Chapter Text
No one ever knew exactly when the Forgers disappeared.
One morning, Anya went out to walk Bond and never returned. That afternoon, Yor never stopped by the butcher’s shop. And that same night, Loid Forger did not return home. No one asked questions. It was as if the country itself had swallowed the whole family, leaving no trace behind.
Parents whispered about accidents, teachers spoke of escapes, newspapers hinted at betrayal.
But all of it was ash disguised as words.
Because the true culprits knew the truth: the Forgers had never left of their own free will.
The cold war between Westalis and Ostania did not shatter with bombs or declarations. It broke quietly—through knives in the dark.
Garden fell first.
The Thorn Princess, the most feared assassin in the country, was last seen on a moonlit rooftop, drenched in blood and surrounded by a sea of bodies. The scene was a grotesque puzzle; the carnage was so absolute that it was impossible to tell if the fallen were the enemies she had been hunted by, or her own fellow associates from Garden.
After that, nothing. No one ever found her, leaving only the mystery of whether that night was her greatest victory or her final betrayal.
Then WISE fell.
Agent Twilight was the last to resist. Some say he knew it was a trap, a snare laid for a myth that had walked among them for too long, yet he stayed—for the lie that had slowly turned into truth. Some insist he died fighting Party forces. Others claim he allowed himself to be captured. That he chose to die.
And then, Donovan Desmond rose.
The man no one dared to question, the one everyone pretended to understand, became the sole leader of the State. There was no opposition, no masks. The world watched him turn into a dictator—and looked away.
Under his rule, Ostania became a surveillance state.
Schools like Eden stopped shaping the leaders of tomorrow. Instead, they indoctrinated blind loyalty to the Party. Stella Stars were replaced by National Honor decorations. Tonitrus bolts were replaced with physical punishment.
For three years, the country belonged to him.
Until he died.
Some said it was a degenerative disease. Others whispered that his own generals poisoned him. There were those who believed his body had been nothing more than a puppet, kept alive by drugs and hatred.
But Donovan’s death left a void—one the Party needed to fill quickly.
They had two options.
Demetrius Desmond, the firstborn: brilliant, charismatic, educated in economics and international relations. But also… dangerous. Not because of brute force, but because of his ideas. He spoke of opening ports, of dialogue with Westalis, of transparency—words that made the High Council grind their teeth.
And so, with impeccable courtesy and firm smiles, they sent him east.
They offered him governance over Nördvek, a gray industrial city by the sea, shrouded in fog, rusted factories, and silence. They gave him power—yes—but far away. They promised independence, gifted him a palace, and exiled him with a smile.
That left only one.
Damian Desmond.
The boy who grew up in the shadow of a perfect brother. The one who was never enough. The one who learned to smile without joy, to speak without saying anything, to obey without thinking. A child raised in fear, shaped by guilt, trained to remain silent.
He was perfect.
Not because of his blood—but because of his obedience.
The broadcast was mandatory. Every television in the country aired the ceremony. Damian, now twenty-two, climbed the steps of the Presidential Palace wearing a suit that did not seem to belong to him. The dark glasses of the Council members reflected his back as he raised his hand in a silent salute.
There was no speech. There was no need.
The message was clear: the younger son has inherited the throne—and he will not question it.
Damian knew he was a symbol. That his will was irrelevant. That he had been chosen not out of love, nor trust, but because he was easier to control than his brother.
Because he would never rebel.
Because everything he had ever wanted had already been taken from him.
The presidential office was dimly lit. Only the desk lamp illuminated the stacks of folders in front of Damian.
He was alone. Or almost.
Ewen and Emile had been sent far away, appointed as "Special Ambassadors" to remote regions. The Council used diplomacy as a double truth: to the public, it was a prestigious honor for their families; to Damian, it was a surgical strike to remove "improper distractions." They wanted him isolated, stripped of any voices that could influence him or offer him a shred of genuine loyalty.
The only company he had left was Becky Blackbell, and she was not there out of sentimentality. Her family was too important to the regime. The Blackbell arms empire kept the country’s military industry alive, and the Party was not foolish enough to antagonize them.
But Becky… Becky was still a miracle in the gray.
She entered without announcing herself, as always. Her sparkling heels echoed against the polished floor. A military-green jacket draped over a short sequined dress. In another life, she would have been the center of any party. Now, she was all that remained—red lips, flawless eyeliner, and an elegant sadness resting on her shoulders.
“Another sleepless night, Your Supreme Excellency?” she said lightly, placing a paper bag on his desk. Inside were colorful macarons. “You look terrible, Desmond.”
The brown-haired man barely lifted his head, his tired eyes fixed on the documents.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied flatly. “They handed me the files.”
She clicked her tongue. “Already trying to marry you off?”
“‘Every figure of leadership must display family stability,’” he repeated hollowly. “That’s what they said.”
Becky sat on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs with practiced ease, studying his exhausted face. Without asking, she grabbed the folders “These are… the candidates for the future Mrs. Desmond?” she asked, smiling crookedly—though there was no mockery in her eyes.
Damian flushed immediately. “Don’t start. Help me choose one. Though… I think I already know which one you’ll prefer.”
She opened the first folder. “Margarete von Schönhausen. Ugh. Even her name sounds like a museum cabinet.”
“She’s the Council’s favorite,” Damian murmured. “Calm as water, cultured, discreet, from a good family, but…”
“But?” Becky raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“She lacks fire.”
She moved on to the next file. When she read the name, she smiled “Natalya Ivanovna. Now this sounds interesting.”
“Red flower,” Damian said quietly. Becky looked at him in confusion until he continued. “She gave me one in the first minute. Called me a ‘puppet.’”
“What? And they didn’t deport her?”
“I don’t know why they didn’t,” he admitted. “But she’s direct. Expressive. Impulsive.”
Becky laughed softly—not amused, but because she understood him far too well. She held up the folder “I like her.”
He nodded. “So do I.”
“But I don’t think that’s the only reason,” she added, her hazel eyes locking onto his.
Damian frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I think you like her because she reminds you of someone.”
He swallowed. “Of whom?”
Becky tilted her head, measuring the fragility of the moment. “Do you really want me to say it out loud?”
His gaze dropped. His voice was barely a whisper. “That’s enough.”
“I know you as well as you know me, Desmond.”
“No one knows about that.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said gently. “But… you’re not the only one suffering from heartbreak, you know.” He didn’t answer. His eyes drifted back to the open folder “Are you still in love with Anya?” Becky asked softly.
His head lowered further. “Why do you ask?”
“For one simple reason,” she said, serious now. “If you still love her, why haven’t found her? You and I both know she couldn’t have disappeared like that. Not her.”
Damian was about to answer. His lips trembled, but the door opened with deliberate force.
“Prime minister,” said the chief advisor, his nasal voice heavy with authority. “The Council expects a final decision before Friday. Have you reached a determination?”
Damian stood. He did not look at the advisor, at Becky, or at the folders.
“Not yet,” he said.
Silence filled the room.
“We await your resolution,” the man replied before leaving, closing the door with surgical precision.
Becky remained quiet for a moment “I’m leaving,” she said at last.
“Thank you for coming,” Damian murmured, still staring downward.
She paused at the door, resting her hand gently against the frame “Don’t let them bury you before you’re dead, Desmond.”
He did not reply.
The door clicked shut.
And finally, there was no sound.
Damian stood still as the darkness reclaimed the office, save for the warm light of the desk lamp. He walked to the wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key hanging from his neck.
Inside was a worn metal box—the only thing he still guarded for himself. He placed it on the desk and opened it. Wrinkled papers. A movie ticket. A frayed fabric bracelet. And, on top of everything else, a small photograph.
Anya and Damian at fifteen, smiling in front of flowers after winning a school competition together. He held the trophy. She held a flower stolen from a planter. Neither of them knew what was coming. Neither imagined the future would simply evaporate.
