The Bookkeeper reclined behind his desk, idly leafing through a leather-bound volume, when an all-too-familiar presence broke the silence. He looked up, annoyance flickering in his practiced calm, as the intruder stepped into the soft glow of lamplight.

  Tall and impossibly handsome, the man before him had long, golden hair that fell in waves around a chiseled, movie-star visage. His eyes—an unnatural, fiery red—burned with a dangerous charm. He wore a maroon hoodie trimmed in pale fur over a crisp white shirt etched with black pinstripes, and flawlessly tailored black dress pants.

  “How the hell did you get into my library, Faker?” the Bookkeeper snapped, his eyes narrowing.

  Faker tilted his head, a lazy smile tugging at his lip. “That’s a secret. But isn’t your whole business trading information? If you want to learn my methods, you’ll need to tell me something in return.”

  The Bookkeeper’s hand drifted as a golden spear materialized. “Or I could simply kill you now.”

  Faker chuckled, unperturbed. “Don’t try it. I know how your powers work—you’d lose every memory of your daughter the moment you tried to kill me. I’d hate to see you squander those precious cards.”

  “Ugh,” the Bookkeeper sighed, leaning back. “You really are the worst. Why—of all foes—are you the one I can never predict?”

  Faker scoffed, crossing his arms. “The gods' titles these days are so ostentatious. ‘God of Knowledge and Wealth’—seriously?”

  He stepped closer, voice dripping with mockery. “Back in my day, gods kept it simple. ‘God of Time.’ ‘God of Space.’ ‘God of Salvation.’”

  The Bookkeeper blinked, momentarily speechless. “I’ve existed since before this planet was formed—and yet your drivel still baffles me.”

  “Maybe,” Faker admitted with a shrug. “But if I were to take on a grand title like yours… what do you think it should be? I’m leaning toward something epic—‘God of Fear and Hunger.’” He laughed, as though daring the Bookkeeper to argue.

  The Bookkeeper’s golden spear shimmered ominously between his fingers, casting fractured beams of light across the vaulted stacks. “You stole that title from a video game, didn’t you? How original.”

  Faker’s crimson eyes sparkled with wicked delight. “I’m planning to rip the face off a god’s daughter. Do you really think I care about copyright infringement?”

  Rage flared across the Bookkeeper’s expression, and a pulse of raw divinity churned through the library.

  “Hey, hey—learn to take a joke.” Faker lifted both hands in mock surrender, though his grin only widened. “You can’t fly into a fury every time someone threatens that walking target you call a daughter. Your scowl reminds me so much of the father I killed last week. Poor fool tried to stab me just because I’d butchered his child—sentimentality is such a messy habit.” He rolled his eyes as if discussing the weather.

  The Bookkeeper’s knuckles whitened on the spear shaft. “Are you here merely to aggravate me, or do you have an actual purpose?”

  “Why not both?” Faker’s tone turned sing-song. “But relax—I have no intention of harming your precious girl. Your dear brother Pandora already has a plan for Iris and that half-breed Maxwell. I’m here to make you an offer, for the right price.”

  “After all the mockery, you finally reach the point.” The Bookkeeper exhaled slowly, forcing the spear to dissolve into motes of golden light. “Very well—state your price.”

  Faker stepped closer. “I have only a question. Answer truthfully, and the information is yours. Ever heard the name Noah Fafnir?”

  The library seemed to hold its breath. The Bookkeeper riffled through millennia of memories—and came up empty. He shook his head. “No. The name is new to me.”

  A glimmer of genuine intrigue flashed behind Faker’s devil-may-care fa?ade. “Fascinating.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “Well, a little tidbit for you, that quiet Beta Facility girl—Cynthia? She’s a Dead-Face, a ticking curse planted by Pandora. By week’s end the switch flips.”

  Faker turned, already melding with the shadows between the shelves. “Good luck, Fate,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

  The great doors slid shut, leaving the Bookkeeper alone with the echo of retreating footsteps. He pressed a palm to his brow, frustration writ deep in every line of his face. “Of course it’s a Beta Facility student,” he muttered. “I should have known my sister couldn’t keep proper track of that facility.”

