The First Age

Maksim gave Alina a small, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as she stepped forward, but his eyes flickered toward the hallway they’d come from, watching for any sign of movement. He stood slightly off to the side, hands clasped behind his back, doing his best to appear casual, though there was a subtle tension in the way he held himself. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted anyone to stumble upon.

As Alina pressed Jensen’s hand to her stomach and spoke, Maksim felt a pang of emotion—a quiet pride for her courage—but it was quickly tempered by the reality of where they were. His gaze shifted briefly to Jensen, who handled the moment with a calm reverence that even Maksim found disarming. Still, the practical part of him itched to move on.

When Jensen stepped back, offering his congratulations, Maksim seized the moment. “Alina,” he said gently but firmly. “We should return to the party. We’ve been gone long enough.” His tone was polite but carried a quiet insistence, his eyes briefly meeting Jensen’s in a nod of gratitude before flicking back to her.

He placed a hand lightly on her back, guiding her subtly. “Thank you,” he said to Jensen, keeping his voice low. “But we don’t want to draw attention. Best we all get back.” With that, Maksim gestured for Alina to follow, his movements calm and measured, but his message clear: the moment was done, and it was time to go.

Colette hadn’t expected Zixin’s bold invitation, and a sudden flush of excitement coursed through her at his words. The idea of sweeping off to Singapore on a whim was tempting—seductive, even. For a moment, she let herself imagine it: the glittering skyline, the opulent parties, the thrill of being on Zixin’s arm in one of Asia’s most exclusive cities. But reality pulled her back. She had only just arrived in Moscow and was beginning to pierce the upper echelons of the Custody’s power. To leave now, even for such an alluring offer, would be reckless.

She was about to shake her head, her refusal carefully measured to retain the intrigue of his proposal, when someone bumped into him. Instinctively, she stepped aside to pardon herself on their behalf, her movements smooth and practiced. The woman who collided with Zixin was stunning—smoldering, even. Colette usually prided herself on sharing the spotlight with strong, confident women, but there was something about this one that set her on edge. Perhaps it was the deliberate way she carried herself, or the too-perfect timing of her entrance. Colette held back her words, sensing there was more to this moment than met the eye.

And then she saw him.

Her breath caught in her throat as Carter stepped aside, seemingly indifferent to the commotion surrounding the woman’s shoe. For a moment, she couldn’t process what she was seeing—couldn’t comprehend why he was here. Her jaw fell slightly, utterly unladylike, as shock replaced composure. It was him. After everything, it was him.

The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of the moment pressing down like a vise. She blinked rapidly, willing herself to regain control. This wasn’t the time or place to unravel, and she knew it. They were already drawing attention—far too much of it. She needed to act, and quickly.

“Her shoe, yes,” Colette said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “You must help her.” Her eyes flicked to the woman’s heels, immediately recognizing the designer. It was top of the current fashion, and of course, it fit the woman perfectly. Colette nudged Zixin with a subtle gesture, urging him to tend to the woman. His charm and confidence would diffuse the situation, giving her the opening she needed.

Without missing a beat, she stepped forward and grabbed Carter’s arm, her movements brisk but controlled, as though guiding a wayward guest rather than confronting an ex. She pulled him into her arms and placed them in a position to dance her heart pounding in her chest as she forced herself to appear composed.

Giving her enough time to settle her surprise, her eyes locked with his. For a brief moment, all her carefully curated poise melted away. Her gaze burned with fury, her grip tightening on his arm.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she gasped, her voice low and cutting. Whatever composure she’d mustered before was teetering, replaced by an anger that simmered just below the surface. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to let him derail everything she’d worked so hard to build.

But then her attention shifted, realizing that whispers and wandering eyes were still following them. A confrontation here—one that looked like anything but casual—would be ruinous. Colette straightened, forcing her expression into something softer, more practiced, as if everything was perfectly fine.

“Dance!” she ordered under her breath, her grip still firm on his arm as she waited for him to lead. Her voice didn’t brook any argument, though her smile, directed at those watching, was dazzling and serene. To the outside world, she looked like nothing more than a radiant young woman being whisked by a partner.

As the music swept them up, Colette placed a hand on Carter’s shoulder and drew him close, her movements fluid and precise. “You’re going to tell me exactly why you’re here,” she murmured through gritted teeth, keeping her tone light enough that no one else could detect the tension. “And you’re going to do it without making a scene.”

