Second Dominion (Fourth Age)Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric IIFirst Quadrant, Vala (Capital Planet)
The shuttle touched down with a breath of sand and blue lights, and Jean didn't even pause to thank the pilot. The stair swayed under her steps, but her balance was that of someone who'd weathered worse storms. Her bandaged arm pulled, the wrap on her thigh kept the knee from bending fully. Still, she gripped the black chit hard. Fifteen million pods—the price of a robbery half-won. She clutched it like a passport. The trip had been long and feverish: hours of staring through the window at darkness split by gravitational tunnels—long enough for anger to sink into a well of exhaustion. She'd repeated to herself, like a mantra, that she would arrive with the money and her father would smile, grit his teeth and say they'd done it, that the Tide would no longer be able to crush them. For a moment she'd even imagined they might afford a ship of their own. Thoughts that now felt ridiculous and far away as she walked the familiar streets home.
The district smelled the same as ever: heavy air of oleander and fuel, criers hawking spices and spare parts, kids running with empty crates slung at their chests. But the door of Viridis Starways, wedged between two warehouses, stood ajar. No one came out to shove an hovercar in, no rough voice greeted her. The faded logo—a star with roots spiraling outward—hung from a loosened hinge. Jean stopped a moment, hand on the handle. Inhale. Home and shop were a single building: two stories of corrugated sheet with plastisteel shutters, a courtyard where Orval usually straightened trolleys while she checked the ledgers. As she pushed the door, a sweetish smell hit her in the face: not her father's verbena tea, but something stagnant, ferrous. The silence was heavy as wet sand.
"…Dad?" she called softly, cursing the quaver that rose in her throat. No answer. The entry lay in half-light. To the right, the counter with the scale and logbook. The accounting ledger lay open mid-page, full of numbers and notes, as if someone had left it a moment to answer a voice. A metal cup had tipped, leaving a dark stain on the wood. Tire marks on the threshold were dry. Jean moved forward, stepping feather-light, as if afraid to break something.
The main shop was empty. The old forklift was gone, the bins of parts lined up with unnatural order. A thread of light seeped from the back door—the one to the living quarters. Jean pushed it with a shoulder. The room beyond was part kitchen, part dining: a table with two chairs, shelves of drying herbs, a sputtered burner.
And her father.
She saw him first as a shape without definition: something dark on the floor, a long shadow. She went closer, breath caught under her tongue.
Orval Viridis lay on his side on the floor amidst scraps of paper and a spilled can of paint. His eyes were open, pupils blown, staring at nothing as if watching an invisible horizon. His mouth was half open, lips bluish. There was a dark stain on his shirt at the chest, and a garrote band scored his neck, like someone had yanked it tight and then slackened it out of spite. His hands, knotted and callused, were still greasy. His skin had a grayish sheen. Jean stood motionless, the black chit locked in her fingers. For a heartbeat she hoped he was breathing. That he'd tease her with one of his lines: "Jeanette, back to make me angry?"
But his chest didn't move. The silence didn't breathe. The sweet, iron smell was stronger here: dry blood and paint.
Something fell. Not the chit—that stayed clenched in her fist—but the hope she'd carried with her. She crouched, knees knocking the floor. She didn't cry. Her eyes burned but gave no tears. She set her hand on her father's shoulder. His skin was cold as the shaded hull of a ship.
The Tide never left doubts. On the table, like a signature, someone had left a folded sheet bearing the seal of House N'Vely: an incomplete ring whose fracture released a black-violet flow dripping downward.
Jean didn't bother to open it.
She felt fury cross her chest like a white-hot blade.
The whole journey, the wounds, the siege at the shuttle lines, the shootout on Alay, the fifteen million they'd risked dying to steal… all of it for nothing. The black chit weighed in her palm like useless lead. She tossed it on the table. It made no sound when it landed. She wanted to scream, smash the furniture, but another part of her forced her to breathe. Solitude filled the space; even if she shouted, no one would hear.
"Dad…"
It was late. Too late.
