Chapter Seventy-Four: Legal Doesn't Mean Safe
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Free Territory of Floodline — Nevermorning, Crown Freight District
9:17 P.M.
43°F / 6°C — cold river wind, damp pavement, clouds breaking west
Roman Maraux Duvall
Roman left the Crown Freight Bowl with Eirene's hand in his and somebody else's dessert in Céleste's.
He noticed halfway down the western stairs.
“Where you get that?”
Céleste looked at the square of dark cake in her hand.
“Bought it.”
“With?”
“My money.”
Roman stared.
She stared back.
“Why you looking?”
“You usually steal mine.”
“I can diversify.”
Nyxara laughed beside them.
Vaelora walked one step behind Roman, black hair whipping in the cold wind, metallic-gold streaks bright beneath the freight-yard lights.
Astraea had her layered coat drawn tighter.
Marcella and Julian were still arguing somewhere behind them about whether Roman betting on his own Sixthday race constituted market manipulation.
Roman considered that their problem.
Sera had disappeared.
That was everybody's problem.
Eirene remained beside him.
Quiet.
Close.
Roman's thumb moved over the back of her hand without thinking.
He was still high off the fight.
Not power.
Crowd.
Noise.
Marek Vost changing his breathing inside Dalen Orr's water pressure.
Forty thousand people going insane when the right hand landed.
The commentary booth.
Oren Pell's ridiculous voice.
Tessa Brann calling Roman a kid and then making him prove he knew what he was looking at.
He wanted another fight immediately.
He also wanted food.
And his motorcar back.
And to know what Corvan had learned about the Ardenmere credential.
And—
Nyxara stopped walking.
Roman felt her hand leave the back of his jacket.
He looked over.
She was staring at her slate.
Her expression had changed.
Not afraid.
Interested.
That was sometimes worse.
“What?”
Nyxara kept reading.
“Mhm.”
Roman:
“That's not word.”
“It's a sound.”
“What happened?”
Her fingers moved quickly.
A red notification pulsed across the slate.
Roman caught only pieces.
LINEAGE TRIAL
UNEXPECTED EXPRESSION
PRESSURE INCREASE
Roman smiled.
Nyxara saw.
“No.”
“What?”
“You're not coming because that face means you're hoping something exploded.”
“I ain't.”
“Roman.”
“A little.”
Eirene:
“He is.”
Roman looked at her.
“You supposed to support.”
“I am.”
“Not like that.”
Nyxara's slate chimed again.
She swore softly.
Then started down the next flight.
“I'm going to the Annex.”
Roman followed.
Nyxara looked back.
“No.”
“What?”
“We were supposed to eat.”
“We can eat there.”
“My laboratory is not a restaurant.”
Céleste:
“Does it have food?”
“Yes.”
“Then restaurant.”
Nyxara stared at her.
Céleste ate cake.
Roman:
“See?”
Vaelora:
“I would like to see the experiment.”
Astraea nodded once.
Eirene simply stayed attached to Roman's hand.
Nyxara looked at all of them.
“You're all coming?”
Roman:
“Apparently.”
Nyxara sighed.
Then smiled.
“Fine.”
A street vendor beneath the freight stairs shouted:
“CROWNLESS COMMEMORATIVE MANA TONIC! DRINK WHAT THE CHAMPIONS DRINK!”
Roman stopped.
Nyxara did not.
“Roman.”
He looked toward the stall.
Bottles glowing radioactive purple.
Hand-painted picture of Marek Vost on the label.
Marek had won less than an hour ago.
Roman:
“How they print that fast?”
Nyxara grabbed the back of his coat.
“No.”
“I just asking.”
The vendor saw Roman.
His entire face changed.
“EXECUTIVE! FREE BOTTLE!”
Roman:
“See?”
Nyxara:
“If you drink street alchemy before entering my laboratory, I will kill you myself.”
Vendor slowly lowered bottle.
Roman:
“Damn.”
Céleste:
“She's serious.”
“I know.”
They kept walking.
Behind them the vendor shouted:
“FORMULA REVISED! NOT ENDORSED BY ROMAN DUVALL!”
Roman smiled.
Real businessman.
---
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Nevermorning — Nhal-Moran Bloodworks Annex
9:46 P.M.
The Bloodworks Annex looked like Nyxara had been allowed to design a hospital after being told hospitals weren't threatening enough.
Black glass.
Dark red interior lighting.
Silver containment seams built directly into the walls.
Four floors.
Old freight doors preserved along the rear.
The entrance displayed none of Nyxara's titles.
Only:
BLOODWORKS ANNEX
TRANSFORMATION • LINEAGE • VITAE • REGENERATIVE ALCHEMY
Below that:
AUTHORIZED TRIAL SUBJECTS — CHECK IN LEFT
And handwritten underneath:
SELLING “ROMAN BLOOD” OUTSIDE THIS BUILDING WILL GET YOU ARRESTED.
Roman stopped.
“Why that specific?”
The receptionist heard him.
“Third time this week.”
Roman walked to the desk.
“Actual blood?”
“No.”
“What was it?”
“Beet juice, mana stimulant and pig plasma.”
Roman made a face.
Nyxara:
“See why I threaten you?”
Roman:
“I wouldn't drink pig.”
Receptionist:
“One person did.”
Céleste:
“Why?”
The receptionist stared into the middle distance.
“He said the seller had a trustworthy mustache.”
Nobody spoke.
Roman:
“Fair.”
Nyxara grabbed his sleeve.
“No, not fair.”
They hadn't reached the lift before a man in the waiting area stood.