Her anger lingered, simmering just beneath the surface, but her steps remained graceful, her posture perfect. The room was watching, and she would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Whatever chaos Carter had brought into her life tonight, she would handle it the way she handled everything else: with poise, precision, and an unwavering determination to stay in control.

Carter’s hand rested on her waist, the touch igniting an electric tension neither of them could ignore. He was painfully aware of how close she was, how perfectly she moved in time with the music. Yet the heat in her eyes, masked only by her practiced smile, reminded him that this was far from a romantic reunion. Colette’s composure was flawless for the crowd’s sake, but he could feel the anger radiating off her in waves.

He hesitated, glancing around the room, careful not to draw any more attention. He’d already done enough damage simply by being here. He let out a slow breath, matching her measured steps as he leaned in closer, his voice low enough to stay between them.

“I came here for you,” he admitted, his tone soft but unapologetic. His eyes, sharp and intense, locked onto hers. “I didn’t know if you’d even talk to me, so… I improvised.”

Colette’s fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, her jaw visibly clenching, though her expression for the audience remained that of a poised, carefree woman enjoying a dance with her partner. “You improvised?” she hissed under her breath, her anger crackling through her controlled tone. “Carter, this isn’t some school reunion. This is Moscow. You don’t just improvise your way into a room full of people like this.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching into a faint smirk, though it was tinged with a hint of defiance. “And yet, here I am,” he said. “No one noticed me until now, and no one would’ve noticed at all if it weren’t for… that little moment.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Cyrena and Zixin, his voice dripping with subtle blame for the scene they had inadvertently caused.

Colette’s grip on his shoulder tightened further, her movements as precise as ever but her tone laced with quiet fury. “You can’t be serious. You just show up, no warning, no explanation, and expect—what? That I’d just fall into your arms and forget everything?”

“No,” Carter replied, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering. “I didn’t expect that. But I needed to see you, Colette. I needed to know if… if there’s still a chance, and you need to come home.” His words faltered slightly, but the vulnerability behind them was unmistakable.

Colette’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond right away. She glanced around the room, her face still a mask of calm perfection, before returning her gaze to his. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said finally, her voice trembling just slightly beneath the practiced steadiness. “You don’t belong here, Carter, and you’re going to ruin everything.”

“And yet,” Carter said again, his tone firm and resolute, “I’m here. For you.”

Her breath hitched slightly, her steps faltering for the briefest of moments before she caught herself and continued their smooth waltz across the floor. “You should leave,” she said, her voice low and cutting, though her eyes betrayed something more complicated—anger, yes, but also a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. “Before you ruin more than just this evening.”

Carter leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. “If you wanted me to leave, you wouldn’t be dancing with me right now.”

The remark hit its mark, and Colette’s lips pressed into a tight line. She hated how easily he could cut through her defenses, hated the way his words stirred something in her she thought she’d buried. She hated that, despite everything, she hadn’t already walked away.

Her response was quiet, a whisper meant for him alone. “This dance isn’t for us, Carter. It’s for them.” Her eyes flicked subtly to the crowd, still watching. “When this is over, so are we. You’ll walk out of here, and I’ll pretend you never showed up.”

Carter’s smirk faded, replaced by something more serious, more determined. “We both know you don’t mean that,” he said. He wasn’t ready to let her go—not tonight, not ever—and he knew, somewhere deep down, that she wasn’t ready to let him go either.

But for now, he played along, his steps steady and graceful as they moved together as if they’d never been apart. Whatever came next, whatever she decided, he wasn’t about to let her slip away without a fight.

Nikolai allowed himself the faintest smile as Adrian departed, his thoughts lingering on the young man’s words. In a way, he was strangely proud. That Adrian had recognized the truth of Jay Carpenter’s presence meant his intellect was as sharp as Nikolai had hoped. It was a calculated gamble to send Carpenter—a deliberate insult cloaked as a concession. But Adrian’s understanding of what Jay represented suggested he was ready for something more. The question now was whether Nikolai would give it to him.

The memory of Adrian’s intrusion into his dream resurfaced, vivid as ever. At the time he met Adrian, his focus had been entirely on the Americas, orchestrating the moves that had led to the very announcements being shared tonight. There had been no room to ponder Adrian’s strange and dangerous ability. But neither had Nikolai been willing to dismiss it. Potential, after all, was the most precious resource, and Adrian’s was nothing short of extraordinary.

