The heavy iron gate of the inner palace sectors groaned as it swung shut behind the line of trembling slaves. Luigi, tucked into the frail and battered frame of Boru, kept his gaze fixed upon the polished obsidian floor. The resonance of the Devourer System still hummed beneath his skin, a hidden predator coiled within a cage of ribs and scars. The air here was different; it lacked the suffocating rot of the pits, replaced by the scent of expensive jasmine incense and the sterile, metallic tang of high-level neural-binding wards. Luigi could feel the invisible threads of the palace security system brushing against his stolen senses, testing the legitimacy of every soul that entered.
"Keep your heads down and your mouths shut," an overseer barked, his voice echoing through the vaulted hallway. "You are no longer trash in a hole. You are the grease for the gears of the royal household."
"How many of us will survive the week, master," a slave near the front whimpered, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
The overseer backhanded the man without looking. "Survival is a privilege you earn by being invisible," the overseer replied coldly. "Speak again and I will let the neural-conductors cook your brain from the inside."
Luigi tightened his grip on the hem of his tattered tunic. He could feel the eyes of the palace guards on them, scanning for any sign of rebellion. To them, he was just another anonymous body, a tool to be used and discarded. But as they were led deeper into the residential wing, the architecture became familiar. He recognized the tapestries depicting the conquest of Aetheris and the silver-framed mirrors that once reflected his own princely face. Now, they reflected a hollow-cheeked boy with dirt-matted hair.
"Stop here," the head butler commanded, signaling the line to halt in front of a massive door carved from white crystal. "The Prince Regent requires a new personal attendant. His previous servant... failed to meet expectations."
"What happened to the last one," Luigi asked quietly, pitching his voice to sound small and unthreatening.
The butler turned a cold eye toward him. "He died in the plaza yesterday for failing to keep secrets," the butler said with a thin, cruel smile. "Do you wish to join him?"
"No, master," Luigi answered, bowing his head to hide the flash of murderous intent in his eyes. "I only wish to serve."
The crystal doors slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. The room beyond was a testament to excess, filled with velvet divans and shelves of ancient scrolls. In the center of the room, reclining on a chaise lounge, was Michael. He looked exactly as he did during the execution, arrogant, pristine, and draped in the colors of the House of Twac. He was reading a report, a glass of dark amber wine resting on a table beside him.
"The latest batch of vermin, Your Highness," the butler announced, gesturing toward the group of slaves.
Michael didn't look up from his papers. "I told you I needed someone quiet, Silas," he remarked, his voice smooth and lethally calm. "The last one talked too much, even while he was being skinned. It was quite distracting."
"I have hand-picked the most obedient ones, my Prince," Silas assured him, walking down the line and stopping behind Luigi. "This one survived the pits and showed remarkable resilience during the sorting."
"Resilience is just another word for stubbornness," Michael sighed, finally setting the report down. "And I have no patience for stubborn things."
Michael stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the slaves. He walked slowly down the line, inspecting each of them as if they were livestock. He stopped in front of a tall, muscular man and shook his head. He passed a woman who was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Finally, he came to a halt directly in front of Luigi.
"You," Michael said, tilting his head. "Lift your chin."
Luigi hesitated for a heartbeat. He could feel the Devourer System pulsing, warning him of the high neural-binding energy emanating from the ring on Michael's finger. He forced his muscles to relax, slowly raising his head to meet his brother's gaze.
"You look familiar," Michael noted, his eyes narrowing as he studied Luigi's face. "Have I seen you in the mines?"
"I have spent my life in the shadows, Your Highness," Luigi replied, maintaining a tone of perfect subservience. "It is unlikely you would notice someone like me."
"And yet, there is something about the way you stand," Michael countered, stepping closer until he was mere inches away. "You don't cower like the others. Why is that?"
"Perhaps I am simply too tired to be afraid, master," Luigi said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in his ears.
Michael reached out, his gloved hand grabbing Luigi's jaw with a grip that threatened to crack bone. He forced Luigi to turn his head to the side, examining the scar on his neck and the shape of his ears. The silence in the room became suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the aether-lamps.