His eyebrows were glowing green.
Not his eyes.
Eyebrows.
Bright enough to cast light across his forehead.
Roman stopped.
The man saw Roman see him.
“Don't.”
Roman covered his mouth.
The man:
“Please.”
Roman tried.
Failed.
“What happened?”
“Fake lineage potion.”
Nyxara's face went flat.
“Again?”
The man:
“Different seller.”
“Dragon?”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Bro.”
“He had scales!”
A nurse walking past:
“Paint.”
The man:
“I KNOW THAT NOW.”
Céleste turned into Eirene's shoulder because she was laughing.
Even Astraea smiled.
Roman wiped his eyes.
“You good though?”
“Clinic says yes.”
“Then eyebrows kinda hard.”
The man paused.
“You think?”
Nyxara:
“No.”
Roman:
“Little.”
The man looked toward the reflective wall.
One glowing eyebrow rose.
Roman lost it again.
Nyxara shoved him toward the lift.
“You are an awful sovereign.”
“Man feel better.”
“That doesn't make you good at medicine.”
“Didn't say.”
The lift opened.
The moment they reached the third floor, Roman stopped laughing.
Pressure.
Heavy.
Hot.
Not fire.
The air itself had gained weight.
Roman's coat settled harder against his shoulders.
Céleste's ears flattened.
Eirene breathed deeper.
Astraea touched the wall.
Vaelora's green eyes sharpened.
Roman looked toward Nyxara.
“That's trial?”
“Yes.”
A steel instrument cart rolled six inches across the corridor by itself.
Then stopped.
Roman:
“Hard.”
Nyxara:
“Bad.”
“Both.”
A technician ran around the corner.
“Containment Six is climbing again.”
Nyxara was already moving.
Roman followed.
“Stay outside.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“You let Vaelora?”
Nyxara looked behind.
Vaelora:
“I am difficult to crush.”
Fair.
Nyxara:
“Roman and Vaelora. Everyone else behind the line.”
Sera's voice came from behind them.
“What about me?”
Everybody turned.
Sera stood beside Eirene.
Roman:
“Where the fuck—”
“Door.”
“There wasn't door.”
“There was for me.”
Nyxara pointed at the observation line.
“Behind.”
Sera:
“Oppression.”
“Behind.”
Sera went behind.
Miracle.
---
Bloodworks Annex — Lineage Chamber Six
9:53 P.M.
The man inside had expected gills.
That became clear quickly.
“My grandfather had riverkin traits!”
He was maybe thirty.
Dark skin.
Shaved head.
Clinic clothes.
One hand locked around the edge of the examination platform.
His other arm was covered in new scales.
Not fish.
Larger.
Dark blue-black.
Hard.
His fingertips had grown small hooked claws.
And every time he panicked—
the room became deeper.
Roman knew there wasn't any water.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
His lungs disagreed.
Invisible pressure tightened around his ribs.
The reinforced observation glass bowed inward by less than an inch.
Roman:
“Oh.”
Nyxara:
“Do not say hard.”
Roman:
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
The man gasped.
A monitor flickered.
MANA LEAKAGE: 17.1%
PRESSURE COUPLING: AQUATIC
LINEAGE IDENTIFICATION: UNRESOLVED
Nyxara stepped closer.
“Joren.”
He looked at her.
“What the fuck is happening?”
“Your grandfather's records were incomplete.”
“No shit.”
Another pressure wave.
A glass reagent tube lifted from a side rack.
Roman caught it with gravity before it hit the floor.
Nyxara looked over.
“Thank you.”
Roman smiled.
She hated thanking people during experiments.
That meant serious.
Joren's back arched.
More scales moved over one shoulder.
The room pressure climbed.
Vaelora walked forward against it like walking into wind.
Joren stared.
“What is she?”
Vaelora:
“Dragon.”
Joren's breathing got worse.
Roman:
“Probably don't tell nervous lineage dude dragon.”
Vaelora:
“He asked.”
Fair.
Nyxara snapped two fingers at the technicians.
“Cut supplemental mana.”
They did.
The line disconnected.
The pressure dropped—
then surged harder.
Nyxara's expression sharpened.
“His body was using the supply as regulator.”
Technician:
“Reconnect?”
“No. Half.”
The mana line reengaged.
Not enough.
Joren doubled over.
A second set of scales appeared along his ribs.
The monitor couldn't decide what species he was.
RIVERKIN
deleted.
DRAKE-BLOOD
deleted.
AQUATIC THERIAN
deleted.
UNRESOLVED
Roman:
“System confused.”
Nyxara:
“Family records called everything with scales ‘riverkin’ for two centuries.”
Joren:
“Can we discuss my fraudulent ancestors later?”
“Good point.”
The room compressed.
The door frame groaned.
Vaelora grabbed one side physically.
Roman felt his own mana react.
Gravity wanted to answer pressure with pressure.
Bad.
Nyxara immediately looked at him.
“Contain.”
“I am.”
“Your leakage jumped.”
“By?”
Technician:
“Two-point-eight.”
Roman:
“That's nothing.”
The floor became subtly heavier.
Nyxara:
“Roman.”
“Fine.”
He pulled himself inward.
The weight eased.
There.
Control.
Joren looked at Roman through the glass.
“Is this permanent?”
Roman looked at Nyxara.
She didn't lie.
“Don't know yet.”
Joren's jaw tightened.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
Nyxara stepped to the containment threshold.
“What do you feel?”
“Like I'm drowning.”
“You aren't.”
“Helpful.”
