Part 1: The Mirror House
The road to Paris stretched like a ghost — long, quiet, and silver under the moonlight. Bill drove without a word, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the horizon. The hum of the engine was the only sound between them, broken only by Elara's soft breath as she sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap. The air between them was heavy — the kind of silence that didn't come from comfort, but from thought. Every now and then, his eyes flicked to her reflection in the window. The way the moonlight brushed against her face — fragile but steady — reminded him of everything he was trying to forget. Elara finally spoke. "Are we going to Paris… for revenge?" Bill didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low, almost distant. "Not revenge. Correction." "Correction?" she repeated. "There are things that shouldn't exist," he said. "The Mirror House is one of them."
The Arriva They reached the city before dawn — a shadowed Paris still asleep beneath gray clouds and flickering street lamps. The rain had just begun, thin and cold. Bill parked the car on the edge of Montmartre, near a line of shuttered cafés and cobblestone alleys slick with water. The city smelled of rain and rust. Elara followed as he led her down a narrow street that seemed to twist endlessly. At the end of it stood a tall, silent building of black marble and glass. No lights, no guards, no sound — but its reflection shimmered even in the dim light. "The Mirror House," Elara whispered. Bill nodded once. "Don't look at the mirrors unless I tell you to." She frowned. "Why?" He looked at her then — not unkindly, but with the gravity of someone who'd learned things the hard way. "Because they don't just reflect. They remember."
The House that Breathes The doors opened with a quiet hiss when he placed his hand on the scanner. The interior was vast — walls of dark glass, endless hallways filled with mirrors framed in gold. The air carried a faint hum, as if the building itself was alive. Elara shivered. Every reflection moved a fraction slower than reality, almost like the glass was watching back. "Who built this place?" she asked. Bill's voice was clipped. "My father." She turned to him, stunned. "Your father? But—" "He founded The Syndicate of Roses. Before my brother twisted it." Her pulse quickened. "Then why bring me here?" He stopped at the center of the hall, where a single mirror stood — taller than the rest, its surface veiled in mist. "Because this is where it began," he said quietly. "And where it ends." The Reflection Bill reached into his coat, took out the letter Elara had found, and pressed the wax seal against the mirror's edge. The glass shimmered, rippling like water. A faint voice echoed through the room — smooth, mocking, familiar. > "Welcome home, Brother." Elara flinched. "Lucien?" The reflection shifted — and there he was. Lucien Moreau, alive, smirking through the glass. He looked nothing like the boy Bill once knew — his hair darker, his eyes colder, his presence sharpened by power. "Still chasing ghosts, Bill?" Lucien's voice was silky. "You were always too sentimental." Bill stepped forward. "You killed Viora." Lucien laughed softly. "She was in the way. You should thank me — I freed you." Bill's jaw tensed. "You call this freedom?" "I call it destiny," Lucien said. "You and I were meant to rule this city. You turned your back on it. I didn't."
The Trap As they spoke, Elara noticed something strange — faint symbols glowing around the mirror's base, pulsing with light that mirrored her heartbeat. "Bill," she whispered, "the floor—" Too late. The symbols flared, and the room sealed shut. The mirrors around them began to distort, showing flashes of faces — soldiers, children, flames, and blood. Bill's war. Lucien's voice filled the chamber. "Did you really think I wouldn't prepare for your return? The Heir of Paris always sees the board first." "Then you're the Heir," Bill said flatly. Lucien smiled. "And you're the War God who lost his crown." The mirrors pulsed, sending a jolt of light that threw Elara backward. She gasped, clutching her head as images flooded her mind — visions of Bill, ten years younger, bound, bleeding, reborn in fire. "Stop it!" she screamed. Bill grabbed her, shielding her with his body as the mirrors cracked. "Lucien, enough!" But Lucien only laughed. "You brought her here for me, brother. She's the key. And you still don't know why."
The largest mirror shattered, and a shard of glass flew past Bill's face, cutting his cheek. The blood that fell shimmered — golden instead of red. Elara stared, breathless. "Bill… your blood—" He looked down at his hands, glowing faintly. His veins pulsed like molten light. Lucien's voice echoed, fading into laughter. > "Welcome back to the game, War God." The mirror went dark. Elara trembled, eyes wide, as she whispered, "What are you?" Bill turned toward her, his face shadowed but his voice steady. "What they made me," he said. "And what I swore I'd never become again."
End of Part 1
Part 2: The Blood of a God
The silence after Lucien's voice faded was suffocating. The mirrors no longer reflected the room — only fractured shadows, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Bill stood in the center, his blood still glowing faintly beneath his skin. The light slowly dimmed, but the mark remained — thin lines of gold tracing his veins like threads of fire. Elara's voice trembled. "Bill… your blood—" He wiped the cut on his cheek with the back of his hand. The smear shimmered like molten metal. "You weren't supposed to see that." "Then tell me what it means," she said, stepping closer. "Please." Bill's eyes lifted to hers — dark, haunted, but soft enough to show the man beneath the myth. "It means I was never meant to come back."
