Elma’s blood ran cold.

  The name—that alphanumeric sequence of steel and sorrow—was a ghost she thought she had buried in the mass grave of her previous life. To hear it spoken here, in the heart of the Altheris estate by a woman dripping with fresh blood, was a tactical nightmare.

  She knows. The thought looped in Elma’s mind, sharp and jagged.

  The woman stepped closer, her mask catching the moonlight in jagged slashes.

  "Do not look so hollowed," the woman said, her voice rippling with that strange, metallic distortion.

  "We are here to determine where you stand."

  Suddenly, the air behind the woman shifted.

  Elma couldn't see anything through the darkness—the courtyard was empty, the shadows of the cypress trees motionless.

  But her instincts screamed a warning.

  There were eyes on her.

  Dozens of them.

  Elma forced her throat to work, her muscles clicking against the lingering paralysis as she dragged words into the air.

  "Standing... where?"

  The woman leaned in, the painted grin of the cat mask mocking her.

  "You were chosen, Little one. Just as we were. You are not a mistake of the forge, nor a discarded product. Your role is the keystone—the pivot upon which the new world turns."

  "By who?" Elma spat.

  The woman didn't answer immediately. She tilted her head back, tracking a slow, reverent path across the starless sky.

  "His cause is noble, D—66. It is the only cause that matters."

  A cold, tactical clarity settled over Elma.

  This was the heart of House Altheris. The most heavily guarded house in Veraxys. And yet, they could breach it without a sound.

  If they had wanted anyone in the manor dead, they already would be.

  "What would you have me do?" she asked, her voice steadying into the flat, clinical tone of the D—66 she had once been.

  "You were brought back as Elma Altheris," the woman replied, her cat mask tilting as if studying a specimen.

  "So, you will be Elma Altheris. You will not flee this family. You will play your role in this masquerade until the curtain falls."

  Confusion flickered through Elma’s mind. Run? The thought was almost absurd.

  "And most importantly," the woman continued, the metallic distortion in her voice sharpening like a blade, "you do exactly as we command. Without hesitation. If we tell you to spill blood within these very walls you do it."

  The courtyard fell into a suffocating silence. The dozens of eyes in the dark seemed to pulse in anticipation.

  Elma looked at her pale, porcelain hands—currently stained with the metaphorical weight of a thousand future sins.

  "And if I don't?" Elma said, the question cutting through the silence like a scalpel.

  The cat mask didn't flinch. The answer came instantly, devoid of both malice and pity.

  "You die."

  The words hung in the cold air, simple and absolute.

  Death.

  Elma felt her heart kick against her ribs—a frantic, rhythmic hammering that defied her purpose.

  She looked at the moon washing over the cypress trees, and the woman waiting for her answer, a terrifying thought took root.

  Elma was expecting something.

  Not a mission. Not a command.

  Something else.

  For the first time in her existence, the future wasn't a calculated trajectory. It was a blank page.

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  And however jagged and terrifying this new life was... she wasn't ready to close the book.

  She swallowed the fear, forcing it down into the pit of her stomach where it burned like fuel.

  "I understand," Elma said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried across the yard.

  She locked eyes with the black hollows of the cat mask.

  "I will play my part."

  "Good," the woman answered. The word was clipped, finalizing a contract signed in coercion. “Your training begins tomorrow.”

  "Training?" Elma asked.

  The woman didn't answer.

  She stepped forward, not into the distance, but through the darkness, vanishing as if the night itself had swallowed her whole.

  The eyes in the trees blinked once, then faded, leaving behind only the faintest rustle of leaves, as if a flock of unseen birds had taken flight.

  Elma was left alone in the silent courtyard, the smell of ozone and blood lingering in the cold air.

  Beneath the pale skin of her arm, the green veins erupted once more.

  The world tilted, the moonlit training ground blurring into a smear of silver and black.

  Her knees buckled. Before her small body even hit the cold stone, her consciousness snapped.

  Elma Altheris was gone. Only darkness remained.

  ---

  The White Chamber:

  Elma bolted upright, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat. Her lungs burned as if she had been submerged in deep water for hours, fighting for every scrap of air.

  She sat there for a moment, her small heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

  The nursery was bathed in the soft, golden glow of a peaceful morning. The lace curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze, and the scent of jasmine drifted in from the gardens.

  It looked perfect. It looked like a lie.

  Her hands moved instinctively, shoving the sleeves of her nightsilk gown up to her shoulders. She scanned her skin, her eyes frantic.

  Nothing.

