Devil's Advocate: Specific Performance or How I Became A Baron In A Fantasy World

[Superstes]

 

[Superstes]

The air in the suite was a thick, stagnant soup of scent and silence. It smelled of things that were old and expensive: the peat-bog musk of single-malt scotch, the buttery perfume of worn leather from the Chesterfield sofas, the sweet, spicy ghost of a recently extinguished Cuban cigar. It was well past three in the morning. Outside, the sleepless heart of Manhattan still pulsed with a distant, electric hum, but in here, the only sounds were the soft, musical clinking of heavy clay chips, the whisper-thin riffle of a fresh deck of cards, and the low, measured breathing of the four men who remained.

A single, low-hanging brass lamp cast a pool of light over the green of the poker table, turning it into a silent, felted stage. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, deep and absolute, swallowing the details of the ornate furniture and the faces of the silent observers who had long since faded into the background.

As for the remaining players… there was Sergei, a muscular, tattooed slab of a man whose stillness was more menacing than any threat. Rumor said he wasn't just wealthy; he was the kind of man who ran half of the city's shadows from a backroom in Brighton Beach. His hands, thick-fingered and heavy with gold, cradled his chips with a terrifying gentleness.

Across from him sat the General -- so named for his fondness for ordering General Tso's Chicken during sessions. He was an elderly Asian man with a face like a dried apple and eyes that glittered with a gambler's desperate hope. He bluffed entirely too much and everyone knew it, but his pockets were a bottomless well from which all other players drank -- and so, he was always welcome at the table.

Next to him was Marcus, a young god sculpted in a gym and bankrolled by Bitcoins. He was handsome, good-natured, and radiated the naive confidence of a man who had never known a day of real failure in his life. He bounced his knee, radiating an excited energy.

And then there was Cornelius Vance.

He was a ghost at his own execution, slumped in his chair, wearing a bespoke suit that felt more like a burial shroud. His green eyes, dark and hollow, were fixed on a single, meaningless point on the far wall. His stack of chips was a chaotic mess of spilled color, an insult to the neat, orderly columns of the other players.

The dealer, a well-regarded professional with skilled hands, slid two cards facedown in front of each player.

Cornelius didn't move. He didn't even look. The hole cards lay untouched before him.

Sergei, with a low grunt, opened with a respectable bet. Marcus quickly made the call. The General promptly raised -- as he often had with almost any random two cards.

And then, the action came to Cornelius.

Without a word, without a glance at the two pieces of cardstock that held his fate, he grabbed a messy, uncounted handful of his remaining chips — a chaotic fistful of reds and blues and blacks — and shoved them into the center of the table. It was a raise so large, so disproportionate to the action, that it made Marcus physically flinch.

The General's lips thinned in disdain.

The courtroom smelled of lemon-scented polish and old paper, a sterile, suffocating odor. The air was dead and still. He stood ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on the way the overhead lights reflected off the polished mahogany of the defense table, turning the wood into a deep, liquid brown.

The judge's voice, a dry, reedy instrument of doom, echoed in the cavernous space.

"…sentenced to six years in a federal penitentiary… restitution to be paid in the amount of seven-point-two million dollars…"

The number was a physical blow, an impossible sum designed to erase him.

Across the room, his boss, the firm's Senior Partner, a man whose guilt was as plain as the bespoke suit on his back, calmly adjusted his tie. The slap on his own wrist had barely even left a mark.

The dealer burned a card and laid out the flop with a snap of his wrist:

Ten of Spades. Ten of Diamonds. Nine of Spades.

The board looked dangerous.

Sergei, who had been as still as a granite statue, finally moved. He leaned forward, the leather of his chair groaning under his immense weight. His thick fingers deliberately separated a tall stack of yellow chips from his hoard, his movements slow and predatory, as if he were dissecting a kill. He slid them forward with a soft, definitive rasp.

"Fifty thousand," he announced in a heavy Russian accent.

A strong bet indeed.

Marcus put on a show, taking a long time to consider his move. He leaned back, rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling as if consulting with the gods of probability. Finally, he let out a long, theatrical sigh.

"Man, oh man," he muttered to no one in particular. After a moment that stretched just a little too long, a wide grin broke across his face. "Ah, what the hell." He grabbed two handfuls of chips and cascaded them into the pot. "Let's make it spicy, boys! I raise!"

Across from the table, the General's eyes lit up with a sudden, intense gleam. He peered at the board, then glanced back at his own cards. He let out a long, drawn-out sigh, shaking his head as if in great pain. "So much… just to see the next card" he lamented, though his eyes still sparkled with a gambler's fire. With the dramatic flair of a man making his final stand, he slid a stack of chips forward to match the bet. "I call."

The action was on Cornelius.

"Call," he said, his voice a flat, empty thing. He pushed another uncounted stack forward, the chips tumbling into the pot with a sound like falling rocks.

The apartment was all white-on-white minimalism, a sterile gallery for a life he no longer lived. It smelled of the expensive, impersonal floral arrangements She favored. Amelia stood with her arms crossed, a wall of cool glass between them. Her words were not shouted; they were precise, clinical, like a surgeon making an incision.

"I can't be with a criminal, Cornelius. It's a matter of optics, you understand."

He didn't hear the rest. He just watched her thumb move on the screen of her phone, a small, simple motion that severed the final thread of the life they were supposed to have. The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

The dealer burned another card.

The turn was the Queen of Spades.

The board was now a minefield of straight and flush possibilities. A hush fell over the table. Even Marcus stopped bouncing his knee.

Sergei checked.

Marcus made another dramatic show of thought before making a cautious bet — which was quickly called by the General.

The action came to Cornelius.

Contrary to his best efforts, he had been winning all night.

He looked at the mountain of chips in the center of the table, then at his own not inconsiderable supply. He blinked slowly, as if waking from a long dream.

"All in," he whispered.

The words hung in the smoky air. Slowly, with resignation, he pushed the last of his fortune into the pot.

The staticky hum of a long-distance call was the only sound in his dark apartment. His father's voice, usually so full of booming, political charm for the campaign trail, was now a blade of ice.

"You were told not to call this number. My campaign… your stepmother and I… no son of ours will be in prison!"

He stared at his own reflection in the black glass of the window, a stranger with a ghost's eyes, watching a man who was already gone. The line went dead. The dial tone was the loneliest sound in the world.

Surprisingly, Sergei, Marcus, and the General all called. They were committed, it seemed, and didn't wish to turn back now.

The total sum in the middle of the table had reached a number that was truly obscene, a veritable king's ransom that could retire an average developing country family to a life of luxury several times over.

The dealer burned one last card, then placed the river down with the reverence of a high priest.

It was… the Jack of Spades.

A collective intake of breath went around the table.

There were four consecutive spades on the board, making one-card straight flushes possible.

Before anyone could move, a new voice cut through the tension, as smooth and cool as the scotch in their glasses.

It was Mr. Ash: the fifth man at the table. He wore a fine charcoal-grey suit of a cut so impossibly sharp and classic it seemed to belong to no particular decade, but rather to all of them at once. His age was difficult to place. The face was a placid, ageless mask with not a wrinkle to be found — and yet, it seemed to possess an air of an ancient, weary weight in the eyes that belied any suggestion of youth.

But it was his stillness that was the most unnerving thing about him. While other men fidgeted, drank, or breathed, Mr. Ash was a portrait of absolute economy. His movements were so minimal, so utterly without waste, that he seemed less a man playing a game and more a patient, geological force waiting for a mountain to erode.

And his eyes… dark and amused, his eyes had rarely left Cornelius, watching his reckless, self-destructive moves not with judgment, but with the quiet, appreciative focus of a seasoned connoisseur examining a rare bottle of Whiskey before some rich, clueless snob ended up mixing it with a can of diet coke.

"Mr. Vance. A proposition before the big reveal."

All eyes turned to him.

Mr. Ash's hand emerged from the shadows beneath the table. In it, he held a thick, rolled parchment, its edges yellowed and brittle with an age that felt far older than mere paper had any right to be. It was tied with a faded red ribbon, the fabric frayed and thin, and sealed with a dollop of black wax that bore a strange, spidery sigil.