  Jonathan lounged in his office at his feet lay Sabrina, curled into herself on the grass floor, a faint dusting of rose petals scattered where she’d fallen unconscious. Jonathan lifted a delicate porcelain cup to his lips, savoring a slow sip of amber tea—until the door slammed open.

  The Bookkeeper strode in, every inch the sovereign of secrets, his cloak swirling behind him. He froze at the sight of Sabrina before fixing Jonathan with a steely glare. “What a rare sight,” Jonathan drawled, placing his cup down with exaggerated civility. “You rarely visit me.”

  The Bookkeeper ignored the small talk. “Tell me what you know about Cynthia. Now.”

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “No pleasantries? No greeting? No, questioning why my girlfriend is unconscious on my floor? Care for some tea?”

  The Bookkeeper’s eyes flicked to Sabrina. “Why is she out cold?”

  Jonathan clicked his tongue, producing a folder from the desk. “I simply rendered her unconscious for a bit—clinginess can be a distraction. But let’s see…” He rifled through the papers. “Here: ‘Cynthia Queen.’ No siblings on record. DNA fused with an orb-weaver spider. Found unconscious and covered in blood in an alley—family likely butchered by the Boogeyman. High suspicion, but nothing confirmed.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Faker killed her, of course,” the Bookkeeper snarled. “What else?”

  Jonathan smiled faintly, tapping the dossier. “Assuming you mean the Dead-Face condition? Yes—I know her nature. But don’t worry. I plan to prune that weed soon.”

  The Bookkeeper’s frown deepened. “Do you realize how strong Dead-Faces are? They’re the mightiest of the undead—creatures that would shame even Ivan at full power.”

  Jonathan’s grin widened. “I could shame Ivan myself, if I wanted.”

  “Which group is she in?” The Bookkeeper pressed. “And who’s the instructor?”

  Jonathan leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I’m the instructor. As for her comrades, Cynthia’s been assigned alongside Maxwell, Alice…and your secret child, Iris.”

  The Bookkeeper’s composure cracked into exasperation. “First Baal, then Faker—and now you. What a pain.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jonathan chuckled, rising to pour another cup of tea. “I have no intention of killing Iris—just a little scare.”

  The Bookkeeper’s voice rose. “Why kill Alice and Maxwell? Two prodigies like them could serve you far better alive.”

  Jonathan set down his kettle, folding his hands. “Tell me, Bookkeeper—what do Baal, Anastasia, Maxwell, and Alice all have in common?”

  The Bookkeeper closed his eyes, considering. After a heartbeat, he opened them and asked, “Based on what I know of three of them…are you suggesting that all four are…demons?”

  A slow smile curved Jonathan’s lips as he leaned back in his chair, the steam from his tea curling in the dim light.

  “That’s correct,” he said, setting down his porcelain cup. “I’ve let Anastasia slide—she’s a fun drinking buddy—but I wouldn’t dare let those two live.”

  The Bookkeeper tapped a fingertip against the edge of Jonathan’s desk, eyes narrowing. “What makes you think they’re so…special?”

  Jonathan’s grin widened. “For starters, they’re siblings, and as for the other reason, you know exactly why.”

  A glimmer of tension flickered across the Bookkeeper’s face. “I need Alice and Maxwell alive. Is there any way I can convince you only to prune Cynthia and Anya?”

  Jonathan rose, draped his arm over the back of the Bookkeeper’s chair, and held out his hand. “Let’s call it this way: you’ll owe me a favor down the line. Deal?”

  The Bookkeeper regarded Jonathan’s outstretched hand for a moment, then shook it firmly. “Of all the humans I know, you’re the most dangerous,” he admitted, voice low. “Your skill and cunning… it’s almost too much.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Jonathan laughed softly. He refilled his cup and took a delicate sip. “Now—tell me about the remaining pieces. Which Council members are the most viable targets?”

  The Bookkeeper inclined his head thoughtfully. “The others are either selfish or indifferent. Once they realize you’ll be the winner, they’ll jump ship. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Jonathan set aside his tea. “If I do take over A.E.G.I.S., I plan to renegotiate your contract—ensure you receive far more than you do now.”

  The Bookkeeper’s eyes flashed with something like relief. “Flattery aside,” he said, “the only thing I truly care about is Iris’s safety. Understood?”