He held the photo carefully between his fingers “I never told you,” he whispered. “I never knew how.”
After the disappearance, he had searched. From the very first day. He tried everything—old contacts, pressured school administrators, followed rumors through what little trust network he had left. Every path ended the same way: closed doors, evasive glances, emptiness. And he… he never found the courage to tell her how he felt, not at Eden, not when she was still there, laughing as if nothing mattered, dragging him into pointless adventures, with that light in her eyes that stole his breath.
He rested his forehead against the edge of the desk “Anya…” A name no longer spoken aloud—not because it was dangerous, but because it was useless, because it hurt.
Outside, the city slept beneath a sky of smoke, and inside the office of Ostania’s Prime Minister, Damian Desmond allowed himself five minutes of weakness.
To remember the only person who had ever made him feel real. Then he put the photograph away, and prepared to start pretending again.
Damian didn’t want to be there.
He had said it the night before, he had repeated it that morning, and yet, his advisors pushed him toward the visit as if it were a natural, inevitable law of physics.
"It reinforces the image of a humanitarian leader, Prime Minister," the Head of Public Relations insisted, tugging at the lapels of Damian’s heavy overcoat to ensure it sat perfectly. "It is part of the Institutional Observation Program. You signed the decree yourself, sir."
"I signed a forty-six-page document at two in the morning while half-asleep," Damian snapped, his voice tight. "I didn’t realize it included a guided tour of prisons disguised as hospitals."
"And yet, here we are," the youngest counselor added, trying to sound jovial while handing him a briefing folder. "The psychiatric wing of Institute 43 is one of the oldest in the country. It was restructured under your father’s final mandate. It would be… prudent to show interest."
Damian slammed the folder shut and climbed into the back of the official state car. During the entire journey, he remained a statue—arms crossed, forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window. He didn't say a word.
The day was gray, a perfect match for the monochrome sky that had hung over Ostania since his inauguration. As the car pulled up, he saw the facility: a brutalist monolith of concrete and controlled weeds. A white sign with gold lettering loomed over the gates:
STATE INSTITUTE FOR MENTAL REORIENTATION NO. 43 "For the Balance of the Soul and the Order of the Nation."
Hypocrisy, Damian thought. This wasn't a hospital; it was a state-run landfill for "inconvenient" human beings.
The visit began like any other political farce: hollow handshakes, endless corridors, and doctors with smiles that didn't reach their eyes, clutching clipboards filled with useless jargon.
"This wing houses patients admitted under the National Psychosocial Readjustment Program," the Director explained in a flat, rehearsed drone. "It was established after the Unification to reintegrate individuals exhibiting anomalous, non-criminal—but... disordered—behaviors."
"‘Disordered’ behaviors?" Damian asked, his irritation bubbling to the surface.
"Extreme solitude, insubordination, institutional evasion, paranoia, untreated trauma," the Director listed off. "Most have no family network left, or they hail from districts that... no longer exist on the map."
Damian gritted his teeth. He knew those labels. They were the linguistic scalpels the system used to perform "social surgeries"—to make people disappear without the mess of a trial. He just didn't realize how close the surgery had hit to home.
They passed a gallery enclosed by one-way reinforced glass. On the other side was a small interior garden. A few women wandered aimlessly or sat on benches. The silence was absolute.
And then, he saw her.
The hair was the first thing—a faded, tangled pink, long and uneven, but utterly unmistakable.
She was facing away from him, walking with a slow, ghostly gait across the garden stones. She was wrapped in an oversized gray smock that seemed to swallow her whole. Her legs were thin—painfully so—as if the body beneath the fabric had been slowly shrinking for years.
Damian went still. "One moment," he whispered, stepping toward the glass.
The Director blinked, confused. "Is something the matter, sir?"
Damian didn't answer. He pressed his palm against the cold glass, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It can’t be.
As she reached the edge of the path, she turned. It wasn't a full turn, but it was enough. Her face was gaunt, the round cheeks of her youth long gone, but the eyes... those large, emerald-green eyes were filled with a profound, shattering sadness.
Anya.
"Who is that patient?" Damian demanded, his voice trembling despite his best efforts.
The Director flipped through his chart. "Patient 1138-K. Admitted six years ago. Her origin is... unclear. No registered name; she refused to identify herself. She was processed into the program for an 'inconsistent mental state and high levels of cognitive dissociation.' She is considered stable, but has no family or social ties."
"Six years…?" Damian repeated, a knot tightening in his throat.
"Yes, sir." Exactly when she had vanished "Why was I never informed of this?" Damian turned on the Director, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous fire.
"Protocol classifies these cases as confidential administrative heritage," the Director stammered. "Many files were sealed long before your administration took office, sir."
Damian took a step toward the heavy steel door leading to the garden. "I want to speak with her."
"That is not on the itinerary," his advisor interrupted, rushing forward. "Prime Minister, we have a meeting with the Medical Committee, and the press corps is already waiting at the exit—"
"I don't care about the press. Didn't you see—?"
"Sir, please!" The advisor lowered his voice, his grip on Damian’s arm firm, hidden by the pretense of protocol. "The cameras are active. Your image... a sudden deviation like this could be compromised. People will ask why the Prime Minister is interested in a nameless 'unfit.' We must maintain the schedule."
Damian hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough for the machinery of the state to reclaim him. His advisor steered him away. He looked back at the glass one last time.
She was gone.
Damian returned the next morning. There was no press this time, no tailored suit, no advisors whispering "optics" into his ear. He wore a plain coat, his collar turned up against the biting wind, looking more like a man haunted by a ghost than the leader of a nation.
He pulled rank to clear the hallway. He demanded absolute privacy for the evaluation of Patient 1138-K. The guards, sensing the volatile energy radiating from the Prime Minister, didn't dare argue.
The heavy steel door groaned as it opened—a sound that usually signaled the end of the world for the residents of Institute 43. Damian stepped inside, and the door clicked shut, sealing him in a room that smelled of cold stone and graphite.
Anya was sitting on a wooden bench, her back slightly hunched. She was sketching in a tattered notebook, her fingers stained charcoal-gray. She looked small, fragile, and utterly defeated.
Damian stood there for a long moment, his breath hitching. Now that he was truly alone, the word he tried to suppress finally escaped his lips "Anya," he whispered.
Slowly, she lifted her head. Her green eyes—vibrant once, now clouded with a practiced vacancy—locked onto his. For a heartbeat, the very air in the room seemed to vanish. Then, the shutters came down. She didn't smile; she didn't cry. She simply stared through him "I don't know who you are," she said. Her voice was a raspy, toneless whisper, as if her vocal cords had rusted from lack of use. "Who is Anya?"
Damian felt the words like a physical blow to his chest. "No... you can’t... you can't have forgotten. It’s me. Damian." He took a frantic step forward, his boots echoing too loudly on the floor. "I've searched everywhere. I've been looking for you since the day the Forgers went missing"
"I am not that person," she interrupted. Her voice gained a sharp, clinical coldness that felt entirely alien to the girl he remembered. She looked back down at her notebook, her pencil moving in jagged, erratic strokes.
"Anya, look at me!" Damian’s voice cracked. He reached out, his hand trembling in mid-air. "Did they do this to you? Did they break you so badly that you don't even know your own name?"
She didn't look up. But Damian noticed her hand—the one holding the pencil—tense until her knuckles turned white. There were no cameras here. No microphones. The State didn't waste resources monitoring the "broken." They were in the only place in Ostania where a person could truly be alone.
She leaned over her drawing, her body shielding the paper, and her voice dropped to a level that barely traveled a foot "Go away," she murmured. "The people here... they don't matter. We are shadows, Mr. Prime Minister. Nobody watches a shadow. Nobody cares what a shadow thinks. And shadows... they don't have names."