With a flick of his wrist that was as elegant as it was economical, he sent the scroll sliding across the green baize. It moved with an unnatural smoothness, cutting a silent path through the battlefield of scattered chips, before coming to a perfect, gentle stop just before Cornelius's seat.

The object's sudden appearance drew a sharp, audible gasp from Marcus.

"Whoa, dude, is that, like, a historical document or something?" he whispered, leaning forward, his eyes wide with the boyish excitement of someone who saw the world as one big playroom.

Sergei, however, was less impressed. He let out a low, guttural sound of annoyance at someone interrupting his hand, his heavy brow furrowing. His gaze flickered from the ancient parchment to Mr. Ash, his eyes narrowing with the deep, primal suspicion of a man who trusted only in cash and violence.

The General, in contrast, gave a slight, almost perceptible nod of approval. A glint of true appreciation sparked in his old eyes. He was a gambler to his core, and he recognized the beauty — and fun — of such side bets, having been on both sides of many of them himself!

"This is the title to a mid-sized, private estate. Quite valuable by most standards — if somewhat… remote," Mr. Ash said, his smile never touching his eyes.

"I'm willing to make a small side bet. Just between the two of us. The wager will be this deed against... oh, let's say a simple IOU from you for… five million dollars — far less than what such an estate would be worth on the market, of course, but I seem to be in a gambling mood today. My terms are this: win this hand, and the deed is yours. Lose to one of these fine gentlemen — and you will owe me the five million. Well, Mr. Vance? How about it?"

Marcus stared, his jaw agape. "Bruh, what? Don't be an idiot, Cornelius! You've been lucky today, but you need to know when to stop. You haven't even looked at your cards!"

But Cornelius didn't look at Marcus.

His gaze dropped to the ancient scroll. For a fleeting moment, he imagined it was a legal document from another, saner world — a world where cases were governed by reason and precedent, not by power and lies. He imagined unrolling it to find the clause that would exonerate him, the loophole that would give him back his life while putting his former boss behind bars, where he belonged.

Then the fantasy evaporated, leaving only the bitter residue of reality.

He lifted his eyes to Mr. Ash's face, a mask of serene, predatory calm. And in that moment, a laugh bubbled up from deep within his chest, a harsh, grating sound like the grinding of broken gears. It wasn't a laugh of mirth, but of supreme, cosmic absurdity.

Six years.

Two thousand, one hundred and ninety days in a cage, followed by a lifetime of being a disgraced, disbarred felon.

And this man was offering him what was -- likely -- a make-believe title, to some make-believe land, in exchange for an equally make-believe debt.

An IOU for five million dollars? What a joke!

What was that to an already-broke man whose properties were in the process of being seized by the government? What practical chance was there of him ever getting a hold of that much cash, even after he left prison?

It was the most meaningless transaction in the history of the world — and for that reason alone, it was the only one that made any sense at all!

"Sure," he said. "Why not?"

Mr. Ash's smile widened, a subtle, predatory curving of the lips. "Excellent." He extended a hand across the table, his long, pale fingers uncurling from the shadows. "Then let us shake on it."

Cornelius stared at the offered hand…

And, for a moment, he hesitated.

It felt like the last formal act of his life, and the disbarred lawyer felt the sudden, absurd urge to decline — and then simply muck his hand without ever having seen it.

But then, with a shrug that sent a tremor through his exhausted body, he reached out and took the offered hand into his own.

The grip was firm, the skin unnaturally warm and dry, like old parchment. For a fraction of a second, a strange, electric tingle shot up his arm — producing a feeling like that of a faint static shock or a dizzying wave of vertigo. It was there and then gone — so quickly that he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.

The deal was made.

The dealer, his voice a calm, professional monotone that cut through the tension, announced:

"Gentlemen. Showdown."

Sergei, with a wide, predatory grin, slammed his hole cards onto the table: a pair of Nines.

With the two Tens and a Nine on the board, he had a full house. A very, very strong hand — one that, statistically speaking, should win ninety-nine times out of a hundred.

Marcus let out a whoop.

"Yo, bro, that is so sick! But — check this out!"

He triumphantly flipped his own cards over.

A pair of Tens.

The table erupted in gasps. With two more tens on the flop, Marcus now had four of a kind. Quads.

Sergei's face turned to stone.

The General, who had been watching all of this with the serene calm of a Buddhist monk, pointedly looked at Marcus' four Tens. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture of profound respect. A small, knowing smile touched the corners of his lips as he let the tension in the room stretch to its breaking point, savoring the moment like it was a fine wine.

"That is a good hand, young man," the General said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "A very good hand, indeed."

He paused, letting Marcus believe, for one sweet, agonizing second, that he had won.

Then, the General's smile widened, revealing a glint of gold teeth.

"But not," he said, his voice dropping to a half-whisper, "good enough!"

With painstaking slowness, he turned over his first card: the Seven of Spades. Then the second: the Eight of Spades!

The room fell silent as everyone looked on in a stunned disbelief.

The nine, ten, Jack, and Queen of spades were on the board. His eight made a Queen-high straight flush!

Beating quads with a straight flush was the stuff of legend; it happened so rarely, in fact, that a sizeable jackpot — sometimes even over a million dollars(!) — would have been paid out for such a hand had this beat happened in a licensed casino rather than a darkened hotel suite.

Marcus stared, his own face pale now, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

The General gave a slight, dignified bow of his head, accepting the silent congratulations.

Then, all eyes fell on Cornelius.

He sighed, the sound barely audible, and reached for his own cards, the last to act. He flipped them over without ceremony, without even looking, wanting only for the night to finally — blessedly — over.

The first card was the King of Spades.

The second was the Ace of Spades.

For a moment, nothing happened.

The players and the dealer silently stared at the two cards.

Then down at the board.

Then at the two cards again.

Ten. Jack. Queen. King. Ace.

All spades.

A "Royal" Straight Flush!

The highest possible hand in poker.

The hand that beats a lower straight flush.

Which beats quads.

Which beats a full house.

All of which occurred in the same pot.

It wasn't just improbable; it bordered on the impossible!

And somehow, without even looking at his hand until showdown, Cornelius had won everything.

Mr. Ash stood up smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate charcoal suit.

"My congratulations. A spectacular victory, Mr. Vance. Do enjoy your prize."

He placed a small, black business card next to the deed document.

"We'll soon be in touch regarding the transit."

He turned and walked out of the room, melting into the shadows beyond as if he'd never been there at all.

As Marcus playfully slapped him on the back, and as the other players erupted in a cacophony of curses and disbelieving congratulations, a strange, nagging thought wormed its way into Cornelius' exhausted mind.

He realized that he didn't remember who had invited Mr. Ash.

In fact, he didn't even remember the man playing a single hand.

 

[Superstes]

The first thing he was aware of was the cold. Not the biting, aggressive cold of the blizzard that raged against the windows of his empty apartment, but a deeper, more profound cold that seemed to emanate from the hollow space in his own chest. It was a cold of absolute emptiness, a vacuum where a life used to be.

Cornelius Vance lay on a solitary mattress on the floor, the last piece of furniture he owned, and stared at the gray, featureless ceiling. It was just before dawn. Outside, the city was a muffled roar, a beast silenced by a blanket of snow. Inside, the silence was absolute, the kind of tomb-like quiet that echoes with the ghosts of a life that has been seized, cataloged, and sold off for parts. The faint impressions in the dust where his desk, his chairs, his entire life had once stood were like chalk outlines at a crime scene.

His gaze drifted to the lighter rectangle of hardwood by the far wall, a pale ghost of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that had once held his entire legal library — Blackstone, Coke, Story — centuries of jurisprudence that had once been his religion, now rendered meaningless. Near the window, two faint scuff marks were all that remained of the worn leather armchair where he and Amelia used to... sit, her feet tucked under her as they read on quiet Sunday mornings. The memory was a sharp, physical pain, a phantom limb aching for a life that had been amputated.

Sleep had been a shallow, fitful thing, a series of grim, disjointed dreams of gavels falling and doors slamming shut, a state from which he was glad to be roused. He was trying to get used to it, this waking to a world without purpose. It was, he thought with a bitter twist of his lips, good practice. A small, futile act of rebellion against the rigid, soul-crushing schedules of the federal penitentiary that surely awaited him in just a few days. The irony was an almost physical thing, leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat: he had willingly spent his entire adult life — High School, University, Law School, then the unforgiving halls of New York's Elite "Big Law" Firms — adhering to brutal, inhuman schedules in order to achieve so-called success… and now, his only remaining freedom was to defy the clock.

