Rain slicked the city in silver as the tower came into view—tall, sleek, and lined with obsidian glass. The Order spared no expense when it came to appearances. From the outside, the building looked like just another high-end skyscraper. On the inside?
It was a different kind of battleground.
The gala pulsed with light and laughter. Music floated like perfume, elegant and haunting. The scent of rare incense burned through the air—sharp enough to mask the tension, but not the bloodthirst.
This wasn't just a celebration.
It was a show of force.
An unspoken reminder of who still held power in the city.
Jace stood at the foot of the staircase, dressed in a tailored black suit that clung to him like a second skin. A silver mask hugged his cheekbones, smooth and curved like the crescent of a blade. His eyes burned faintly behind it—contained, but alive.
Next to him, Lena wore a floor-length crimson dress that left little to the imagination. Her black mask sparkled with obsidian shards, and she walked like a woman who knew exactly how many men would die trying to tame her.
Reya was elegance incarnate—dark blue silk, slit thigh, high collar. Her mask was moon-pale, her hair in a tight twist, and her expression unreadable.
"Remind me," Lena said, eyeing the front steps lined with Order guards in ceremonial armor, "why we didn't just blow the whole place up?"
Jace smiled. "Because some doors only open when you knock politely."
He stepped forward, handing a polished black card to the attending sentinel.
The man scanned it. Paused. Eyes narrowed.
Then dipped his head.
"Welcome, Mr. Ward. Enjoy the evening."
Jace smirked and stepped inside.
The ballroom was blinding.
Chandeliers of suspended mana crystals lit the room in hues of violet and gold. Cultivators from across the city moved in swirling currents—politicians, assassins, nobles, and enforcers, all pretending to play nice.
A string quartet played a melody that was almost familiar. Like something from a dream.
Or a nightmare.
"Don't stare too long," Reya murmured. "Everyone here is watching everyone else. Staring too long means you've picked a target."
Lena grinned. "Good. I've got lots of targets."
They moved as a unit—blending, circling, gathering whispers.
Jace wasn't just looking for the shard.
He was looking for who else was after it.
And he didn't have to wait long.
A woman in silver approached—tall, curves wrapped in silk so fine it shimmered like water. Her mask was white porcelain, etched in fine golden cracks.
"Mr. Ward," she purred. "You've been making quite the mess lately."
Jace gave her a slow smile. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Vault of Thorns. Black Glass. Blood sacrifices." She tilted her head. "And that little sword on your back that you think no one sees."
Jace didn't flinch. "I don't remember giving you my name."
"You didn't."
She stepped closer, and something in her scent hit him like déjà vu.
Not perfume.
Not magic.
A memory.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
Her lips curled beneath the mask. "Not anymore."
Then she was gone—melted into the crowd like a ghost.
Jace's pulse spiked.
"Reya," he said quietly. "We've got a problem."
She turned to him. "Already?"
"That woman. I've felt her before. Deep. From the Hollow's memory."
Lena narrowed her eyes. "Think she's after the shard too?"
"Maybe. Or maybe she is the shard."
The music stopped.
A gong echoed through the chamber, and the crowd parted as a figure descended the grand staircase.
Lord Bastien Thorn.
Leader of the Order's eastern chapter. Draped in white robes, a serpent tattoo coiled around his throat and down his hand.
And in his hand?
A glass case.
Inside—floating mid-air—was a fragment of pure crystallized energy.
Jace's breath caught.
The shard.
Small. Pulsing. Screaming in silence.
"Tonight," Bastien said, "we celebrate unity. We celebrate power. And we celebrate the future. But only one of you will walk away with this shard."
Murmurs.
Tension.
Bastien smiled cruelly. "You want it? You earn it."
A door at the side of the ballroom slammed open.
From the shadows, a man stumbled forward—hands bound, face bloody.
"Your task is simple," Bastien said. "Kill this traitor."
Silence.
Then whispers.
The man's eyes locked on Jace.
And Jace froze.
It was Kale.
An old friend.
One of the only people who knew the truth about the Order's experiments.
He'd gone missing two years ago.
Now he was here—broken, barely breathing.
Reya leaned in. "If we do nothing, they'll kill him."
Jace didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
Then he stepped forward.
Bastien smiled wider. "Do we have a volunteer?"
Jace unsheathed Remembrance.
The blade hissed like a memory made flesh.
"I volunteer," Jace said.
Lena's face paled. "You can't—"
But Jace walked forward slowly.
Kale's eyes widened.
Then narrowed.
"You're not gonna kill me," he whispered.
"No," Jace said softly. "But I'm gonna make them think I did."
The blade moved.
Fast. Flash of light. A scream.
Blood sprayed.
And Kale vanished—swallowed by a flicker of time.
The crowd erupted.
Bastien stood slowly.
Eyes narrowing.
Jace turned, Remembrance dripping red light.
"Your move, Lord Thorn."