“Where does the pressure start?”
Joren looked confused.
“What?”
“In you.”
He closed his eyes.
Another wave started.
“Chest.”
“Before the lungs?”
“Behind them.”
“Good. Don't stop it.”
Roman understood.
Same thing she'd told Halden in some earlier trial report.
Don't fight power before understanding where it begins.
Joren breathed.
The pressure rose.
Nyxara:
“Again.”
He did.
His claws dug into the platform.
The walls groaned.
Then—
something changed.
The pressure didn't disappear.
It moved.
Instead of crushing outward equally, it gathered around Joren's body.
A thin distortion formed against his skin.
Almost like invisible water hugging him.
Roman's eyes widened.
“Yo.”
Nyxara smiled.
There it was.
Joren opened his eyes.
He could breathe.
The room could too.
Leakage:
17.1%
13.4%
8.2%
4.9%
Roman:
“There.”
Joren looked down at his scaled arm.
“Am I a fucking fish?”
Roman:
“Nah.”
Nyxara:
“Roman.”
“What? He not.”
Joren laughed.
Pressure dropped another point.
Good.
Roman stepped closer to the glass.
“Scales look hard though.”
Joren studied them.
“Actually?”
“Yeah.”
Vaelora:
“They are poorly arranged.”
Roman:
“Why you like this?”
Joren stared at her.
Vaelora stepped closer.
“Your scale overlap leaves the inner elbow exposed.”
Joren looked at his elbow.
“Can I fix that?”
Nyxara:
“If the expression stabilizes.”
Vaelora:
“I would.”
Nyxara looked at her.
“Do not redesign my patient.”
Vaelora:
“He asked.”
Joren:
“I kind of did.”
Roman laughed.
Crisis over.
Mostly.
Behind the observation barrier, Sera had somehow acquired a clipboard.
Nobody knew from where.
---
10:21 P.M.
Roman wandered into the recovery wing while Nyxara finished with Joren.
Eirene still held his hand.
He had stopped noticing twenty minutes ago.
Which probably meant he liked it.
Céleste had found a vending machine.
Astraea sat beside her reading a trial brochure.
Sera had lost the clipboard.
Hopefully.
One recovery-room door opened.
A woman stepped out beside a clinic attendant.
Roman moved aside automatically.
She stopped when she saw the group.
Late twenties maybe.
Dark hair.
Tired.
Happy.
Very happy.
The kind where somebody had been crying enough that their eyes were still swollen.
She looked at Nyxara coming down the corridor.
“Voice stayed.”
Nyxara's entire expression changed.
Less sharp.
“Say something.”
The woman laughed.
“That counts.”
“Again.”
“My voice stayed.”
Nyxara smiled.
Roman looked between them.
“What trial?”
The woman answered before Nyxara could.
“Permanent body rewrite.”
Roman:
“For?”
She hesitated for maybe half a second.
Then shrugged.
“Gender.”
Roman nodded.
“Worked?”
“So far.”
She grinned suddenly.
“I sound like me.”
That hit Roman harder than the technical explanation would've.
He smiled back.
“Fire.”
The woman laughed again.
“That's what I said.”
Nyxara:
“You said considerably more than that.”
“I was emotional.”
“You swore at a mirror.”
“It deserved it.”
Roman liked her.
She left with the attendant.
Roman watched.
Then looked at Nyxara.
“So that's the potion?”
“One branch.”
“Can do anybody?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Bodies are annoying.”
Good answer.
Céleste approached with snacks.
“Can it change ears?”
Nyxara looked at her white fox ears.
“Yes.”
Céleste immediately:
“No.”
Roman laughed.
“You asked.”
“For information.”
Sera:
“Height?”
Nyxara:
“Stop.”
“I asked once.”
“You have asked twelve times across three days.”
“Persistence is scientific.”
Mireya's voice came through an open laboratory doorway.
“No, it isn't.”
Roman turned.
“Mireya.”
There she was.
Of course.
Glasses.
Hair tied messily.
One Threatglass lens over her right eye.
Dark lab clothes.
No greeting.
She pointed.
“Come here.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Blood.”
Roman's attention snapped toward her.
Nyxara groaned.
“You said that intentionally.”
Mireya:
“It worked.”
Roman was already walking.
Eirene followed.
Everybody else followed Roman.
Nyxara looked at the ceiling.
Her private laboratory had become a field trip.
---
Bloodworks Annex — Progenitor Laboratory
10:34 P.M.
Roman recognized the old Pixie Dragon scale immediately.
It floated inside a sealed suspension capsule.
Honey-gold underneath.
Wine-black along one edge.
Tiny.
Naturally shed months ago.
Roman stopped.
“You still got that?”
Nyxara smiled.
“Obviously.”
“You stole that.”
“You shed it.”
“Still mine.”
“You eventually authorized it.”
Roman thought.
“True.”
A second chamber contained his blood.
Not much.
Enough.
Under diagnostic light it looked wrong.
Too structured.
Thin violet-gold pathways shifting through red.
Mireya enlarged the image.
Tiny gaps opened between structures.
Then vanished.
Roman:
“What it doing?”
Nyxara came beside him.
“Remembering.”
“Blood don't remember.”
Nyxara looked at him.
Roman:
“My blood do?”
“Yes.”
“Hard.”
Mireya:
“Your vocabulary remains scientifically useless.”
Roman ignored her.
Nyxara placed one hand against the chamber controls.
“Your Pixie Dragon tissue never became merely dragon tissue. It kept a return description.”
Roman watched the scale.