“Likewise,” he had replied, his voice measured, watching Adrian retreat into the crowd. For a moment longer, he lingered, the faint echo of unfinished calculations flickering in his thoughts. Then, with a subtle glance at his watch, he shifted his attention back to the present. Time moved forward, and so must he.

He inquired about Myshelov, whose location was relayed to him promptly. Nikolai turned toward the dance floor, his gaze sweeping over the swirling sea of masked attendees. The gilded lights shimmered off jeweled gowns and polished suits, faces obscured by elaborate disguises. It took him a moment to identify the Patron, now unmistakably in the company of one of the Vasilev children. But his attention snagged elsewhere.

A figure moved through the light—a woman, her dress gleaming like liquid silver, her hair cascading down her back in soft, dark curls. She turned in time with the music, her partner holding her with a tightness that bordered on possessive. Nikolai’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in surprise at seeing her dancing, but at the subtle tension in the way her partner seemed unwilling to let her go.

The corners of his mouth tightened imperceptibly as he crossed the room, the dance floor parting before him as though choreographed. Timing was everything. He arrived just as two attendees stepped away from the floor, leaving him a clear path. His approach was deliberate, visible enough that Myshelov would have time to notice him. And notice him he did—the Patron paused mid-turn, his partner’s hand still held firmly in his own, as though releasing her might cause her to slip away like smoke.

Nikolai stepped closer, his voice low and composed as he leaned toward Myshelov. “Let’s round them up,” he said quietly, his tone carrying no urgency, only an expectation that his request would be followed without hesitation.

Myshelov inclined his head, his grip on Sofia loosening, though not before his gaze flickered toward her with a small, lingering smile. “Of course, Ascendancy,” he replied smoothly. But then, as though seizing an opportunity, he added, “Perhaps you would do me the favor of finishing this dance with Sofia in my absence?”

There was a coyness to his words, a subtle maneuver that revealed both deference and calculation. By reminding Nikolai of the girl’s name and drawing his attention toward her, Myshelov had deftly transferred her to the Ascendancy while offering her presence as an unspoken gift. A diplomatic play, to be sure, but not one that escaped Nikolai’s notice.

Nikolai’s gaze settled on Sofia, taking in her poised movements, the faint sheen of exertion on her skin, the way she held herself as though the entire room was hers to command. “If she is willing,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk, extending his hand toward her.

And yet, as he waited for her response, his attention flickered briefly elsewhere—toward Noemi, passing nearby with her usual quiet elegance. The glance was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it lingered in his mind like an echo. Then his focus returned to Sofia, his hand steady, his expression calm yet unreadable. The game was already in motion, but there was no need to rush. Time, as always, was on his side.

He was so lovely, and so sad. Alina felt the emotion rush inside her, heightened by hormones and bringing warmth to her eyes that she smoothed away discreetly. Still, the look she gave Maksim was a little despairing. Her family was large, chaotic, vibrant, and she couldn’t fathom why someone would isolate themselves in the middle of a party. Even Pasha, who didn’t remotely enjoy these occasions, simply retired himself to company he found more comfortable once he’d made the necessary social rounds.

She followed Maksim’s lead and allowed herself to be led away, grateful for the moment – and reminded just how fiercely she loved him for the softness of his heart. While they were still alone in the estate’s grand halls, she leaned to nuzzle against him and whispered that declaration in his ear.

She wouldn’t mention Jensen again. But Vasiliev women were not known for their docility when their hearts or minds were set upon something.

Maybe it was exactly Pasha she needed to speak to.



She always enjoyed Myshelov’s company, and not just for the power of his title. Sofia positioned herself expertly between the doting niece she often portrayed herself to be, not that there was any actual blood relation of course; and the flirtatiousness of a young woman who knew the weight and worth of her charm – and the commodity it wielded in his favour. On the dancefloor Sofia was all smiles and whispered razor wit, to the envy of those who'd never attain such heights. The Patron’s attention was coveted – he was dangerous, powerful, and very well liked by his dominance – while Sofia’s own favour was as precious as the diamonds glittering across her mask, and far rarer.

It was a show, and they both knew it.

Zixin swept up Colette in her absence, and she paid no real mind to it. Adrian’s thorough incompetence at being an adequate date was not surprising – Colette would definitely be doing better in future, Sofia would ensure it. But she was not so uninterested as to miss the small ripple of disturbance that followed soon after. Cyrena’s facade was transparent. Utterly. Her attention cut briefly to the stranger who claimed Colette, but it was towards Cyrena the ire in Sofia’s chest set aflame. A stupid gamble for the woman to make really, to think it would go unnoticed – or uncontested.