  Jonathan’s gaze softened, and he offered a genuine smile. “Then you shall have it.” He raised his cup in a quiet toast.

  A sudden hush fell over the library as the Bookkeeper crossed the threshold from Jonathans office, the air growing colder with each step between the towering shelves. From the polished mahogany table in the center came the soft clink of porcelain—a careless familiarity that turned the hairs on his arms to ice. Seated within the library was none other than his father.

  He wore an ornate azure waistcoat. His skin was deathly pale beneath the flickering lamplight, and his golden eye, magnified by a polished monocle, gleamed with a predator’s delight. Yet it was his smile, all too human and warm, that sent a shudder through the Bookkeeper’s spine.

  “As if my day couldn’t worsen,” the Bookkeeper spat, voice low and brittle. “Hello, deadbeat.”

  His father rose gracefully, the teacup still in hand. “Ah, my dear Fate,” he cooed. “Your brother Pandora spoiled me with chocolates when I visited him. Yet here you are, treating me so coldly.”

  Anger flared in the Bookkeeper’s eyes. Without hesitation, he summoned a golden spear that arced through the air—and cleaved halfway through his father’s skull. The body collapsed to the floor, bone, and ichor staining the carpet. But before shock could settle, the corpse crumbled into dust—and there he was again, pristine as ever, patting the ashes from his lap.

  Father’s smile widened, equal parts charming and predatory. “Tell me, do you ever regret it—killing poor Atlas?”

  “Don’t speak his name,” Fate hissed, and hurled the spear. The radiant weapon ripped through Father’s skull, cleaving it cleanly from jaw. The body toppled, porcelain teacup shattering on impact.

  A heartbeat later, Father reappeared behind Fate, brushing nonexistent dust from his lapel while the corpse at the table decayed into ash. “What a darling little stab,” he cooed. “When Iris hits her rebellious phase, you’ll finally understand my sorrow.”

  Fate whirled, another spear forming between blinks. “You won’t go near her.”

  “Can’t a grandfather meet his precious granddaughter?” Father asked, tilting his head. “Family reunions are so heart-warming.”

  “She doesn’t even know I’m her father. Why would I let a parasite like you near her?” Fate snarled as he clutched Father’s chest. Reality folded; the boy’s heart crystallized into Fate’s hand before he could gasp. The body crumpled, only to dissolve into motes of blue light.

  “Fine, fine,” Father sighed, materializing again across the aisle, utterly unharmed. “Always so dramatic. I only wish you’d get along with your siblings. This game you’ve dragged them into—so barbaric.”

  Fate tightened his grip on the spear, golden light pulsing like a heartbeat. Bookshelves groaned under the pressure of clashing divinities. Somewhere above, dust drifted from rafters as the library itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Father’s monocled gaze glittered as he leaned forward. “Come now, Fate. Lower that spear. Tell me—what color flowers would Iris prefer? She is my only grandchild, you know, and I missed her birthday.”

  Fate tightened his grip, the spear’s golden light pulsing in time with his rage. “Don’t give her anything,” he snarled. “Better to pretend Maxwell is your grandson. My idiot sister already dotes on him as if he were Eden’s own blood.”

  Father waved a gloved hand with amused detachment. “Can you blame her? Maxwell and Alice are all she has left of the man she loved.”

  Fate’s spear flared brighter, carving faint runes into the air. “He used her. He cheated. Once Maxwell and Alice have served their purpose, I’ll end them both—remnants of that coward who betrayed Eden.”

  A fond chuckle drifted from Father. “See—that’s the devotion of a good brother. Now if only you could see past this foolish proxy war. But I wish you luck in your little battles, dear Fate. And do consider expanding your fiction section; it’s dreadfully sparse.”

  “I just had it upgraded,” Fate replied wearily, sheathing his spear. “And you’re not welcome in my library, you know.”

  Father’s grin deepened into a mocking bow. “You’re more than welcome to try to stop me,” he whispered—then vanished, leaving behind only the faint tinkle of porcelain and the rustle of pages settling.

  Fate remained motionless for a long moment, the library’s candlelight tremoring around him. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping against the high-backed chair. “An insufferable relic,” he murmured, fingers brushing a shelf of forbidden lore. “So many threads to unravel… Let the planning begin.”