The road to the Sitallu estate wound through the mountains. Carved into the slopes like careful calligraphy. Below, a river flowed along the valley floor. Its surface gleamed silver beneath the pale light of the moon. The air carried the scent of damp pine and stone. Cold. Clean. Alive.

Ashur felt a pulse of anticipation in his chest cavity. He wanted to run the entire way. To see Alia. But that would draw attention. He moved instead at a measured pace.

Calibrated. Human. Not like a blur.

He owned no automobile. His mother had advised against it. Too conspicuous. Too rich for a junior reporter. "Blend in," she had said.

Always blend in.

Upon arrival, the Sitallu estate revealed itself, unlike any structure Ashur had ever encountered.

"One of the finest estates in all of Southern Atlantis," Mangi had told him.

And he had been correct.

It rose from the mountainside with the scale and symmetry of an ancient stronghold. A structure of carved stone and lacquered wood, built with both defense and display in mind. Its eaves curved upward, adorned with fine gold filigree that caught the lantern light in glints. Crimson banners lined the terraces, embroidered with precise, silver-threaded patterns. Tall columns framed the entrance, their polished surfaces reflecting the controlled flicker of firelight. The windows were latticed. Intricate carvings concealing the rooms beyond. Soft golden light pulsed within.

Alia lives here.

Ashur couldn't help but smile. Warmth moved across his chest. Unbidden. Illogical. Persistent.

He adjusted the folds of his Southern robes. He had worn his best. A deep blue tunic, embroidered at the cuffs and hem with bronze and gold thread. Over it, a dark outer robe, wide-sleeved, belted with a crimson-and-cream sash, ornately knotted. The fabric was heavy. Fine. Far richer than what he usually wore.

In his hands, a modest gift. A lacquered box of sugar-dusted cakes. A bundle of fresh mountain blooms, violet and white. Still fragrant from the cold evening air. His mother had always brought gifts when visiting others. A custom she never failed to observe.

So Ashur did the same.

He approached the grand entrance. Heavy wooden doors loomed, inlaid with golden motifs: lions, serpents, and winged horses. Silence hung over the courtyard. Only the distant murmur of the river reached his sound receptors.

Tonight, he would dine with Haddin Ishmu, the Sitallu family, and the Khoraz.

Which meant Alia would be there.

The thought triggered something. A subtle shift in his core. Processes quickened. Not fear. Not urgency.

Excitement.

The doors opened.

"Hello, welcome to the Sitallu residence." A man in dark crimson robes stood waiting at the door. Silver-threaded patterns wrapped the hem. Thin. Bald. Pale skin. A long white beard, neatly tapered. His eyes were narrow, lined, and watchful.

"Mister?"

"Ashur Napahu."

"Of course, Mister Napahu." The man bowed, sleeves draping as he gestured inward. "You are awaited inside. This way, please."

Ashur returned the bow. He stepped inside.

The air inside was warm. Sandalwood and resin hung in it. Slow-burning. Deliberate. The floors were dark wood, polished to a gleam beneath the soft light of hanging lanterns. Ashur walked past woven tapestries. Detailed. Intricate. Scenes of warriors, nobles, and beasts locked in stylized combat. He had read recently that the Sitallu family traced their lineage back centuries.

But Alia had never mentioned it.

The man led him through an arched hallway and into the dining chamber.

It was vast but intimate. Walls lined with scrollwork paintings and golden reliefs of mountains, rivers, and mist-covered peaks. Deep blue curtains framed the windows, silver-threaded and swaying in the evening breeze. A long table of lacquered wood stretched the length of the room. Porcelain. Bronze goblets. Incense bowls curling with fragrant smoke. Each item precisely placed.

The other guests had already arrived.

Julius Khoraz stood near the far wall, beside the woman Ashur assumed was his wife, Lady Adina Canary Khoraz. They studied a piece of artwork. Julius tilted his head slightly, auburn hair falling across his face, as he examined a painting of a lone figure standing against the wind. Beside him, the woman moved with practiced grace. Her lavender-colored robes, pale embroidery along the hem, flowed like water. Each step deliberate. She traced a hand along the edge of a carved relief. Her figure was visible through the fabric, and every motion was slow. Controlled. Intentional. As if she knew she was being watched. And she was used to it.

Ashur looked once. But today, he did not linger.

Haddin Ishmu stood beside them. Hands clasped behind his back. Nodding as Julius spoke. Listening. He turned and noticed Ashur. A smile spread across his face. Warm. But sharp.