“So knew me.”
“Essentially.”
“That's cute.”
Nyxara stared.
Roman:
“What?”
“You've reduced months of work to cute blood.”
“Yes.”
Eirene's mouth moved faintly.
Nyxara saw.
“Don't encourage.”
Eirene:
“I said nothing.”
“You smiled.”
Roman:
“She do that sometimes.”
Eirene squeezed his hand.
Roman smiled.
Nyxara looked away before she smiled too.
Mireya activated the next field.
A second mixture entered Roman's blood.
Cultured blood substrate.
Vitae-rich carrier.
No donor standing beside him.
No person needed.
The mixture touched Roman's sample.
His blood rejected part immediately.
Cells ruptured.
Roman:
“That one trash.”
Nyxara looked at him.
Roman:
“What? I see.”
Mireya:
“He's correct.”
Nyxara:
“I know.”
She changed formula.
Second carrier.
Roman's blood accepted it.
Then the entire chamber warmed.
Thin infernal red appeared through the diagnostic field.
Nyxara:
“Trash.”
Roman:
“Why?”
“Too much infernal bias.”
“What do that?”
Nyxara looked at him.
“You with additional territorial aggression.”
Everybody:
“No.”
Roman stared.
“Damn.”
Céleste:
“We have enough.”
Vaelora:
“Far enough.”
Astraea:
“More than enough.”
Roman:
“Y'all rude.”
Third formula.
Stable.
Then collapsed.
Fourth.
Nothing.
Roman got bored.
Sera tried touching a sealed reagent.
Nyxara slapped her hand.
Sera looked offended.
“Violence.”
“My lab.”
Fifth formula.
Mireya changed one parameter.
Nyxara changed another.
Roman watched.
Eirene rested her head lightly against his shoulder.
Minutes passed.
Roman didn't complain.
Then Nyxara reached for the scale-derived buffer.
Mireya:
“Do it.”
Nyxara added one fraction.
The sample went still.
Roman leaned forward.
Tiny spatial hollows opened.
The donor medium disappeared into them.
Not gone.
Compressed.
Stored.
Mireya lowered the chamber's available mana.
Roman's sample reacted.
The tiny structures reopened.
Stored reserve flowed out.
Roman:
“Wait.”
Again.
Mireya repeated.
Store.
Drain.
Release.
Store.
Roman's eyes widened.
“That's like extra tank.”
Nyxara:
“Biologically, that sentence is disgusting.”
“But yes?”
She sighed.
“Yes.”
Roman grinned.
“Better blood.”
Mireya:
“No.”
Nyxara stared at the chamber.
Then:
“...maybe.”
Mireya looked betrayed.
Roman pointed at Nyxara.
“See?”
Nyxara smiled.
Roman slipped an arm around her shoulders from the side.
She let him.
“Make lot.”
“We're not there yet.”
“How much?”
“Roman.”
“Car amount?”
Nyxara:
“Why is that your unit?”
“Need emergency reserve in R9.”
Xyra's name appeared on Roman's communicator as though summoned by stupidity.
Roman answered.
“Yo.”
Xyra:
“Why did Vaelora send me ‘Roman wants blood tank’?”
Roman looked at Vaelora.
Vaelora:
“Efficiency.”
Roman:
“Not tank.”
Nyxara:
“Definitely not tank.”
Mireya:
“Absolutely not connected directly to him.”
Xyra:
“I didn't say directly.”
Roman:
“Could use straw.”
Silence.
Eirene:
“No.”
Roman:
“Joking.”
Céleste:
“No.”
Astraea:
“Not remotely.”
Roman:
“Damn.”
Xyra:
“I can build an armored refrigerated reserve case behind the rear bulkhead.”
Roman smiled.
Nyxara:
“After the formula exists.”
Xyra:
“Obviously.”
Call ended.
Mireya looked at Roman.
“You've infected everybody.”
Roman:
“Leadership.”
---
Fourthday, 12 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Bloodworks Annex — Progenitor Laboratory
11:16 P.M.
Corvan Ash came through the service entrance carrying an evidence case.
Roman saw him through the lab glass.
Red-brown hair damp from outside.
Dark coat.
One silver curse streak.
No dramatic entrance.
He just walked in like somebody bringing receipts.
Roman:
“What's up?”
Corvan set the case down.
“Your bolt.”
The room changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Eirene straightened.
Nyxara's smile disappeared.
Mireya removed the Threatglass lens from her face and moved closer.
Roman looked through the evidence window.
Broken black-gray metal.
Gold-white script mostly burned away.
One Wreckway anti-Progenitor bolt.
Roman's chest remembered before the rest of him did.
Tiny ache.
He ignored it.
“What find?”
Corvan unlocked the case.
“Marrowe found the purchase chain.”
Isolde.
Of course.
“Seraphine recognized one supplier seal.”
Roman:
“Old vampire?”
“Old enough.”
Nyxara leaned over the case without touching it.
Then stopped.
Roman noticed.
“You know?”
Nyxara's eyes narrowed.
“Maybe.”
Corvan:
“That's why I'm here.”
Mireya opened a chemical scan.
Fragments populated.
Null-treated metal.
Celestial ash.
Oathbreaker alloy.
Then one reagent.
Nyxara went very still.
Roman:
“Nyx.”
She looked at the line again.
“It's Nhal-Moran.”
Roman:
“Your people?”
“Not exactly.”
“Meaning?”
Nyxara finally looked at him.
“It began as transfusion chemistry.”
Roman waited.
She opened another pane.
Old formula.