Damian went still. He was a Desmond; he had been raised to decode the subtext of every political threat and diplomatic lie. Nobody watches a shadow. The realization hit him like a plunge into ice water. The psychiatric wing wasn't a prison for her—it was a fortress. In a country where every phone was tapped and every street corner had a set of eyes, the only place the Secret Police ignored was the "trash." She was hiding in the one place they would never look for a target: a place where she was already considered dead to the world.
He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her he understood, but she leaned in closer, her hair falling forward to mask her face from the small window in the door "Please, Syon-boy..." she breathed. The old nickname hit him with the force of a tidal wave. It was her. She was there. She was sane. "Don't come back," she whispered "You’ll bring the light with you. And light... light ruins everything for a shadow. If they see you looking at me, they’ll start looking, too."
Damian staggered as if she had struck him. He finally understood the gravity of her sacrifice. She had stayed in this gray hell for years, pretending to be mad, just to stay off the radar. If the Prime Minister showed personal interest in a "nameless" patient, the SSS would descend on this place within the hour.
He was her greatest threat.
Anya went back to her drawing, her movements becoming robotic and "disturbed" once more, playing the part of Patient 1138-K for the benefit of anyone glancing through the door's peephole.
Damian backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He understood the mission now. He turned and walked out of the room, his expression unreadable, hardened by the cold mask of the Desmond bloodline.
The Director was waiting in the hall, wringing his hands nervously. "Prime Minister? Was the... evaluation satisfactory?" Damian stopped right in front of him. He didn't look like the tired young man from the night before; he looked like his father. Cold. Absolute and Dangerous.
"This visit never happened," Damian said, his voice low and razor-sharp.
The Director blinked, taken aback. "I... I beg your pardon?"
"No one is to know I was here. Not the Council, not the press, and certainly not the Ministry of Records," Damian stepped closer, lowering his voice to a lethal silkiness. "If a single word of my presence in this wing—or my interest in Patient 1138-K—leaks outside these walls, I will consider it an act of high treason. I will ensure this Institute, and everyone in it, is erased from the map. Am I clear?"
The Director turned pale, his knees visibly shaking. "C-crystal clear, Your Excellency. Not a word."
"Good," Damian snapped, turning on his heel. "See that it stays that way."
He walked down the hallway, his throat tight but his mind set. He had finally found her. And now, to keep her alive, he would become the wall of silence that protected her shadow.
Nördvek was so quiet it felt like a painting hung on a forgotten wall. Perched on the eastern coast and battered by brine-thick winds and a frigid sea, the city was the antithesis of Berlint. It was gray, flat, and suffocatingly silent. It had no press corps, no foreign diplomats, and barely any traffic. It was the perfect place to send someone important whom the State wanted to keep out of sight, but wasn’t quite ready to kill.
And so it had been since Demetrius Desmond was appointed General Administrator of the Eastern Coastal District. It was a polite euphemism for a trial-less exile.
At six o’clock sharp, as he did every morning, the elder Desmond sat atop a jagged rock by the pier. He wore a heavy sheepskin jacket and a dark wool cap, his fingers gripping a fishing rod while the tide slapped rhythmically against the rotting wood of the jetty.
Standing beside him like a human clock was Louis—his butler. Louis was lean, impeccably groomed, and clad in a long overcoat that never seemed to wrinkle, despite the humidity. His black-gloved hands were folded neatly behind his back.
"You’ve developed quite the interest in angling since we arrived in Nördvek, sir," Louis remarked, his eyes tracking the bobber as it danced on the steel-gray waves.
"The city is too quiet," Demetrius replied without looking back. "If something actually happens, the inspector will send a report. There isn't much else for an 'administrator' to do."
"And you find that acceptable, sir?"
"I should be grateful," Demetrius added, a crooked, cynical smile tugging at his lips. "The Prime Minister was remarkably generous to assign me this paradise."
Louis lowered his gaze slightly. He knew that tone well; It was resignation polished to a high shine. "If you are so grateful, sir... why have you been drinking so heavily?"
Demetrius turned his head just enough to catch the butler's eye. It wasn't an aggressive look, but it was hollow. "Perhaps I’m merely drowning my sorrows in top-shelf gin."
"But if you continue to drown them at this rate," Louis said, his voice unyielding, "you will find it difficult to hold a pen, a sword... or a gun. Why do you persist in torturing yourself?"
Demetrius fell silent. The sea roared softly in the distance, a cold, indifferent sound. "You don’t understand. Since I arrived here, I don’t want to think about Ostania. I don’t want to hear Damian’s scripted speeches, or the Council’s pleasantries, or what they’ve done to the Parliament. The current Ostania has no need for Demetrius Desmond. They made that very clear."
"I understand what you are saying," Louis replied with terrifying serenity. "But I doubt what you are doing now is worth the breath it takes to do it."
"And what do you suggest? That I go back? That I play the role of the eclipsed elder brother?"
"No," the butler replied. "I am simply reminding you that there is no honor in surrendering. Not even here, in the middle of nowhere."
Demetrius stared at him for a long beat, the salt air stinging his eyes. "There is nothing wrong with surrendering, Louis. At least here, there is peace."
Louis opened his mouth to retort, but a sharp hiss sliced through the air.
A split second later, the fishing rod in Demetrius’s hand exploded into a cloud of splinters. Demetrius hit the ground by pure reflex, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird "WHAT THE HELL—?!"
Louis was moving before the sound of the shot even reached them. He stepped in front of Demetrius, drawing a compact pistol from his inner coat pocket with a fluid, practiced motion. His face remained a mask of calm, but his eyes had turned into chips of flint.
From the cliffside, fifty meters away, a second shot rang out. The bullet sparked off the rock where Demetrius’s head had been moments before.
Louis grabbed Demetrius by the collar, shoving him toward the stone railing of the pier. "Into the water! Now!"
"What—who is—?!"
"Don't ask questions! Move!"
Demetrius hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat, and in that moment, he saw it: a hooded figure perched on the ridge, adjusting the bolt of a long-range rifle. This wasn't a robbery. It wasn't a mistake. Someone had finally decided that keeping him alive was no longer worth the trouble.
He dove into the freezing, churning water just as a third bullet whistled past his ear. Luis followed a second later, their bodies disappearing beneath the dark surface.
Behind them, the waves closed over the splash, and Nördvek... was no longer quiet.
When the door clicked shut and the heavy footsteps of the Prime Minister finally faded down the hall, Anya Forger let the "mask" slip.
Her posture didn't change—the State’s cameras might be absent, but the eyes of the orderlies were always drifting—but her mind, usually a fortress of static and feigned confusion, finally settled into a cold, hard clarity. She looked down at her notebook. To a casual observer, the pages were filled with the erratic, nonsensical scribbles of a broken mind. To her, they were the only things keeping her tethered to reality in a world that had tried to erase her.
Anya was not a prisoner of Institute 43. She was its most successful shadow.
It had started six years ago, on the night the world ended. Everything was a blur of rain and sirens. She remembered her father—Agent Twilight—pulling her from the depths of a secret government facility, a place that wanted to harvest the very power that hummed behind her eyes. He had saved her from becoming a permanent experiment, but the cost had been absolute. Shortly after that, he vanished. Then her mother, the woman who smelled of roses and steel, disappeared into the shadows. Even Uncle Franky, the man who always had a gadget or a joke to spare, had been swallowed by the silence.
WISE had been decapitated; the SSS had been purged. Everyone who knew her, everyone who could protect her, was gone.
She had spent months as a civilian, trying to find them, but she quickly learned a bitter truth: in a surveillance state, a sane girl asking questions is a target. A "broken" girl, however, is invisible. The State viewed the mentally ill as discarded hardware—unfit for the Party, and therefore, not worth the effort of monitoring. So, Anya Forger "died," and Patient 1138-K was born. It was far easier to navigate the cracks of a regime when they thought your brain was nothing but white noise.
