Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
This was Maestro’s private fae gathering space, steeped in illusion so thick that reality bent like stage lights through silk. The building itself flickered between states—sometimes a grand opera house in its prime, burgundy velvet seats pristine and gleaming, crystal chandeliers casting rainbow patterns across marble columns. Other times it showed its true decay: rotted floorboards, moth-eaten curtains, and the musty smell of abandonment that clung to forgotten places.
Tonight, the glamour was strong. Phantom audiences filled the seats—translucent figures in period dress from different eras, all watching with hungry eyes that tracked Bastien’s movement as he pushed through the unmarked door. The familiar weight of iron rings burned against his fingers as the glamour recognized him and reluctantly parted, allowing him entry into this space between worlds.
“Punctual as always,” Maestro said without looking up. His appearance had shifted since their last encounter, now wearing the face of a nineteenth century composer—beautiful, androgynous, with eyes that held the weight of centuries. “Though I confess, I had hoped you might take a bit longer to arrive. The anticipation is half the pleasure for me.”
Bastien descended the carpeted stairs, noting how each step felt heavier than the last. The glamour was working against him, trying to slow his approach. “Enough games. I know what you've been doing.”
“Do you?” Maestro's fingers moved to a minor key, the music taking on an ominous undertone. “I rather doubt that. Your species has such limited perspective. You see fragments—a soul-bond here, a harvested emotion there—and think you understand the symphony.”
Maestro’s fingers never missed a note, though Bastien could see the slight tilt of his head as he spoke. The fae was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were—ageless features that shifted between masculine and feminine depending on the angle of light, hair that caught the phantom footlights and reflected colors that had no earthly names. When he finally spoke, his words carried the trained projection of someone who had spent centuries performing for audiences both seen and unseen.
The shadowy audience leaned forward in their seats, hunger radiating from them like heat. Bastien realized they weren't shadows at all, but humans drained of their essential selves, kept as ornaments in Maestro's private theater. The thought made his stomach turn.
“I know you've been harvesting soul-bonds,” Bastien said, his hand resting on the iron blade at his hip. “Using them to power something bigger. The question is what.”
Maestro laughed, a sound like silver bells mixed with breaking glass. “Harvesting. Such a crude word for something so elegant.” He rose from the piano bench with fluid grace, his form rippling between different appearances—young man, old woman, something neither and both. The music stopped abruptly, silence crashing down like a velvet curtain. In that sudden quiet, Bastien could hear the whispered conversations of the phantom audience—fragments of dialogue from performances past and future, critiques and compliments echoing across temporal streams. “Such crude terminology,” Maestro said. “I prefer to think of it as cultivation . . . as . . . distribution. Sharing the wealth, as it were. I plant seeds of connection between souls, tend them across lifetimes, and when they reach perfect resonance—”
“Call it what you want.” Bastien moved closer, noting how each step felt like walking through honey, the glamour making every movement deliberate and dreamlike. “You’re selling pieces of something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Belong to me?” The fae turned fully now, fixing Bastien with eyes that held the depth of centuries. His smile was sharp as broken glass, beautiful and cutting in equal measure. “Dear Bastien, I created them. Every fragment, every whisper of power—they’re all fruits of my labor.” He gestured expansively to encompass the grand illusion surrounding them. “I’ve been expecting this visit. In fact, I’ve been rather looking forward to it.”
The casual admission sent a chill down Bastien’s spine. He’d come here expecting to catch Maestro off guard, to demand answers and perhaps extract some kind of confession. Instead, he found himself feeling like an actor who had walked onto a stage where everyone else knew their lines.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bastien’s hand moved instinctively to the iron blade at his hip, the familiar weight a comfort against the unreality surrounding him.
“Soul line cultivation,” Maestro said, beginning to pace the small orchestra pit with the restless energy of a caged predator. “Not the parlor tricks your Maman performs with her bones and herbs, though I do admire her dedication to the craft. I speak of true cultivation—the kind that requires patience measured in decades rather than seasons.”
The phantom audience leaned forward in their seats, as if this were the moment they’d all been waiting for. Bastien could feel their anticipation like a physical weight pressing against his shoulders.
“I’ve been cultivating threads across reincarnated lines for over a century,” Maestro continued, his tone taking on the cadence of a conductor building toward crescendo. “Your precious Delphine isn’t the first Charlotte I’ve encountered. Oh no, she’s merely the latest in a long and fascinating line of iterations.”