Grimaldi clapped his hands once, a sharp sound that echoed in the small, dark space. A section of the book-lined wall swung inward without a sound, revealing a hidden alcove. Within it hung a single suit of clothes: a tailored, dark charcoal suit that looked like it would cost more than a car, a simple black shirt, and no tie. It was understated, elegant, and utterly severe.

“The washroom is through there,” he said, pointing a bony finger to another nearly invisible door. “Clean yourself. Burn what you are wearing. You will find everything you need. When you are presentable, we will begin your lesson. You have until the moon reaches its zenith. We will present you to the Prince tonight.”

His tone brokered no argument. The clock was now ticking.

Lochlan didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room, took the impeccably tailored suit from its alcove, and pushed open the door to the washroom.

It was a stark place with clean and ancient trim.

A marble basin, a mirror with a silvered back that was beginning to flake at the edges. He instinctively took a look at his reflection. Still there – but something about it felt instinctively wrong, like a glitch in reality.

Enough. He needed to bring his focus back to the blood.

It was there on his jacket, and indeed was not his.

It flaked away in his fingertips under the cold water, leaving a faint rust-colored stain behind. He robotically followed Grimaldi’s instructions, stuffing his old, damp, and stained clothes into a small, blackened incinerator slot set into the wall.
with a single, elegant looking rune he didn’t recognize. He pressed it. A low roar echoed from within the wall, and his past was turned to ash.

The new suit fit perfectly. Uncannily so. The fabric was cool and heavy against his skin, and for the first time since he woke in that alley, he didn’t feel his stomach gnawing at him.

He stepped back out into the main room.

Magister Grimaldi was waiting. He held out a single, plain silver ring. “Wear this. It bears the sigil of a minor, but old, lineage. It will provide you with a shred of credibility. A story that you are a lost childe from a distant city, seeking sanctuary. It is a thin story, but better than none.”

He then began the lesson, his voice a low, rapid monotone. He drilled Lochlan on the formal greetings, the specific titles of the people in the room, the way to hold his hands, the precise angle to bow without looking obsequious or offering a challenge. He taught him the words to say.

He made Lochlan repeat it until the words felt carved into his mind.

Finally, he looked toward a grandfathered clock ticking in the corner. “It is time. The court gathers at the Elysium, in the old opera house. ”

He led Lochlan to a different door than the one he entered.

Magister Grimaldi’s pale lips twisted into something resembling a smile. It was thin, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth.

“You’re doing well,” he whispered, the word like a serpent’s sigh. “You understand more than I hoped.”

Lochlan felt his lips twist. He wasn’t sure that was a compliment. “I think the clothes are doing most of the work.”

Grimaldi showed his palms. “We are ancient beings who have been quickly thrust into a vast, multipolar political reality. Many of the underlying politics of the present rely deeply on convenient fictions.”

“And so,” Grimaldi continued with a lean. “Remember your role. You are not a frightened child. You are a lost scion of a forgotten line, now found. You are dignified, grateful, and above all, controlled. ”

He placed a cold, dry hand on Lochlan’s shoulder. The touch was like stone.

“The Collective value drama above truth. So simply observe them and be what they are lacking. Give them a performance. Let your silence seem like wisdom. Let your obedience seem like strength.”

He turned and opened the door. Instead of the quiet street, Lochlan saw a long, descending staircase lit by flickering gaslight, hewn from the very bedrock of the city. The air that washed out was cold and carried the distant, haunting sound of a cello.

“The stage is set. The audience awaits. Poor reviews can be… well, they could kill you, as I mentioned earlier.”

Lochlan paused. “With the long pause there, I thought you would be reaching for some sort of wordplay.”

“I’d considered it.”

“I’m glad you stopped actually. You already had a long metaphor there and -”

“Yes, yes –

“I think an extra flourish wouldn’t have been economical.”

“Well.” He gestured for Lochlan to descend into the earth.

Lochlan took a breath. A new identity. He wasn’t Lochlan Martra, the pissed and confused mortal drifter. He was Lochlan Martra, the scion of a diluted but ancient bloodline.

He had slumbered, he had wandered, and now he had arrived. The wretch in the alley was a mere pest. Ms. Valois was a passing curiosity. Magister Grimaldi was a useful patron, a means to an end.

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket. He lifted his chin, allowing a faint, weary arrogance to settle into his features – the look of someone forced to endure tedious formalities to reclaim what was rightfully his. The fear was still there, but he transmuted it into a low, simmering irritation. How dare his Sire abandon him to this circus? How dare these local powers make him jump through hoops?

