Chapter 19
Zalga
High Order Convenes
Location: The White Vault, Pomerium—Same Night
The chamber is vast, hollow, and impossibly white. The walls of the sanctum are formed of stone that absorbs sound and reflects only the truth. Seven thrones shape a perfect circle, none higher than the others. Six are occupied, but one remains empty.
At the center, a sphere of pure energy pulses gently—anchored thought. It is the memory of Lucien’s breach. The moment he warped Chloe from the brink of death. A forbidden act. Also, an undeniable power spike that could not be ignored.
Aris sits on the northernmost throne, his posture carved from discipline. His eyes are closed, but everyone knows he’s listening to far more than the room itself.
“She should’ve died,” growls Selian, one of the eldest among us. “The girl was never meant to survive that moment.”
“She didn’t survive,” Vael says, freshly returned from the mortal realm. “Lucien recreated her.”
The words strike like a thunderclap. Gasps ripple through the circle, sharp and disbelieving, stirring the elders. Spines straighten.
Aris, who has not moved or spoken in hours, slowly opens his eyes.
“He reached through the realm,” Marra murmurs, her red robe conspicuous in the stark white chamber. “Into the seam between death and life. And left a scar.”
“And now that scar is waking,” Vael adds. “Whatever he did . . . it’s changing her.”
“She’s becoming something new,” says Orren, the only one among us who doesn’t seem afraid of the idea. “Something we don’t understand.”
“That’s the problem,” Aris says. His voice is smooth. Final. As it always is. “We do not allow what we do not understand. Not in this Order. Not in this realm.”
Naturally. It has ever been his doctrine. The unfamiliar must be contained, resisted, and treated as a danger by default. There is no allowance for nuance. No space for uncertainty. No room for anything—or anyone—that deviates from his expectations.
The others shift uneasily, tension thickening the air, but Aris remains resolute, anchored in the rigid certainty that has long defined him. It feels heavier now than ever.
“So what do we do?” Marra asks softly.
“We observe,” Aris answers. “For now. But we do not wait long. The Surgers grow stronger. If this . . . anomaly becomes a beacon for them—”
“She already is,” Vael interrupts.
“Then containment will be necessary,” Aris says, standing at last. His robe shifts like starlight around him. “For her. Or for Lucien. Or perhaps both.”
I cannot help but drift back to what we once were.
To my love for Lucien. To the nights I held him through the hollow grief left by his parents’ deaths, when despair made him small and fragile, and he let me be his comfort.
We shared our burdens then. Our truths. Our plans for a future we believed inevitable.
Having loved him for my entire existence, it is unbearable to hear these words now—words that speak of betrayal to his kind. Of his desire for another. The pain settles deep in my chest.
The memory orb pulses again, brighter this time, wrenching my attention back to the session. No matter how deeply this cuts, I cannot lend myself fully to this. But I am only one voice.
“And if he resists?” I ask, my stomach twisting at what I already sense is coming for my beloved.
Aris smiles. Cold. Regal. Unyielding.
“Then the most powerful Warper our kind has ever known will become our greatest threat. One we will be forced to extinguish.”
The sphere dims.
The Order is adjourned.