But today, the white noise had been shattered.
Syon-boy.
Seeing Damian had been a physical ache. Through her telepathy, she had felt his grief before he even opened his mouth. It was a heavy, suffocating weight—the guilt of a son wearing a crown forged from his father’s sins. For a moment, she had wanted to scream his name. She had wanted to grab his hand, to hug him, and tell him that she was still here. That she remembered the library, the macarons, and the way he used to blush whenever she caught him looking at her.
But she couldn't.
Donovan Desmond had destroyed her family. He had turned Ostania into a graveyard of dreams. And Damian... Damian was now the face of that very system. Even if his heart was pure, his shadow was long, and it was cast by the same man who had made her an orphan.
“I don't know who you are.”
The lie had tasted like ash. She had said it to protect him as much as herself. If she acknowledged him, if she became "Anya" again, she would become a political liability. The Council would use her to leash him, or kill her to isolate him further. By remaining a shadow, she remained free.
Besides, she didn't plan on being a shadow much longer.
Anya stood up and walked to the small, barred window of her room. She looked toward the West. Somewhere beyond the wire, past the dense canopy of Ostania’s southwest forests, lay Westalis.
It was a place of fading hope, but it was peaceful. It was the place her father had come from—the place he had dreamed of protecting. Her investigation here was at a dead end. She had found no trace of her parents, no hidden files, no secret prisons. The trail was cold, and the air in this building was starting to feel like a shroud.
She was tired of the gray. She was tired of the silence.
Soon, she would make her move. She would disappear into the forests, cross the border, and leave the ruins of Ostania—and the boy with the tired brown eyes—behind forever.
She picked up her pencil and drew a single, tiny star in the corner of her notebook. A Stella.
"I'm sorry, Syon-boy," she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely a breath. "But I can't stay in your world anymore."
Becky opened the office door without knocking. As she always did.
"Desmond, I brought black tea and lavender biscuits. You’ve skipped two meals today, and if you collapse, I’m not carrying you to the infirmary."
She stopped dead. The current Prime Minister was not in his usual high-backed leather chair. Instead, he was on the carpet, a sea of yellowing folders and notes slashed with aggressive red ink surrounding him like a shipwreck. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair was a bird’s nest of frustration, and the shadows under his eyes looked like bruises.
Damian was a man of discipline; even at Eden, his diligence was legendary. But this wasn't the focused study of an Imperial Scholar. This was the frantic, desperate searching of a man trying to find a heartbeat in a graveyard.
Becky narrowed her eyes. "Since when do you do your own archive work? Don't you have a dozen under-secretaries to do the heavy lifting for you?"
Damian snapped his head up. His eyes were bloodshot, burning with a frantic, terrifying light. He didn't answer. Becky stepped further into the room, set the tray down on a side table, and crossed her arms, her sparkled heels clicking sharply on the floor.
"What are you doing, Damian? You look like you're losing your mind."
He hesitated, then slammed a folder shut and stood up. He walked to the door with a speed that startled her, checked the empty hallway, then closed it and turned the deadbolt. He moved back to her, his voice a thin, fragile thread.
"I found her."
The tea on the tray rattled as Becky’s hands tightened on her own arms. "Found who?"
"Anya, Becky. I found Anya."
Becky went perfectly still. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. Her expression flickered from shock to a grim, sharp seriousness, and then she let out a short, humorless laugh. "Is this a joke? Because if you're using her name to get a reaction out of me, I will slap you right here in your own office."
"I’m not joking!" he hissed, grabbing the edge of the desk. "I had a scheduled visit to Institute 43. I saw her. She was thinner, smaller... she looked like a ghost of herself. But it was her. The same pink hair, the hacked-short mess, those same green eyes."
Becky studied his face. The sarcasm drained out of her, replaced by a raw, trembling hope. "Are you sure? Damian, people have been trying to trick the Desmonds for years. Are you absolutely certain?"
"At first, I wasn't," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "When I called her name, she looked right through me. She told me she didn't know who Anya was. She said she was no one. The records don't even have a name for her—she’s just Patient 1138-K. She told me she was a 'shadow' and that shadows don't have names."
"Then how do you know?" Becky’s voice rose, a mix of desperation and anger. "If she denied it, if the files are empty, why are you sitting here on the floor like a madman?"
"Because before I left, she leaned in," Damian whispered, his voice cracking. "She whispered 'Syon-boy.' She told me not to come back. She told me the 'light' would ruin everything for a shadow."
Becky gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. "Syon-boy... she’s the only one. Only she would call you that." She suddenly stepped forward, her eyes flashing with a sudden, violent heat. "Then why the hell are you here? Why are you reading papers, Damian? If you know where she is, why isn't she in this room right now?"
"It’s not that simple, Becky!"
"It is that simple!" she shouted, pacing the room like a caged tiger. "You are the Prime Minister! You are the leader of this miserable country! You have the military, the police, the keys to every cell in Ostania! Go down there, kick the door in, and bring her home! She’s been rotting in a mental ward for years while you sit here playing at being a politician!"
"Do you think I don't want to?!" Damian roared back, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. He stepped into her space, his face twisted with a pained desperation. "If I take her, Kohlberg will know before the sun sets. You saw what he did to Ewen and Emile—he had them reassigned to the border the moment they became 'distractions.' He even managed to ship my own brother off to the edge of the world just to keep me isolated."
He grabbed the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
"If he finds out there is someone else—someone I actually care about—he won't just let her stay in that ward. He'll see her as a loose thread. He’ll send her to the East, or somewhere even deeper where I’ll never find her again. I've already lost my friends and my brother to his 'reorganizations,' Becky. I am not losing her too."
Becky’s anger didn't vanish, but it turned into something sharper, colder. "So that's it? The great Damian Desmond is afraid of his own advisor? You're going to let her stay in a concrete box, pretending to be insane, because you're worried about what Herr Kohlberg thinks?"
"I'm trying to keep her alive!"
"You're burying her!" Becky snapped. She walked toward the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. "She survived whatever happened to her family. She survived years of silence. And now she’s surviving your regime. If you stay here and do nothing, you’re no better than the people who put her there."
She looked at him one last time, her heart breaking for the friend she had grown up with—the boy who was now a King with no crown and a soldier with no sword.
"Don't let her become a shadow forever, Damian. Because eventually, shadows just disappear."
She left, slamming the door behind her.
Damian remained in the center of the room, the silence of the palace pressing in on him. He looked at the window, toward the southwest horizon. Anya was just a few miles away, a ghost in a gown, and he was the man who owned the cage.
Becky Blackbell had always been too clever for her own good. In her childhood, she considered nearly everyone an idiot: her teachers, her suitors, the sons of industry titans, the party officials. Over time, she learned not to say it out loud, but she never stopped thinking it. In a world governed by men who could barely tie their own shoes without a secretary’s help, Becky was a dangerous anomaly: wealthy, sharp, beautiful, and completely awake.
That was why, when Damian confessed what he had seen at Institute 43—when he whispered, “I found her”—Becky couldn't just sit still.
She knew something didn't add up. Her best friend had vanished years ago, swallowed by a country that erased people like inkblots on a ledger. And Damian, for all his title, couldn’t move a single stone without the advisor Kohlberg catching the scent.
So, Becky did what she did best: she investigated. She called in favors, bribed bureaucrats, and scoured records. But she found nothing. Institute 43 was a dead zone in the system, buried under security protocols and a thick veil of state-mandated amnesia.
Then, she did what no young aristocrat and heiress to a weapons empire should ever do. She went in herself.