His eyes drifted to the kitchen, a cavern of white marble and stainless steel visible from his position on the floor. On the vast, empty countertop sat a chaotic mountain of cash from his poker win — an obscene, meaningless pile of paper that still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and desperation. It wasn't in neat stacks. It was a jumble of hundreds, fifties, and twenties, some crisp and new, others soft and worn with the grease and secrets of a thousand transactions. The sheer, tactile reality of it felt absurd and even almost insulting in the sterile emptiness of the room. The total likely approached the neighborhood of two or even three million, but he felt no triumph — only a hollow, aching void. Given the numerous civil fraud lawsuits now being brought against him — courtesy of his clever former boss, who had set him up to take the fall — it was a temporary fortune at best; money he couldn't keep from a life he no longer had.

The phone buzzed.

It was lying on the hardwood floor beside him, and the vibration was a jarring, violent intrusion, like an insect trying to burrow through the floorboards. He let it buzz: a frantic, angry sound in the dead air, watching as it skittered about in a small circle.

He hoped it would stop.

It didn't.

With a weary sigh that seemed to pull the very marrow from his bones, he reached for it.

An unknown number.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice a low, sleep-gravelled rasp.

The voice on the other end was female, crisp, and professional, yet it was laced with a strange undercurrent of playful, disarming warmth. It was the kind of voice that could sell you sand in a desert and make you think you've got a great deal. A voice like honey laced with gin.

"Mr. Vance? Good morning! I am so glad I was able to reach you! This is Chloe from Aethelred Capital & Holdings. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Ash."

He almost hung up then and there...

But the name — Ash — stirred a murky, unpleasant memory from the haze of the poker game.

"Listen here," he muttered, closing his eyes against the intrusive gray light. "Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested. So, unless you've got a spare seven-point-two million you'd like to wire to the U.S. Treasury on my behalf, please just let me sleep in."

A soft, sexy chuckle echoed down the line: a sound so full of seemingly-genuine amusement that it sent a literal shiver down his spine.

"Oh, you're such a joker, Mr. Vance! After all, the portfolio you acquired last night is valued at... well, the phrase 'considerably more' would be a massive understatement! However, should you wish to finalize the transfer, the land would come with certain… non-negotiable obligations. Mr. Ash would like to discuss those particulars with you. He can see you at ten this morning!"

She gave a prestigious Park Avenue address and hung up before he could even fully process what just happened.

He held the silent phone in his hand, the aluminum and glass casing warm against his cold skin. For a long moment, the only sound was that of his breath. In his mind, he could still hear the ghost of that laugh — a sound far too vibrant, far too full of life for this gray, dead room.

The absurdity of the call warred with the first, faint flicker of professional curiosity he had felt in weeks. It was a stupid, obvious scam. It had to be…

...Right?

The lawyer in him, battered and left for dead, finally stirred. He sat up, the cold of the floor seeping through his feet, and reached for his laptop. Cross-legged on the floor, the screen's pale blue glow the only light in the dim room, he began to dig into "Aethelred Capital & Holdings."

No official public website. No press releases. No corporate filings with the SEC.

But, as he descended into the deeper, more esoteric corners of the financial world — or, rather, into a couple reputable blogs mixed in with a speculative fintech subreddit — a picture began to emerge. And it was a picture painted in rumor and awe. Aethelred Capital was a ghost.

A legend.

It was a private wealth consultancy that had supposedly existed for centuries, managing the fortunes of the world's true shadow elite — the kind of wealth that owned not just politicians, but governments. They were the ultimate "don't call us, we'll call you" firm… And the fact that they did indeed call him was interesting, to say the least.

When it came, the realization hit him like a physical blow, a sudden, ice-cold dread that made the hair on his arms stand up. He ran through the entire poker night in his head: every card, every bet, every face.

He never gave Mr. Ash his full name. He certainly never gave him his number. So how did they find him so quickly? And what would a titan like Aethelred want with a tiny fish like him?

The vast, empty apartment suddenly felt small and confining, a glass cage under unseen observation. A prickling sensation started at the base of his neck, the primal, animal instinct of being watched. The shadows in the corners of the room, cast by the weak morning light, suddenly seemed to stretch and deepen — no longer inert but alive with a silent, waiting potential. He found himself involuntarily glancing towards the locked front door, then at the sealed windows, his heart thumping a heavy, useless rhythm against his ribs.

It was a moment of pure, rational paranoia. This wasn't a scam. It was something far, far stranger.

Just what had he gotten himself into?

He went through the motions of a life he no longer lived.

He took a refreshing, warm shower, the water drumming against his skin, trying to wash away the feeling of dread. He shaved with an artisanal straight razor, the blade a cold, dangerous kiss against his throat. He went to his empty walk-in closet, where a perfect suit hung in a garment bag. It was his armor. As he pulled the fine cashmere-and-silk fabric of the jacket over his shoulders, a memory ambushed him: the sharp, satisfying scent of the tailor's shop on Savile Row, the reflection of a younger, more ambitious version of himself in the three-way mirror. He remembered his boss, Steve Blackwood, clapping him on the shoulder after they won the McClaren case, right in this very suit. "You're a killer, Vance," he'd said, his smile full of predatory pride.

The memory curdled in his stomach. The same hand that had once praised him had signed the affidavits that sent him to prison. It was a lesson every man learns, he supposed, though few learn it so brutally. The bonds forged in boardrooms and celebrated over expensive scotch are not bonds of brotherhood, but of mutual convenience. They are covenants with clauses of termination, alliances of ambition and opportunity that last only as long as the sun shined. When the long night of true trouble fell, one would always be left standing utterly, terrifyingly alone — and the bosses that once praised you will be the first to throw you under the bus to help preserve their own hide.

He dressed with the meticulous, automatic precision of a consummate professional. But, as he adjusted the knot of his silk tie in the dark, reflective glass of a window, he didn't see a powerful lawyer. He saw a condemned man dressing for his own funeral. It felt like a final, defiant act of being Cornelius Vance, Esq. before the world reduced him to an inmate number.

He walked through the silent apartment one last time and opened the door. The hallway, once a passage of triumph and homecoming, now felt utterly alien. He remembered when Amelia had first shown him the brochure for this building, her eyes alight with an ambition that mirrored his own. She had fallen in love with the building's signature carpet — a vibrant, almost jarring pattern of royal blue and brilliant gold that flowed down the corridors like a river of lapis and sunlight.

"This isn't just a place to live, Cor," she'd said, her voice full of breathless excitement that evening. "It's a statement! Everyone who matters either has a place here, has one nearby, or wishes they did! It's close to the firm for you, close to the gallery for me. It's... perfect."

And for a time, it had been.

Now, however? Now, the vibrant colors seemed to mock him, a garish reminder of a life built on a foundation of sand.

He pressed the button for the elevator, the soft chime echoing in the quiet. When the doors slid open, a woman he recognized from the condo board, Eleanor Covington, was already inside, clutching a trembling, bug-eyed Pomeranian that was more fluff than dog.

He knew Eleanor probably disliked him even before the indictment — after all, she was a woman who thrived on manufactured grievances and neighborhood gossip. Now that he's been convicted and sentenced? In her eyes, he wasn't just an inconsiderate neighbor; he was a confirmed villain, a tangible source of social contamination.

A bitter, rebellious part of him, a part he thought had died in the courtroom, decided that if he was going to be the monster in her petty drama, he might as well play the part with a smile.

A bright, utterly false cheerfulness entered his voice.

"Morning, Eleanor!" he said, the sound offensively pleasant in the confined space. "Lovely holiday weather we are having! Don't you just love the snow?"

She gave him a tight, thin-lipped smile that didn't come close to reaching her eyes. She clutched her dog, Sir Reginald Fluffington III, tighter to her chest and physically shuffled to the far corner of the elevator, as if his disgrace were a communicable disease. Sir Reginald, sensing his owner's tension, let out a series of high-pitched, frantic yaps.

