Since Irene's arrival at the mansion two weeks ago, everything had been a bit more "lively," for lack of a better word.
"VERMEER" was the shout most heard drifting through the lower-level corridors — and it usually came from the training hall, where the screams were really just Prince's desperation as he tried, again and again, to land a hit on Irene.
"Ha ha… sorry for the lack of respect, young heir," Irene would reply every time Prince lunged. "But you're very slow."
The guards passing by the training room said the boys were "happier" since they'd started training together. The truth was different: Prince was furious; Irene, composed; and the butlers relieved they didn't have to explain any new injuries.
The day that would mark a before and after for Prince arrived: the succession ceremony.
"Vermeer—stop dodging my blows," Prince panted, exhausted, bruised from falls and from the throws she'd executed with cold efficiency.
"Young heir… nobody wants to get hit, that's why I dodge," Irene replied calmly. "Although it seems you enjoy it. Perhaps you've developed a masochistic streak at such a young age?"
"YOUNG HEIR… GENERAL VERMEER," one of the servants announced, gasping as he entered. "The president requests the presence of both of you in the presidential office."
"My father wants to see us?" Prince asked, surprised. Aidrien summoning them so quickly was unusual — father and son saw each other at most every three or four months.
"If the president summons us, we must go," Irene shrugged. "Want me to escort you, young heir?"
Prince muttered something and followed behind her, red with anger.
They walked the corridors up from Level -1. At the presidential office entrance, three butlers finished adjusting Aidrien's appearance: a gray striped suit, a cloak with purple-and-black tones (tiny "stars" sewn into the detail), a shoulder pauldron bearing the family crest — an imposing crow — a black monocle and his cane inlaid with golden alloy.
"Father, why have you summoned us?" Prince asked when they entered.
"Today the rulers of every nation arrive," Aidrien said without taking his eyes off his reflection in the mirror. "After twenty-five years there's a new successor taking the mantle: a Petrov. Lirium, cradle of the seven families, calls everyone when a new regent rises. They celebrated the Shogun of Raiketsu, the archon of Fortessia, the Inti of the Condor Confederation, the landowner of Baytoria, the king of Elyndral… and me. Today it will be the Czarina of Dravograd: Anastasia Petrov, twenty years old. The youngest to take the position of family leader."
He paused while they adjusted his cloak. He looked at the kids with a gaze that tolerated no distraction.
"You will accompany me. It will be Prince Alhazen's first public appearance with his secretary Irene Vermeer." More an order than an invitation. "Get ready."
The tone froze them. They went to prepare.
Five butlers waited for Prince in his room; Irene tried to avoid it because public life wasn't for her — she was a soldier, not a doll — but the maids were quicker and dragged her to the room, while she protested with muffled complaints.
They dressed them separately: Prince shut in a dressing-closet; Irene sitting on the bed. When the closet opened, Prince emerged immaculate: a tailored black suit, a cloak with purple tones, hair perfectly styled and — most striking — the family emblem on his chest. Irene looked him over, disbelief at the contrast between the boy and the elegance.
"Wow… so the young heir knows how to dress," she said.
Prince, calm as if before a mirror, inspected her purple dress, the floral arrangement in her hair and the long black gloves.
"Miss Vermeer… you are… presentable as well," he said with calculated coldness. "If you've finished admiring me, let's go. My father is not patient." He offered his arm as if it were the most natural thing.
Irene laughed incredulously. "A secretary and a boss don't walk arm in arm; only couples do that."
Prince blushed at the mistake and stammered awkward explanations inspired by the portrait of his parents where the mother holds the father's arm. Irene followed — the first of many times she would follow him, no matter where they went.
Outside, a limousine waited at the door. Aidrien, already inside, was the first to snap:
"You are late."
"My apologies, sir. The young heir was responsible," Irene replied politely.
"ME?!" Prince exclaimed.
"PRINCE," Aidrien cut him off. "What kind of behavior is that? An Alhazen never reacts like that."
"S-sorry, father," Prince mumbled. "It won't happen again."
Feeling a little guilty, Irene rested her head on the young heir's shoulder and fell asleep. He, uncomfortable, nudged her away several times only for her to lean back again. The limousine took them to Lirium's central plaza, and the stage was set to receive the leaders of the six original families and the president.
Prince, startled, let exhaustion take him; his father didn't bother waking him and simply told the guards to watch over him, so Prince missed the initial presentation. When he woke, applause thundered through the plaza.
"And with you… the new ruler of Dravograd: Czarina Anastasia Petrov," the loudspeakers announced.
Prince tried to wake Irene but couldn't, so he left the same instructions with the nearby guards: keep an eye on her until she woke. He pushed through the crowd. He had missed meeting the other heirs, but he wasn't going to miss the day's star. Anastasia mounted the podium, spoke and every camera and gaze fixed on her. She was beautiful and lethal; the ovation left no doubt: she was the center. Prince watched, mesmerized, and felt — with a cold stab — that this was what he wanted: recognition, applause, to be looked at as someone worthy.
Irene woke thirty minutes later, sleepy, left the car determined to find Prince until she finally did. This time she stayed awake at his side; people whispered about the future heir and his companion, about how they stood with the people and not beside the president. Prince and Irene entered a circuit of greetings and introductions with high officials and the entourages of the leaders of each nation — all adults, all older than them.
Aidrien stepped aside to take a call. There were ninety-nine missed calls — or more — from S. When he answered, he could almost see the other man's sadistic smile on the other end.
"Hello, Hazen," S said in a playful, lunatic tone. "Since you didn't reply to my email, I'm calling. Am I interrupting something important?"
"No, S. I'll be direct: you have my soldiers; you have my Genesis. Today I sever ties with Project X. I'll send someone to dismantle the fortress and secure our positions. From today you are relieved of your scientific duties. You're free until the next time I need you," Aidrien said, his voice sharp. "And keep that title, you dear Alhazen dog."
Aidrien hung up. He didn't see it, but he knew S would be amused.
In S's lab, the laughter exploded like thunder.
"That son of a bitch… He hung up on me?" S asked between laughs. "HAHAHAHAHA! Alhazen, you are deliciously entertaining!" he cackled like a madman.
In the fortress, Elian heard that outburst along with the voices inside him.
"That guy's crazy," Elian said in a low voice.
"Hahaha… but he's fun," the demon added.
"He's an aberration of nature," the angel noted.
Elian sighed: he had to keep thinking about how to escape. The longer he stayed, the more S would devise new torments.