Screech.

  The air was thick with the promise of blood.

  The tip of a black sword carved a jagged path across the stone, its edge whispering in protest.

  They say knowing a thing is better than being blind to it. That’s a lie.

  His hand tightened around the hilt.

  Screech.

  The doors swung open.

  The domed ceiling arched high above, adorned with faint murals of eagles clutching scales in their talons—the symbol of the House of Myxell.

  A lone black man knelt in the center of the chamber, his wrists bound with shackles that glowed, numbers running across them in an eerie procession. He trembled on the black marble dais, his forehead pressed against its surface. Around him, a semicircle of nobles sat in silence, their finery muted by the grim atmosphere. The nobles were a tapestry of cultures—Yoruba, Portuguese, Chinese—woven together. The women, draped in silks—some with veils to conceal their unease—fidgeted with gloves or jewelry.

  Daryon stood before the man, his deep-brown skin shadowed beneath the torchlight, a frown carved into his face. He despised their kind. Their pleading voices, their superstition, their endless appeals to gods and ancestors. It was pathetic.

  The man’s voice cracked. "Please, my king! I beg you, in the name of all that is sacred!" Tears streaked down his face.

  Daryon resisted the urge to sigh. The dialect grated against his ears. Why was Yoruba so common in his jurisdiction?

  _"?ba mi! Please!"_ The man’s voice was hoarse now. _"I beg you—not for myself, but for my wife, for my son. If I die today, they die too!"_

  This was my first time. It won’t happen again. The man pressed his forehead further down.

  Daryon stepped closer.

  The nobles leaned forward.

  A woman in a sapphire gown turned her head, eyes clenched shut as though the very sight would scorch her soul. Another noble’s gloved hand rose to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Only the hooded figure by the makeshift throne, silent and unshaken, watched impassively, their face obscured in shadow.

  Daryon bent down, his breath warm against the man’s ear.

  The blade fell.

  Steel met flesh with a sickening thud. Blood arced through the air, splattering the dais in a crimson spray. The severed head rolled, coming to rest at the marble’s edge.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by the whispered murmurs of those who had dared to look. The smell of iron hung heavy in the air.

  Daryon stood still, his blade dripping crimson. He flicked the sword downward, letting the blood spatter onto the dais.

  Clean this up. Calm, almost bored. Daryon's eyes never left the headless.

  He turned to the hooded figure standing beside the makeshift throne at the edge of the room. The figure had remained still throughout, a shadow against the wall, their face obscured beneath a heavy cowl.

  "We have more pressing matters." He sheathed his sword. Deliberate motion. Let’s move.

  The hooded figure inclined their head, stepping away from the throne. It followed as Daryon strode through the chamber, his black cloak billowing behind him. The nobles parted silently, none daring to meet his gaze. Behind him, the body on the dais was already being dematerialized by attendants, the crimson eagle reflected in the blood-stained marble.

  Daryon did not look back.

  The judgment could have lingered—his boots echoed—but could anything sluggish be called judgment?**

  Digits and streams of data pulsed faintly across the walls as he walked, casting fragmented light against the dark surfaces.

  Then, he reached it.

  A towering bulkhead, ribbed with interlocking steel plates.

  A red glow washed over his face as the system ran a facial ID scan.

  The doors parted, revealing the chamber’s centerpiece: a large, black, ring-shaped conference table with a hollow center.

  Nine figures sat, each shadowed by a silent presence—nine "things" standing behind them. His own loomed somewhere nearby.

  The only available chair sat waiting for him. A stark thing, unyielding, its cold frame pressing into the polished floor.

  Daryon frowned.

  Lord Afolake leaned forward, the dim light sharpening the high angles of his face. Her smile was thin—too thin to support the fragile silence that followed.

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  "Tell me, Lord Daryon, does punctuality wound you so?"

  Daryon paused mid-stride, forcing stillness into his body. He let the moment stretch before exhaling through his nose. "I apologize to the council for my lateness."