The elevator descended in a silence that was thick with her discomfort, a silence he found himself enjoying with a kind of dark, bitter amusement. It was a petty sort of power, the only kind left to him, but it was power nonetheless, and it felt surprisingly good. He vividly remembered Eleanor fawning over him at the building's rooftop barbecue last summer, her voice dripping with false sincerity as she asked for his "invaluable" opinion on some tedious co-op dispute. Back then, he was Cornelius Vance: the legal eagle working for one of New York's most prestigious firms! A useful connection. Now, stripped of his title and prestige, he might as well be a leper — an object of fear and contempt. And watching her squirm a bit, trapped in this small box with the very "monster" she whispered about in the hallways, gave him a grim, satisfying sense of clarity.

The elevator doors opened onto the grand lobby, a space designed not just to impress, but to overwhelm. It was a soaring, three-story atrium of polished black marble and gleaming glass. Garlands of fragrant evergreen, woven with ribbons of gold satin, were draped artfully along the mezzanine railings.

In the center of the hall stood a massive Christmas tree, at least twenty feet tall, its branches laden with thousands of twinkling white lights and ornaments of spun glass and polished silver that glittered like captive stars.

To the right of the tree, the massive, abstract chrome sculpture that twisted towards the ceiling was now entwined with delicate strands of laser-projected lights, reflecting the snowy scene from the vast windows in a thousand fractured, festive patterns.

The air smelled of cinnamon and the clean, sharp scent of pine.

To his left was "The Alchemist's Nook," the building's resident-exclusive bar, its brass fixtures and dark mahogany wood gleaming under soft, recessed lighting, a single, elegant wreath hanging on its closed door. The rows of top-shelf liquor bottles were like silent, sleeping soldiers, a potent memory of the night he'd celebrated his promotion there just last year, the air then thick with laughter, the scent of expensive cocktails, and the promise of a bright future. This early in the morning, the bar was, naturally, empty — mirroring the emptiness in his soul.

As he walked towards the entrance, he saw another neighbor, a hedge fund manager named Tom, approaching from the other side. Tom, who had once cornered him in this very lobby to get stock tips, now found something utterly fascinating on his phone, abruptly changing his trajectory to head towards the mailroom, his eyes fixed firmly downward. The message was clear: the herd had cast him out.

As he moved to leave, Hector, the elderly doorman with kind, weary eyes, stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"Mr. Vance," he said, his voice soft. "I read the papers. It's a damn shame what they've done to you — anyone with a brain can see you're just a fall guy. For what it's worth, we're all going to miss you around here. You were always a gentleman."

The simple, unexpected human decency was a gut punch. It was a reminder of the community that he was being ripped away from. He managed a tight, appreciative nod, unable to trust his voice, before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the storm.

He walked through a monochrome world of white snow, gray slush, and black asphalt.

The city was a whirlwind of biting wind and thick, wet snow. The wind howled between the canyons of the skyscrapers, a mournful, lonely sound. The festive holiday lights on Park Avenue, meant to be cheerful, looked somehow garish and cruel through the curtain of falling snow.

As he waited to cross a street, he saw a young couple huddled under a cafe awning, sharing a hot beverage, their heads close together as they laughed, their breath mingling in a single white cloud. It was a small, perfect glimpse of the kind of life that was no longer accessible to him, a world he could observe from behind an invisible wall but never again physically join. He felt utterly disconnected from the huddled masses rushing past him, a ghost moving through a city that has already forgotten him. The physical cold was a perfect mirror for the frozen emptiness inside him.

Soon enough, he arrived at a severe, imposing skyscraper of black glass and steel. The lobby was a cathedral of cold, white marble, echoing and deserted save for a single figure at a vast, monolithic desk. His footsteps clicked and echoed unnaturally on the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the sheer vertical scale of the space, a hall designed to make kings feel small. The air was sterile and still, with a faint, clean scent of ozone, like the air after a lightning strike.

On the other hand, the young goddess at the desk — "Chloe," according to her name-tag — was a veritable work of art; a creature of devastating, effortless beauty who brought a splash of impossible, vibrant color to the boring, monochrome hall. Her hair was a cascade of spun gold that seemed to drink the cold light of the lobby and transform it into something warm and alive as it tumbled over her shoulders. Her eyes were the startling blue of a high-summer sky, and they held an ancient, knowing amusement that was at odds with the youthful perfection of her face. She had high cheekbones, a sharp, intelligent jawline, and a full, pouty mouth that was painted with lipstick of a deep, wicked crimson shade.

She wore a severe, charcoal-gray suit that should have been conservative — but on her, it seemed only to emphasize the generous curve of her hips and the slender line of her waist. The silk blouse beneath was a deep, blood-red… and unbuttoned just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth, pale skin of her collarbone and the delicate hollow of her throat. She wore a headset, but her attention was on him the moment he stepped inside.

He approached the desk tentatively, his well-practiced professional composure having utterly abandoned him. He felt like a boy on his first day of school. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, the words "Hello, I have an appointment..." forming on his lips.

But he never got them out.

"Ah, Mr. Vance! Welcome!" she said, her voice the same honey-and-gin concoction from the phone. Her smile was a slow, deliberate sunrise, impossibly warm in the sterile coldness of the hall. It was a smile that seemed to know things, to see right through the expensive suit to the terrified, broken man beneath. "We've been expecting you."

She hadn't looked at a screen, hadn't checked a list. She had known his name and face… on sight alone?

The fresh burst of paranoia returned in a cold rush.

"Mr. Ash is very much looking forward to this meeting," she continued, leaning forward slightly, her chin resting on her hand in a gesture of casual, almost intimate confidence. "He's waiting for you at the top floor suites. Just through there, please!"

She pointed with a single, perfectly manicured finger towards the far wall of the lobby. Cornelius followed her gesture.

He saw a vast, unbroken expanse of polished, veined marble, a sheer cliff of stone reflecting the cold light from the windows.

He blinked.

There was nothing there but wall.

He turned back to her, a frown creasing his brow. "I'm sorry…?"

But Chloe's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened, becoming more enigmatic. More knowing. She held his gaze and pointed again, her expression a perfect blend of amusement and professional calm. "Right down the lobby there, you'll see a private elevator. You've been cleared to use it," she said, her voice soft but firm.

An unsettling shiver ran down his spine. He turned back to the wall, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. He forced his eyes to focus, to really look, tracing the veins in the marble, searching for the trick.

And then, he noticed it.

The elevator door was so perfectly integrated into the marble's pattern, the dark wood almost indistinguishable from the darker veins in the stone, that it was easy to overlook. The call button panel on the wall looked to be old, ornate brass, with tasteful gilded age metalwork around the edges.

His mind reeled for a moment, the absurd assertion that the door had not been there moments before, that it had simply appeared, warring with a lifetime of rational thought.

No, he told himself firmly, a lawyer cross-examining his own senses. Surely I must have simply missed it. The stress, the lack of sleep... the way the light hits the polished stone from this angle. Of course it was there all along! Elevator doors don't simply appear out of thin air.

He managed a clumsy, "Uh, thank you," his voice sounding a note higher than usual.

Chloe's smile deepened, a spark of genuine mischief in her summer-sky eyes. "Oh, believe me, Mr. Vance, the pleasure is all mine. After all, it's not every day we get to welcome a client with such a compelling portfolio!" Her emphasis on the words "pleasure" and "compelling" felt loaded, a private joke he wasn't privy to. For a moment, her gaze held his, and he felt like a specimen under a very beautiful, very expensive microscope.

He broke eye contact first, turning and walking towards the impossible door on legs that felt strangely disconnected from his body.

He reached the mahogany elevator door and pressed the large brass button. It didn't beep or light up. Instead, it depressed with a heavy, satisfying click, a sound of old, well-oiled machinery engaging deep within the walls.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a silent, seamless grace, the heavy mahogany door slid sideways into the marble wall, vanishing completely.

 

[Superstes]

He stepped through, and the world changed.

The cold, ozonic air of the lobby was instantly replaced by a comforting warmth of the small, private space paneled in rich, warm cherry wood that glowed under a soft, indirect light. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old books.

Cozy, he noted.

There were only two buttons on the ornate brass panel:



G

and

P



The ascent was silent and smooth.