  The emerald veins were gone. Her skin was pale, smooth, and unblemished. There was no trace of the entity’s touch, no lingering hum of the paralysis.

  A dream? her mind whispered, a desperate hope clawing at her logic.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the plush rug. Her gaze dropped to the hem of her dress.

  On the knees of the fine silk, two dark, jagged smears of garden soil stared back at her.

  The dirt was real. So was the staircase. So was the cat mask.

  Elma’s heart began to hammer against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for sky. Is this the deal the entity wanted? A kill. Here. Why not do it themselves?

  Most of all, she couldn’t stop wondering what would become of her if she spilled blood inside this manor.

  She reached for a plush toy lying near her pillow and pulled it into her lap. She lay back down, rolling onto her side and curling her small body into a ball.

  She shoved the plushie’s head into her mouth and clamped her jaw shut.

  She bit down hard, the fabric straining against her teeth, using the physical pressure to anchor herself against the rising tide of panic. She needed to think.

  She let out a muffled groan into the plushie, her jaw aching from the tension.

  Christa stepped into the room, her silver hair catching the morning light, carrying a breakfast plate that smelled of honeyed oats and fresh fruit.

  Elma’s eyes moved slowly toward her, her jaw still clamped firmly onto the plushie’s head. She didn't let go, even as her mother approached the bed.

  "Uh... still biting your toys, I see?" Christa said, her voice a melodic contrast to the gravelly rasp Elma had heard the night before.

  She set the tray on the nightstand and arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "You’re late rising today. Are you feeling alright?"

  "I am," Elma muffled around the plushie. She forced her jaw to relax, letting the toy fall into her lap.

  Christa sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She reached out, pressing the back of her hand against Elma’s forehead.

  Her glowing blue eyes searched Elma’s face with a precision that felt like an interrogation.

  "You're sure you're okay? No fever?"

  "I'm fine," Elma answered.

  Christa sighed, as she pulled her hand away, her gaze swept downward, catching the dark, damp patch on the wool rug where the water orb had collapsed the night before.

  Her expression shifted. "You didn't... wet the rug, did you, Elma?"

  "No," Elma said instantly, her pride stinging. "It was water."

  Christa offered a cold, knowing smile.

  “It’s alright,” Christa said gently. “I'm not going to be mad if you did.” Her tone carried a patronizing edge that made Elma’s skin crawl.

  "It was water. A cup of water." Elma raged against the accusation.

  Christa’s expression didn't change, but her voice turned quiet. "I took your plates out last night, Elma. There were no cups left in here."

  Silence swallowed the room.

  Elma stared at her mother, her mind dissecting the moment. She understood the situation instantly.

  To Christa, a stained rug meant a normal four-year-old. It meant a daughter who was a child.

  The logical reaction—the one that would lower Christa’s guard and make Elma seem less suspicious—was to admit it. To bow her head, play the embarrassed toddler, and give Christa the "normal" daughter she craved.

  But the pride of D—66 was a jagged, immovable thing. She could kill, she could lie, and she could bleed, but she would not be accused of losing control of her own body. Not again.

  "I took one after you left," Elma answered. She pointed a small finger at a silver cup sitting near the toy box on the far side of the floor.

  "I was thirsty."

  The words hung in the air, cold and clumsy.

  Christa stood up abruptly, the warmth vanishing from her face as she smoothed her gown. The disappointment was palpable.

  “When you finish, we will do writing exercises,” Christa declared, smiling softly—an expression that carried no warmth, only carefully leashed rage.

  The door clicked shut with finality.

  Damn it, Elma thought, staring at the empty air.

  Memory, unbidden and cold, surged to the surface.

  She remembered being this age before. Not here, in the warmth of House Altheris, but in the White Chamber.

  In her first life, there had been no jasmine and no lace. Only the faint tang of bleach and the echo of footsteps on cold tile.

  She remembered standing before a flayed practice body suspended on iron hooks. A faceless instructor had used a slender metal rod to indicate the carotid artery, then the femoral, then the brachial plexus, naming each without inflection.

  "Precision is the difference between a weapon and a tool," the voice had droned. "A tool hits what it can. A weapon hits what is vital. Again. Point to the kill-stroke for a target in heavy plating."

  By the time she was five, she knew exactly how much pressure was required to collapse a windpipe or burst an eyeball. She knew the chemical composition of the neurotoxins they fed her to build her immunity.

  She had been "Raised in Iron."

  Now, she was being "Raised in Silk," but the curriculum hadn't changed.