The door slammed shut, plunging the Minister into the shadows of his own home. Only the faint blue glow from his aquarium kept the darkness from swallowing everything. The rectangular glass tank, where his tiny goldfish swam, cast just enough light to make out the silhouettes around him.

  “Welcome,” a voice greeted.

  A woman was sitting on the living room sofa, her arms draped over the backrest, relaxed, as if she were in the comfort of her own home.

  She was bald, with long, gleaming earrings dangling from her ears.

  Mizar recognized her and started hyperventilating; it felt as though a void had sucked away his insides. He fumbled along the wall, searching for the light switch.

  “Don’t,” the woman said. “I prefer darkness.”

  And as if his brain had been rewired to comply with her wishes, he obeyed.

  With an unforgettable elegance, the woman stood. Her eyes glimmered like amethysts. She wore the short lavender cape, long black dress, sandals, and jewelry—the ceremonial habit of a female Vicar of the Order.

  She walked toward him. The bluish glow from the aquarium licked her silhouette—her wide, well-shaped hips moving with a sway reminiscent of a big cat’s prowl; the soft outline of her breasts, natural and slightly drooping, visible beneath her short cape; her right leg, flawless, peeking through the slit in her dress.

  She wasn’t young—none of the purebloods were. She was far older than she appeared.

  “Mr. Minister of Defense,” she said, “between all the celebrations and ceremonies, you may not have heard the news, but your Military allies have secured something your other allies believed no longer existed: a dose of the Primary Plasma, hidden away in a bunker.”

  A rush of ice coursed through Mizar’s veins.

  “That’s excellent news!” he exclaimed, though the attempt to feign surprise caused him to choke on his own saliva and cough. “If the Military confiscated it, I can arrange to provide its location to the group.”

  The Vicar shook her head. “If all I wanted was the Plasma’s location, a simple phone call would have sufficed, Minister. I’m here for another reason.”

  And in that moment, he knew. The day he had always dreaded had finally arrived. She knew the truth. They knew the truth.

  The Vicar nodded, as if reading his mind. “We believed all doses of the Primary Plasma had been destroyed by He Who Never Forgives. But there was one last sample, hidden away by a traitor who turned his back on his own people. Whether out of revenge, love, or spite, this traitor gave it to a Binary believed to be dead. You know who this traitor is, don’t you?”

  The ice in Mizar’s veins turned to hundreds of sharp needles. “I… I don’t…”

  “Oh, yes, you’re that traitor, Mr. Mizar. Or should I drop your new title and address you by your true name? That might jog your memory, Mr. Rotanev.”

  In that instant, even though no representative of the Empire was there to hear her words, Mizar felt his honorary title stripped away, leaving him as the man he had once been…

  “Sebastián Rotanev,” the woman said, her voice sharp. “Youngest son of Ignacio Rotanev and an heir to the Rotanev fortune. What a disappointment it will be for them to learn of your betrayal.”

  Rotanev tried to pull away and realized that not just his hand, but his entire body was paralyzed. The raindrops clinging to his hair slid down his forehead and, before reaching the bridge of his nose, dampened his long lashes and washed over his eyes. What lay before him turned into a blurry smear.

  They weren’t raindrops. It was nervous sweat. He was scared to death.

  He blinked rapidly to clear his sight. The Vicar was nearly upon him. If he couldn’t escape, he at least wanted to see what was coming.

  She stopped just close enough for their noses to almost touch. They were so near he could feel the warmth of her breath. Slowly, she ran her hands over his face, wiping away the sweat with the tips of her ring-adorned fingers, one drop at a time.

  “I want to know one thing, Mr. Minister,” she said, her voice low and commanding. “And you will answer: Do you have any other doses hidden away?”

  Rotanev opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, she warned, “Speak the truth.”

  “No-no,” he stammered, the words spilling out against his will. “That was the-the only dose I-I kept.”

  She nodded, satisfied.

