Chương 9: Chapter 8: The Water Staircase

Elma sat upright on her bed, three shimmering orbs of water suspended above her open palms. Her logic was simple: in any biological system, an unused organ withered. If she wanted to master her field she had to treat it like a muscle—constant, grueling utility was the only path to solidification. She began merging the droplets, her focus narrowing as she forced the liquid to obey. The water churned, molding into miniature, liquid sculptures. First, the broad-shouldered, domineering silhouette of Valerius.

Then, the elegant, fragile form of Christa. Finally, she turned the focus on herself. The water shifted again. The liquid surface hardened, elongating into a jagged shape. A face stared back at her—the face of the weapon who had died four years ago. Elma flinched. With a violent jerk of her hand, she hurled the droplets across the room. They splattered against the far wall, soaking into the expensive rugs. She closed her eyes, clutching the silk sheets, forcing herself to draw in a slow, calculated breath.

The water had not lied. It had simply shown her the architecture beneath four years of silk and lullabies, the one she still carried whether she wore it or not. Are you the one who shaped it? She waited for the intrusive commentary that should have followed a thought like that. Nothing answered. Four years of silence was a long time to sustain a grudge, even for something that had never been entirely sane to begin with. Perhaps the Shepherd's deal had simply not included it.

A contract drawn for one passenger, with no clause for the second. Or perhaps the omission wasn't a choice at all—perhaps there had been nothing left to omit. It might have died in that void along with everything else, burned out in the same instant the green suns had reached for her, leaving her the sole signature on a deal that had only ever needed one. It couldn't have. It was too stubborn to die quietly. It had survived iron rods. Neural scrubbing repeated until the technicians grew bored of it growing back.

A thing that resilient did not simply dissolve into a void and stay there. That was the only theory that fit the data. She told herself that twice more before she believed it even a little. She sat unmoving for a minute. A faint metallic warmth drifted into her nose, growing stronger with each breath. Blood. Her head snapped toward the window. Bird? No. The scent was too rich. Too saline. It lacked the musky, gamey undertone of an animal. Human. She scrambled off the bed and padded silently to the window.

She gripped the sill, pulling her small body up until her nose barely cleared the frame. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. She peered out into the darkness. The gardens below were empty. The shadows of the cypress trees lay still on the grass. There was no movement, no sound of struggle. But the smell was stronger here. It was drifting on the night breeze, carrying a heaviness that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She tracked the wind. It wasn't coming from the main gate, nor the servants' quarters. She turned her gaze to the left, toward the high stone walls of the enclosed courtyard. The Training Ground. Crystalline disks of water materialized in the midnight air, one after another, ascending from the dark training grounds below to the height of her window like a translucent staircase. Each disk perfectly spaced. Elma's eyes widened as her mind screamed a single word: Infiltration.

She retreated instantly, turning her back on the window and bolting toward the nursery door. She needed to alarm the guards— But she never reached the handle. The darkness behind her eyes flared with a sudden, blinding emerald light. S̷T̷O̷P̷. The twin green suns she had seen at the moment of her birth flashed through her mind. The Shepherd. The command was physical. It didn't just echo in her mind; it seized her muscles.

Thin, luminous green veins erupted beneath the pale skin of her arms and legs, pulsating with a rhythmic, sickly light that hummed through her bones. Panic surged. She tried to scream, to move a finger. Nothing. Her body began to move. It was a slow, jerky rotation, her small feet dragging across the rug as the unseen puppeteer turned her back toward the window. The green veins throbbed, glowing brighter against the shadows of the room. She watched, helpless, as her own hands reached out to grip the window sill.

Don't. The ground is too far. We'll die. The entity didn't care. Her body hoisted itself onto the sill. She stared down at the dizzying dark abyss below. Her heart hammered in her chest. The only muscle that worked as it should. Then, with a smooth, terrifying precision, her right foot extended into the empty air, finding purchase on the surface of the first water disk. It felt cold—impossibly solid—as she stepped out into the night, walking into the sky on a staircase of still water.

The descent was a slow, rhythmic torture. Step after step, Elma's body moved with a precision that wasn't her own, her bare feet pressing against the freezing, crystalline surface of the water disks. Her eyes darted frantically across the dark courtyard. Where are the sentries? Where is the guard? The silence of the manor was absolute, save for the faint, rhythmic thump of her feet landing on each platform. As she reached the final disk, her body stepped off and onto the cold, hard stone of the training ground.

The green light in her veins dimmed, but the paralysis remained, holding her upright and facing forward. A silhouette stood near the center of the yard, partially obscured by the shadow of the granite fountain. Mother? Elma's mind grasped at the hope. Christa? Is this another lesson? The woman stepped forward, moving out of the darkness and into the pale moonlight. The hope died instantly. This wasn't Christa. Elma had recognized the woman the instant she stepped into the light.

She exuded far too much authority, her broad shoulders thick with corded muscle. She wore dark, practical leather armor, its surface marked with long, jagged streaks of deep crimson that traced the chest piece and greaves. She was masked. A sleek ceramic faceplate of black and red concealed her entire face, molded into sharp, feline contours that revealed no skin beneath. It was her. The woman who bought me. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Fresh, hot blood dripped from a body sprawled behind the woman, splattering against the stone floor. The corpse wore the same uniform she did. A colleague. The woman stopped five paces away, her gaze raking over Elma's frozen form. Then she spoke. Her voice distorted, carrying a strange, metallic quality that rippled through the air.

"Elma Altheris," she said, the name sounding like a curse. She stepped closer, the rasp of her voice dropping into a low vibration that echoed directly in Elma's skull.

"D-66."