  His gaze flicked to Afolake. "And perhaps, Lord Afolake, you should concern yourself less with me and more with your niece. Tell me, does she still entertain thieves? Or has she finally found one worthy of the family name?"

  A hush fell over the table.

  Afolake’s smile didn't waver, but the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed the tension beneath.

  A voice, deep and resonant, broke the silence. "You bicker like children," said the lord seated at the sixth position. His laughter was light but edged with reproach. "If the people of the Expanse knew what their revered lords were like, they might reconsider their loyalties."

  "H-E-L-L-Oooooooo. FORGIVE ME IF I MUST cut short this stupidity."

  A hand slammed against the conference table’s centerpiece.

  "How can you all sit here and pretend this isn’t a matter of utmost importance? For God’s sake, our thrones are on the line!"

  "Our authority!"

  "Lagos needs a new Governor—someone we put in!"** His voice reached a crescendo.

  "Calm down."** Lord Angelo Valeon scratched his beard. "Do I need to remind you all that we voted this mayor in? I knew we shouldn’t have discarded the last one, but no—now we’re cleaning this mess. We've removed two mayors from a state in the Expanse already. The governments down there might not have the gall to oppose us directly, but…"

  He gave them a knowing look.

  "You know,"** Lucas started, leaning forward, **"there’s an African proverb that says—"

  "For God's sake, Lucas, will you shut your Ghanaian ass up? No one cares about your proverbs."

  Lucas, unbothered, leaned back, a slow smirk playing on his lips. **"Ever the racist, I see."

  Valeon chuckled.

  "That’s precisely why we must act now."** Kaelvar exhaled sharply. **"I don’t need to remind you how much Suspended will have to spend to move a file that sensitive. Electricity prices surged on the stock market. Are we talking billions just to send files? A transaction as big as that will leave paper trails invite scrutiny, and the cowboys—oh, they could hack in mid transfer "

  Afolake tapped her fingers against the table. Electricity costs had become absurd, but no one in this room could claim ignorance. The city was bleeding credits into security—locking out illegals, crushing rebellions before they spread. It was the price of control.

  "The quicker we choose a replacement, the sooner we bring order to the Expanse. Gryphons, machines, whatever it takes. The new mayor will put the pieces in place and commission everything back to us."

  _He exhaled through his nose._ "This time, we keep him alive. Whatever we decide, the vote ends today."

  Valeon snorted. "Your house has a machine mind, does it not? And yet you suggest gryphons. Why not let that infernal thing decide for you?"

  Kaelvar's brows furrowed, his frustration barely concealed. He slid two pictures into the hollow center of the black, ring-shaped conference table.

  Afolake interjected, her voice smooth but commanding. **"The urgency is clear, Kaelvar, but surely the choice should rest on the person, not how quickly they arrive."

  Her eyes lingered on the picture of the man to the right.

  A man striving to make the world a better place. She had read his manifesto—text form—eighty-six times.

  "Where New Africa won’t be divided between the Suspended and the Expanse."

  What he meant was a world where the Suspended wouldn’t tinker in Expanse politics. Break apart or fuse entirely. He’d run in circles until he died before that happened. No gene edit would help, but still…

  For her, Trent was a necessity. It had taken her two years to get her candidate seated as mayor of State 22 in the Expanse. The next move? Governor. Once that happened, everything would fall into place.

  She rubbed her hands together—a habit she was trying to break. To the trained eye, it was a tell. But this time? **It wasn’t nerves. It was excitement.**

  The man was barely in his thirties, but his left eye told another story. A stark obsidian iris, encircled by faint, pulsing circuitry, had overtaken what was once natural. The veins that leaked from it… crude work. The surgeon had been either careless or desperate.

  A gene-line distortion. A flaw etched into his blood, passed down to every child he would sire—a permanent signature, impossible to erase. In the Suspended, where anonymity was survival, such a thing was a curse. **Anything that left a traceable pattern was a death sentence.

