the platinum collar? It's, like, burning against Kairen's throat now. Jewelry? Yeah, right. It feels more like a high-tech choke chain. Every little buzz from it is like Zyrus Vahn whispering "I own you" in his ear an invisible hand around his neck, ugh. The collar's all shiny under the Zenith Chamber's lights, reflecting the city way below. You can barely see it through the glass floor. Creepy.
Vahn finally left to get ready for the party tonight, probably to show off his new toy. Kairen's been alone for the first time in, like, forever. The silence Vahn left behind is weird clinical, like after a bomb goes off on the battlefield and all you hear is the static from broken radios.
Kairen straightens up and takes a breath. Privacy's a joke in the Zenith Spire, but even jokes have cracks. This little break is all he needs.
He gets dressed super slow, like it's a ritual. Buttoning the charcoal uniform, fixing the cuffs, straightening the pin—it's all about taking back what's his. The uniform's been redesigned by Vahn's tailors to show off the "merger" between ownership and military power. Gag me. The collar makes the neckline stay open, showing off his throat like he's some kind of pet. But Kairen can still feel the battlefield in the fabric: smoke, rain, iron, and freedom.
He needs that feeling. It's the last bit of the guy he was before Vahn turned him into property.
The wrist cuff blinks as he moves, the serpent thing shimmering with every muscle twitch. It's tracking his pheromones, his emotions, his brain basically, his whole life. That's the real leash, way worse than the collar.
Kairen walks into the dressing room. His internal clock from his military days ,is ticking away. Ninety-four seconds since Vahn left. Two hundred until the security cameras loop. Not much time.
The lights in the room are too bright, like they're trying to find every flaw. He dims them to a low amber, casting shadows everywhere. Every move is part of the plan.
He grabs the coat from his last campaign, folded on the chaise. Inside the seam, under the lining, is what he needs: a tiny piece of military-grade ceramic, smaller than a fingernail. Clear. Odorless. Invisible to scanners.
Not for fighting, he thinks, rolling it between his fingers. For talking. For fighting back.
He puts it on the counter near a lamp that's also a magnetic amplifier. His hand shakes a little not from fear, but from the thrill of doing something so wrong. This is treason, big time. He signed a clause saying he wouldn't do this, in blood.
He presses his thumb against the ceramic. It sends out a burst of static, so sharp it breaks the silence a pulse only one person will hear.
Find a window.
For three long seconds, nothing happens but the hum of the collar. Then the wrist cuff vibrates soft, steady, on purpose.
Relief washes over him. He can't talk, the room's got too many sensors. The only way to reply is the old military code taps on the ceramic.
Lyra Vex: Green. Loyalty secure. But the men are angry. They know you are gone.
He closes his eyes. Those words hit hard. His men his Alphas are the ones he trained, led, and stabilized through the Obsidian Wars. They're his family, and he owes them.
The no-talking clause is hanging over him like a sword, but he can't stop now.
The rival.
Kairen's heart speeds up. Viscount Cygnus, Vahn's Chief Financial Minister. A High Alpha who's as ambitious as he is cruel. Cygnus wanted Kairen, and losing him to Vahn was a major blow to his ego.
Financial review. He is seeking breach of contract. Attacking your supply lines.
Kairen clenches his jaw. It's a battlefield, just in disguise. Cygnus isn't sending soldiers; he's sending accountants and lawyers. Numbers instead of bullets. If Cygnus can prove Kairen's not worth it, Vahn can dump him.
Kairen: Hold. Position.
Lyra Vex: We are ready.
Two taps follow her signal for "go time." His instincts scream yes, but his brain says no. One wrong move, and she'll die for his rebellion.
Kairen: Stand down. Follow order.
He can almost feel her silence through the line. The pulse stops. The static fades. He's alone again.
The door chime rings three notes, a signature. Maitre Elara.
He crushes the ceramic in his gloved hand, the shards digging into his skin. It stings. Good it reminds him he can still feel something. He hides the pieces in his boot before turning around.
Elara glides into the room, sharp and controlled. A High Beta, dangerous. Her silver-gray outfit has the Court Protocol Office symbol on it. She doesn't look at him, just checks out the collar and cuff.
"General Aethel," she says, her voice crisp. "The Enigma is pleased with your compliance. However, there is a minor adjustment required before the reception."
She opens a case and takes out a silver capsule. It smells like fake pine.
"This is a High-Concentration Concealment Pheromone. The Enigma doesn't want your scent to mess with his during the introductions. Clause 5 requires optimal compatibility."
The words sting. His scent is his identity. To hide it is to erase himself.
"Is that necessary, Maitre?" he asks, trying to stay calm.
Elara doesn't blink. "It is an order, General. Now."
For a second, he thinks about saying no. The collar buzzes harder, warning him what that would cost. It could shut down his whole system with one command.
His throat closes up. Every breath is a struggle.
He takes the capsule, it's cold against his skin. The smell makes him want to throw up.
He thinks of the battlefield the freedom of being in charge, of feeling connected to his soldiers. Now he's here, about to bury the one thing that makes him who he is.
Kairen lifts the capsule to his nose. "For the Enigma's pleasure," he says, his voice bitter.
The liquid burns as he breathes it in, filling him with sterile cold. His scent the one that used to rally armies disappears.
For a second, everything goes silent. Then, the collar buzzes again, syncing to a new beat.
The Sound of Static comes back, quiet and steady. His heartbeat matches it.
Kairen Aethel, Primarch and former Commander of the Obsidian Gate, looks in the mirror. The guy staring back looks the same. But everything that made him real has been hidden by orders, by science, by control.
And deep down, he thinks: This isn't surrender. This is strategy.