The Past Unsealed He turned away, walking toward the cracked mirror, his reflection rippling like smoke. "Ten years ago," he began quietly, "the Council created a project — Divine Synthesis. They were building soldiers that couldn't die. Human enough to obey, godlike enough to destroy." Elara frowned. "You were one of them?" "I was the first." He looked at his hands — scarred, still trembling faintly from the light. "They took everything from me. My memories. My voice. Even my name. For years, I was just a weapon. Then, one day, I broke the chain. The war ended, and so did I — or so I thought." Elara's heart ached. "But your brother—he stayed?" Bill nodded slowly. "Lucien perfected the serum. He made himself stronger… but not human. And now he's binding it to the city. To the Rose Syndicate. He wants control of everyone." Her throat tightened. "Then what happens to people like me?" He turned to her then — really looked at her — and for a moment, the soldier vanished. What stood before her was a man, weary but alive. "They become his currency," he said softly. "And that's why I can't let him win."
The Storm Within A sudden tremor ran through the building. The mirrors pulsed faintly, alive again. Bill reacted instantly, drawing Elara behind him. "He's still connected. The house is his eye." He pulled out a small silver blade, pressing it against one of the glowing lines on the wall. Sparks hissed, and the hum died. Elara gripped his arm. "How do you know how to stop it?" He hesitated — then said quietly, "Because I helped build it." The words hit her harder than any explosion. "You—what?" He met her gaze. "Before the war. Before everything. My father's project… it wasn't his idea. It was mine. I designed the mirror systems — to store memory, to map emotion. I thought I was saving people from pain." Her voice softened. "And instead?" His jaw tightened. "I gave Lucien a way to enslave them." For a heartbeat, silence. Then Elara stepped forward, placing her palm against his chest. "You can still undo it, Bill." His breath caught. "You don't understand. I'm not the hero here." "Maybe not," she said, her eyes steady. "But you're the only one who's still trying to be."
The Wound Before he could answer, a sharp pain struck through his arm — the glow of his veins flaring bright. He fell to one knee, gasping. Elara knelt beside him. "Bill! What's happening?" He gritted his teeth. "Lucien… he's trying to override the link. My blood's the key—he's hacking through it." The air filled with static as the mirrors cracked again. Voices whispered from the glass — cold, mechanical, almost human. > Obey the Heir. Return to the source. Elara looked around, panicked. "What do I do?" "Cut the circuit!" Bill shouted, pointing to a glowing crest above the door. "The mark — break it!" She grabbed a fallen piece of glass and threw it at the crest. It shattered — and instantly, the whispering stopped. Bill collapsed forward, panting. His glow dimmed again, the gold retreating into his veins. Elara caught him before he hit the ground. His skin was fever-hot, his pulse erratic. "You're burning up," she whispered. He managed a faint smile. "Guess gods aren't built for love." Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't let go. "You're not dying here, Bill. Not after everything."
The Awakening They found shelter in a back corridor of the Mirror House — a narrow room lined with shattered glass and forgotten files. Elara tore fabric from her sleeve and wrapped his arm, the golden shimmer fading beneath the bandage. He watched her silently. "Why do you care so much?" he asked hoarsely. "Because someone has to," she said simply. He smiled faintly — not the cruel smirk of the War God, but the quiet, fragile kind of smile that belonged to the boy who used to exist before the war. "I used to believe in vows," he murmured. "Then I learned that promises mean nothing in blood." Elara looked at him. "Then make a new one." He raised a brow. "A vow?" She nodded. "To live. To fight. To be more than what they made you." For a moment, silence. Then Bill reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers. The air between them seemed to shift — heavy with something unspoken. "I swear," he whispered. "On the ashes of the Rose… and on your name."
Before Elara could respond, the ground beneath them shook violently. From the corridor outside came the echo of boots — heavy, synchronized. Bill's eyes snapped open. "They found us." Elara froze. "Lucien's men?" He drew his gun, the faintest trace of gold still in his eyes. "No. Worse." The door exploded inward — and standing in the smoke was a woman dressed in white leather, her eyes burning crimson. "Hello, War God," she said, voice smooth as silk. "The Heir sends his regards." Elara's breath caught as the woman raised a blade glowing with the same golden light that pulsed in Bill's veins. "Kill the girl," the woman ordered. "Bring him alive." Bill's voice turned to steel. "Over my dead body."