She signed up as a "sanitary volunteer." She temporarily shed her titles, donned a starch-white coat, and pulled her hair into a messy, utilitarian ponytail. Her father would find out eventually, but she knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her; she was a Blackbell. She could afford to be reckless if it meant saving a friend.
The Institute was gray—suffocatingly gray. The walls were dull, the hallways perpetually cold, and the patients muttered to shadows. Becky spent hours wandering the wings, pretending to organize files and handing out tea, her ears straining for a name, a voice, a hint of pink hair.
She interviewed several inmates. Some spoke of talking cats, others of cities made of glass or winters that never came. None of them made sense. None of them were Anya.
Until she saw her.
The girl was sitting in the interior garden, alone. Her head was bowed, her thin hands clasped over a beige skirt that was far too large for her. Her pink hair was duller than Becky remembered, hacked long and stringy. She looked… diminished.
Becky’s heart stopped for a full second. She knew it was her. She approached slowly, walking as if toward a dream that might shatter if she breathed too hard "Anya..."
The girl lifted her head. Her green eyes were flat, as if they hadn't reflected the sun in a decade. "I’m not the person you’re looking for, Becky."
Becky’s breath hitched. The sound of her name spoken by that voice was like a whip-crack to her soul. But she forced herself to keep her face neutral. She forced a soft, sad smile "I see..." Becky said gently. "Then I’ve made a mistake. My apologies, miss." She turned around slowly, acting as if she accepted the lie. She took one step, two, three… "But tell me something," Becky’s voice cut through the cold air, suddenly firm and full of fire. "How did you know my name?"
Anya didn't answer. She simply closed her eyes, her body trembling under the oversized smock. She looked like she wanted to evaporate into the stones.
Becky spun on her heels and rushed back to her. She dropped to her knees on the cold dirt, her heart hammering in her throat. She reached out and grabbed Anya’s hand. It was ice-cold. It was so thin it felt like it might break "What did they do to you, Anya?" Anya looked at the ground, her lips pressed into a hard line of silence "I don't care how much time has passed," Becky whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't care if you don't want to talk. But I am here. And I am not leaving. Not now, not tomorrow."
Minutes passed in agonizing silence. A nurse walked by in the distance. A crow cawed from the rooftop.
Becky’s grip on Anya’s hand tightened "Please. Just talk to me," Becky sobbed, the tears finally breaking through. "You have no idea what it’s been like without you. Every night I thought about the last thing I said to you... and I hated myself for not saying more. For not doing more. For letting you be alone." The tears were hot and salty, sliding down Becky’s face like small betrayals of her composure. They weren't part of the plan. But then, neither was burying a friend alive for six years "I've been looking for you. All these years. Damian, too. We found nothing but rumors and ash. And now you’re right here, telling me you aren't you... as if I wouldn't recognize the way you breathe."
Anya took a long, shuddering breath. Inside her, the fortress of "Patient 1138-K" finally crumbled. The static in her mind cleared, leaving only the raw, jagged pain of being seen. She had missed Becky with a heartache that never went away. She had missed her so much she thought she had hallucinated her own memories "I... I didn't know if coming back was possible," Anya whispered, her voice finally breaking. "I didn't know if there was anything left of me worth rescuing." She looked up, her green eyes finally filling with tears that mirrored Becky’s "But hearing you... hearing your voice again... Becky, I missed you so much. I missed you so much I thought I’d invented you."
For the first time in an eternity, they cried together. Becky cried for the girl she thought she had lost; Anya cried for being found when she had stopped expecting anything from the world.
Damian was leafing through a tedious report on railway transport logistics when he realized the usual cup of black tea was missing from his desk. He frowned. Becky was many things, but she was never absent without warning.
He turned toward the butler waiting by the heavy oak doors. "Where is Miss Blackbell?"
The man, a veteran of the Desmond household who had seen the rise and fall of two administrations, hesitated. "She left early this morning, sir. She mentioned she had... urgent business to attend to. At Institute 43."
The impact of those words was immediate. Damian surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor as it toppled backward "What?!"
The butler recoiled a step, startled by the sudden eruption. Damian breathed heavily, pressing a hand to his face and closing his eyes. Anger burned in his chest—not at Becky, but at the sheer, terrifying risk she was taking. She was a Blackbell, yes, but even that name wouldn't protect her if she was caught interfering with a high-security patient.
"Idiot," he whispered under his breath, his voice trembling. "She’s an absolute idiot." But as the initial shock passed, a cold, hollow realization settled in. It’s good that she has a visitor. He still didn't dare say Anya's name out loud, but the thought of her—thinner, pale, and alone—receiving a moment of Becky’s fierce loyalty brought a momentary, painful warmth to his chest.
That warmth vanished an instant later.
A subtle, high-pitched alarm chirped from a concealed panel on the side of his desk. Damian’s heart skipped a beat. That was the Red Priority line—a direct link to the regional governors that bypassed the main telegraph office. He slid the panel open, revealing a small, clicking telex machine. It was already spitting out a narrow strip of paper.
Damian tore the strip away and read the encrypted text.
Sender: Chief Inspector of Nördvek. Subject: URGENT/ EYES ONLY. Content: Assassination attempt frustrated against Demetrius Desmond. Status: Endangered/Under Protection. Investigating leaks.
The world seemed to turn to ash. Damian’s grip tightened on the paper until his knuckles turned white.
Nördvek was supposed to be the end of the world. It was a city chosen specifically because it was a graveyard for political ambitions—a place where his brother could fade away safely, far from the toxic reach of Kohlberg and the Council. Someone had just shattered that peace.
He swallowed hard, his mind—sharpened by years of being the "perfect" son—beginning to whir.
Becky was at the Institute, potentially walking into a trap. Anya was a ghost hiding in plain sight. And now, Demetrius was being hunted in the one place he was supposed to be invisible.
Everything was moving at once. It wasn't a series of accidents; it was a tightening noose. Kohlberg was pulling the strings, testing the boundaries of Damian’s control, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Damian looked at the door, then at the telex in his hand. Every instinct he had told him to run—to get to Nördvek, to get to the Institute, to burn the whole system down to find his family.
But he didn't move, he couldn't.
If he left now. If he sent the military to Nördvek, he would show Kohlberg that he still cared for the brother he was supposed to have forgotten. Every move was a snare.
Damian slowly sat back down in his chair, picking up the fallen documents with hands that were eerily still. He smoothed the paper of the railway report, his eyes cold and distant "I can't go," he whispered. He was the Prime Minister of Ostania, the man at the center of the web. And, he realized that a spider who moves too early only ends up strangling itself in its own silk.
He had to wait. He had to stay in the cage and pretend he hadn't noticed the bars were closing in. He would play the part of the obedient leader for one more day, but inside, the fire was finally starting to catch.
The interior garden of Institute 43 had an almost ethereal, ghostly air: damp wooden benches, unpruned shrubs, a dry stone fountain, and dead leaves gathered in the corners like forgotten memories. Becky walked beside Anya, her pace slow and deliberate. The sun barely filtered through the high, oppressive walls, but for the first time in years, they shared something that resembled a quiet afternoon.
Becky glanced sideways at her friend, her heart tightening "Anya... do you really plan on spending the rest of your life in this dump?" she asked, her voice sharp with a grief she couldn't quite hide.
Anya didn't stop walking. Her eyes remained fixed on the gray path ahead. "Becky… don’t call me that."
"I know what you're going to say. That 'Anya' is gone. That you’re someone else now. Well, I don’t care," Becky snapped, though her eyes were shimmering. "I don’t care what you want to call yourself. I just know you’re my best friend. And you’re locked in here, surrounded by gray walls and broken people, wasting your life as if you no longer have the right to one."
Anya sighed, a long, weary sound. She sat on one of the benches with agonizing slowness, as if every movement cost her a piece of her soul "It’s quiet here. No one looks for me. No one expects anything from me. There’s nothing wrong with a life like that, Becky."
