The 99th floor of Vayne Tower was not marked on the building's blueprint.
Even the elevator button that accessed it appeared only when pressed in a precise sequence—four corners of the glass panel tapped in rhythm like a secret code. Those who worked in the gleaming lower offices of AetherCorp speculated endlessly about what existed up there. A war room? A vault? A sanctuary?
None guessed the truth.
And no one had seen Elias Vayne, the company's elusive CEO, in the flesh for more than a few minutes at a time. When he did appear, he glided like smoke through black-glass hallways, untouched by time or circumstance. Some said he never aged. Others believed he wasn't human at all.
At precisely 3:00 a.m., long after the city had surrendered to slumber, Elias stood in front of a full-length mirror framed with obsidian and ancient silver. His reflection shimmered unnaturally—as if the glass remembered something the world had forgotten.
His suit was sharp and black as midnight, tailored from Drakenthread, a rare material laced with elemental wards. Tiny silver runes were embroidered along the inner lining—barely visible, but thrumming softly with protective magic. His crisp shirt was deep charcoal, collar high, closed with a small emerald pin shaped like a serpent eating its tail. He wore no tie. His boots were silent, made from wyvern leather and polished to a glint that caught even moonlight.
The room smelled of leather, ozone, and faint incense—an aroma imported from forgotten temples in the Windspire Isles. The walls were charcoal stone, cracked faintly with gold veins that pulsed gently, alive with magic. Every piece of furniture—blackwood shelves, angular couches, floating glass data orbs—had a purpose, a code, a secret.
His eyes, pale gray with hints of silver, stared back at him. Calm. Calculating. Distant. The kind of gaze that had bought out governments and silenced enemies. But tonight, his eyes gave away a flicker of something else.
Concern.
He reached for the ring on his right hand—a silver band etched with symbols from a language that no longer existed. Slowly, he twisted it.
The mirror blinked.
Then opened.
Not like a door. Like a wound.
A rush of cold air poured through, laced with the scent of iron and fire. Beyond it lay the Rift, a chasm between worlds hidden beneath the skyscraper. Black stairs spiraled downward into shifting fog. Arcane glyphs floated in the air like ghosts, rearranging themselves with each breath.
Elias stepped through.
This wasn't just where he hid his secrets.
This was the origin of his wealth—the place where ancient beings made deals in blood and shadow. Where knowledge whispered and power demanded a price.
As he descended, his comm link buzzed in his ear.
"Sir," came the voice of Mireille, his assistant. "AetherCorp's Eastern servers were breached at 2:54 a.m. The artifact vault security grid was temporarily disabled."
His steps didn't slow. "What was taken?"
There was a pause.
"Nothing, sir. But someone activated File Echelon-01."
Elias stopped.
That file hadn't been accessed in twenty-three years. Not since the night his father died and left him with a company, a fortune, and a curse.
His voice was low. "Shut down every external line. Notify R&D to double encrypt the Codex Library. And send a Phantom Task Unit to search the perimeter. Full cloak mode."
"Yes, sir. Should I prepare the Blade?"
Elias looked into the fog below. He could already hear something moving in the deep. A pulse. A memory. A threat he'd buried long ago.
He whispered, "Prepare the Blade."