“Is everyone enjoying themselves?”
The scent of roses and powdered gold hung in the air. Fragments of chandelier light danced along gilded walls. Music from the string quartet curled softly around ughter, gowns, jewels— Every sound a lulby of peace.
The one who shattered it was the Emperor.
He raised his winegss leisurely, a rexed smile tugging at his mouth.
“A beautiful night indeed.”
The nobles appuded warmly. The Emperor savored the sound for a moment, then tilted his head and called zily,
“Count Robellius.”
The count set down his winegss and bowed deeply.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The Hound. Ah, that dog—still loyal, is he?”
His gaze swept across the table like a cat flicking its tail.
“Still the same,” the count replied smoothly. “He doesn’t move without command. Loyalty? No. Obedience, strictly conditioned.”
Before he could finish, a louder voice cut through the room.
“If obedience is loyalty, where does conviction stand?”
It was Baron Bernardo.
The Emperor looked at him with a glint of amusement.
Count Robellius shot the young baron a gre and chuckled.
“Such a naive question, Baron. Try washing the scent of milk from your colr before speaking of conviction. Isn’t that the word most commonly heard on the eve of rebellion?”
The count turned back to the Emperor, lips curled into a grin.
“What do you think, Your Majesty? Surely our young Baron isn’t pnning treason. One must watch his tongue.”
The Emperor let out a soft ugh.
“Those who lose their way between loyalty and belief tend to bleed first.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the baron—young, proud, foolish.
Then, the voice of Marquess Calraud, calm and cold as a drawn bde.
“The Hound belongs to the army. Its combat value and suppressive ability—far beyond civilian jurisdiction. I wonder if the young baron has even received reports on the state of the northern front.”
His tone was clipped, military.
Baron Bernardo had no choice but to accept the gss Calraud handed him.
He drank quickly, the bitterness etched into his face.
Count Robellius ughed aloud.
“Loyalty? Do we ask for loyalty from beasts—or submission? To speak of loyalty is already to imply they have a choice. But we all know, don’t we? That he is, in fact… human.”
A whisper floated from Lady Miraville. Soft, but thunderous in the silent hall.
“If he’s human… then he should’ve lived as one. Only then could we reconsider the Hound Project. Not as a weapon. But as a man.”
A scoff answered her.
“Human? That creature?”
It was Marquess Calraud. He stepped closer, voice hard.
“That mongrel is a vital asset. Not a person. An experimental weapon. Do you have any idea how much has been poured into that project, midy?”
Baron Bernardo responded quickly, trembling.
“That was magic. That was command! Tell me, where is his personhood in all this? Who gave the order? Shouldn’t we start there?”
The Emperor sat quietly, half-listening to the growing noise. He signaled the orchestra. Strings resumed their song, drowning out the debate with graceful harmonies.
“So many words for a dog who can’t understand them,” he murmured. “Enjoy the rest of the evening. Let’s not waste such fine wine.”
Too bright. Blinding.
In the far corner, Elysia stood with a winegss in her hand.
Her emerald eyes remained calm, her silver hair perfectly pinned.
But tonight—she wore red.
Not the usual white robes of the imperial mage.
And her fingers trembled, slightly.
“…Magical residue of blood—pattern matches Subject A-0.”
A-0. Kyle.
You’re the killer? I never ordered this. I never wanted this. Kyle, I never wanted you to become—
What, exactly, did I want? What have I done? Who… am I?
“Kyle…” she whispered.
He committed the murders. I gave no command. This isn’t my fault. He moved without instruction. He is a failed experiment.
If I report this to the Emperor, I bear no guilt. Kyle will be discarded, and I…
I won’t be a murderer.
But… have I ever lived in a world without Kyle?
Her face paled.
Someone approached.
“Lady Elysia.”
She lifted her head with a painted smile.
“Ah. Count Robellius.”
A well-known supporter of the Emperor.
“You look unwell.”
A fox. That smile hides a test. He’s watching me.
She answered sweetly.
“Not at all. The moon is especially bright tonight.”
Moonlight struck her silver hair, making it bze white.
The violins were ughing. The cello, crying.
The moon smiled. Elysia did not.
Her gaze remained calm. The hem of her dress, heavy.
Someone poured wine. Someone plotted.
She turned from it all, And silently raised her gss.
A single ntern flickered in a narrow, dusty room.
The smell of mold and age was suffocating.
Siren sat alone in a room no longer used.
A pce where records were written that would never be filed— sentences that would never be read, by someone no one would remember.
Leaning into the trembling candlelight, Siren scratched at silence with his pen.
"Seventh wave. Emotional disturbance. Subject A-0, 'Kyle'. Name response pierced spacetime structure. Reverse emotional surge detected from Subject B, 'Elysia'."
Siren stared at the final line.
"Reverse emotional surge detected."
A thought stirred. Was it memory? Could it be called that?
She had once said, face expressionless:
"Siren, records aren’t supposed to contain emotion. You’re strange. A magical error, maybe."
Memory. Nostalgia. Whatever they were— they weren’t necessary for Siren.
He lifted his pen again. But this time, it pointed toward a small, hidden notebook in the corner of the room. A space untouched by spells.The only space free of surveilnce.
Ink spilled from the nib, bleeding into the page.
One word appeared— one he'd written long ago and could no longer remember writing:
"Me."
The door creaked open.It was her.
I quickly hid the notebook before I could even finish the sentence.
The dim fme trembled, not yet extinguished.
"Siren."
I spoke. Siren, as always, stared at me with bnk red eyes. He answered, ftly:
"There are three defense mechanisms.First is denial.Second is evasion.Third is pity. And now—"
His eyes fixed on the ntern light, as if beyond it,Elysia stood.
"—Pity has colpsed.Now she’s trying to separate herself from the emotion.But that won’t st.Soon, emotion will consume emotion."
Before he finished, I heard it. Footsteps. Fast. Like cutting ties.
I snuffed the ntern.
"Siren. She’s moving."
"Yes," he replied bnkly.