Becky sat down beside her, crossing her legs with restless energy. "You have a point," she murmured, a bitterness creeping into her tone. "There is no peace outside. Not for me, not for anyone. Not even for Damian."
Anya turned her head slowly, the name sparking a faint light in her vacant gaze. "Damian? Syon-boy?"
"Yes," Becky replied heavily. "The Prime Minister of Ostania himself… and the loneliest man in the country."
The silence settled between them like a cold shadow.
"What kind of problems could the Prime Minister possibly have?" Anya asked, her voice tinged with a hollow, almost mocking edge.
Becky exhaled sharply, closing her eyes. "Since he took office, he’s up every morning at three. He works harder than any minister in the cabinet. But everything he tries to do—every single thing—has to go through Kohlberg first. That man... he's a devil." Anya looked down at her lap, stunned into silence "Anya," Becky said softly, reaching out. "Damian needs help. And he won't take it from anyone. He’s falling apart, just like you are."
"Then why doesn't he ask Demetrius for help? He… he was always the more sensible one," Anya suggested, her voice trembling as she tried to shift the focus.
Becky shook her head. "Before Damian rose to power, Kohlberg found an excuse to get rid of his brother. He sent him to Nördvek, near the coast. No one expects him to return anytime soon."
Anya nodded in the heavy silence. Suddenly, her frame shuddered. She pressed a hand to her chest and began to cough—a deep, rasping sound that seemed to rattle her small ribs.
"A doctor!" Becky cried out, lunging to her feet.
"No," Anya wheezed, raising a shaking hand to stop her. "I’m fine. It’s just... a cough."
"You are not fine! You’ve lost so much weight, you can barely walk. What is happening to you? Are you sick?" Anya didn't answer. She stared at the dirt beneath her feet as if trying to merge with the ground "Let me take you home," Becky pleaded, her voice breaking. "We can find a doctor; someone we can trust. You could even stay with me."
"You can't," Anya whispered, a mix of agony and terrifying determination in her eyes.
Becky opened her mouth to argue, but the look Anya gave her stopped the words in her throat. It wasn't anger or rejection. It was fear. An ancient, deep-seated fear that Anya couldn't share. Becky felt it, too—the cold realization that the world outside was no safer than this prison.
"But you aren't safe here either," Becky said, her voice trembling. "You’re fading away, Anya. You can't go on like this."
"I know," Anya admitted in a voice so low it was almost lost to the wind. "That’s why... I plan on leaving." Becky’s breath hitched, but before she could protest, Anya looked up. Her gaze was serene, but it held a fire Becky hadn't seen in years "I won't stay in Ostania. I’ll cross the border. Maybe I'll disappear entirely. But I am not staying here."
Becky bit her lip, the reality of the situation crashing down. "And you couldn't... at least stay with me? Just for a little while. Until you’re better?"
Anya looked at her with a sweet, tragic sadness. "Do you really think someone like me could have a normal life with you?” Becky started to answer, but Anya cut her off. "Tell me something, Becky. Since the Popular Union Party took over... Ewen, Emile, Damian, you... has any of you had a truly peaceful life?" Becky looked away, unable to meet her eyes "Tell me," Anya insisted. "When was the last time you laughed without feeling guilty?"
The question hung in the air, cold and immovable. Becky felt the words get stuck in her throat. She thought of the tired lines on Damian’s face, of the days she spent managing her father’s arms contracts just to keep the business afloat, of the silence in the hallways of their once-vibrant homes.
She remembered Damian’s voice from a few nights ago, echoing through the archives: “I don't want to force her into anything. If she ever decides to come back, it will be for her. Not for me.”
In that moment, Becky understood.
She looked up, her eyes blurred with unshed tears. "Fine," she said, her voice choked. "If you’re going to go, at least promise me you’ll write. Let me know you’re alive. That you... that you still exist."
Anya reached out and took Becky’s hand. It was a frail grip, but it was real. "I promise you that."
Anya closed her eyes for a second, a small, pained smile touching her lips. "Becky... do you remember our last year at Eden?"
Becky began to nod, the memories flooding back—the last golden moments before the world turned to ash, before the power struggles began, before the Forgers vanished.
"I still remember the fireworks after graduation," Anya said softly. "Sometimes I close my eyes and I can live in that moment for just a second."
"Anya..." Becky didn't know what to say. She wanted to go back there, too—to a time when the only thing that mattered was a Stella Star or a school dance. "We should stop thinking about that. You need to focus on taking care of yourself."
Anya squeezed her hand and nodded, the two of them sitting in the dying light of a garden that was once beautiful, holding onto the only pieces of the past they had left.
Becky stepped through the heavy iron gates of Institute 43, a leaden weight pulling at her heart.
She had arrived with a flicker of childish hope, thinking that finding Anya would be like waking up from a long, terrible nightmare. She had imagined that once they were together, things would simply snap back to normal—the laughter, the shopping trips, the shared secrets—as if the last six years had been nothing but a bad dream. But the girl in the garden was a stranger, a survivor who had learned to find peace in the gray silence of her own prison.
Anya was refusing to be rescued.
As Becky reached the sleek, black sedan parked at the curb, Monica—Martha’s blonde niece—was already holding the door open. Monica was efficient and disciplined, having taken over the role after Martha’s retirement, but unlike her aunt, she lacked the intuition to read the storm brewing behind Becky's eyes.
"Miss Becky? Shall we return to the estate?" Monica asked politely.
Becky paused, her hand gripping the cold frame of the car door. She looked back at the grim, fortress-like walls of the institute. Anya had asked for silence. She had asked to be left as a "shadow."
But Becky knew better.
In that moment of hesitation, Becky realized that Anya was the missing piece of a much larger, deadlier puzzle. Outside these walls, Ostania was rotting. Damian was a hollow shell of himself, a puppet king suffocating under Kohlberg’s shadow. Becky herself was drowning in the cold mechanics of her family’s business. They were all losing their humanity, one day at a time.
Anya was the only thing that could wake Damian up. She wasn't just a friend to be saved; she was the catalyst. She was the only person Damian would actually risk everything for. If Anya vanished into the West, Damian would lose his last tie to his heart, and Kohlberg would win forever.
To save Damian, and to save the country from turning into a graveyard of dreams, Becky had to do the one thing Anya had begged her not to do.
"No," Becky said, her voice suddenly iron-clad and devoid of doubt.
Monica blinked in surprise. "Miss?"
"Don't take me home," Becky ordered, sliding into the back seat with a sharp, decisive movement. "Drive to the Government Palace. Immediately. I have something to report to the Prime Minister."
Monica nodded, closing the door and moving to the driver’s seat without another word. She hadn't heard the conversation inside, and she didn't need to. She only knew that her employer had found a purpose.
As the engine purred to life and the institute faded in the rearview mirror, Becky stared at her own reflection in the window. Her heart ached with the weight of the betrayal. Anya had trusted her, and Becky was about to hand her location over to the most powerful man in the country.
Forgive me, Anya, Becky thought, her jaw set in a hard line. But I won't let you stay a shadow. I’m bringing you back into the light, whether you’re ready for it or not.
The air in the Prime Minister’s office always felt a few degrees colder whenever Herr Kohlberg entered. He moved with a practiced, oily grace, extending a hand to Damian with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Prime Minister," Kohlberg greeted, his voice smooth as polished stone.
"What is it, Kohlberg?" Damian asked, leaning back in his chair. He didn't take his eyes off the man.
"It’s Nördvek, I'm afraid. I sent a small team of men there to oversee local administrative transitions, and they’ve all been found dead. It’s... highly suspicious," Kohlberg said, sighing as if he were truly grieved. "I fear your brother may have discovered their presence and taken matters into his own hands."