"Ah, Ashur! There you are. We were beginning to think you'd been delayed."

Delayed?

He had arrived exactly on time. Ashur blinked, confused. He logged the discrepancy. Humans seemed to measure time differently.

"We arrived early, but we're staying at the Sitallu estate," Julius said, glancing at his timepiece. "But you, Ashur, you are exactly on time."

Humans are confusing.

Ashur forced a polite smile.

Perhaps I should've arrived early. Earlier than the sky gods.

Haddin stepped forward, taking the gifts from his hands. "Cakes and flowers," he said, inspecting them. "Very thoughtful of you." He placed them on an ornate lacquered side table near the wall. He turned toward the others. "Ashur, allow me to introduce our esteemed guests."

He gestured first to the man beside him. "Lord Julius Khoraz, the Khoraz kalasaar." He added, with a shake of his head, "Who you've already met... under unfortunate circumstances this morning."

A kalasaar.

Ashur knew the title well. He had written about it in an article on Atlantean nobility. Unlike Alemuria, Mutapu, or the smaller kingdoms where monarchs ruled by birthright, Atlantis chose its sovereign differently. The throne was not inherited. It was earned through lineage and spiritual selection. A kalasaar was the firstborn of two Atlantean nobles, who bore one of the four gifts—moving earth, wind, or water, or the power of sight. When two kalasaars had a child, that firstborn child became a second-generation kalasaar. The third generation kalasaar, born of two second-generation kalasaars, was rare. And critical. They alone were eligible for the throne.

A third-generation kalasaar symbolized the height of spiritual refinement and divine favor. The convergence of power and legacy. Lord Julius Khoraz was one of them.

Historically, when a king or queen died, the next monarch was not appointed, they were chosen. Through sacred rites. Guided by the stars. Conducted with precision by the High Priestess, or the Ummani, and the High Priest or the Ummanu, of the Grand Citadel. After the death of the monarch, the Citadel initiated and tested third-generation kalasaars. From among them, a new ruler emerged. They had to be under thirty-three years of age, the age of ascension. The age of alignment. A threshold tied to divine rhythm. The throne had to remain in harmony. With spiritual merit. With cosmic order. The selection was not political. It was celestial. The chosen leader had to pass rites involving the consumption of holy Nori water. A substance Ashur had seen referenced, but never explained. No details. Not in articles. Not in books. Only those in harmony with the Nori water were considered aligned with the divine. Only they could rule. Centuries of tradition. Possibly more.

Few sky-god families produced third-generation kalasaars of the appropriate age at the right time. But the noble houses planned for it. They arranged marriages. They bred children with purpose. Aligning bloodlines with care, seeking favor with the stars. And the throne.

Haddin's voice pulled Ashur from his processing.

"Julius is a man of sharp intellect and serious influence, whose generosity and wisdom continue to shape the future of Atlantis." Haddin was groveling again.

Disgusting.

Ashur activated a polite smile protocol. Uncertain if a verbal response was required. He withheld further output.

"My pleasure, Haddin," Julius said. Then, he turned to Ashur. "What is your full name, young man?"

"Ashur Napahu."

"Napahu... interesting." Julius paused, as if trying to place the lineage.

Napahu was a name Sabina had invented.

"Nevertheless." Julius waved it off, dismissive. "Your actions at the factory are commendable. I might not be standing here had you not acted so swiftly. You have my thanks, and a standing invitation to the Capital at my family's estate tower."

Ashur nodded. He kept his expression neutral.

An invitation to the Capital. Mother would be horrified.

"I was only in the right place at the right time, Lord Julius," Ashur said, offering a stiff, awkward bow.

Nobility preferred proper titles. They preferred humility. He had learned that. It mattered.

The noble woman next to Julius moved. Her sage robes brushed the polished floor. Each step deliberate. Every movement calculated.

Haddin turned toward her. "And this is the beautiful Lady Fera Nimrin."

Ashur's eyes widened before he could prevent it. The Nimrin were the reigning royal line. The Queen, an only child, had no siblings. Only one second cousin, Howl Nimrin, who became her Prince Consort. Together, they had one daughter. A daughter whose identity had been carefully hidden from the public eye.

Could Fera be—?

"...The only daughter of Queen Aksa Nimrin Nori," Haddin pressed on, "and the kalasaar of the Nimrin family."

Fera inclined her head. Her full lips, painted blush pink, formed a slight pout. The color stood out against her golden skin. Soft. Inviting.

His gaze lingered longer this time. A shift. An internal response. Heat rising again. Measurable. Traceable.

