The red carpet that led into the Maerlowy Hotel had seen years of dignitaries, royals, war heroes, and Flux anomalies walk its length, some revered, some feared, some worshiped. But tonight, it glowed brighter than ever, not from the embedded runes or the eternal lighting, but from the weight of presence stepping across it.
The Abrivers had arrived.
In a world forever split between Earth and Erae, their name was thunder. Not just a whisper of power, but an entire storm system of legacy, scandal, reverence, and undeniable prestige. The revelation of Erae had happened a decade ago, during what history now calls the First Thauma.
Portals cracked open after the ABR, revealing that this wasn't the only world humanity occupied. Another one existed, parallel, ethereal, older than imagination
Yet one place on Earth remained blind. Singapore.
After the First Thauma, when an angelic being emerged in Marina Bay and hovered, radiating light, the entire Singaporean branch was locked down. Borders closed. Communications scrambled. Anyone caught trying to leave vanished. Anyone trying to enter never returned.
That was why Permonelle couldn't leave.
The world agreed—oddly, and suspiciously—without protest.
All diplomatic and public connections were severed. This was why Permonelle, a tour guide born and bred in the Singapore Branch, had no idea Erae even existed until she had physically stepped into it. The happenings of the world were hidden from Singapore without the masses knowing for ten years.
Around Permonelle, the press swarmed.
Photographers whose cameras weren't even manual, hovering lens drones and projection devices spun around the group like orbiting stars. The Abrivers moved at the eye of the storm, unfazed. Dryad floated forward with elegance, her mocha skin glowing under the lights, silver eyes half-lidded with detached ease. Her history—cast out by her family, taken in by the mainline, one foot in nobility, the other in rebellion—made her something of a legend. She had both mythos and mystery.
Phaser followed. The walking paradox. Lethal beauty. Controlled madness. His eyes were viral online. There were thousands of fan edits, rumors that his stare alone could warp someone's Flux. Tonight, he wore a tailored black suit, void-dark and sinfully sharp, the collar undone just enough to tease. Cameras devoured him.
Then came Argemene.
Golden gown, dark hair with golden streaks. A smile carved in celestial confidence. She was one of the Portal Quintuplets, siblings who handled the Cradlepoint's spatial integrity. Her Flux wasn't just powerful but essential. Argemene controlled the gateways between two worlds. When she stepped onto the carpet, the press physically leaned forward like plants chasing the sun.
But the Abrivers weren't just powerful. They were untouchable. They didn't give interviews. They didn't linger. They didn't explain.
And then came her. Permonelle.
She stepped from the limo's final door without fanfare, no entourage, no Flux aura radiating in dramatic flares. Just a ghost from the most locked-down branch in the world. But the moment she stood on that carpet, the world paused.
Her beauty wasn't academic. It was unfiltered attraction, the kind that hurt to look at for too long. Her shoulder-length brown hair shimmered beneath the spotlights. Her lips were full, her cheeks soft and color-kissed without a trace of makeup. But it was her eyes that stunned the press. They were brilliant, radiant blue, glowing faintly like twin starbursts on a night sea.
Then her body.
Every step emphasized her curves in ways even she didn't realize. Her thighs moved with a hypnotic sway. Her waist cinched perfectly against the deep emerald silk Dryad had custom-forged. Her chest rose and fell with every measured breath. There was no conceit in her, no arrogance, but her existence had the same effect.
The male interviewers froze first.
Cameramen dropped their jaws like idiots. One let his equipment fall with a loud clunk onto the stone. Microphones hovered uselessly. Every male reporter suddenly forgot their prep notes. Several just... stared. Their expressions ranged from slack-jawed awe to full-on hunger.
"Who is she?"
"Is she one of the Abrivers' fiancées?"
"Is she a foreign diplomat? Maybe Scandinavian?"
"Wait, check the database—run facial recognition—someone get her name!"
But none of them could find anything. No records, no Flux registration, not even a photo on public feeds. She was invisible until today. And that only made her more desirable.