And the Tide didn't settle for a body. They would claim the warehouse, the gear, the name. Viridis Starways was nothing now. Jean clenched her fists until tendons pulled. Fifteen million wouldn't buy her father's breath back nor slake Second Circle's thirst. Blood money, and the hands that held it would have to be stained. She forced her spine straight. There was still work: close those eyes, cover the body, prepare a rite for a dead man who would have no funeral. And something else was lighting behind her bioluminescent eyes: not resignation—something nearer to decision.
She went back to the office. She picked up the chit and slid it into the inner pocket of her jacket, along with the Tide's paper. She took the open ledger as well: her father's figures were small and neat, marked with care. On the last lines three red crosses. "We hold," he'd said. She stared into the empty beyond the window. Vala kept living outside that building, unaware.
"They didn't let you hold," she whispered.
Her fingers moved of their own accord, tearing out the page with the crosses and folding it in quarters, as if a piece of paper could turn into a vow.
She put things in order as best she could. Washed the dried blood with cold water, shivering at the touch on her neutral skin. Closed her father's eyes, laid him on a blanket the way he handled damaged engines: gentleness in a technical gesture. When she finished, she sat beside him, cross-legged, and leaned her head against the wall. She didn't close her eyes. There was none left for sleep. Only the Tide's hum swelling in her head, the memory of a promise made over a pouch of black chits, and the awareness that this road was carrying her elsewhere.
—
Fourth Quadrant, Vossheim (Seat-Planet of House Von Edryck)
From outside it looked like a cathedral sunk in darkness. The Schwarzhaus rose over Vossheim's canals like an ancient fortress fused with modern glasswork: slabs of black stone engraved with argent crosses and rose windows alternated with smoked-crystal panels that caught and swallowed the light. Octagonal towers jutted at the sides, linked by suspended walkways like the bridges of an organ. The sigil of House Von Edryck—a black rose crowned with silver thorns—glimmered on the main lintel. Below, a steel span crossed oily water to a portal of glass and wrought iron. The façade seemed to breathe, as if it hid a lung. The scent drifting from the doors was a blend of polished wood, incense, and ozone.
Inside, the hall was a world unto itself. Chandeliers hung like constellations, lighting a glossy basalt floor inlaid with wings and flowers. Carved columns held a soaring vault; between them, arches opened onto casino rooms, parlors, tea lounges. Every passage was guarded by staff in dark livery, eyes hidden behind black glasses. The lobby counter, altar-long, was marble and glass; above it, a suspended hologrid projected notices in discreet lettering. When the first guests arrived, a neutral, precise female voice filled the space like a held breath.
The Schwarzhaus staff is pleased to welcome our guests. To ensure everyone's well-being, please observe the following rules…
The words slid through the air as Vincent, current Seisenmeister of House Von Edryck, crossed the main portal. Glossy black hair slicked back, dark eyes giving nothing away, Vincent wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearms. A black rose was embroidered above the left pocket; just above the cuffs, two silver-cross pins. A slim tie, fastened with a cross clip. Wide black trousers, polished boots. He set a seal on the counter calmly, as if the gesture were an ancient rite. Behind him walked Adeline, the Black Dame. She wore a black dress that seemed sewn from shadow, its hem sliding over the floor without a whisper. No jewels on her pale face, but the scarlet eyes betrayed the lineage's vampiric heritage. Staff lowered their gazes as the two passed. As the voice intoned the first rule, Vincent signed with a fluent hand.
No violence is permitted in the hotel's service areas, the voice read, as a second guest stepped through the threshold. Thagoras, chief of the guild bearing his name, advanced with measured pace. Blond hair to mid-back was bound by a metal band like a coronet. An artificial mask sheathed his face, with mounts clasping neck and temples; his expressions were mere hints, as if carved. At the counter he laid his right hand: fingers strengthened by steel rings. Behind him, Boro—a massive man with a lightning-shaped scar on his shaven skull—reluctantly set a long scabbard on the ledge. Two staffers lifted it with both hands. Thagoras dipped his head cordially in greeting.
No violence is permitted in transition areas—corridors, stairways, lifts—from 6.00 to 23:00.