Decades old.
Medical.
“Vampires contaminate blood products easily if the donor's vitae remains active. This compound was designed to make foreign vampiric structures reject themselves before transfusion.”
Roman looked at the bolt.
“They reversed it.”
“Yes.”
Mireya understood next.
“They made Roman the contaminant.”
Nyxara:
“Yes.”
Roman's smile disappeared.
Corvan:
“Somebody bought precursor stock through a Crimson Regency holding company eleven months ago.”
Roman:
“Who?”
“Shell.”
“Behind?”
“Working.”
Roman hated that answer.
Because it was usually the right one.
Eirene's fingers found his sleeve.
Roman looked down.
Then back to the bolt.
Nyxara wasn't angry.
Not outwardly.
Worse.
Interested.
Her eyes moved between the medical formula and her Red Reserve sample.
Roman knew that look.
“Nyx.”
She smiled.
There it was.
“What?”
“You thinking crime.”
“Science.”
“Same building.”
Corvan laughed quietly.
Nyxara pulled the Red Reserve chamber closer.
Mireya:
“I know what you're thinking.”
“Yes.”
Roman:
“What?”
Nyxara pointed at the bolt.
“That weapon taught us which part of your blood it attacks first.”
Then the reserve.
“So?”
“So I stop building your emergency blood for ordinary depletion.”
Roman's grin slowly returned.
Mireya:
“We build it to keep functioning under rejection pressure.”
Roman:
“Anti-assassin blood.”
Nyxara:
“That is an awful name.”
Roman:
“Better blood two.”
“No.”
“Blood II.”
“No.”
Corvan:
“I like Blood II.”
Nyxara stared at him.
Corvan shrugged.
Roman:
“Gang know science.”
“Gang knows naming.”
A public alarm chimed once from downstairs.
Everybody froze.
Then an automated announcement:
PLEASE STOP ATTEMPTING TO SELL UNLICENSED TRANSFORMATION TONICS IN THE WEST LOBBY.
Roman looked at Nyxara.
Nyxara closed her eyes.
Corvan:
“Your city?”
Roman:
“Yeah.”
Corvan:
“Hard.”
---
Fifthday, 13 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
12:03 A.M.
Bloodworks Annex — Formula Room
42°F / 6°C outside — mostly clear, streets still damp
Nyxara Veyr
Roman's blood responded beautifully to insults.
Nyxara had noticed this years ago.
She had never written it in a paper.
Mireya stood across from her.
Roman sat on the edge of a worktable where he'd explicitly been told not to sit.
Eirene stood between his knees because apparently personal space had been abolished somewhere during the last month.
Roman had one arm loosely around her waist.
Eirene read the formula display over Nyxara's shoulder.
Céleste had fallen asleep in a chair with her hood over her eyes.
Vaelora stood near the door.
Astraea beside her.
Sera had vanished again.
Probably stealing something.
Nyxara should have thrown everybody out.
She didn't.
Roman watched her work.
That mattered more than she liked admitting.
Nyxara added a microscopic amount of the recovered anti-vitae reagent to an ordinary cultured sample.
Immediate collapse.
The cells rejected themselves.
Red Reserve Prototype Seven lasted four seconds longer.
Then collapsed.
Roman:
“Trash.”
Nyxara looked at him.
“Yes.”
Mireya:
“Again.”
They changed the carrier.
Again.
Collapse.
Changed spatial buffer.
Again.
Better.
Ten seconds.
Then failure.
Roman had stopped joking.
Good.
He watched the numbers.
Actually watched.
Mireya altered the mana carrier.
Nyxara changed the recognition anchor.
The next sample survived twenty-eight seconds.
Then the reagent found the original blood signature.
Killed the reserve release.
Nyxara swore.
Roman:
“What if it don't know it's mine?”
She looked over.
“What?”
Roman pointed at the blood.
“If thing attack because recognize my blood as wrong... don't let reserve look like me till need it.”
Mireya stopped.
Nyxara stared.
Roman:
“What?”
Nyxara turned toward the display.
Mireya was already moving.
“Mask the reserve compartments.”
Nyxara:
“Not mask.”
“Isolate?”
“Partition.”
Roman:
“That's what I said.”
Both girls:
“No.”
Roman smiled.
Nyxara rebuilt the formula.
The spatial microstructures opened.
Reserve entered.
She changed the outer recognition layer.
Not Roman.
Not donor.
Nothing.
Biologically quiet.
The anti-vitae reagent entered.
No reaction.
Roman sat forward.
“Yo.”
Nyxara lowered local mana.
Roman's blood demanded reserve.
The compartment opened.
For a fraction of a second, the reagent recognized it.
Attacked.
But the stored medium had already moved.
Released.
Useful.
The compartment closed.
Roman:
“Again.”
Nyxara repeated.
Attack.
Release.
Close.
Mireya smiled.
Nyxara did too.
Roman hopped off the table.
“That's hard as fuck.”
Nyxara turned toward him.
There he was.
Fifteen.
Bleach-blonde hair coming loose from its ties.
Healing Wreckway scar under his shirt.
Eirene's hand still in his.
Eyes too bright because somebody had turned an assassination weapon into a puzzle.
Roman had given Nyxara a country where her illegal interests had become research departments.
But that wasn't why she loved him.
The annoying answer was simpler.
Roman believed strange things were worth understanding.
He didn't ask her to become normal before loving her.
That was dangerous.
Nyxara liked dangerous.
She walked over.
Roman:
“What?”
Nyxara kissed his cheek.
“Good idea.”
He smiled.