Damian stiffened. "Why would Demetrius do something like that? He’s an administrator, not a warlord."
"I try not to jump to conclusions, Damian, but we must be realistic," Kohlberg replied, pacing the room. "Your brother is the firstborn. He was the one destined to inherit everything before the transition. Perhaps the salt air has fed his resentment. He could be preparing a rebellion. In history, many great figures were removed by their own kin to secure a path to power. We must be on guard."
Damian felt a pulse of irritation throb in his temple. "Kohlberg, you’re talking about my own brother."
"I am talking about the stability of Ostania, Prime Minister" Kohlberg countered sharply.
Damian looked down at his desk, the weight of the office pressing into his shoulders. "So, what are you suggesting I do about this 'situation'?"
"Send a specialized unit to Nördvek. Not to attack—not yet—but to monitor every breath Demetrius Desmond takes. We need to know who he is talking to and what he is planning."
Damian felt a chill of clarity. Monitoring. That was the polite word for a death squad. Kohlberg didn't want information; he wanted a legal signature to finish what his assassins had started.
"You don't know this, Kohlberg," Damian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level, "but your spies aren't the only ones who were attacked. Someone tried to assassinate my brother yesterday."
Kohlberg didn't flinch. He didn't even look surprised. "I’m afraid that sounds like a fabrication. A clever strategy by your brother to deflect suspicion and play the victim while he cleans house."
"I see the event differently," Damian said, turning his chair toward the secure telephone on his side table. "I think someone tried to kill my brother and failed. And when they realized they couldn't finish the job, they slaughtered your men to make it look like Demetrius was the aggressor. To frame him."
Kohlberg let out a soft, condescending laugh. "I wasn't expecting such a... creative theory, Prime Minister. But I fear your heart is clouding your judgment. You are making excuses for him because of blood, not logic."
Damian opened his mouth to retort, but he caught himself, his words catching in his throat for a split second.
"Prime Minister," Kohlberg said, shifting the tone as if bored of the subject. "The National Holidays are only a month away. The celebrations must be perfect. You should focus your energy there. Don't soil your hands with the messy business of Nördvek. If you would just let me handle it—"
A sharp knock at the door shattered the tension. A servant stepped in, and Damian felt a wave of internal relief so strong it almost made him dizzy.
"Prime Minister," the servant said, bowing low. "Natalya has arrived for your appointment."
"Thank you. I'll be with her in a few minutes," Damian replied, already standing up to signal the end of the meeting.
Kohlberg stood his ground for a second longer, his eyes narrowing. "Prime—"
"I will think about the matter, Kohlberg," Damian interrupted, his voice final. "That is all."
Kohlberg bowed, a stiff, formal movement that felt more like a threat than a gesture of respect, and left the room. Damian stood alone for a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at the door Kohlberg had just exited, then at the door where Natalya waited.
The pieces were falling, just as he had feared. And now, he had to decide if he was the player or just another pawn on the board.
Natalya Ivanova was a vision of fire and ice—striking red hair paired with eyes as blue and cold as a winter sky. As she sat in the lavish waiting area of the Government Palace, she smoothed the silk of her skirt, a confident smile playing on her lips.
Everything was going exactly according to plan. Unlike Margarete—her clumsy, desperate rival for the Prime Minister’s attention—Natalya actually had Damian Desmond in the palm of her hand. Or so she believed.
Securing a marriage proposal from the Prime Minister wasn't just a romantic goal; it was a geopolitical victory. If Damian made her his fiancée, the Ivanova family would ascend to a level of power and influence that most only dreamed of. They would be untouchable, even by the likes of Kohlberg.
Damian had discovered her among thousands of candidates during a grueling, government-sponsored search for a suitable match. Ironically, Natalya hadn't even wanted to be there at first. She had protested, her family practically forcing her into the room with the "The Iron Leader." But the moment she saw him—the weary, handsome man behind the desk—she had fallen deeply, almost obsessively, in love.
Damian, in turn, had been drawn to her. In a world full of liars and sycophants, he found her direct, no-nonsense personality and her history of altruistic work refreshing. She was the "light" he thought he needed to balance the darkness of his office.
"The Prime Minister will be with you momentarily," one of the servants murmured, bowing low.
Natalya relaxed into the plush velvet of her chair, crossing her legs elegantly. "I'm sure his meeting with Herr Kohlberg ran a bit long," she replied with a graceful wave of her hand.
She didn't mind the wait. In her mind, she could already feel the weight of a diamond ring on her finger. She could see herself standing on the balcony of the palace, the First Lady of Ostania, commanding the respect of the entire nation. A little more patience, a little more of her "selfless" performance, and the crown would be hers.
Damian walked through the gilded corridors toward the private dining hall, his footsteps echoing against the cold marble. For the first time in weeks, he felt a sense of quiet resignation that almost felt like peace. He liked Natalya; she was bright, direct, and provided a sense of companionship that he desperately needed.
He wasn't in love with her—not the way his soul burned for Anya—but he felt a genuine affection for her. He had reached a point where he was ready to marry her simply because he had to move on. He needed a partner, a First Lady, and a way to stop the Council from breathing down his neck. Natalya made him feel "normal," even if that normalcy was a hollow shell.
“Oh, Anya,” he thought, his chest tightening as he passed a grand window. “If only you were a candidate... everything would be so much easier. But you are a shadow, and I have to live in the sun.”
"Prime Minister," a servant called out, interrupting his thoughts. Damian stopped and turned. "Miss Becky Blackbell has arrived at the palace. She is demanding to see you immediately."
Damian felt a flicker of annoyance. "Becky? Now? Tell her I’m busy."
"Prime Minister," another servant interrupted from the opposite hallway, "Miss Ivanova is already seated in the dining hall. She is expecting you for dinner."
Damian’s expression softened slightly. He wanted that dinner. He wanted to sit across from a beautiful woman and talk about music or the weather instead of purges and budgets.
"Tell Miss Blackbell that I am in a meeting with Miss Ivanova," Damian told the first servant. "Tell Becky that whatever she has to discuss can wait until tomorrow. I'm not in the mood for her theatrics today."
He began to turn away, his mind already preparing a polite smile for Natalya.
The servant stepped forward, his face pale and his voice dropping to a cautious, hurried whisper. "Prime Minister... Miss Blackbell said it was of the utmost urgency. She told me to tell you that it is related to..." The servant paused, glancing nervously at the other staff "It is related to State Mental Reorientation Institute No. 43."
The world seemed to lurch on its axis. Damian froze mid-step, his hand hovering over the door handle. The warmth he had felt just moments ago—the "affection" he was trying to build for Natalya—evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp adrenaline that turned his blood to ice.
The mention of the institute was a knife through the heart of his comfortable lie. He didn't have to think. He didn't have to weigh his options. The moment that name was spoken, Natalya and the dinner became invisible.
He turned back to the servant, his eyes burning with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
"Where is she?" Damian demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
"In the small reception room, sir, but—"
"Cancel the dinner," Damian ordered, already walking past the servant with long, frantic strides.
"But Prime Minister, what should I tell Miss Ivanova?"
"Tell her I’ve been called away on an emergency!" Damian shouted over his shoulder, not looking back. He didn't care if he was being rude. He didn't care if the Ivanovas took offense. Becky had been to the institute. And if Becky was here, it meant the ghost he had seen in that cell was finally ready to speak.
Natalya drummed her fingers rhythmically against the tablecloth, her blue eyes fixed on the door. It was unusual. Whenever she arrived at the palace, Damian was prompt, almost eager to see her. She was used to being his priority, the calm harbor in his storm of a life. What could possibly be keeping him?
The doors finally opened, but it wasn't the Prime Minister. A young servant entered alone, his expression strained.
"Miss Ivanova," he began, bowing quickly. "The Prime Minister will not be joining you. He has been called into an urgent, unscheduled meeting with Miss Becky Blackbell."