Myshelov had neatly paused – and of course Sofia could by then see why – but it wasn’t to release her. She was about to express a sisterly concern and excuse herself anyway – the Marveets were practically family, after all, and it was only polite for her to allow him to attend to the Ascendancy – when Myshelov skillfully outmanoeuvred her. The sly cut of her glance at him acknowledged it, though it was hardly to her detriment that he pushed her piece across the board of tonight’s game.

Her attention moved smoothly, with all the beautiful poise and charm she was renowned for. She smiled at the offered hand, gaze travelling up the arm to the man who eclipsed even Myshelov for power. Of course she luxuriated in the moment, made in the centre of her domain, with the eyes of all the Vasiliev’s allies and enemies in attendance. It wasn’t unheard of for Nikolai Brandon to partner a dance at events like this, but neither was it a common enough occurrence that it would go unremarked.

For a moment she followed the flicker of his attention away from her – a lapse she might not have noticed but for how avidly she courted the moment of his singular attention. And to her credit her expression remained effortlessly serene for all the unexpected recognition of the woman currently cradled in her brother’s arms.

“I always keep a promise,” she demurred, sliding her hand into his. He might be the Ascendancy, but Sofia was as beautiful and deadly as a gilded cobra, and he would not ruin this moment for her.

For now Myshelov earned Cyrena a reprieve, not a pardon. And there was nothing she could do to release Noemi’s claws from Dima at present. But Vasiliev women were not known for their docility when their hearts or minds were set upon something.

He was led off the dance floor by a firm tug of the hand. Cyrena glanced back over her shoulder, a mischievous smile flashing as though they shared some private joke. Her hips swayed in rhythm to the lingering music, the slit of her black dress parting with each step, offering glimpses of long, toned legs. Zixin allowed himself to follow, his usual grip of control tinged with curiosity. He wasn’t the sort of man to be led—yet he was intrigued enough to allow her guidance.

They stopped at the edge of the room, near a shadowed alcove where the golden light from the chandeliers softened, pooling around her like a spotlight.  She reminded him of a shark circling, waiting for an unsuspecting meal to wander too close. He appreciated the quality. Women like Cyrena weren’t easily bored, but when they were, they had a habit of creating chaos for entertainment.

“Thank you for rescuing my poor, unfortunate shoe,” she teased, her lips curving into a slow, sultry smile. She offered a hand, her wrist loose even as her grip was firm. She was no damsel in distress, he realized. She was a puppet master; a role Zixin approved. She had fire, a boldness that he rarely encountered in rooms filled with posh people like this. He found it quite amusing. Perhaps the best entertainment of the night.

“That little stunt on the dance floor… quite the performance. Was it meant for me, or someone else?” Zixin asked.

Cyrena’s smile widened, a glint of wickedness in her eyes. “Let’s just say I like to keep things interesting,” she said, brushing a hand slowly down her dress, as though smoothing an imaginary wrinkle.

Zixin laughed, his suspicion tempered by the undeniable attraction that simmered between them, “No good sentence ever began with let’s just say…”

“But you certainly made it worth my while.”Her gaze flicked over him, lingering just long enough to make her intentions clear.

He wasn’t naive; he could see she had her own game in play. Still, he found himself drawn to her, intrigued by what she might want—and what she might offer. “I can’t help but wonder if Sofia sent you my way.” The mention of Sofia was deliberate, a calculated move to see how much Cyrena knew—or didn’t know. He watched her closely, searching for any flicker of recognition in her expression.

Cyrena blinked once, her smile never faltering. “Sofia?” she repeated lightly, as though tasting the name. “No, darling, I act on my own. Always.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if you’re implying I should be worried about her, do not bother. I can handle Sofia.”

Zixin’s lips quirked upward in a half-smile, impressed by her deflection. “Worried? Not at all,” he said smoothly, though the thought of Sofia’s reaction to this little diversion was tantalizing. “But I imagine she’d find this… interesting.” His voice trailed as Cyrena leaned near. He took advantage of the opportunity to ask a conspiratorial question. “So if this is not about me, then who?”