He took the first step down, his posture rigid with inherited pride. The second step was easier. By the third, the mask was fully in place. The gaslights flickered over his face, revealing nothing but cool, calculated ambition.

Magister Grimaldi watched him descend, and for the first time, Lochlan saw a glint of genuine surprise in his ancient eyes. He said nothing, but he followed half a step behind him – the position of an advisor, not a master.

The staircase opened into a vast, subterranean hall that was once the Elysium Opera Hall. Well, it still it was the Elysium, a historical site closed to the public on a never ending stream of renovations. The air was thick with the scent of old blood, perfume, and dust. Dozens of figures stood in elegant clusters in the audience, their conversations a low, predatory hum. They were a wave of faces, an ocean of ages, wealthy but not utterly beautiful.

But now their eyes, in shades of gold, red, and brown and blue, and deepest black, all turned toward him as one.

At the far end, on a throne-like chair of carved obsidian, sat The Nightmare, Maximilian Strauss.

The chair was not ancient, but well crafted still.

Lochlan could tell it was a recent commission, expertly crafted to _look_ like it had witnessed centuries, its polished surface drinking the flickering gaslight. Strauss himself was the true artifact on display. He was gaunt in the way of old money and careful diets, his features pleasant, symmetrical, and utterly forgettable.

It was the face of a competent bank manager or a junior minister who had never caused a scandal. His silver hair was swept back from a high forehead in a style that suggested regal authority but felt more like a uniform he’d been required to wear. His fingers were steepled, and he observed the room with a gaze that tried very hard to be a physical weight.

It was the gaze of a man who had inherited a title far heavier than his own soul.

Grimaldi had given him the exposition.

This was the son of a legendary Strauss, a name that echoed in the secret histories of Europe, a name that made the other vampires in the room feel connected to a grand, stable past even as they recovered from the recent, brutal reign of the Queen Angelica.

Maximilian was the compromise, the safe choice, the balm applied to a burned domain. He was not a madman, not a genius, not a tyrant. He was, by vampire standards, very nearly kind-hearted. And in this room of beautiful, predatory monsters, that made him the most dangerous thing of all – a mediocrity with absolute power.

The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire.

Lochlan didn’t exactly fill it, either.

He let his gaze drift from the Nightmare, just for a moment, to sweep over the assembled courtiers. His expression was one of detached appraisal, as if mentally comparing this gathering to a dozen others he’d attended in forgotten centuries. He sucked his cheeks in slightly, a look of faint, aristocratic boredom settling over his features. Were these the local luminaries? How… provincial.

The act was flawless. It did what pleading or explaining never could: it made him intriguing instead of pathetic.

Nightmare Strauss finally spoke, his voice a low, dry rustle that was practiced to fill the hall without effort. “You’re the one who was ‘unexpectedly awakened.'”

“That’s exactly what happened to me, even if you say it like that.”

Strauss’ eyes narrowed. “Who says tonight is about you. Your situation suggests a Sire either discourteous… or absent.”

His cold eyes – the one feature that held a genuine, weary authority – flicked toward Magister Grimaldi, who remained a silent statue half a step behind Lochlan. “And vouched for by the City Magister. An interesting confluence too.”

He leaned forward, the obsidian throne creaking ever so slightly, a tiny betrayal of its newness. “Ms. Valois entertains the city. Magister Grimaldi collects mysteries. For both to invest in the same unknown within hours… either this city has become remarkably efficient, or someone is playing a very expensive game.” He let that hang, a not-so-subtle accusation wrapped in a curiosity that felt genuine. This was a man who enjoyed puzzles, perhaps because they were simpler than people.

A woman’s laugh, light and mocking, cut through the tension. Ms. Valois stepped from the crowd, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Maximilian. I saw potential. Alistair saw a project. You’re seeing conspiracies. It’s almost poetic how each of us finds exactly what we’re looking for.”

Strauss’s eyes didn’t leave Lochlan, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Valois. Join us.” It wasn’t a request. He snapped his fingers, a bit too sharply, and pointed to a spot on the stage between Lochlan and Grimaldi. “Since you’re so invested in his comfort.”

Valois’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges as she glided forward to take her assigned place, completing an uneasy triangle. She glided forward, her posture perfect, but Lochlan caught the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Strauss had just made her complicit. If Lochlan failed, her reputation would suffer too.

The Nightmare’s gaze traveled between the three of them, his steepled fingers tapping thoughtfully. “Let’s examine this puzzle for a moment,” he said, his tone conversational but with an undercurrent of steel. “Ms. Valois, who has never in her long memory taken an interest in a stray, happens upon this particular fledgling in his moment of maximum distress. And Magister Grimaldi, my own spymaster, who weighs every investment with the patience of a glacier, immediately offers patronage to a complete unknown with no visible assets beyond… interesting blood.”