The doors opened onto a vast reception area that felt less like an office and more like a private museum. Priceless Ming Dynasty vases stood on illuminated pedestals. Intricate Turkish rugs, their colors rich and deep, cushioned his every step. A massive, wall-sized aquarium glowed with the iridescent colors of blue-ring octopodes and exotic tropical fish — some of them creatures of such vibrant and surreal beauty that they seemed to have been dreamed into existence.

The Penthouse receptionist who greeted him was older and had a more aggressive bearing to her than Chloe — though the word seemed inadequate, like calling a thunderstorm 'damp'. She was a woman who had been sculpted by time into a monument of severe, uncompromising elegance. Her hair was a sheet of raven-black, shot through with bold, deliberate streaks of pure silver at the temples, pulled back into a tight, intricate chignon that looked to be a work of art in itself. Her face was a mask of aristocratic beauty, with high, sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. Her eyes were the color of dark, aged sherry, and they held in them no warmth — only a sharp, bottomless intelligence that was far more intimidating than any overt hostility.

She was dressed in a tailored suit of the deepest charcoal gray, the kind of material that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. It was a statement of power, yet it was cut with a subtle, dangerous femininity. The jacket was cinched tight at her waist, flaring out over hips that were undeniably womanly. The skirt was pencil-thin and severe, falling to just half an inch above the knee, a modest length that nevertheless served to draw the eye to the long, elegant line of her legs, clad in sheer, dark stockings and ending in a pair of lethally sharp stiletto heels. The jacket was open just enough to reveal a glimpse of a black lace camisole, a tantalizing hint of decadent softness beneath the unyielding armor of her suit.

Her posture was ramrod straight, the no-nonsense bearing of a strict algebra teacher who was ready to punish any minute infraction. Her very stillness was a form of power. A challenge.

Her gaze swept over him in a slow, deliberate appraisal that was neither friendly nor hostile, but something far more unnerving: analytical. It was the look of a master jeweler examining a raw, uncut diamond for its potential... and its flaws.

"Mr. Vance," she said. Her voice was a low, smoky contralto, a sound like aged whiskey and velvet. It held none of Chloe's playful warmth, only a deep, resonant power that seemed to vibrate in the very air around her. "You are expected."

Cornelius swallowed, his throat suddenly, inexplicably dry. The sheer force of her presence was like a physical pressure. "Yes, I..."

She cut him off — not rudely, but with an absolute authority that brooked no argument.

"Follow me. Mr. Ash does not appreciate tardiness." Her lips, painted a deep shade of burgundy, curved into something that was almost — but not quite — a smile. "And we wouldn't want to disappoint him on your very first meeting, now would we?"

She turned with a fluid, economical grace and led him down a surprisingly busy hallway.

Far from being the hushed, sterile environment he expected, the corridor was alive with the vibrant, confident buzz of immense success. The thick carpets swallowed the sound of footsteps, but not the low murmur of conversations, punctuated by confident laughter and the clinking of glasses from open office doors. Men and women in impeccably tailored suits moved with a relaxed but predatory grace, shaking hands, closing deals on their phones, their faces alight with the thrill of the game. It felt less like a stuffy old-money firm and more like a high-octane, impossibly exclusive social club where the currency was power.

As they walked, a man with a familiar, boyish face and famously thick glasses emerged from an adjacent corridor, a plush white towel draped around his neck and a tennis racket in his hand. He was dressed in immaculate white shorts and a polo shirt, his expensive athletic shoes squeaking softly on the plush carpet.

Cornelius did a double-take. He was almost certain this was none other than Gill Bates, the legendary billionaire founder of MacroHard!

Bates was laughing as he shook hands with a similarly-dressed man who looked like he just finished a tennis warm-up. "That was a hell of a match, Gill," the man said, his voice smooth as silk. Bates just grinned, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. "You're getting better, Richard! Same time next week?" The other nodded, and Bates, catching Cornelius's eye for a fraction of a second, gave a small, collegial smile — as if they were members of the same exclusive club — before vanishing down a hallway marked with a discreet sign that simply read "Spa."

The strict receptionist led him to the end of a long hallway, stopping before a pair of imposing double doors made of a dark, almost black wood that seemed to absorb the light. The wood was polished to a mirror shine, and he could see his own distorted, pale reflection staring back at him. The brass plate next to it read: M. Ash, Vice President, Acquisitions & Special Projects.

His escort didn't knock. She didn't even pause. She simply placed a perfectly manicured hand on the ornate brass handle.

"Mr. Ash is through here," she announced to the room, her voice carrying a weight that seemed to pass right through the heavy doors. She pulled the door open, revealing the corner office beyond. She then turned her head slightly, her sherry-colored eyes meeting his one last time. There was no warmth in them, but there was a flicker of something else — a dry, clinical curiosity. "Try not to waste his time," she said, her voice a low, final command.

And with that, she released the handle, turned with the sharp, precise movement of a soldier, and walked away. The soft, rhythmic click of her stiletto heels on the plush carpet was the only sound, a sound that grew fainter and fainter until it was swallowed by the opulent silence, leaving him utterly alone on the threshold of the lion's den.

The room was enormous.

From where he stood, the figure of Ash by the far window seemed like a distant silhouette against the raging blizzard, a master of the universe observing his domain. The walk from the door to the seating area in front of the window felt like a journey across a foreign country. He passed a massive, polished desk of what looked like obsidian -- a desk so comically large that it felt like it could have served as an improvised landing strip for a small aircraft.

To his right, a fire crackled merrily in a marble fireplace wide enough to roast a whole ox.

And, on a low table near the seating area, there sat a heavy crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid, two glasses already waiting.

The entire space was designed to communicate one thing: that he, Cornelius Vance, was a very small man in a very large and dangerous world. As his feet sank into the plush fibers of an authentic Persian rug, Ash's voice filled the cavernous room, a low, melodious baritone that carried with unnatural clarity.

He still hadn't bothered to turn around.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Ash began, his voice a disembodied sound layered over the silent, epic movie of the blizzard outside. "They say that out of the countless billions of flakes we are seeing, no two are ever the same. Each one is a unique, crystalline miracle. A fleeting testament to an infinite, chaotic geometry."

By the time he finished the last sentence, Cornelius had nearly reached the window. Ash still hadn't moved, his back a wall of perfectly-tailored charcoal gray.

"And yet," Ash continued, his voice dropping a fraction, becoming deeper, more intimate, "when one zooms out far enough, when one gets a high enough vantage point, all one can ever perceive... is a sea of white."

He turned then, a slow, deliberate pivot. For a moment, Cornelius saw a flicker of something ancient and profound in his eyes — a weariness that seemed older than the city. Older than the mountains themselves.

"To someone like me, Mr. Vance, there is nothing more mundane than uniqueness," he said, his gaze settling on Cornelius, sharp and analytical, as if seeing him for the first time. "But… I do sometimes wonder if that is truly so — or if some snowflakes really are more special than others."

This man's philosophical musings were a form of torture; a casual display of the seemingly infinite time Ash had access to, and the finite, numbered hours of freedom Cornelius had left. His jaw was so tight it ached.

"Mr. Ash, I have limited time. If we could please just get to the point?"

Ash's smile became one of pity. "Why, are you truly so eager to head to that federal prison of yours, Mr. Vance?"

Cornelius froze. "H-how did you...?"

"We make it a point to thoroughly understand the circumstances of all potential clients," Ash said smoothly. "And you, my dear boy, became just such a potential client the moment those cards of yours hit that felt."

Ash led Cornelius over to the sitting area and sat back in a large, comfortable-looking chair, the ancient leather groaning softly. He steepled his fingers, the picture of a benevolent senior partner about to offer a generous, if slightly condescending, severance package.

"Cornelius... may I call you Cornelius? The truth is, what happened at the game last night was something of an anomaly. A fit of whimsy. An… oversight on my part, if you will."

He poured them both a generous helping of the undoubtedly expensive alcohol, then took a slow, deliberate sip of the amber liquid, savoring the taste. From pure muscle memory borne of countless backroom negotiations, Cornelius did the same, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the beverage that might have cost as much as a down payment of a luxury vehicle.

"Understand this. The asset you... acquired... is not a simple piece of real estate. It's what we in the business like to call a 'legacy portfolio.' It comes with significant historical entanglements. Covenants, deed restrictions, liens, pre-existing tenancies of a most peculiar and... resilient nature."