  “You should never have forgotten where your true loyalties lie, Mr. Sebastián Rotanev,” she said, tightening her grip around his throat. “They sent me to remind you. Once and for all.”

  Rotanev squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. He could feel the sharp points just below his chin—her nails, ready to pierce his throat.

  But suddenly, the pressure around his neck vanished. A tingling in his limbs announced that his mobility had returned. His legs responded, he blinked, and the weight that the trance had placed on his eyes melted away.

  “A Vicar, however,” the woman said, “knows when to act as an executioner, and when it’s wise to grant a pardon to avoid risking her own life.”

  Behind her appeared the figure in the trench coat—the same one who had stood at the building’s entrance—now threatening to strike the back of her neck if she didn’t step away from Rotanev. The purple trench coat, darkened by the damp drizzle, dripped onto the floor; and beneath the hood, a red light gleamed—the single, oversized oval eye of an A60.

  “Remember the deal,” the Cyclops told the woman.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Eddanian woman released the Minister slowly and turned toward the intruder.

  “I believe I’m done here. Keep it brief,” she advised, then vanished into threads of shadow.

  Now alone, bathed in the glow of the fish tank, the Cyclops pulled back his hood just as his head disassembled into hundreds of pieces, revealing itself to be a helmet.

  Before the face beneath the mask was fully revealed, Rotanev already knew who it was. Suddenly, everything made sense. The intruder who had just saved him had a copper beard that had gone a few days without a razor and a mane of hair just beginning to qualify as overgrown. Still, he was as handsome as ever.

  Trying to calm the hammering terror in his chest, the Minister stared at him.

  “Was the mask to hide your identity or your poor hygiene?” he said, the first thing that came to mind.

  With a look of disapproval, Broga pointed to the communicator on his wrist.

  “I tried to warn you they were coming for you, Sebastián.”

  Resigned, Sebastián Rotanev pointed to the phone resting on the shelf above the tank.

  “I didn’t think I’d need it today,” he said by way of excuse.

  “Well, if I give you a phone that works on Seven-Frequency, remember: you’re supposed to carry it with you at all times,” Broga scolded him. Then, to change the subject, he snatched the rolled-up newspaper and the holo-publication cards from Sebastián’s hands. “Are you guys still announcing your achievements like this? You really do love your traditions.”

  “It’s not love for tradition, it’s love for ego,” Sebastián admitted. “A simple memo doesn’t have the reach or the prestige of a publication—you know that.”

  Reclaiming his papers only to toss them aside, the Minister stepped closer to Broga. He needed to make sure no higher forces were controlling the young man. He needed to know whether Broga was still the same as always—that same little beast hiding one of the brightest minds the world would never know.

  He dug his fingers into that copper hair and ruffled it, like a gardener checking how much a shrub had grown. He knew he was playing a dangerous game; one wrong move, and that seemingly docile creature could bite his hand off.

  Broga remained still, those amber eyes locked on his.

  “What did they offer you, Broga?” Sebastián asked.

  “What I’ve always wanted.”

  “Ah, of course. Brun.”

  Sebastián thought it wise to withdraw his hand and take a step back before he got clawed. There were no signs of Tau radiation’s charm on Broga, but the false passivity he used to win over his prey was there—and Sebastián knew that when it came to Brun, Broga’s brother, everyone else was expendable. Even him.

  He hardened his expression.

  “So, what are your intentions? Soften me up so the final blow won’t sting as much?” he asked, looking Broga straight in the eye. The young man wouldn’t lie to him—not to him. “What’s going to happen to me? The executioner may have left, but you and I both know Eddanians don’t forgive betrayal.”

  “I made a deal. They won’t execute you,” Broga said. “Your punishment will be exile.”

  Sebastián felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “You won’t enjoy your people’s privileges when all this is over,” Broga added, gesturing around them. “But with all these luxuries, I doubt you’ll suffer much.”