"What is your name, boy," Michael asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"They call me Boru," Luigi answered.
"Boru," Michael repeated, as if tasting the name for poison. "A common name for a common creature. But your eyes... your eyes are not common at all."
Luigi felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had forgotten that even in this new body, his eyes carried a specific intensity that was hard to mask. He tried to look away, but Michael's grip tightened, forcing him to maintain eye contact.
"One is dark as the pit, and the other glows like a dying star," Michael observed, his thumb brushing against Luigi's cheekbone. "It reminds me of someone I knew. Someone I took great pleasure in watching die."
"Many people die in the plaza, Your Highness," Luigi said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I am sure their eyes all look the same when the light leaves them."
"No," Michael snapped, his expression turning sharp. "His eyes were full of a pathetic hope. He thought our father would save him. He thought his fiancée loved him."
Michael let go of Luigi's jaw and stepped back, his hand moving reflexively to the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. He paced in a small circle, his eyes never leaving Luigi's face. The recognition was there, flickering just beneath the surface of his conscious mind, like a ghost trying to find its way back into a dream.
"Why do your eyes look like the wretch I beheaded yesterday," Michael demanded, his voice echoing with a sudden, sharp edge of suspicion.
"I do not know of whom you speak, Prince," Luigi replied, his voice a mask of feigned confusion. "I have been in the corpse pits until this morning."
"The pits," Michael muttered, his eyes darting toward Silas. "Did you ensure the bodies from the execution were properly disposed of?"
"Of course, my Prince," Silas bowed deeply. "The head and the torso were thrown into the central incinerator. There is nothing left of the traitor but ash and bad memories."
"Then why do I feel like I am looking at a ghost," Michael asked, turning back to Luigi. "There is a spark in you, Boru. A spark of defiance that shouldn't exist in a slave."
"It is not defiance, master," Luigi said, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead against the cold floor. "It is only the desire to live another day."
Michael stared down at the prone form of the boy for a long time. The tension in the room was a physical weight, a cord stretched to the point of snapping. Luigi waited, his fingers digging into the carpet, ready to activate the Devourer System and tear Michael's throat out if the prince moved to strike.
"Silas, leave him," Michael finally commanded, his voice returning to its usual arrogant lilt. "The rest of you, get out. This one will stay. I want to see how long it takes to break that spark of his."
"As you wish, Your Highness," Silas bowed, ushering the other confused and terrified slaves out of the chamber.
The crystal doors hissed shut, leaving Luigi alone in the room with the man who had helped dismantle his life. Michael walked back to his chair and poured himself another glass of wine, his movements fluid and relaxed. He took a slow sip, his eyes still fixed on Luigi, who remained on his knees.
"You will be my personal shadow, Boru," Michael said, setting the glass down with a soft click. "You will sleep at the foot of my bed, you will taste my food for poison, and you will clean the blood from my boots after every session."
"I am honored to serve, master," Luigi replied, his voice muffled by the floor.
"Honored," Michael laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "We shall see about that. I have a very specific way of testing loyalty. If you survive the night, perhaps I will stop looking for a ghost in your face."
"I will survive," Luigi whispered, so low that Michael couldn't hear.
"What was that," Michael asked, leaning forward.
"I said, I will obey, master," Luigi corrected, slowly raising his head.
Michael smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Go to the corner and wait. I have a guest coming soon. A woman of great beauty and even greater cruelty. You would do well to stay out of her sight."
Luigi retreated to the shadows of the room, his mind racing. He knew exactly who the guest would be. Isellia was coming. The woman who had orchestrated his downfall would be standing in this very room, and he would be forced to watch her from the dirt. He felt the Devourer System thrumming in his veins, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to synchronize with the beating of his heart. The encounter had begun, and the cliffhanger of his new life was dangling over a precipice of blood and shadows.
"Do not fail me, Boru," Michael called out from his chaise. "I would hate to have to execute the same face twice."
Aksara