He paused, letting the words sink in, his gaze never leaving Cornelius's face.

"Frankly, it requires a level of hands-on management that would be... well, let's just say it would be exceedingly burdensome for a man in your current legal and personal predicament. We at Aethelred feel a certain responsibility in these matters. A… duty of care, if you will. We don't wish to see a man of your talents further encumbered without your knowledge and informed consent!"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"And so… I have prepared a simple, clean exit strategy for you."

With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to a sleek, black briefcase on the table between them.

Cornelius reached over and unlatched it. The twin clicks of the polished chrome latches were sharp and final in the quiet room. He lifted the lid, revealing not complex legal documents, but neat, tight stacks of bearer bonds, their crisp, impersonal perfection a stark contrast to the ancient, chaotic energy of the deed.

"$9 million dollars," Ash said, his voice a soft, seductive whisper. "A simple, untraceable transaction. Just imagine it. Your restitution will be paid in full. And, together with your card winnings, you'll have a very comfortable nest egg waiting for you upon your... ah... sabbatical's conclusion. You can walk away right now! Free and clear, unburdened by this most… unfortunate acquisition. All you have to do is sign here," he pushed a single, elegant document across the table, "take the money, and return that deed you've brought with you."

Cornelius stared at the briefcase, at the neat stacks of paper that represented a clean slate, a second chance at a hollow life.

And he saw a trap.

His mind, a finely honed instrument of logic and risk assessment, raced through the scenarios. He pictured the gray, featureless walls of a prison cell, the slow, grinding erosion of his identity until he was nothing but a number. Then he pictured life afterwards, a ghost in the unforgiving city with a bank account full of tainted money, forever looking over his shoulder, the taste of ashes in his mouth.

That was the known path. The safe path.

He took out and examined the deed he brought along, gently tracing its ancient texture with his fingers. The mysterious document represented an unknown, a void, a terrifying leap into madness.

But it would be a choice.

His choice.

Besides, smart brokers do not simply offer a $9 million buyout to correct a "mistake." They do it to acquire an asset for pennies on the dollar.

He looked from the boring, safe, sensible pile of money to the ancient deed lying on the desk. He thought of the six upcoming years in a cage; of the lifetime of being a known, convicted felon that would follow.

It was a choice between a fairly comfortable, but hollow life after prison, or this one, single, insane chance at something else entirely.

He reached for the briefcase --

...

...

...

-- and pushed it away.

"I thank you for your concern, Mr. Ash, but I think I'll keep the deed if it's all the same to you."

Ash's smile didn't falter, but it changed. The mask of benevolence dropped away, replaced by something edgy. Predatory.

His eyes suddenly seemed to glitter in the firelight. "Are you quite certain, Mr. Vance?" he asked, his voice a silken purr. "This is a final buyout offer. Once you commit to this portfolio, you are... stuck with it, for better or worse. There will be no more easy exits."

A flicker of the old lawyerly focus returned to Cornelius's eyes, a muscle memory of a thousand hostile negotiations. He leaned forward slightly, meeting Ash's predatory gaze with a cool, analytical calm of his own. "No easy exits?" he echoed, his voice suddenly sharp, precise. "That's an interesting turn of phrase, Mr. Ash. Are you implying the property isn't liquid? That there are restrictive covenants tied to the land? Perhaps an issue with the title, a cloud that prevents a clean sale?"

Ash let out a low, appreciative chuckle, a sound of genuine amusement. "Covenants, liens, intractable tenancy disputes, overbearing and hostile neighbors... yes, you could say the property has all of those things, Mr. Vance. In a manner of speaking." His smile was all teeth now, a flash of white in the dim light.

"Does the prospect of a... challenge... change your mind?"

Cornelius met his gaze, the last vestiges of fear burning away into a cold, hard resolve.

So what if the land had attached legal issues? The government would just seize and try to sell it anyway, right? If something was left over , he'd just deal with it after he got out of prison.

"It does not, Mr. Ash. I'm certain."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Ash's face. "Excellent!" He produced a fountain pen from his breast pocket. It was an exquisite thing of black lacquer and silver, but the nib was a single, needle-sharp sliver of what looked like obsidian. "Then we must make it official. The deed must be properly recorded and registered to the new owner. Please, sign your name here, at the bottom."

He indicated a blank space at the bottom of the ancient parchment. Cornelius took the pen. It felt strangely warm in his hand, as if it somehow held the residual heat of a forge. He uncapped it and, with a steady hand that surprised even himself, signed his name with the rich, dark-red ink.

Cornelius Vance.

The moment the signature was complete, the text flashed with a bright crimson light before settling down once more.

Some new kind of scanning technology? A way to digitize drafts without having to put them through a scanning machine? Yes, it must be something like that…

Ash clapped his hands together once, a sharp, final sound that echoed in the vast office.

"It is done!" he declared with a theatrical flourish that grated on Cornelius's nerves.

He leaned back in his chair and, with a casual flick of his wrist, tossed a heavy, ornate silver ring across the table. It spun in the air, a flash of silver against the dark wood, and landed perfectly in front of Cornelius. It bore a strange, intricate sigil, a knot of lines that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of his vision. "The symbol of your new office," Ash said in an audible reply to Cornelius' questioning gaze, his tone dripping with false magnanimity. "It carries with it certain inherent authorities. I suggest not taking it off."

Cornelius picked up the ring, examining it with curiosity. Shrugging, he absently slid it onto his finger.

"Now," Ash continued, "how about we get you acquainted with your new holdings?" He leaned forward, speaking in a conspirational half-whisper. "Would you…. like to see them?"

"Oh, is this estate of yours close by, Mr. Ash? I'd love to see it, but you understand that I only have a few days before I…"

Suddenly and without warning, the sterile office air was replaced by the rich, loamy scent of damp earth and blooming night flowers. The muffled sounds of the office building were gone, replaced by the chirping of unseen insects and a soft, gentle breeze. The small table and two leather chairs were now standing not upon artificial floor, but in a lush meadow under a deep indigo sky... lit by two impossible moons.

And, in the distance, silhouetted against those twin moons, was a magnificent fairy-tale-style castle, complete with soaring, elegant spires.

The sudden shift hit Cornelius like a thunderclap without sound, a vertigo that twisted his gut and spun the world on its axis. One moment, the weight of Ash's office pressed around him — the crackle of the fire, the faint tang of aged whiskey in the air — and the next, it was all erased, replaced by a literal wonderland of impossibility.

His body reacted before his mind could properly catch up. The leather chair, once anchored to the solid floor of the penthouse, now teetered precariously on the uneven, dew-kissed grass of the meadow. Cornelius's weight shifted instinctively, a futile grab for balance, but the chair tipped backward with a soft, betraying creak. He flailed, his arms windmilling comically in the open air, and then he was falling — tumbling out in a graceless sprawl onto the cool, springy earth. The impact jarred his bones, sending a puff of pollen-scented dirt into the air as he landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him in a sharp gasp.

For a heartbeat, he lay there, stunned, staring up at the alien sky. Two moons?

There was no doubt about it. Twin orbs hung low and luminous, one a pale silver, the other a faint, ruddy gold, casting an ethereal double glow over the landscape. And beside them, stars wheeled in unfamiliar constellations, brighter and far more numerous than any he'd ever seen from the light-polluted haze of New York.

"What... what just happened?" he wheezed, scrambling to his feet with a violence born of panic. He whipped around, his head snapping left and right, eyes wide and wild as he scanned the meadow. The grass rippled like a living sea under the breeze, dotted with bioluminescent flowers that pulsed softly in hues of violet and sapphire. In the distance, the castle still loomed — impossibly grand, its spires piercing the night like jagged crowns, walls of pale stone veined with glowing ivy that seemed to wax and dim rhythmically, as if breathing.

"What is this?" he demanded, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and fear. He spun toward Ash, who remained comfortably seated in his own chair, unmoved and unflappable, that predatory smile still etched on his face. "Where the hell are we? How did — did you drug me? Is this some kind of hallucination? Virtual reality? Answer me!"

His hands clenched into fists, the silver ring on his finger suddenly feeling heavier, warmer, as if it pulsed in time with his racing heart. The chirping insects fell silent, as if the meadow itself held its breath, waiting for what came next. Cornelius's mind raced —scam, setup, madness — but beneath the terror, a spark of that old curiosity flickered to life.