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing in calculation. “The Magister’s incentive is clearer. A mystery is a commodity. An unknown Sire of potent blood is a loose thread, and loose threads have a way of unraveling domains.”

His attention shifted to Valois. “And the Valois family are social patrons, not charity workers.” He let the implication hang in the air before turning his full attention back to Lochlan, his gaze becoming disturbingly focused.

“So we have a man with no memory, dressed in the Magister’s clothes, bearing the Magister’s sigil, presented by the Magister, and defended by a Valois. All within hours of his awakening.” Strauss’s lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The deck has been stacked quite thoroughly, and with remarkable speed, for a man who supposedly knows no one.”

Lochlan cleared his throat. “But they all seem a bit nervous. I guess your opinion is the one that matters here.”

“Good answer.” Strauss leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. “So Lochlan, what do you offer the domain? Magister Grimaldi vouches for you. Ms. Valois finds you… aesthetically compelling. But I don’t collect mysteries or curate beauty. My job is to keep the city from going to hell.”

The question hung in the air, a trap disguised as curiosity. Answer too confidently, and he’d seem arrogant. Too meekly, and he’d seem worthless. Lochlan felt Grimaldi’s presence behind him, a silent pressure not to speak. But the Nightmare’s eyes were locked on him, waiting.

“It may be naive. But so far I *enjoy* being here. Given the times, it’s a feeling that seems to be in short supply.”

“…Enjoyment, you say,” Strauss repeated, his voice flat. He leaned back in his chair, the obsidian creaking faintly. “You’ve been undead for what, a handful of hours? And you _enjoy_ it so far. How lovely.”

He let that hang for a moment, then gestured broadly to the assembled court.

“These times, as you call them, are a period of recovery. Angelica Sheridan waged a territorial war that nearly exterminated us. Not just vampires, the entire supernatural community. Mages. Changelings. The few remaining bloodlines that had managed to coexist in this city for centuries. She burned through Ravenna like a wildfire, and we were all kindling.”

His voice remained calm, almost conversational, but there was steel underneath.

“We lost two-thirds of our population in eighteen months. Elders who had survived the Inquisition were torn apart in the streets. Havens that had stood for centuries were reduced to ash. The Masquerade was effectively shattered.”

Strauss’s gaze swept the room, and Lochlan saw aged vampires flinch, old wounds still raw.

“Mortals *know* now. Not all of them, not officially, but enough. It’s an open secret, like your UFOs or government conspiracies. There are forums. Documentaries. Grainy cell phone footage that gets millions of views before it’s scrubbed. We can’t put that proverbial genie back in the bottle. We can only manage it. Control the narrative. Make sure the truth is just plausible enough to be dismissed as fiction by anyone who matters.”

He leaned forward again, his voice dropping.

“We survived only by doing the unthinkable: we formed alliances. Witches who had been our enemies for millennia. Werewolf packs who hated Angelica as much as we did. Her own son, aghast at her madness and cruelty. Even mortal hunters who understood that if she won, there would be nothing left _for_ them to hunt. We fought together. We bled together. And when it was finally over, when Angelica’s corpse was burning on a pyre in the industrial district, we had to face a new reality.”

He steepled his fingers again, his gaze never leaving Lochlan.

“Vampires are back on top, yes. But we no longer rule unchallenged. We share this city now. The Consilium has a seat at the table. The werewolf packs have recognized territories. The mortal authorities even have… arrangements. My job, for now, is not to reclaim the old order. It’s to maintain a current one. A fragile, compromised, deeply *irritating* political order that keeps us all from each other’s throats.”

A deep breath. “The Collective.”

Strauss said it like the punchline to a long joke, letting the weight of that settle.

“So when you stand before me as a fledgling with no sire, no history, vouched for by two of the most politically calculating individuals in this room and tell me you _enjoy_ being here, with such a pleasant tone, I have to ask myself: are you naive, or do you simply not understand how precarious this all is? One rogue vampire on the evening news, one leaked document, one viral video that can’t be debunked, and this entire house of cards collapses.”

The court went utterly silent.

Lochlan felt the pressure of every eye on him. Grimaldi’s hand twitched fractionally at his side. Valois’s smile froze, her gaze locked on Strauss with fresh intensity.

Like someone watching a card game where the stakes had just doubled.

Lochlan met Strauss’s eyes and didn’t flinch. “I’m only stating the facts. You’ve built a status quo that can pass as normal to an ignorant stranger. That must be proof something’s working.”

