ARTHUR

FIVE YEARS LATER

Cel: Age 9, Nora: Age 12

The Vonadieu mansion is a structure of great beauty, the best money can buy in Malais. Four stories tall, the gray stone house is braced by enormous pillars carved with primordial beasts. The back of the house butts up against a rocky gray cliff, and straight up the cliffside, far above the house, Malais’ tallest skyscraper sits in plain view with a glowing ball of churning light floating atop it.

Even at midday, the Stormcore looks like a miniature moon hovering over the triple-spiked peak of the Stratus Tower. The building itself towers far over its brethren, the tallest tree in a forest of white stone spires. It’s a beautiful sight from this angle and a demonstration of the resident family’s power, just as the colorful solar panels gilding the roof are a testament to the family’s innovation, showing Malais that their wealth is earned.

Arthur nearly rolls his eyes at the underlying suggestion. There is not a single wealthy family in this city that has not preyed upon the weak to rise to power. Not that Arthur himself isn’t a predator of similar means. He simply stalks more deadly prey. Today’s hunt should be particularly rewarding.

“This way, Mr. Cendrillion,” says the man who lets them onto the property. Clad in crisp black and white, he’s clearly a paid servant, but even he possesses an air of unmistakable pride.

The property looks as ostentatious as the house. It’s surrounded in a wide arc by an ornate cast-iron fence. A more secure fence must’ve been out of the question. The residents here are known to favor aesthetics over anything sensible. At least it’s nice to look at. The grass is well groomed and arranged strategically with beds of flowers and the occasional sprue tree. Split by a stone path right up the center, the yard ends in a bed of concrete surrounding the house, sparsely decorated with benches, tables, statues, and potted plants. On the face of the mansion, dead-center on the ground-floor is a hulking door of white-painted wood with a brass knocker in the shape of an eagle’s head.

The servant opens the door for Arthur and the two children trailing him. Nora is twelve now. Her golden hair has grown out, and she wears it in a ponytail. Arthur couldn’t allow her the pink outfits she’d politely asked for, too symbolic of Busurul as it were, but the pink sea cookie he gifted her dangles from its cord around her throat. It accents the lavender dress she’s wearing. She is already to Arthur’s elbow in height.

In striking contrast, nine-year-old Cel stands stiff at Nora’s side, clinging to her arm and eyeballing the mansion’s inner decor with disappointment. Cel wears dark pants and a loose, dark red shirt. Her hair is braided like Arthur’s, and her bangs are just as messy, but they frame her face so adorably that he can never bear to have them cut.

Arthur can’t blame her for wanting to leave. The foyer is damn near blinding. Even the ornate black railing of the grand staircase is not enough to break up the brightness, nor the pedestal centerpiece, atop of which is a carved wooden statue of an eagle launching into flight. The floors are even white and pristine enough to make one think that no one ever even walks on them.

The main door is shut gently at their backs, yet still it echoes against the high ceiling, from which dangles a chandelier dripping with white crystals.

“Daddy,” Cel says, sounding bored and noticeably stressed. “Can we go back outside?”

He turns to find her practically tugging Nora back toward the door, but he stops them both with a stern look. The servant stands by the door behind them, eyeing the scarce bit of grass they tracked in with no small amount of disdain. Arthur gives the man a pointed stare before dropping to one his knee before his children.

“You remember what we talked about?” he asks Cel, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. For once, her hair is a flat black color, as are her eyes. Arthur can’t actually feel the enchanted shadows concealing the strands, nor see any flaws around her irises, but he’s still worried that someone will see through her disguise. Fukashi had been thorough in hiding her, and Arthur had wholeheartedly approved at the time, but it stings to see her true coloring concealed. It feels like something precious has been taken away from both of them.

When she pouts at him, that feeling flees. Looking into her face is in so many ways like looking into a window to the past. She hasn’t hit a major growth spurt yet, and is still quite a bit smaller than Nora. She may not have impressive stature, but her glare is unbeatable.

“You said we’d go to the port after,” she says, sounding like she’s been through a great ordeal already. “I want to find a sea cookie like Nora’s.”

“Cel,” Nora cuts in, “I told you you can wear it if you want.” Nora’s Malroix is nearly perfect now. Aside from forgetting the occasional word, Arthur can barely detect traces of her original Busuruli accent.

“That one’s yours,” Cel whines at her. “I want one for me. I’m not going to take yours, Nora.”

Nora sighs dramatically. “I swear you get brattier by the day.”

“Do not!”

“Not so loud, Cel.” Arthur grabs Cel’s shoulder to get her attention and squeezes it gently. “You are to behave.”

She copies Nora’s dramatic sigh and adds on an impressive eye roll. “Yes, Daddy. I’m just bored.”

“You’re always bored.” He stands to his full height and shares a look of fondness with Nora, who even shakes her head a little.

“It is kind of boring in here, Uncle Arthur,” Nora tells him. She’s much more comfortable with him after these past five years. “So much space but all they have to look at is a dumb bird.”

“What were you hoping for?” Arthur asks her.

She grins. “Weapons.”

He can’t help but chuckle. “You spend too much time with Fukashi.”

Her grin gains a proud edge.

Arthur catches the servant eyeballing them with distaste and lets his amusement melt into something cold and hard. “Will you announce us to our host, or am I to do it myself? Perhaps I could yell?”

The girls giggle, Cel covering her mouth when her laughter grows too loud.

The servant lifts his nose in a clear display of arrogance. Arthur thinks he’d like to break that nose. “The other servant saw you from the fourth floor. I’m sure my employer is making his way here now.”

“Mr. Tourve,” says a man from behind Arthur. “You are dismissed for the moment.”

The servant conducts a neat bow. “Thank you, sir.”

As the servant brushes by, Arthur turns and looks up the right flight of stairs to their host. A distinguished man in a pale purple suit with a gray undershirt stands at the top. His long white hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. On his face, a friendly grin.

Arthur offers a grin of his own. Prey, he thinks as the man begins to descend to meet him. Behind him are two more children. Arthur made sure to learn their names ahead of time. Both are narrow in stature, white-haired, and blue-eyed like their father and just as pink-skinned as any other Malroix. The girl wears a perpetual smile, soft and friendly. Her white jumpsuit sports nary a wrinkle. The boy is more disheveled, frowning nervously, and his clothing is a dark gray, though not as dark as the suit Arthur chose for himself today.

When they reach the ground floor, Arthur accepts the man’s extended hand, but his palm is soft to the touch, nothing like the rough, calloused skin of Arthur’s own hand. “Leopold Vonadieu,” he greets amicably, “it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Vivienne spoke so fondly of you.”