with practiced ease. His face was unreadable, but I saw the tension in the angle of his jaw. He was wound tight, like a string pulled taut between teeth.
"Because if we don't," he said softly, "the Conclave will send more than enforcers next time."
The doors opened with a whisper and a sigh.
Sound and light erupted around us.
Inside, the air shimmered with decadence. A thousand crystals dangled from the domed ceiling, catching the light of floating lanterns and fracturing it into a storm of color. It danced across marble walls like broken rainbows. The crowd was already in motion—vampires gliding through the space like constellations in motion, their suits and gowns liquid silver, velvet shadow, and impossible texture. They moved with impossible grace, barely touching the floor, their laughter sharp and brittle as shattered glass.
Humans followed in their wake, silent, beautiful, terrified. Each one dressed in couture that whispered of wealth and captivity. Jeweled collars encircled their throats, glittering when they turned their heads, catching the light with every anxious breath. Some wore their fear like perfume. Others had already learned how to mask it.
My skin prickled as if every eye in the room had turned to me at once.
I felt like prey.
Julian's hand found the small of my back, firm and commanding.
"Stay close," he murmured, and I obeyed. What else could I do?
We hadn't gone more than five steps into the crowd when the first vulture descended.
"Julian." The voice slithered through the air—honeyed, slow, and sharp-edged.
I turned, and the speaker emerged from the swarm like a serpent parting silk.
Tall, and impossibly poised, they wore a suit the color of old bruises, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. Their smile was all teeth and poison.
"How... unexpected."
Lord Dain was beautiful in the way a poisoned apple is beautiful, gleaming, perfect, and hiding a rot that knew how to smile. His crimson coat clung to him like a second skin, every seam whispering wealth. Dark hair, slicked back with calculated elegance, framed a face too smooth, too still. Silver cuffs gleamed along the edges of his ears like shackles pretending to be ornaments.
Beside him stood a human man, barely older than me, thin and pale and trembling at the edges. His fingers—long, delicate, musician's fingers—twitched like the strings of an unplayed piano, each movement involuntary. Haunted.
Julian's smile cut across the room like a drawn blade.
"Dain. Still collecting pets, I see."
The human flinched, just slightly—but enough.
My fists clenched before I realized it. My body remembered things I hadn't told it; what helplessness looked like, smelled like. What it meant.
But Dain only laughed. That laugh, it wasn't a sound so much as a performance. Coins spilling across cold marble, pretty and empty.
"And you've found yourself a stray," he said, eyes narrowing with amusement. "How quaint." Then his gaze slid toward me, slow and greedy, landing on the violin case slung across my back. "Though this one seems... special."
Julian's fingers tightened at the small of my back. A silent message. Stay still. Don't. Let it go.
But I didn't. Couldn't.
Instead, I stepped forward, pulled by something deeper than defiance. Something that tasted like blood and survival.
"Ari Meka," I said, holding out my hand. My grin felt like it had been sharpened. "You must be the bastard everyone warned me about."
The room didn't go silent but something in it shifted. The air, maybe. Or the way it pressed against my skin.
Dain's smile didn't crack, but it froze, like a portrait someone forgot to finish.
The pianist beside him exhaled sharply, a breath caught between awe and terror.
And then Dain laughed again. Louder this time, less polished. The mask slipping, if only for a second.
"Oh, Julian," he said, eyes gleaming like ice under torchlight. "He's delightful." Then to me, voice honeyed and barbed, "Tell me, little musician—do you play as well as you talk?"
The pianist turned then, shoulders straightening. His chin lifted. "I'd love to hear."
A challenge. A duel in disguise.
Julian's hand pressed harder into my back. "Ari—"
But I was already moving. Shrugging off the violin case, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.
"Love to."