Another thoughtful pause.

“Ha,” Strauss finally said, his voice dropping back into formal cadence. “I suppose you’ve answered my question. Magister Grimaldi, you have presented him and no doubt stuffed him with speeches from my own sire’s era. You claim responsibility for his conduct and his adherence to the law?”

Grimaldi gave a single, shallow bow. “I do, Nightmare.”

“Then he is yours. See that he is educated. He has until the next moon to secure a haven and demonstrate his value to the domain. Until then, he is your ward. Any harm done to the Collective is your burden.”

The Nightmare flicked his wrist, a dismissive gesture. The court immediately erupted back into soft conversation, the dangerous moment passed. Lochlan had been acknowledged. He existed.

Ms. Valois glided over to him, her eyes sparkling with a new, more calculating amusement. “You survived your first audit. Now the real work begins. This,” she said, gesturing to the scheming, monsters around them, “was the easy part.”

“I’m sure I can demonstrate my value to the city. It couldn’t be too hard if this lot managed it.”

Ms. Valois let out a soft, silvery laugh. “Oh, you have so much to learn.” She gestured with her chin toward a cluster of vampires nearby. “See that one? He owns the city’s largest funeral homes. A monopoly on discreet disposal. And her?” She nodded toward a severe-looking woman in a razor-sharp pantsuit. “She controls three major blood banks and a network of compliant surgeons. And that pale wretch in the corner? His ‘value’ is that he is the Nightmare’s personal archivist and knows where every single body in this room is buried, metaphorically and literally.”

She turned her dark eyes back to him, the amusement fading into something more serious. “Value is not an abstract concept here. It is currency. It’s social leverage. It is the only thing that keeps you from being considered a drain on the resources of the city, and therefore, expendable.”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Grimaldi has given you a shield for a few nights.”

“I’d say you did that, with your little distraction. This meeting took ten times longer to prepare for than attend.”

Valois grinned in acknowledgement, a flash of genuine pleasure at the deft political maneuver. “But you must find your sword. And you must do it quickly.”

She left the implied offer hanging in the air between them. She was a potential patron, a source of information, and undoubtedly, a web of strings attached.

Magister Grimaldi stepped to his side, his voice a low rumble. “By the way. Do not be so quick to dismiss the ‘lot’. They have had decades, centuries in some cases, to weave themselves into the fabric of the mortal world. You have had minutes. Your value, for now, is the mystery of your blood. But that will not last.”

He looked toward Strauss, who was now listening to a report from a grim-faced vampire in a long leather coat. The Nightmare’s brow was furrowed in concentration, and he nodded a little too eagerly, like a student trying to impress his tutor. “Strauss expects you to either succeed magnificently or fail and be erased.”

“Yet you must have some plans in mind for me.”

A slow, approving smile touched Magister Grimaldi’s thin lips. It was a terrifying sight. “The first glimmer of true insight,” he murmured, his voice for Lochlan’s ears alone. “You are correct. I do not invest in doomed ventures.”

He turned slightly, his gaze scanning the room as if assessing chess pieces. “I provide a crucial, if unsavory, service. I find truths. I uncover secrets that others wish to remain buried. This court is a nest of lies and ambitions. I make it my business to know what Strauss does not.”

His icy eyes slid back to Lochlan. “Your value is twofold. First, the mystery of your blood is a hook. It has drawn the attention of the Nightmare and of Ms. Valois. It will draw others. Take advantage of your novelty.”

“Second,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “you are an unknown element. You have no alliances, no old grudges. You can go places and ask questions that I cannot. You will be my agent. My eyes and ears in the shadows they do not yet think you are capable of navigating.”

He stated it not as a request, but as a simple fact. This was the boon. This was the price.

“The first truth I wish you to find is the identity of your Sire. They are a powerful rogue element, at a time when the Collective is in a state of recovery. Find them. When you do, you will bring that information not to the Nightmare, but to me.”

Lochlan didn’t respond immediately. He let the weight of the command settle, turning it over in his mind like a coin with two poisoned sides. Find his sire—the one who’d made him, abandoned him, turned him into a political liability. Bring that information to Grimaldi, not the Prince._

Which meant Grimaldi wanted leverage Strauss didn’t have. Which meant his sire was valuable. Which meant Lochlan, by extension, was valuable.

He met Grimaldi’s icy gaze and nodded once. “Understood.”

But in the back of his mind, the Cobweb whispered a different truth: the moment he found his sire, he’d have a choice. Give Grimaldi the information… or keep it. And leverage, once gained, was a terrible thing to surrender.