  Sebastián nodded. Exile was a fair punishment—or at least that’s how he saw it. Yet the yoke of fear still fluttered in the pit of his stomach. Or was it a mix of excitement from being face-to-face with Broga and the terror of knowing that woman might return at any moment and change her mind about his sentence? Hoping the trembling in his legs wasn’t too obvious, he began to pace around the sitting area.

  “Alright. Let’s talk about what really matters,” he said. “You’re looking for the last dose of the Plasma, and I can help with that. If the military confiscated the Totem in the Canyon of the Hundred Caves, they likely took it to the nearest fortress within the territory, which, if I’m not mistaken, is Bellatrix—about four hours from here. I could pull some strings and get you a special pass into the storage facility, but that would take time and raise questions. I assume you’re in a hurry.”

  Broga didn’t answer. Clearly, time was short.

  Sebastián shrugged.

  “Alright, then you’ll have to use your new friend’s skills to break in. Now listen carefully, Broga. No matter what that woman promised you, if you plan to stick around her, I’d strongly suggest having a backup plan. She might be an anomaly, even among the Eddanians, but her disdain for Binaries is a common trait in her species.”

  “Her species?” Broga’s gaze sharpened. “Last I checked, their genomes, yours, and mine all belonged to the same race.”

  “You know what I mean,” Rotanev said. “I’m a traitor, and you’ve got those proteins in your blood—they no longer consider us one of them.”

  “I know,” Broga replied, and with a faint smile hidden beneath his beard, he took Sebastián’s hand and said goodbye. “Thank you for everything, Sebastián.”

  Sebastián Rotanev answered with a smile of his own.

  He opened his eyes. A dark ceiling stared back at him.

  Where...? he wondered, and as he shook off the kiss of disorientation, Sebastián Mizar realized it was the ceiling of his bedroom.

  Up there, printed in shadows, was the outline of the window frame: the gaping mouth of a hungry specter, filled with tiny black spots dripping down like strands of saliva. They were the shadows of raindrops dying against the glass. Yes, it was raining—he could hear the muted sound of water rattling on the rooftops.

  As for him, he was lying in bed; his bladder had woken him.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  The clock on the nightstand read five past four in the morning. He swung his feet onto the carpet and sat up, bracing himself with his arms to keep the weight of sleep from dragging him back down.

  He was naked, though that didn’t surprise him.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw what he expected: a young man asleep beside him, covered only by a sheet. He looked at him and pieced together the events that had led him here. The Grenadiers had escorted him to the condo and remained outside, standing guard in the hallway. He’d taken a warm shower and eventually welcomed Jake, the waiter, who had just finished his shift at the café. The rest… well, it had all gone wonderfully.

  In the dark, Sebastián went to the bathroom.

  Then, as he made his way back to bed, something warm slid through one of his nostrils and touched the edge of his lips. When he licked his mouth, he recognized the strange metallic taste.

  He turned on the bathroom lights. The sudden brightness made his eyes sting. He looked in the mirror. Blood was dripping from his nose. Grabbing a tissue from the medicine cabinet, he cleaned himself and rinsed with water until the bleeding stopped.

  But what the hell? Had he injured himself in his sleep?

  And then, like the fading details of a forgotten dream—flashes of an experience that hide from waking memory, echoing in the mind just long enough to survive a little while longer—the image of a bearded, unkempt Broga in a purple trench coat standing before him came back.

  He smiled, resigned.

  Of course. That cocky young man had been at the condo. When exactly? Before or after Jake arrived? Who knew—but he’d definitely been there.

  And someone else was too, he thought, eyeing the bloodstained tissue.

  There were nosebleeds… and then there were nosebleeds. He knew the difference. Epistaxis was one of the immune system’s ways of warning that Tau radiation had taken hold. Broga had come—with one of the Vicars?

  ‘I made a deal. They won’t execute you,’ he remembered someone saying. Broga, definitely. ‘Your punishment will be exile.’

  Then he understood. After all, things hadn’t ended so badly.

  He looked at himself in the mirror once more—no trace of blood.

  He turned off the bathroom light and returned to bed beside Jake.