Cyrena’s only response was a subtle nod, directing his attention back toward the dance floor. Zixin’s gaze followed, curious, but his brows rose slightly when he saw not Colette, nor the man in her arms, but Sofia, now dancing in the arms of none other than the Ascendancy himself.

“Well now,” Zixin murmured, his expression shifting into one of amusement mixed with something sharper. ”This is an interesting turn of events,” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

At his side, Cyrena grew still. Her easy smile faltered for a fraction of a second, and her expression turned flat, like ice. Noticing her change in demeanor, Zixin glanced at her, his suspicion rekindled. “Is she close to the Ascendancy, then?” he asked, his voice low and probing.

Cyrena scoffed softly, though she was careful to keep her voice quiet, her gaze flicking back to the dance floor. “It seems he’s chosen his—” She cut herself off abruptly, the words hanging unfinished in the air. Zixin’s brow lifted, and he leaned slightly closer, pressing her with a look that demanded answers.

But Cyrena only smirked, a touch irreverent, her eyes sliding back to meet his. “It’s nothing,” she said, dismissing the moment with a shrug, though her tone betrayed that it was very much something.

Zixin didn’t push her further. He didn’t need to. The tension in her voice, the way her smile had sharpened—he could read between the lines. He let his gaze linger on Sofia and the Ascendancy for another moment, a flicker of calculation crossing his face. Interesting indeed.

“Zixin Kao,” he said.

“Cyrena Marveet,” she replied.

Nikolai was not entirely immune to the art of dancing. He wouldn’t call himself a natural—grace had never been his strongest suit—but he was competent enough to move without embarrassment. As he took Sofia’s hand and guided her toward the music, his movements were precise, almost mechanical, more out of duty than desire. His grip was steady, his steps deliberate, but there was little warmth in the gesture. It was the dance of a man who saw such moments as obligation rather than pleasure.

When his gaze met hers, it was fleeting, polite, and detached, like the passing glance of a much older man indulging a young woman for whom he felt no real connection. The spark of interest that Sofia likely inspired in so many others failed to ignite in him. She was poised and beautiful, yes, but Nikolai viewed her through the lens of calculation, not admiration.

Their small talk drifted as predictably as the music, a series of questions and polite responses that felt more like a script than a conversation. He inquired about her interest in the party, her plans for the holidays, his tone perfectly measured, neither too curious nor entirely indifferent. She replied with practiced charm, every answer polished, every word deliberate. He mirrored her politeness but found it an effort to appear focused. The distractions gnawed at him, drawing his attention elsewhere.

As they turned with the rhythm, Nikolai’s gaze slipped past her shoulder to Noemi. His chest tightened at the sight of her, her posture subtly tense, her expression carefully schooled. Something about it unsettled him. He didn’t like the tautness in her shoulders or the way her movements seemed restrained, as if she were holding herself back.



The murmurs of conversation and the notes of the orchestra barely registered as he approached Konstantin, leaning in to speak softly. His tone was calm, measured, but carried the weight of an unspoken command. “The Ascendancy has requested that the party gather in attendance,” he said, his words clipped but polite. Myshelov stepped back, watching as the host gave a subtle nod and began the delicate work of corralling the scattered attendees. Myshelov allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction—Konstantin knew his role well—but his focus shifted almost immediately. One face, a particular one, was conspicuously absent.

Mister James, it seemed, was exploring the far reaches of the estate. The notion drew a slight frown from Myshelov, the kind of expression that barely touched his face but spoke volumes. With small time to spare, Myshelov adjusted his cuffs, his every movement deliberate, and set off himself. He moved with an unhurried authority. The far end of the estate was quiet, the sounds of the party fading into the distance as he left it behind.

His steps echoed faintly against the polished floors, each one a quiet testament to his resolve. He did not send a subordinate. Myshelov preferred to handle such matters personally when they demanded his attention. After all, a personal touch often yielded the clearest results—and when it came to Mister James, clarity was essential.

Xander heard the murmurs in the halls. The Ascendancy was going to address the party. So Xander pulled Kristian together put on a smile and made his way out into the ball room where everyone else was gathered. He reigned in his gift and shuttered it tight, he didn't need a full blown migraine.

People were dancing and mingling. He made his way to the edge of things and waited until whatever reveal happened. And then he'd slip out and meet with Vasillev sometime the next day. Maybe he'd find Jensen see if he wanted to leave the joint too, but Kristian would see how that went later, he hadn't seen him since they parted ways.