End of Part 2
Part 3: The Assassin in White
The door slammed open in a burst of fire and smoke. Bill moved first—instinct, not thought. He shoved Elara behind a column as the blade of the intruder sliced through the air, leaving a trail of gold that hissed where it struck stone. "Move!" he barked, firing twice. The bullets ricocheted off her armor with a sound like struck steel. The woman in white smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of crimson-painted lips. "Still fast," she purred. "But slower than the last time." Bill froze. That voice. He knew it. "Elaina?" The assassin tilted her head, amused. "So you do remember." Elara peeked out from behind the column, eyes wide. The woman was beautiful, almost inhuman—pale skin, hair white as frost, eyes that burned with a strange inner fire. There was something ghostly about her, something that didn't belong to this world. Bill's grip on his weapon tightened. "You were supposed to be dead." Elaina smirked. "Death doesn't stick to gods, remember?"
The Fight She moved like lightning. The golden blade swept toward him in an arc, sparks flying as he parried with his knife. Every strike was a dance—fluid, merciless, precise. "You trained her," Elara realized aloud, watching the pattern of their movements. Bill blocked another blow, gritting his teeth. "She was one of mine… before she joined Lucien." Elaina's blade flashed again, grazing his shoulder. "You left us, Bill. You left me." "I left the war!" he shouted, kicking her backward. "There's a difference." The woman laughed—a cold, wild sound. "The war never left you. It's in your blood, your bones, your breath. You can't run from what you are!" Elara looked on, terrified yet transfixed. Every strike Bill took seemed to fuel her fear; every hit he landed seemed to awaken something inside her she didn't understand—something fierce, protective, desperate.
The Turn Bill lunged forward, disarming her with a brutal twist of his arm. The golden blade flew across the floor, spinning to a stop near Elara's feet. For a second, Elaina looked stunned—then she smiled. "Go ahead," she said softly. "Finish it. You're good at killing what you once loved." Bill hesitated—just for a breath. That was all she needed. She lunged forward, grabbing the gun at her thigh, and fired. Elara screamed as Bill twisted aside, but the shot grazed his ribs. He staggered, the glow of his blood pulsing brighter. "Bill!" she cried, rushing to him. Elaina leveled her gun again. "Step away, girl." Elara's eyes hardened. For the first time, she didn't move back.
The Choice Something shifted inside Elara—the terror, the helplessness—it snapped. She picked up the fallen golden blade. It was warm, pulsing, almost alive. Bill's voice was strained. "Elara, don't—" But she didn't listen. When Elaina fired again, Elara swung. The blade caught the bullet midair—shattering it into dust. The golden light spread up her arm, searing but somehow right.bElaina froze. "Impossible." Elara's voice trembled but held steady. "You said gods can't die. Let's find out if they can bleed." She moved—not gracefully, not perfectly, but with instinct and raw courage. The blade struck Elaina's gun, sending it flying. Bill surged up, catching the assassin by the throat and slamming her against the wall. The white-clad woman gasped, laughing through the pain. "She has it too," she whispered. "Lucien was right." Bill's grip tightened. "What did you say?" "She's the conduit, Bill. The blood calls to her. You think you're protecting her—but you're binding her." Her smirk widened. "She's your downfall." Bill's expression turned to ice. "Not tonight." He drove the blade through her chest. The golden light flared—then went out. When he stepped back, she was gone. Not dead, not fallen—just gone, her body dissolving into dust and ash.
The Aftermath The silence that followed was deafening. Elara dropped the blade, her hands shaking. "What did she mean?" Bill didn't answer. He stared at the empty space where Elaina had stood, his breathing heavy. "Lucien's found a way to copy the divine link. If he's using you…" "Using me for what?" she asked, terrified. He looked at her—pain flickering in his eyes. "To control me." She took a step closer. "That's not possible." He shook his head. "It is. The War God's blood answers to only one vow—and if Lucien binds that vow through you, he owns me." Elara's heart pounded. "Then what are we supposed to do?" He turned toward her slowly. The golden light beneath his skin had almost faded, but his voice was rough, raw. "Run. As far as you can." She shook her head fiercely. "No. I'm not leaving you." He stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. "You don't understand, Elara. The next time he calls… I might be the one who kills you." Her breath caught. "Then I'll remind you who you are before you do." For a second, his mask cracked—his eyes softened, his lips parted like he might say something more. But before he could, the floor trembled again, and the walls of the Mirror House began to hum. Lucien's voice echoed from every surface: > "Run, if you can, brother. The game has just begun." The lights turned crimson. The ceiling started to collapse. Bill grabbed Elara's hand. "Move!" They ran through the burning corridors, the golden blade still glowing faintly in her grip, as if alive—like it had chosen her.
They burst into the cold night, the Mirror House crumbling behind them. From afar, the ruins reflected one last glimmer of light—Lucien's symbol, burning in the smoke. Bill stopped, pulling Elara close, both of them breathless and blood-streaked. She looked up at him. "What now?" He stared into the flames. "Now," he said quietly, "we stop running." But as they turned away, Elara didn't notice the faint mark glowing just beneath her collarbone — a golden sigil shaped like a rose, blooming where the blade had touched her.
End of Chapter 4.