“Rare?”
“Extremely.”
“Fuck you.”
Eirene's mouth curved.
Nyxara looked at her.
“You knew?”
Eirene:
“He occasionally thinks.”
Roman:
“Wow.”
Nyxara laughed.
Then the formula chamber made a noise it absolutely should not have made.
tok
Everybody looked.
Roman:
“What was—”
The containment pane bowed outward.
Nyxara's smile vanished.
“Mireya.”
“I see it.”
Spatial pressure surged.
Not huge.
Enough.
Roman reacted first.
Gravity clamped around the chamber.
The worktable under his hand groaned.
Vaelora grabbed the outer containment frame.
Astraea moved Céleste's sleeping chair backward before Céleste even fully woke.
Eirene caught Roman's sleeve.
“Leakage.”
Roman:
“I know.”
His gravity pressure had joined the spatial pressure.
The floor felt twice as heavy.
Nyxara:
“Roman, less.”
“Trying.”
Mireya killed the chamber mana.
Nothing.
Wrong move.
The little reserve pockets started dumping at once.
Nyxara:
“Back on!”
Mireya reversed.
The chamber stabilized.
Roman eased gravity.
Vaelora released the frame.
Silence.
Céleste looked around.
“What happened?”
Astraea:
“Nothing.”
Céleste:
“I hate laboratories.”
Then went back to sleep.
Roman looked at the chamber.
A hairline crack crossed one outer pane.
Roman:
“Did we make hole?”
Nyxara looked.
“No.”
Roman:
“Consent said no hole.”
Nyxara:
“I remember.”
Mireya:
“Prototype Eight needs pressure venting.”
Roman:
“Eight?”
Nyxara:
“Seven just tried to leave.”
“Fair.”
A door opened behind them.
Sera returned carrying a bag of chips.
Roman:
“Where you get?”
“Lobby.”
“You disappear during explosion?”
“There wasn't explosion.”
Nyxara stared.
Sera offered her a chip.
Nyxara took one.
Fine.
---
Fifthday, 13 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Bloodworks Annex — Public Lobby
12:41 A.M.
Somebody had started selling fake ARCH CRUSNIK BLOODSHOT outside.
Roman found out because security brought the seller inside.
A young man.
Maybe twenty.
Bright red coat.
Excellent hair.
Zero survival instinct.
Two crates of tiny black bottles sat beside him.
Roman picked one up.
Nyxara slapped his wrist.
“Don't.”
“I'm reading.”
The label showed a badly drawn picture of Roman with eight wings.
Roman frowned.
“I got six.”
Seller:
“Graphic design.”
Roman:
“Eight?”
“Looked stronger.”
“That's misinformation.”
The security officer stared at Roman.
Roman:
“What?”
“That's your objection?”
“First.”
Nyxara turned bottle over.
Ingredients:
Beet concentrate.
Iron supplement.
Mana stimulant.
Artificial blood flavor.
Caffeine.
One component simply listed:
SECRET HERBS
Nyxara:
“Absolutely not.”
Seller:
“It's safe.”
“What's secret herbs?”
“Trade secret.”
Nyxara looked at security.
“Arrest him.”
Seller:
“For herbs?”
“Unlicensed medical claims.”
Roman:
“And wings.”
Security officer:
“Not wings.”
Roman:
“Should be.”
Eirene took the bottle from Roman.
Read it.
“There's a typo in your name.”
Roman:
“What?”
She showed him.
ROMEN DUVALL
Roman stared.
“Arrest twice.”
The seller:
“Printing error.”
Céleste had fully woken up now.
She looked at the crate.
“How many sold?”
The man's silence answered.
Nyxara:
“How many?”
“Maybe... seventy?”
Roman:
“Damn.”
The security officer's communicator chimed.
He listened.
Then looked at the seller.
“One purchaser is in East Clinic.”
Everybody stopped laughing.
Nyxara:
“Why?”
“Heart rate.”
The seller went pale.
There.
Reality.
Not funny anymore.
Nyxara handed the bottle to a technician.
“Full toxicology now.”
Roman's eyes remained on the seller.
No wings joke.
No grin.
“Who made it?”
Seller:
“I bought concentrate.”
“From?”
“I don't know.”
Roman's voice changed.
“Who.”
The man swallowed.
“Bell Thread. Guy called Sixer.”
Corvan, standing near the lobby entrance because apparently he had never actually left:
“I know him.”
Seller looked worse.
Corvan:
“Come on.”
He took the man's shoulder.
Not violently.
Didn't need to.
They left.
Roman looked toward Nyxara.
“You can fix buyer?”
“If it's stimulant toxicity, yes.”
“If?”
“We find out.”
Roman nodded.
No speech.
He hated answers with if.
Nyxara did too.
That didn't make them disappear.
Eirene touched Roman's arm.
He breathed.
Then his communicator chimed.
Cassian.
Roman answered.
“What?”
Cassian's projection opened.
Phaedra's bluish-silver hair visible behind him.
Delphine farther back arguing with someone off-screen.
Cassian looked tired.
“Corvan tell you?”
“Which thing?”
“Good question.”
Roman:
“Ardenmere?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“The detained map buyer finally gave a house name.”
Roman straightened.
“Morvale?”
“No.”
“Rosen?”
“No.”
Roman frowned.
Cassian:
“Drelle.”
Roman searched memory.
Delphine appeared suddenly in the projection.
“Minor river branch.”
Roman:
“Thought minor.”
“They were.”
“Were?”
Delphine's expression went cold.
“They've apparently found money.”