Mareque Rouge arrived, red hair tied back with a gilded ribbon. He wore a deep burgundy suit with tone-on-tone embroidery like brushstrokes. He didn't stop to present documents: a domestic did it for him, gliding forward with white gloves and an engraved attaché. Mareque stroked the lobby counter's edge with a finger, as if testing the material.
Entering other guests' rooms is forbidden.
The voice went on as Ryusei Hikari entered the hall. Brown hair fell over his brow; freckles brightened his fair skin. He wore a midnight-blue kimono with a black obi and silver edging. His hands were gloved dark. Behind him walked two attendants in black uniform. Ryusei set a plain cylinder on the counter without a word. Staff took note while he scanned the room with intense green eyes, searching for a face among the reflections. Despite its elegance, the kimono didn't hide the tension in his movement.
Any visible weapon will be confiscated by staff and returned upon departure.
Even as the phrase left the air with precision, Kaellen Lysander crossed the hall. His argent skin showed faint golden veins pulsing to the rhythm of an implant. He wore a light-grey suit, tailored, and carried a cane with a dark-steel head. To his right, Theryon—broader, more impulsive—wore a black jacket with high collar and a belt hiding various slots. The Lysanders surrendered their dust-cutters and devices without comment. Theryon's amber eyes raked the hall, impatient. Kaellen, instead, seemed to absorb every detail as if loading it into an internal memory.
No form of physical alteration is permitted on hotel grounds.
The voice dropped half a tone, almost admonitory, just as Elise Claw entered with two S'Ari carrying black cases. Her bluish skin caught the dim lights; a black bob framed a face with long eyes rimmed in black shadow. She wore a dark dress trimmed with white fur falling from her shoulders. Her fingers bore claw-rings. When she set her papers on the counter, her icy azure eyes—the S'Ari tell—paused on a candelabrum for an instant, then on Vincent, then back to staff. Her black lips curved in half a smile. She let them take three slim knives hidden under her sash without a blink. It was almost playful.
The corporate administrators arrived after, in quiet, well-dressed clusters. Men and women in sleek suits with Futura Life, Hypernexa, Omnitech, Zenith Corp logos stitched inside their lapels; they murmured in a language of shares and margins. Now and then a badge changed hands. Their signatures were taken without ceremony. Staff moved faster with them, as if they were extras in a film that wouldn't shape the main scene.
Any lost item will be held at the lobby for three hours. After that, it will be disposed of.
The voice purred on, almost coaxing, when Jester appeared in the hall. Surprisingly, he was more than presentable. He looked like a guest from another century: sumptuous evening wear—a cobalt damask jacket with black silk lapels, a white bow tie against grayish skin. The white mask on his face, painted smile and empty eyes, was framed by red dreadlocks tied back. He walked in, drumming his fingers on a walking stick. He didn't present documents; he let a golden chit drop on the counter, clapped once, then bowed as in a theatrical act. Staff did not chide him. They handed him a key with a number. He raised it between two fingers and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
Room service is available at any hour. For any issue, guests may contact staff at the number posted at the lobby. Service may include meals, medical care, and deliveries. Any additional cost will be charged to the account.
The voice was about to conclude when the last two guests arrived. Law and Lacrosse entered without retinues. Law wore a black shirt and jacket, grey hair tied in a short tail. Scars stood out on his pale face, the synthetic arm hidden under his sleeve. He carried only a slim case. At his side, Lacrosse looked even more out of place: skin smooth as porcelain, red hair to the nape, blue eyes darting among chandeliers and faces. Dressed in a dark polo and simple trousers, he carried a heavy shoulder bag. Their arrival drew no bows—only side-long looks. Staff took their (false) names and registered them in silence. No one searched them for weapons—just an extra glance parked on Law's unusual belt—but it was, after all, within the rules: no weapons in sight. At the end they received a key and a card with a room number.
The hall seemed to hold its breath for a beat, then life resumed: porters pointing down corridors, luggage gliding, domestics offering perfumed towels. Beneath the polished surface, though, lingered the sense that every smile was a hidden blade and every rule a minefield. Anyone who crossed that threshold knew that from now on each step might be the first of a dance—or the last.
And on behalf of the entire staff, we wish our guests a pleasant stay at the Schwarzhaus.