He woke choking on smoke that wasn't there.
Edgar Thornevale sat up in the dark, breath ragged, throat raw. His silk sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. One hand clenched the edge of the mattress, white-knuckled. The other was curled in a loose fist against his chest, as though bracing for an arrow that never came.
The skyline of Velaris glowed pale and distant beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—clean lines, empty roads, steel spires slicing the fog. His bedroom stretched wide and silent around him: black marble floors, brushed brass accents, a desk untouched for weeks, an untouched decanter of scotch glowing amber beneath a low reading light. It was the kind of space architects photographed for magazines.
But it was too still. Too quiet. Like a mausoleum with better lighting.
He drew a breath. The air tasted clean. Of course it did.
No fire. No smoke. No blood.
Still, his skin burned.
He dragged his hand across his jaw—slick with sweat—then ran it through his hair, forcing himself to move. The old instinct—the one from before this life—whispered get up, soldier. He stood, padded barefoot to the mirror above the sideboard, and stared.
No chains. No ash. No firelight flickering off stone walls.
Just Edgar Thornevale, age twenty-eight, soul scarred twice over.
His reflection looked older. Sharper. The long bones of his face, the hollow under his cheekbones, the cut of his collarbone visible beneath the black tank top. His eyes were colder than they should've been—grey and glacier-pale. Like steel that forgot it was once flame.
His phone buzzed behind him. A calendar notification.
7:00 AM – Lyra D'Argent: First Day | 9:00 AM: Executive Briefing | 9:15 AM: Ethics and Brand Development Pitch
He stared at the name.
It had been ten years since the dreams started. Eight since he realized they weren't dreams at all.
And now she was walking into his building.
Edgar exhaled through his nose. Stepped away from the mirror. Pushed down the ache in his chest with practiced detachment.
He moved through his morning ritual without thought—shower, shave, tailored charcoal suit, cufflinks that cost more than most cars. A white gold watch wrapped over his wrist. He slid the silk tie into place with surgeon's fingers.
Still, he felt it.
Like static under his skin. Like heat trapped just beneath the surface. The kind that doesn't burn right away—but waits.
He poured coffee into a bone-white cup, black as pitch, and stood at the edge of the window.
Far below, the city began to stir. Dots of movement—cars, people, lives too small to matter.
But she was down there now.
Lyra D'Argent. Daughter of the man who orchestrated his death a lifetime ago. She didn't know what her family had done. She didn't remember the fire, or the screams, or how her voice cracked when she tried to stop it too late.
And she didn't remember him.
But he did.
His grip tightened around the cup. Porcelain cracked, a thin fracture running across its rim like a fissure of bone.
Edgar didn't look down.
He just sipped the coffee. Bitter. Perfect.
And waited for her to arrive.
The private elevator slid open with a hush, the sound barely audible over the ambient hum of the city below.
Edgar stepped out onto the top floor of Thornevale Global HQ, where glass, steel, and white stone swallowed all sound like a cathedral with a corporate budget. The air smelled faintly of citrus and ozone—clean, expensive, and artificial.
The building was his mirror: perfect, precise, untouchable. Forty-two floors of silent power.
The elevator shut behind him, leaving no trace of its motion. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he walked across the lobby. His shoes struck the marble in clean, calculated rhythm. He didn't walk like a man arriving at work—he walked like a verdict entering a courtroom.
The floor-to-ceiling windows threw pale morning light across the open space, casting his long figure across the ivory floor in elongated shadows. Every edge in the office was either reflective or razor-cut. No clutter. No warmth.
It didn't allow for ghosts.
But they came anyway.
As he passed the glass wall to the executive boardroom, he caught a flicker—just a trick of light. A flick of velvet. A curl of smoke.
He stopped. Jaw tight.
Reflected in the mirrored chrome of a conference cabinet, for the briefest second, he saw it: the fire.
Not just light. Fire.
Orange, licking high. Smoke crawling like fingers. A shape behind it.
Her. He blinked. Gone.
His eyes narrowed. His pulse didn't change, but his grip on the tablet at his side subtly tightened, fingers whitening at the edges.
"You're early."
The voice came from his left—crisp, low, and female.
Arielle Mercer, his Chief Operating Officer, stood near the entrance to the strategy lounge, tablet in hand, immaculate in a fitted black sheath dress. Hair slicked back. No makeup except the sharpest red on her lips.
She didn't smile. Arielle didn't do warm.
"I had the impression you'd want to meet the new hire before the others arrived," she added.
Edgar looked at her briefly, then past her—toward the main glass doors.
"Lyra D'Argent?"
"Checked in downstairs. Security just cleared her. She'll be on this floor in four minutes."
He said nothing. Just nodded once.
Arielle tilted her head. "Want me to give her the standard welcome?"
"No."
"She's D'Argent's daughter. That opens… certain liabilities."
"I know exactly who she is."
"Then you know she's either a strategic advantage," Arielle said evenly, "or a time bomb waiting to explode in your office."
He didn't answer.
Arielle exhaled slowly. "You're keeping something from me."
"I usually am," he said. And walked past her.
She didn't try to follow.
Edgar entered the boardroom alone. Twelve seats, all empty. One at the head reserved for him. The digital wall was lit but silent, projecting soft white and graphite-grey schematics of the firm's latest oceanic structure deal.
But he didn't look at the numbers. Or the renderings. Or the schedule on the glass wall.
He looked at the door. And waited.