Solaris whispered a curse in a dialect no longer taught. The bell, suspended over fireglass, screamed — not a metal shriek, but a spectral cry. It echoed down the catacomb halls, stirring memories in the bone-marble walls.
A cloaked figure approached, not walking but gliding — like fog dressed in silk.
"You summoned the Ironsworn?" the voice rasped.
Solaris did not answer at first. He picked up the blade and pressed it against his own palm, letting blood mark the obsidian altar.
"I summoned pain," he finally said.
"They will answer."
Four more figures cloaked in black entered.
Each bore a gymnast’s token — beam shoes scorched with curses, masks adorned in ash, grips and wrist guards carved with names never spoken aloud.
"You want movement, Lord Solaris?"
"I want agony that pirouettes," he growled.
"I want rhythm made from revenge."
From behind a scorched column, a younger recruit trembled — a boy with eyes inked in fear and devotion. Solaris beckoned.
"He is the first," Solaris said.
"Train him with darkness and polish his grief. When he leaps, he will fracture a bone. When he lands, empires will crumble.
The Ironsworn bowed.
Above, far beyond the mountain’s reach, the world remained blissfully unaware. But deep below, music began to form — discordant, haunting, inevitable.
"Let’s begin again," Solaris whispered, as the bell cried once more.
Countdown to Power
The clock was ticking louder than ever.
Across three cities — Shanghai, Beijing, and the icy stretches of the Russian countryside — preparations crackled with a sense of urgency. Otako’s decree had turned quiet resolve into an active storm: in less than a year, the successors would rise to shape the soul of the Chinese government. But none of them would ascend untested.
Training intensified. Secrets unfolded. Each had a role to play in a strategy that spanned bloodlines and legacy. And while the world watched the stars, these four moved beneath them — quiet meteors carving toward impact.
And Coach Carlos —
Inside the training room — polished wooden floors gleaming beneath steel rafters, beams of morning light cutting through dust like stage lights hunting a soloist.
Coach Carlos, lean and fox-eyed, stood at the far end of the hall tapping his clipboard in rhythm with Lily’s turns.
"Again!" he snarled, not unkindly.
"That split was clean, but the breath wasn’t aligned. Your landing needs to look like a decision."
Lily exhaled, then launched again — double spin, controlled hover, and a pointed landing that could have cracked glass. Carlos nodded once.
"Better. When the officials judge you, they’ll hear your story in your silence. That’s what wins."
Lily nodded; she fully understood. She was wearing her new competition leotard — dusky violet embroidered with silver crestwork, echoing the twin sigils of her sisters. Pharsa had helped enchant the threads to pulse with ancestral warmth, a quiet ward against Solaris’s lingering reach.
After practice, Lily leaned against the balcony rail, the city humming beneath her like a breathing machine. Sweat cooled on her temples, the embroidered silver of her leotard catching glints of sunset. She pressed call.
"Are you swamped?" she teased as soon as Fatty picked up.
His video opened with glittering shelves behind him — enchanted perfume bottles rotating slowly on levitating displays, and a pastry chef conjuring mist into croissants in the background.
"Swamped?" Fatty scoffed. "Please. I’m practically drowning in champagne-soaked success. Our Luxembourg boutique shattered its ceiling this month — literally. We had to summon a contractor and a poet to reinforce the upper beams. That’s how high our profits flew. And you know me... humble as a monk. Except with you, I brag recklessly."
He struck a dramatic pose, pretending to sip from a goblet made of shimmering dough.
Lily rolled her eyes fondly.
"Russia’s calmer than Geneva. But it feels like something is still watching. Like the air forgot to blink." Lily said.
Fatty paused. His voice softened.
"Then practice harder," he said with quiet fire.
"You break mirrors when you leap. That’s how we know you’re magic." Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on Novᴇl_Fire(.)net
He tried to hold the serious tone, but then fumbled it with a snort, tossing the dough goblet aside and pressing a stuffed fox plushie to his chest.
"Also, I may or may not have made a Lily-shaped cookie that I refuse to eat because it’s too pretty. And possibly enchanted to argue with me."
Lily laughed, startled. "You made a cookie version of me?"
"It sits on my desk and judges me. Yesterday, I instructed the reduction of lavender sugar imports. The name sounds like you, which is unfair."
Fatty pouted. Then blinked fast.
"I miss you like Belgium misses sunlight. And I hate that I do, because every time I see your training clips, I get all proud and squishy inside. Like... the squishy that makes your chest weird."
"You mean a heart?" Lily teasingly asked.
"Gross. Yes." He hugged the fox tighter. "I named this one Pharsa Junior. It keeps me from doing reckless things like buying an island shaped like your initials."
"Quan Ye ..."
"Too late. The blueprints are drafted."
There was a pause. Soft.
"Anyway, keep leaping, magic girl. Call me tomorrow. Or sooner. I’ve bribed the cookie to start missing you, too."
CLICK
Lily "...."
"That brat!" Lily scoffed, shaking her head affectionately.
Fatty vs. Goldie: The Corporate Tantrum
Right after Fatty hung up the call.
"Sir, no," Goldie said flatly, blocking the conference room door with a tablet and the kind of glare that had previously neutralized minor curses.
Fatty, perched atop a velvet ottoman shaped like a mooncake, clutched a plush fox and a gilded sketchpad covered in doodles of ’LILY ISLAND™.’
"But Goldie," he whined. "The Vienna parade won’t be the same without me riding a golden dumpling. And the fireworks —hear me out —should spell out her name in five languages. Preferably glitter fonts."
Goldie sighed, already texting the pyrotechnics team to cancel the glitter.
"You promised restraint. You promised me a fiscal quarter without themed pyromancy or enchanted pastries that sing."
Fatty hugged the plush harder.
"But I miss Lily! And my heart aches in the shape of a dumpling. Who knew longing had a flavor profile?"
Goldie blinked. "That’s not how longing works."
"What if it is?" Fatty pouted. "We need to monetize emotional flavoring. You don’t understand this feeling because you’re a single dog."
Goldie snorted. ’Hmph!’
He paused as he scratched his chin and calculated.
"...That idea actually has traction. We’ll discuss it after you cancel the unicorn-themed yacht."
Fatty slowly slid the sketchpad behind him. "Too late. They’ve already named the bow ’Lily’s Leap.’"
"!!!!"
Goldie groaned.
Somewhere in Belgium, a team of accountants fainted.
"...."
Who knew that Fatty’s whims regarding emotional flavoring became popular among younger generations? Of course, this story is for later.