Behind her, Rhea's voice:
“Or somebody found them.”
Tamsin:
“More likely.”
Roman looked at Nyxara.
The anti-vitae evidence case still sat upstairs.
Old vampire supply chain.
Ardenmere money.
Assassins.
Everybody borrowing everybody else's tools.
Roman:
“Send Corvan.”
Cassian:
“He's there.”
Roman glanced toward the door Corvan had just exited through.
“Bro move fast.”
Cassian:
“You hired him.”
“Fair.”
Delphine said something sharp in Ardenmere dialect toward somebody outside frame.
Roman recognized one word now.
Approximately:
idiot.
He smiled.
She noticed.
“Stop learning only insults.”
Roman:
“Teach useful words.”
“That is a useful word.”
Projection ended.
Nyxara:
“Hungry?”
Roman looked.
“For?”
“Actual food.”
“Yeah.”
Céleste:
“Finally.”
---
Fifthday, 13 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Nevermorning — Founding Line, Old Ninth Tide
1:19 A.M.
41°F / 5°C — clear patches overhead, cold and damp
They occupied two tables.
No private room.
Roman didn't want one.
Nyxara sat beside him.
Eirene on the other side.
Céleste across.
Vaelora beside Céleste.
Astraea.
Sera.
Mireya arrived eleven minutes later still carrying a formula slate.
Elys came with her, sleepy and wrapped in Mireya's coat again.
Nobody mentioned it.
Dare was finishing his shift farther down the counter.
Two military engineers ate noodles near the door.
A woman in sanitation coveralls argued with the cook because he'd put onions in her order.
Three Rook students were taking bets on whether the Crownless Open would exceed twenty thousand applications before Sixthday.
A fairy slept inside a sugar jar until the owner discovered her and started yelling.
Normal.
Roman ate.
Nyxara stole from his bowl.
Roman looked at her.
“You got yours.”
“Yours has more meat.”
“Because I ordered meat.”
“Yes.”
She took another.
Roman sighed.
Eirene quietly moved two pieces from her bowl into his.
Roman looked.
She kept eating.
He smiled.
Nyxara saw.
Took one of those too.
Roman:
“Demonic.”
“Succubus.”
“Same neighborhood.”
Nyxara leaned into him.
The lab smell still clung faintly to her.
Metal.
Sweet alchemical reagent.
Something floral.
Roman rested his head briefly against hers.
“What else you making?”
Nyxara:
“Today?”
“Yeah.”
“Gender return-state formulation.”
“Saw.”
“Dormant-lineage catalyst.”
“Saw.”
“Your blood.”
“Best.”
Mireya:
“Debatable.”
Roman:
“Not.”
Nyxara took another noodle.
Roman caught her chopsticks this time.
She looked at him.
He looked back.
Neither moved.
Nyxara smiled.
Roman released.
She ate it.
“Anything else?”
Nyxara thought.
“A way to make temporary transformations stop consuming active mana.”
Mireya:
“Still unstable.”
“A method for storing spells in blood-derived spatial vesicles.”
Roman:
“What?”
Mireya looked up.
“No.”
Roman:
“I just asked.”
“You'll want it.”
“I do now.”
Nyxara laughed.
“And micro-spatial medicine.”
Roman:
“Tiny doctors?”
Nyxara stared.
“No.”
Céleste:
“That would be cute.”
Mireya:
“No.”
Roman:
“Little doctor inside vein.”
Astraea:
“Please stop helping.”
Roman laughed.
Then Nyxara's expression changed.
Thoughtful.
“One more.”
Roman:
“What?”
“Incompatible species expression.”
Vaelora looked over.
Nyxara continued.
“People with several dormant lineages sometimes wake the wrong architecture halfway.”
Roman remembered Joren.
“Fish-dragon dude.”
“He isn't a fish.”
“Vaelora?”
Vaelora:
“Not dragon.”
Roman:
“See? Fish.”
Nyxara:
“I hate you.”
Roman smiled.
She continued anyway.
“If I can teach the body to compare possible return states before locking one—”
Mireya was listening now.
“So it chooses the most coherent architecture.”
Nyxara:
“Or the person chooses.”
Roman looked at her.
“That better.”
Nyxara glanced toward him.
“Why?”
Roman shrugged.
“If it's their body.”
Simple.
Nyxara went quiet.
Then smiled.
“Yeah.”
Roman didn't know he'd said anything important.
That was probably why it mattered.
The wall feed changed.
CROWNLESS OPEN APPLICATIONS: 11,902
Crowd inside the diner reacted.
One student slapped the table.
“YES.”
Another:
“Shit.”
Money changed hands.
Then war.
KARSOVAN WESTERN COMMAND ABANDONS SECONDARY AIR-RAIL HUB
Nobody cheered.
Different kind of news.
One military engineer looked up.
Then went back to noodles.
Next:
AVARRAN AIRCRAFT LOSSES PROMPT NEW DEFENSIVE DEPLOYMENT
Next:
ARDENMERE SUCCESSION COUNCIL DENIES DRELLE BRANCH INVOLVEMENT IN FLOODLINE ATTACK
Roman:
“That fast?”
Eirene:
“They were prepared.”
“Meaning?”
“To deny it.”
Nyxara:
“Doesn't mean guilty.”
Roman nodded.
There.
No easy answer.
Then:
OLD BLOOD DISTRIBUTORS FACE NEW AUDIT AFTER NIGHTGLASS ACQUISITION PROBE
Nyxara's eyes moved.
Roman:
“Your thing?”