  The sclera bore the scars of its integration: thin, jagged veins of silver, branching out like cracks in shattered porcelain.

  For whatever reason, some of the other houses had agreed to back her. They were in for a surprise soon. The House of Ekundayo would secure its trade routes.

  Back when Nigeria had existed, Lagos was the hub. Even now that New Africa had formed, its seven nations had done little to change that fact.

  Afolake glanced at High Sovereign Valeon, who had busied himself tracing the inscriptions on his heart-pulsing gauntlet—his newest spelltech.

  Kaelvar tapped the obsidian table. A nodal pathway carved into its surface glowed faintly, and at its center, liquid metal coalesced into the shape of a cube.

  The cube rattled softly before settling, projecting three faces into the air. Holograms flickered before the lords’ eyes.

  Trent Alister. Nyphos Reighlin. Hilter Malvecar.

  Daryon’s eye twitched at the last name.

  Hilter Malvecar.

  Fine lines etched across the man's face, and a balding head was surrounded by wisps of white hair.

  Daryon needed him.

  The devil only he could control.

  His ruthlessness made him a liability to anyone but Daryon.

  A flicker of Kaelvar’s eyes to Afolake, a faint nod in return—it was enough. The lords had made their decision.

  Daryon’s palm brushed the obsidian table. A soft chime echoed, and the number beside Hilter’s name ticked up by one.

  Afolake’s knuckles whitened as she placed her palm on the table. Across from her, Valeon’s lips curled into a faint smirk as the numbers flickered to life.

  Kaelvar adjusted his glasses, eyes scanning the screen.

  Final tally:

  Five votes for Trent.

  -Four for Hilter.

  -One for Nyphos.

  Losing control—it was the mark of children who had yet to master war. The kind who could grin heartily before slitting a man’s throat.** He had killed many of such.

  He sat quietly.

  Could they still be convinced to pick Hilter this late in the game? He limped through the golden halls, thoughts circling like vultures. Killing all of them would start leaving trails back to me.

  "Brilliant," Miguel António de Sousa Pereira chuckled, chugging down a bottle of beer.

  His house was even more war-oriented than his. They fought the Crudes outside the whole scope of New Africa. The miles leading to their walls were clear—because he was good. If he weren’t, foreigners wouldn’t be running here for safety.

  The moment stretched, five seconds dragging into eternity.

  Daryon chuckled under his breath.

  A whole five houses had chosen Trent.

  He squeezed the Afolake—mentally Spittle and blood dripped. The witch was always scheming.

  "The lords have begun their games," Daryon murmured. "Interesting. What could there be to gain from you, Trent Alister, when you're dead?"

  The lords began to disperse. Some dematerialized instantly as their attendants raised their hands. Others lingered, exchanging quiet words, quiet conspiracies.

  Kaelvar approached as Daryon rose to leave.

  "You seem... unbothered by the result, Lord Myxell."

  Daryon offered a faint smile. **"Until next time, Warden."

  "Wait." Kaelvar hesitated, waving a hand.

  Daryon frowned. "What is it?"

  "Calm down. I wasn’t talking to you," Kaelvar chuckled.

  His eyes flicked toward the veiled figure behind Daryon.

  "Your Effector," Kaelvar pointed.

  "It adjusted a spell in the Great Code."

  Daryon narrowed his eyes.

  It has a gender. It’s a man.

  The name surfaced—Paul.

  "Why don’t you come and serve under my house?" Kaelvar said smoothly. "Travel down to the Expanse or wherever it is you're from?"

  For a split second, a smile leaked from behind the veil. Gone as soon as it appeared.

  Then, the veiled hand rose. The Atom Gear stirred.

  "Eighteen hundred meters. Loop back to the last saved point. Partial reconstruction with residual matter. Present takeoff point: thrust through space."

  Paul had done this with the Great Code since he was a child.

  They vanished instantly, leaving Kaelvar watching in silence.