Nervousness.

Ashur smiled. Too tight. Unnatural. He adjusted. Facial control rebalanced. More heat. Tremor in his hands. Slight lag in processing.

He ran the breath protocol. Quietly. Attempting to regulate. Hoped Fera hadn't noticed.

She lifted one delicate hand and slid her fingers through her loose dark curls. Her green eyes moved over Ashur. Slow. Deliberate. Like she was selecting something rare. Valuable. Possibly for herself. She smiled finally, as if she approved.

"Welcome, Ashur Napahu," she said at last. Her voice was smooth. Warm. Beneath it, something more. Something intentional. The tone. The gaze. The parted lips.

Flirtation? Highly probable.

She extended her hand.

"Lady Fera," Ashur said. He knew the custom. He took her hand, bowed slightly, and pressed a kiss to her soft skin. Maintained eye contact. Just as expected.

Her eyebrow lifted. Barely. But it was there. As if she had felt him, his organic metalloid skin. Engineered to feel human. Warm to the touch. Alive, by every measurable standard. But her expression lingered. Subtle. Curious.

Did she know?

The question looped in Ashur's system. A second time. Still unresolved. Stored. Flagged for further review. Tightness formed in his throat. Looked down at his chest. Heat rising across his dermal sensors. Cooling systems engaged.

Humans notice discomfort.

He looked up again.

Fera was still watching. More curious now. Analyzing him.

He ran his breath protocol again.

At that moment, Haddin stepped aside. Turned slightly. Clearing the way. "And this," he said, his voice warm but too smooth. Controlled. Practiced. The kind of affection that sounded rehearsed.

"...is Alia Sitallu."

Ashur's jaw nearly dropped.

She looked beautiful.

Alia stood beside the sky gods. Quiet. Unmoving. Just like earlier that day, she was radiant. Her dress tonight was deep blue and soft gold. The fabric clung to her figure, draping in elegant folds. It revealed just enough skin to leave Ashur unsteady, again. The curve of her bare shoulders. The delicate line of her collarbone. The way the silk hugged her waist.

Ashur's breath protocol stuttered. Caught mid-cycle.

He felt it stir again. That unfamiliar heat. The kind he was beginning to welcome. Unsettling tightness in his chest and... lower. The same sensation as before. Unexpected. A surge of input overwhelmed his processing speed. Priorities scrambled. As if something inside him had shifted out of alignment, in a good way.

Ashur was about to speak. To say they knew one another, but Haddin spoke first.

"Our Alia has grown into quite the vision, hasn't she?" he murmured. His eyes held on her face, then dropped, briefly, to her form. A practiced smile followed.

Ashur registered a shift in Alia's posture. Hands clasped in front of her too tightly. Shoulders drawn. Eyes lowered, not in deference, but in discomfort. The tension was small. But it pulsed.

Something isn't right.

"Say hello, Alia," Haddin prompted. A command dressed as politeness.

She moved at last. Not out of ease, but obligation. Her expression was a mask. Carefully arranged. Controlled. She bowed low, one fist pressed to the opposite palm, raised before her in the traditional greeting of the South.

She moved like a stranger.

"An honor," she said. Steady. But distant.

Ashur's processing paused.

She is lying again. Why is she pretending not to know me?

For a moment, he just examined her. Analyzing. Trying to understand the parameters of the game she was playing. He mirrored her gesture. Precise. Measured.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Sitallu," Ashur finally said, as neutral as hers.

She didn't smile. She didn't meet his eyes. She said nothing.

So Ashur said nothing.

She looked like Alia. But she didn't feel like her. This wasn't her. Not fully.

Haddin chuckled, clapping a hand on Ashur's shoulder. "Good manners! Excellent, young man." He guided him forward and away from Alia. Possessive. Controlling. Redirecting. There was a flicker of hesitation on Haddin's face. A brief crease in his brow. "I must apologize, everyone, my wife could not join us tonight," he added. "Sokiya is unwell and resting."

Haddin was lying also.

Ashur registered the lie. Tone mismatch. Breath irregularity.

At the mention of Sokiya, Alia moved strangely. Shoulders tensing. Fingers twitching as if to curl into fists. A contained reaction. Suppressed.

Ashur glanced from Alia, still staring at the ground, to Haddin, who watched her with an unsettling smile. It worried Ashur. His chest constricted. Heat rose. Not pleasant this time. His focus narrowed.

Alia's silence behind Haddin pulsed like disturbing static.

Mangi was correct again.

Something was wrong in the Sitallu house.