God help him, what had he just signed up for?

Ash smiled warmly.

"Well, here she is. The Vespertine March. She's all yours now, Baron Vance," Ash said, his voice a smooth, conspiratorial murmur, as if they were old friends sharing a secret over drinks. "I can see that you're a touch... overwhelmed. Perfectly understandable. This is, after all, a rather abrupt introduction to your new holdings." His eyes glittered with that same ancient, predatory amusement, catching the double moonlight like polished obsidian. "Perhaps a rational conversation isn't quite what you need just now. Yesss… A bit of time to get acquainted with the land — alone — will do you some good."

Cornelius blinked, his jaw tightening as he tried to anchor himself in the lawyerly logic that had once been his shield. "Acquainted? With this? Wait! You can't just—"

Cornelius wanted to protest, to demand answers, but before he could utter a single syllable more, Ash was simply... gone. A brief, silent burst of harmless flame — tinged with the sharp, acrid scent of sulfur — flared where he had stood, the light searing Cornelius's vision for a split second. When his eyes cleared, there was nothing there but the meadow, the moons, and the distant spires of the castle. The air was still, the chirping insects resuming their soft chorus as if nothing had happened.

He was, once again, utterly alone.

 

[Superstes]

His hands, which a moment ago had been clean, were now smeared with dark, cool soil. He stared at them, at the dirt caked under his fingernails, as if they belonged to someone else. He looked around wildly.

Ash was gone.

The office was gone.

The city was gone.

Now, there was only the meadow: stretching out in all directions, a sea of silver-green grass bathed in the impossible light of two serene, luminous moons. One was a familiar, cool white, but the other was smaller: a delicate crescent of pale, ethereal lavender with a reddish border. The sky above was not the murky, light-polluted orange of New York he was used to, but a deep, clear indigo, spangled with constellations he had never seen before — stars so bright and close he felt he could reach out and touch them.

"What...?" he whispered, his voice a ragged croak. "Just what the hell is all this?"

Cornelius' expensive suit was now damp and grass-stained. He spun in a full circle, his eyes wide with a frantic, rising panic, searching for the door, for the walls of Ash's office, for anything familiar.

But there was nothing. Just the endless, silent meadow and the impossible sky.

"Hallucinogen," he said aloud, the sound of his own voice a thin, reedy thing in the vast quiet. "That's it! That bastard drugged me somehow. A very potent, very fast-acting hallucinogen… LSD, or mushrooms, or something? I'm going to sue those sons of bitches into oblivion for this!"

The lawyer in him, desperate for a logical explanation, seized on the idea. It was the only thing that made sense. This was a prank. A very elaborate, very expensive prank.

He tried to find the flaw in the illusion. He reached down and tore a handful of grass from the ground. He expected it to feel like plastic, to be scentless, to pixelate at the edges like a cheap special effect. After all, no illusion is perfect — he must still be in the office, and this must still be the carpet.

Right?

But it felt real.

The blades were stubbornly cool and dewy against his palm, and when he crushed them, a sharp, clean, overwhelmingly green scent filled the air.

His gaze was drawn, against his will, to the castle on the horizon. It was no miniature. No clever projection.

No, it was immense, a thing of stone and shadow and impossible, soaring spires that clawed at the twin moons. He could see the texture of the ancient, weathered stone, the dark shapes of banners stirring lazily in the gentle breeze, the faint, flickering orange glow of what might be a torch in a high window. It wasn't a picture. It wasn't VR. It was a place.

A real place!

A glint of silver caught his eye. He looked down at his hand.

The ring.

The strange, heavy ring Ash had tossed him. It was glowing faintly in the moonlight now, the intricate, shifting sigil seeming to pulse with a soft, internal light. The metal was no longer cool to the touch; it was warm against his skin, a steady, rhythmic warmth that felt unnervingly like a heartbeat.

He stared at the ring.

Then at the castle.

Then back at the ring.

And as he stood there, alone in a world that shouldn't exist, the last of his rationalizations crumbled into dust. This wasn't a prank. It wasn't a drug. It was real.

All of it.

The full weight of the words Ash had spoken crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow.

The symbol of your new office... Baron Vance. He had dismissed it as theatrics, as the empty, pompous title that came with a novelty deed. But it wasn't a joke! He had signed a contract… a contract with a man who could step through a door in a Manhattan skyscraper and emerge in a land with two moons! And in doing so, he hadn't just acquired a piece of property. He had acquired a title. An office.

And... a responsibility? He was now the Baron of this place?

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Cornelius Vance whispered to the impossible, silent moons.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he squared his shoulders. There was only one thing to do.

He started walking towards the castle.

The journey across the meadow was his first lesson in this new world. His thousand-dollar, hand-stitched Italian leather shoes, designed for the polished floors of boardrooms and the plush carpets of penthouse offices, were immediately soaked by the heavy, silvery dew on the impossibly green grass. Within less than a hundred yards, the fine, mirror-polished leather was scuffed and stained, the soles sucking at the soft, damp earth with every step. It was a small, poignant humiliation, a stripping away of the symbols of his former life. He was no longer a Manhattan lawyer. He was just a man, lost and ridiculous in a muddy, expensive Italian suit, walking towards a literal fairy tale.

He reached the edge of a vast, ancient-looking forest that lay between the meadow and the castle like a slumbering beast. As he stepped under the canopy of the first great trees, the world changed once again. The light from the two moons was filtered through a thick latticework of leaves and branches, dappling the forest floor in shifting, hypnotic patterns of silver and pale lavender. The air grew still and cool, thick with the rich, loamy scent of damp earth, of moss that had grown undisturbed for centuries, and a faint, sweet smell like honey and decaying flowers. It was the smell of a world that was both deeply alive and impossibly old.

A powerful, almost aching sense of déjà vu washed over him, so intense it was physically staggering.

This place... he knew this place! Not from a memory, but from a story. A half-remembered dream.

The gnarled, moss-covered oaks, their branches twisted into wise, ancient shapes. The beds of glowing, phosphorescent fungi that pulsed with a soft, blue-green light. The way the moonlight slanted through the high canopy like the light through the stained-glass windows of a cathedral—it was all torn directly from the pages of The Whispering Woods, his favorite childhood picture-book of fairy tales.

He was struck by a sharp, vivid memory, a phantom echo from a life that felt a thousand years away: his mother's voice, warm and gentle, reading to him as he lay tucked in bed.

And the lost Prince walked beneath the silver-leafed boughs, where the moon-moss glows and the quiet things of the woods watch with eyes as old as the stones...

The nostalgia was a physical pain, a longing for a time when he was still a child. When magic felt possible. When his Mother was still alive and the world was a place of wonder and not a courtroom full of lies. When his life hadn't yet been calcified by cynicism and the cold, hard lines of the law.

He walked deeper into the woods, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of moss.

Suddenly, there was a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. At first, he dismissed it as a moth, a trick of the strange, dual-moon light.

But then he saw it again — a darting spark of emerald green near a cluster of giant, crimson-capped toadstools. He stopped dead, every muscle in his body tensing. He squinted into the gloom. It wasn't one spark. It was three. They danced in the air, weaving intricate patterns around each other.

And they were not insects.

He could see them clearly now: tiny, perfect humanoid forms no bigger than his thumb, their slender limbs trailing ribbons of faint, glittering light. Their wings, like those of a dragonfly but spun from pure, iridescent moonlight, beat too fast for the eye to follow. As he stared, utterly transfixed, one of them noticed him. She stopped her dance and hovered in the air, her tiny head cocked to one side. Then, he heard it. A sound so unexpected, so impossible, that it sent a jolt of pure shock through his system.

Laughter.

It was faint, like the musical chime of ice in a crystal glass, but it was unmistakably laughter.

He let out a short, sharp yelp and stumbled backward, tripping over a gnarled root he hadn't seen. He landed hard on the mossy ground, his suit jacket riding up his back. For a moment, he just sat there, propped up on his elbows, gaping like a fool. Fairies, his mind supplied, the word feeling alien and absurd on his mental tongue. Honest to God fairies!

The lawyer in him, the rational, evidence-based part of his brain, immediately roared to life, a Plaintiff trying to tear down a flimsy, unbelievable witness.