"Miss Becky?" Natalya repeated, a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat. She knew the Blackbells were powerful, and she knew Becky and Damian had been close since their school days, but this felt different. "Do you have any idea what could be so important that he would stand me up?"
The servant remained silent, his eyes darting to the floor. He knew better than to gossip about the Prime Minister’s private affairs.
Natalya didn't hesitate. She reached into her designer handbag, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid them across the table. The servant stared at the money for a moment before his resolve crumbled. He tucked the bribe into his vest.
"It was about an urgent matter regarding the State Mental Reorientation Institute," the servant whispered, leaning in.
Natalya’s brow furrowed. "A reorientation institute? Why on earth would Becky call Damian away for a place like that?"
The servant lowered his voice even further, his eyes checking the corners of the room for listeners. "There are rumors among the staff, miss. They say that the Prime Minister and Miss Blackbell have been searching for someone—a childhood friend they lost years ago. They think she might be there."
Natalya felt a chill. This wasn't politics; this was personal. "Does this friend have a name?"
"Anya Forger," the servant replied.
Natalya’s eyes widened, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. She felt a strange buzzing in her mind, like a distant memory struggling to surface. She had heard that name before—long ago, perhaps in hushed conversations about families that had simply ceased to exist when the Party rose to power.
Anya Forger.
The name felt like a threat to everything she had built. If this "ghost" was back, Natalya's position was no longer as secure as she had imagined.
The interior of the state limousine was a vacuum of silence, insulated against the rain-slicked streets of Berlint. Outside, the city was a blur of gray stone and flickering streetlamps, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and cold ambition.
Vincent, a fellow Council member and Kohlberg’s most trusted associate, sat across from him. He watched the senior advisor through a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing as the car turned toward the government district.
"The reports from Nördvek are messy, Kohlberg," Vincent said, his voice low. "Six of our best observers dead in a ditch, and the former heir to the Desmond name is still breathing. Some are starting to ask if we’ve lost our touch."
Kohlberg leaned back into the leather upholstery, a thin, shadow-like smile touching his lips. "The dead men were an unfortunate necessity. But as for the attempt on Demetrius... I didn't order that."
Vincent paused, his cigar halfway to his mouth. "You didn't? Then who did?"
"Does it matter?" Kohlberg replied, his gaze fixed on the rain dancing across the window. "A ghost from the past, a rival from the old regime, or perhaps just a common thief with a lucky shot. The point is, the chaos has been served to us on a silver platter."
Vincent adjusted his glasses. "Demetrius is claiming it was a state-sponsored hit. He’s positioning himself as a victim of the administration. If he gains sympathy from the northern provinces, Damian might actually listen to him."
"Demetrius is many things, but he is not absent from this game," Kohlberg chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "He survived because he is a Desmond. But survival isn't enough in this climate. We don't need to have pulled the trigger to make the bullet count."
Kohlberg turned to Vincent, his eyes flashing with a predatory light.
"We are going to use this. If someone is trying to kill the Prime minister’s brother, it means Demetrius is a liability to national security. Or better yet—we frame it as a staged event. We tell the Council that Demetrius sacrificed our men to make himself look like a martyr. We paint him as a rebel preparing to strike from the shadows of Nördvek."
Vincent smiled, catching the vision. "A threat to the peace. A reason for 'permanent reorientation.'"
"Exactly," Kohlberg whispered. "Whether he’s a victim or a traitor is irrelevant. What matters is that by the time the National Holidays arrive, the name 'Demetrius Desmond' will be synonymous with treason. We’ll sweep him off the board, and Damian will be left with no one but us."
The car hit a pothole, the slight jolt punctuating Kohlberg’s words like a period at the end of a death sentence.
Damian sat heavily in his high-backed leather chair, the weight of the mahogany desk feeling like a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Becky stood across from him, her posture rigid, her expression a mask of "theatrical" tragedy that was only half-feigned.
"She’s sick, Damian," Becky said, her voice trembling with a practiced but sharp edge. "She’s fading. She barely eats, she can't stop coughing, and she looks at the walls like she’s already a ghost. I am terrified that if we wait another week, there won't be an Anya left to save."
Damian’s breath hitched. "Anya... is she really that grave?"
"She tries to hide it. She smiles that hollow smile and tells me she’s fine, but she’s transparent. She’s dying in there, Damian. Literally and figuratively."
Damian opened his mouth, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face. He wanted to bring her to the palace. He wanted to summon every royal physician, to put her in the finest silk sheets, to protect her. But then he looked at the surveillance cameras in the corners of his own office. He thought of Kohlberg’s cold eyes.
"I... I don't know what to do," he whispered, his hands shaking on the desk. "Maybe I can send a group of doctors in undercover? Specialists, disguised as state inspectors, to treat her without drawing attention."
Becky let out a short, bitter laugh. "Undercover doctors? That’s your solution? You want to patch her up just so she can continue sitting in a concrete box? You want to treat the symptom and ignore the prison."
"What else can I do?!" Damian surged to his feet, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window. "I am the Prime Minister of Ostania, but I am not a god, Becky! There are things I simply cannot do without starting a civil war."
Becky walked up behind him, her voice dropping to a cold, steady simmer. "Desmond, look at yourself. You’ve been in power for years. You’ve respected your ministers, you’ve bowed to your advisors, you’ve played by every rule they set. But tell me—have you ever made a single decision for yourself?"
Damian didn't answer.
"Everyone knows the truth," Becky continued, her words cutting like glass. "Kohlberg is the one who directs the army. Kohlberg is the one who rejects decrees. He is the Prime Minister; you are just the face on the postage stamps. Nobody is going to help you because nobody fears you."
Damian turned, his face flushed with frustration. "I have contacts! I was planning to bring in one of my mother's old friends—a veteran general who still has loyalty to the family. He could help—"
"He’s a soldier, Damian! He can't help you with politics. You’re trying to bring a sword to a chess match," Becky snapped. She remembered her conversation with Anya in the garden. "Even Anya sees it. She told me herself... the only person who can actually help you, the only one with the brain and the bloodline to counter Kohlberg, is Demetrius."
Damian flinched at his brother's name.
"But you can't even bring him here for a weekend visit, because you’re afraid of what Kohlberg will say," Becky whispered, stepping into his personal space. She decided to go for the throat. "You’ll never be free. You’ll marry that Natalya girl—that shallow copy of Anya’s personality—and you’ll pretend to be happy for a few years. But every time you look at her, you’ll realize she isn't the real thing. You’ll live a long, miserable life in a golden cage, and you’ll die knowing you let the only person you ever loved rot in a hole."
She turned on her heel, heading for the door.
"Becky, wait!" Damian called out, his voice cracking. "What... what should I do?"
Becky stopped but didn't turn around. "Bring Demetrius back. Not as a guest. As an ally. Reclaim your power." She paused, then made her final move. "Oh, and by the way... the sixth anniversary of our graduation is coming up."
"What? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing," Becky said airily. "Except Anya told me that the only thing she remembers with any love is the fireworks from that night. The way the sky looked before everything went to hell."
Damian looked at the floor, a soft memory of pink hair and explosions of light flickering in his mind. "If she wants to see fireworks... I’ll make sure she sees them."
"Too bad," Becky sighed, her hand on the door handle. "Anya isn't interested in your charity. She’s determined to escape. She wants to cross the border and disappear forever to find the peace we all lost. She doesn't want your fireworks, Damian. She wants a life you’re too cowardly to give her."
She looked at him one last time, her eyes hard. "So forget your little fantasy of a future with her. By the time you find the courage to act, she’ll be a ghost in another country. If she even survives the journey."
Becky slammed the door, leaving Damian alone in a room that suddenly felt far too large and far too cold.