One brave soul stepped forward.
"Miss? Uh, sorry—who are you exactly? Are you attending the Concord Discussion?"
Permonelle blinked once, then smiled softly.
"I'm just a guest of the Abrivers. Nothing more."
A lie. And yet… the press bought it. Because they had to. But their eyes said otherwise.
They stared like sinners at a saint carved out of lust. They burned her into memory. If she were to disappear tomorrow, the news feeds would spend years trying to find her again. "Just a guest" was now the hottest mystery in international coverage.
As she followed the Abrivers into the hotel lobby, more camera flashes fired, more whispers erupted.
________
The Concord Discussions had always opened with spectacle. The first night was traditionally reserved for a gala, hosted in one of the grandeur-tier ballrooms at the Maerlowy Hotel. The room stretched high and wide, its ceiling a celestial dome of stars that shifted with each passing hour, mimicking the skies of Erae. Gold-gilded architecture curved alongside animated flora lining the walls, pulsing subtly with Flux energy. Conversations rippled in every tongue imaginable.
This was a gathering of titans. They weren't just attendees. They were pieces of history, breathing and socializing in the same chamber.
An hour had passed since the Abrivers' entourage had arrived. Most of that hour was spent fielding greetings, brushing off reporters, and avoiding too many direct questions. Phaser and Permonelle had stuck close, mostly because she didn't want to be left alone in a ballroom filled with people whose Fluxes could tear planets apart.
But Dryad—always a master of social engineering—slipped her arm through Argemene's, smiling mischievously.
"Oh, Argie, we simply must see the paintings in the Ovan Suite. They hung an entire mural using suspended light-thread. It's your kind of obnoxious."
And just like that, the Portal Quintuplet was whisked away, leaving Permonelle with the one person who made her feel more nervous than the press: Phaser.
He hadn't said much until now. He didn't have to. He never did.
He turned to her with a drink in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his dark, seamless blazer. His multicolored eyes sparkled beneath the low chandelier lights. And then he smiled. It was a rare, genuinely handsome grin that curved the edges of his lips with warmth and a sharp dose of confidence.
"You look beautiful tonight. I can't believe I'm saying this now, but how did you not get a boyfriend before the Second Thauma? With your looks, you could win over anyone."
Permonelle froze.
Her heart kicked like a mule in her chest, and she blinked at him, processing. She wasn't used to compliments. She definitely wasn't used to Phaser looking at her like she was something worthy of being admired instead of studied or monitored.
Her cheeks flared with heat.
"I—uh… I should get some air," she blurted out, turning away with the elegance of a drunk ballerina and walking fast enough to seem important, but not fast enough to look panicked.
She stepped onto the balcony.
The wind was cool and smelled faintly of tulips and static. The city of Amsterdam stretched beneath her, lit in orange and silver, its rivers glistening like veins of living quartz. Her hands braced the railing. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her pulse, trying to think of anything except that smile, that voice, those damn eyes.
"Are you alright?"
The voice beside her was smooth, feminine, curious but gentle.
Permonelle turned. And for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
The woman standing next to her was stunning in a way that almost felt unfair. She had luminous golden hair that fell in waves past her waist, not curled, not pinned, just effortlessly radiant. Her dress was a masterpiece of a deep navy that shimmered between violet and midnight, hugging her curves like paint. And her body was the sort that made statues cry out for a second draft. But her eyes were what truly arrested attention.
They were multicolored. Not like Phaser's but different.
These shifted slowly, subtly, in prismatic gradients, like the aurora had taken shelter in her irises.
Permonelle swallowed.
This woman wasn't just beautiful. She was lineage. She was legacy. Another Abrivers.
And as the woman looked at her, smiling with polite concern, was impossible to ignore. Flux clung to her skin like a second soul.
"Ah. You must be Periwinkle, the 77th Ennéa. Nice to meet you. I'm Anasteris Abrivers. What's your real name?"