Objection! Fairies aren't real! This is a violation of every known law of physics and biology!

He scrambled for a logical explanation.

Bioluminescent insects. A species of exotic, territorial firefly, perhaps. Swamp gas reflecting off the moon-moss, creating an optical illusion? More hallucinations?

He listed the possibilities in his head, a litany of rationalizations against the encroaching tide of madness. But the evidence before him was irrefutable.

Fireflies didn't have arms and legs.

Swamp gas didn't laugh.

The three tiny figures, seeing him sitting there on the ground, burst into a fresh peal of silvery chimes. They zoomed in closer, hovering just out of arm's reach, their tiny, mischievous faces now clearly visible in the gloom. They were beautiful, ethereal, and utterly, maddeningly real.

The cross-examination of his own sanity collapsed. He was left with one inescapable conclusion.

He was now in a world where fairies were real.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers with a shaky hand. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice cracking. It came out louder than he intended, a desperate, raw sound in the sacred quiet of the woods.

The sprites, startled by his shout, scattered like a dropped handful of jewels. Their laughter, now tinged with alarm, echoed through the trees as they vanished into the shadows, leaving only a few fading motes of glittering dust in their wake. He was left standing alone, his heart pounding, his hand outstretched towards the empty air.

"No, wait! Come back!"

He leaned against a massive, ancient oak to catch his breath, the rough bark a solid, real thing under his palm — and felt a strange, tingling sensation on the back of his neck, as if he was being watched.

A knot in the bark was slowly, languidly blinking at him.

It was an eye!

An eye as deep and green as the moss itself — and for a fleeting second, he thought he even saw a face in the swirling patterns of the wood: a wise, ancient, and distinctly feminine face that watched him with a weary, wary curiosity before quickly melting back into the bark, leaving him to wonder if he had ever seen it at all.

As he ventured further, the initial wonder of the fairytale forest began to curdle into a subtle, creeping unease.

He saw a patch of flowers nestled in a small, sun-dappled clearing. They were stunningly beautiful, their bell-shaped blossoms a shade of luminous lavender he'd never seen before, each petal seeming to glow with a soft, inviting internal light. For a moment, he forgot everything — the prison, the poker game, the encounter with Ash — and was just a man captivated by a perfect, simple beauty.

He reached out a hand, his fingers tracing a path towards a single, perfect bloom… but, as his fingertip drew near, a fat, glowing, iridescent dragonfly, its wings a blur of color, zipped past his hand towards the same flower. The moment it touched the petals, the beautiful, bell-shaped blossom opened up — then promptly snapped shut with a wet, audible thwack, its delicate lavender petals transforming into a cage of dripping, needle-sharp, interlocking teeth.

He snatched his hand back as if burned, a cold knot of revulsion tightening in his stomach. He stared at the flower, which now pulsed with a faint, predatory rhythm as it digested its meal.

Just… what kind of a place is this? he wondered, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool forest air.

He moved on — more slowly and carefully this time, his steps now more wary, his eyes scanning his surroundings not for wonders, but for threats.

He soon came to a stream that cut across his path... and suddenly realized that he was quite thirsty — but as he knelt to try the water, he hesitated. The water here wasn't clear and inviting. It ran sluggishly, a thick, slow current that seemed reluctant to move. A faint, oily sheen — like a slick of gasoline — swirled on its surface, catching the dual moonlight in sickly, rainbow patterns. He looked closer and saw that the smooth stones of the riverbed, which should have been clean, were coated in a thin, uniform layer of dark, slimy algae that seemed to pulse with a slow, unhealthy life of its own. It wasn't natural pollution — there was no sign of industry here, no smoke or refuse — but…

Could this be a kind of magical corruption, he wondered, some kind of blight or curse that choked the life from the land? Was this the kind of encumberment Ash was talking about?

He stood up, his thirst forgotten for the moment.

The beauty of the woods was still there, of course, but it now felt like a facade — a beautiful painting on a rotting canvas. Now that he was aware of it, he saw signs of sickness everywhere. It was a subtle, pervasive wrongness, present in the very bones of the land. His eyes were drawn to the trees themselves, the ancient, majestic oaks he had found so comforting just moments before. He looked at them now with new, suspicious eyes.

He saw it then.

It wasn't just that they were old and gnarled.

They were literally twisted.

Twisted into shapes of pure, unadulterated agony.

The thick root of one tree broke the surface of the earth in the perfect, unmistakable shape of a human face, its mouth wide in a silent, petrified scream. The branches of another were reaching for the sky like the desperate, skeletal arms of a drowning man, clawing for a salvation that would never come.

He realized with a growing horror that he wasn't looking at a merely sick or polluted land, but a tortured one.

What could possibly do something like this? he thought, a cold dread seeping into his heart. What kind of power could inflict such a deep, pervasive pain on the very fabric of a world?

What kind of power would even want to?

Closer to the castle — after, perhaps, a 40-minutes' walk — he came upon another clearing where a different stream pooled into a perfectly clear, tranquil pond. And here, the land felt much cleaner. Purer.

The water was so clear it seemed to magnify the smooth, multi-colored stones of the pond's floor. Water lilies with blossoms of a pale, pearlescent white floated on the surface, their petals glowing softly in the dual moonlight.

He was still parched, his throat dry with a thirst that was as much from adrenaline and fear as from exertion. He knelt at the water's edge, cupping his hands to drink.

And, as his reflection touched the water, a figure rose from the depths. It was a woman of impossible, breathtaking beauty, her form sculpted from moonlight and water. She was completely nude, her skin a luminous, pearlescent white, her long hair the color of deep green seaweed flowing around her, stirred by an unseen current. Her body was a masterpiece of idealized, sculpted femininity — a form far more perfect than any supermodel or classical statue he had ever seen. Her eyes were the color of the clear, deep water, and they held a flirty, playful light.

She smiled: a slow, languid, and deeply seductive smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Well, now," she purred, her voice like the gentle, musical burble of the stream itself. "What's a big, strong man like you doing such a long way from home?"

Cornelius, who had faced down hostile judges and cross-examined corporate titans without flinching, found himself utterly speechless. He could only stare, mouth agape, his face flushing, his carefully constructed world of logic and reason completely short-circuited by the sheer, impossible sight of her.

She glided closer, the water parting before her without so much as a single ripple.

"You look thirsty," she said huskily, tilting her head. "Come closer. The water is deep and cool here. So very... refreshing."

She reached a shimmering, delicately webbed hand towards his cheek, her touch promising an encounter that was at once both terrifying and deeply, shamefully alluring.

But, just as her fingers were about to touch his skin, a second figure rose from the water behind her.

This naiad was older — her beauty more severe and classical, like the old Renaissance depictions of Greek Goddesses. Her eyes held the cold, deep wisdom of the riverbed stones.

"Nerida!"

The name was called out loudly — a sharp, crystalline sound, like a shard of ice falling into a warm, languid pool. She made a show of raising her own slender, pale hand from the water and pointing at her own ring finger — then gave a sharp, significant nod towards Cornelius.

The first naiad's gaze followed the gesture. She looked back at Cornelius — then down at the signet ring he wore — and her seductive smile faltered, replaced instantly by a cute, pouty frown. She let out an exaggerated, theatrical sigh.

"Oh, Lyra, you're no fun at all!" she complained to the older naiad. She turned her pout back to Cornelius, her eyes now holding a flicker of genuine annoyance. "I was just going to have a little fun with him, I swear! Maybe a swim. A nice, long swim." She winked, a gesture that now seemed infinitely more menacing than before.

Cornelius scrambled back from the water's edge, his heart pounding. He tried to regain some semblance of his lawyerly composure.

"Who are you? What is this place?" he demanded, his voice sounding a bit higher pitched than he would have liked. "What is this ring?"

The naiads just laughed in response, a sound like a thousand tiny bells chiming in the quiet woods.

"Oh, but that would be telling! You'll find out soon enough, my Lord Baron," Nerida said, her pout gone, replaced by pure, bubbling amusement. And with that, they both sank back into the clear waters, vanishing without so much as a ripple, leaving him alone and more confused than ever.

Cornelius dared not quench his thirst just yet, deciding to move on as quickly as he could.