“Maybe.”
Seraphine.
Isolde.
Old vampires buying blood infrastructure.
Anti-vitae reagents moving through old distribution chains.
Everything crossing.
Not one plot.
A city full of plots bumping into each other.
Roman liked that less when they were aimed at him.
His communicator chimed.
Ren.
Roman answered by audio.
“What?”
Ren:
“Your blood is stupid.”
Roman:
“Again?”
“I've been looking at Mireya's partition model.”
Mireya immediately reached across the table.
“Why?”
Ren:
“You shared the workspace.”
“I shared one folder.”
“You linked inheritance.”
Mireya's face went still.
Layla's voice in the background:
“He got you.”
Ren:
“I improved the masking layer.”
Nyxara:
“How?”
A projection opened above Roman's slate.
Ren.
Layla beside him wearing Ren's jacket and eating something.
Behind them:
Rook lab.
Ren pushed a formula pane forward.
“Don't hide reserve identity as neutral. Give it a false dead-state signature until release.”
Nyxara leaned closer.
Mireya:
“That could reduce reagent recognition.”
Ren:
“Exactly.”
Roman:
“I said don't look like mine.”
Ren:
“That is not technically sufficient.”
Roman:
“Still idea.”
Layla:
“He'll claim credit forever.”
Roman:
“Facts.”
Ren:
“I regret calling.”
Projection ended.
Roman smiled.
Eirene:
“You're going to try it.”
Nyxara and Mireya together:
“Yes.”
Roman:
“Tonight?”
Nyxara:
“No.”
Mireya:
“Yes.”
They looked at each other.
Nyxara:
“Tomorrow.”
Mireya:
“Tonight.”
Roman leaned back.
“Fight.”
Both ignored him.
Better entertainment than Crownless.
---
Fifthday, 13 Thawwane, 427 F.C.
Sovereign House — Western Rooms
2:17 A.M.
40°F / 4°C — mostly clear, wet roofs cooling under open sky
Roman barely made it into bed.
Céleste got there first.
Of course.
She dropped across the foot sideways, pulled one blanket around herself and stopped responding to civilization.
Eirene changed into something comfortable and climbed in beside Roman without discussion.
Sera had disappeared.
Roman checked beneath the bed.
Nothing.
Suspicious.
Vaelora had gone to the garage.
Astraea back to her rooms after fixing one of Roman's loose hair ties and telling him not to stay awake until sunrise.
Roman had replied:
“No promises.”
She had stared.
Roman had amended:
“Try.”
Progress.
He lay back.
Eirene was reading.
Roman looked.
“You gonna read whole book?”
“No.”
“You said that last time.”
“I lied.”
Roman smiled.
His communicator rested on the bedside table.
No phone.
Slate.
Communicator.
Actual words.
Good.
A new message appeared.
Nyxara.
still at lab
Roman:
come home
Three dots.
Working.
Roman:
work tomorrow
Prototype Eight.
Roman:
blood can wait
Longer pause.
Roman looked toward Eirene.
Eirene was still reading.
“You think she come?”
“Yes.”
“How know?”
“She wants to.”
Roman:
“Then why still there?”
Eirene finally looked at him.
“Because she also wants to work.”
Roman frowned.
Those two things were allowed to exist together.
Annoying.
He typed:
come when done
Nyxara:
Obviously.
Roman smiled.
Put the communicator down.
Eirene closed her slate.
“Sleep.”
“Not tired.”
Céleste's voice from the bottom of the bed:
“Liar.”
Roman:
“You awake?”
“No.”
“Again?”
“No.”
Roman laughed quietly.
He turned onto his side.
Eirene moved closer.
No big romance scene.
Her forehead against his shoulder.
Roman's arm around her.
Céleste's foot eventually found his leg again.
Normal.
At 2:53 A.M., the bedroom door opened.
Roman was half asleep.
He heard it anyway.
Soft footsteps.
Fabric.
The quiet clink of Nyxara removing jewelry and setting it on the dresser.
Roman did not open his eyes.
Mattress shifted.
Nyxara slid in on his other side.
Cold from outside.
Roman immediately reached.
Found her wrist.
Pulled her closer without waking fully.
Nyxara went still.
Then softened.
“You awake?”
Roman:
“Mmm.”
“That is not an answer.”
Eirene, eyes still closed:
“He's asleep.”
Roman:
“No.”
Céleste from the foot:
“Yes.”
Nyxara laughed under her breath.
Roman opened one eye.
“You finish?”
“Prototype Eight survived forty-one seconds.”
He smiled.
“Hard.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Love you.”
Nyxara's face changed in the dark.
Roman had already closed his eye again.
She tucked herself against him.
“Love you too.”
The room settled.
Outside the Western Rooms, Sovereign House kept running.
Night security crossed the lower courtyard.
A freight motorcar arrived with government archives.
Somewhere beneath Nevermorning, Corvan was chasing a new Ardenmere name.
Isolde was following old vampire money.
Seraphine was following blood.
Cassiel's tournament had passed twelve thousand applicants.
The war kept moving west.
A man with faintly green eyebrows had apparently decided not to request full reversal after all.
And in Nyxara's laboratory, a vial of Roman's blood sat inside a containment field pretending to be dead so that the next weapon designed to kill him might not recognize what it was looking at.
Roman slept through all of it.
For once, he could.
He had people awake for him.This version takes the Dances with the Dragons influence through the urban-science-fantasy texture, technical magic, dangerous formulas, professional banter, and unrelated city problems colliding, without importing its characters or mechanics into your lore.