The warehouse

You slither down the corridor. The air shifts as you move, a gentle breeze drifting in from the open courtyard at the heart of your manse. Sunlight spills across tiled floors in broken patterns, filtered through hanging silks and carved latticework, while somewhere beyond, a fountain murmurs in steady rhythm. The faint tang of the sea rides the air, clinging to your senses in a way that once offended but now simply lingers, familiar and unavoidable after years as Prince-Syndic of the Gilded Coil Concession.

The scroll’s contents still churn in your thoughts, souring your mood. Your gaze sharpens as it falls upon one of the elderly human servants shuffling along the corridor. She hesitates a moment too long, her reaction dulled by the ravages of time. Irritation flares. You do not slow. Your body brushes into her with deliberate disregard, the contact enough to send her tumbling to her knees with a startled gasp.

She is beneath me. The justification comes easily, smooth as silk. It is her failing, not yours.

You continue without a glance back, descending toward the ground floor. The architecture opens around you, the corridor widening into a more utilitarian space that leads toward the warehouse across the compound. Your movement remains fluid, purposeful, your mind already slipping back to more important matters. Thoughts of your impending triumph curl through you, warm and steady, like the eager embrace of a lover. Finally, it will happen! Everything you have arranged, every careful word and hidden agreement, every subtle push and quiet betrayal, all of it drawing toward its inevitable climax.

Gloating might be called a sin by lesser minds. You dismiss the notion without effort. You are a prince. Being on top is your right.

Still, as the thought settles, something falters. A hitch in the smooth cadence of your routine. You slow, just slightly, the motion almost imperceptible. The feeling is faint at first, a quiet pressure at the edge of your awareness, but it lingers.

Your body lurches to a halt, the sudden break in motion jarring against your usual grace.

“Didn’t I…?” The words slip out under your breath, uncertain. “No. I couldn’t have. Right…?”

The unease sharpens. Without further hesitation, you turn and hasten toward the warehouse. The air is cooler here, shaded by high walls and stacked goods, the scent of wood, rope, and distant spice thickening the atmosphere. Two Tsaesci Halfbloods stand at their post near the entrance, no doubt some bastard offspring of yourself or one of your relatives, their posture snapping to attention as you approach. Their salute is precise and practiced. You glide past them without acknowledgment.

Inside, the warehouse hums with quiet industry. Crates are stacked in careful rows, marked with sigils and trade seals, the faint creak of timber and distant voices echoing through the space. You make for the staircase, ascending quickly, your pace betraying a flicker of urgency. The upper level is calmer, reserved for record-keeping and oversight rather than labor.

Your office waits at the end of the short corridor. Smaller than your study in the manse and less adorned, but here efficiency was all that mattered. It allowed you or one of your underlings to do the quick and dirty accounting to tally the influx of trade goods before a more studious breakdown could be cross-referenced. The scent of ink and parchment hangs in the air, layered over the dry aroma of ledgers and sealed goods.

You enter and move straight to the desk. You breath a sigh of relief you did not know you had held. There, within the drawer, lies the scroll. Undisturbed. Exactly where it should be.

You open the drawer fully, your fingers brushing against the smooth parchment. The seal remains intact, its ruby wax unbroken.

I was just being foolish. The thought carries a hint of self-reproach, a rare and fleeting thing for you. Touching the scroll brought some more comfort to you. This unassuming piece of parchment is the final thread in a tapestry of deception you have spent years weaving. With it, everything will fall into place.

An unbidden memory hit you, or rather multiple unbidden memories.

You, holding this same scroll.

You, sealing it.

Sending it.

Again and again.

The same action repeated, identical in every detail.

The repetition is wrong, impossible, yet it presses into your mind with unsettling clarity.

A hiss tears from your throat as you jerk back, your hand recoiling. “I am the master of my own mind!”

The words are sharp, forceful, as if volume alone might assert truth. You steady yourself, drawing in a slow breath. You know the signs. You are not untrained, not defenseless. Whatever this is, illusion or intrusion, it can be resisted.

You close your eyes. You focus inward, drawing your awareness through your body with practiced discipline. Each movement of muscle, each subtle shift of scale, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. You follow it, anchor yourself to it, letting the physical certainty of your form drown out the creeping dissonance in your thoughts. One by one, you seal the pathways of your mind, shutting them tight, isolating the disturbance, trapping it where it cannot spread.

Moments pass.

Slowly, you open one eye.

Nothing.

No sense of release, no fading echo of foreign influence. No cool clarity that would mark a purged enchantment. Only the same room, the same desk, the same scroll resting where it always has.

Frustration snaps through you. The end of your tail lashes sharply, striking a nearby waste bin and sending it clattering across the floor. Scraps and balls of parchment scatter outward in a dry rustle, breaking the stillness.

You reach for the scroll again, more abruptly this time, your grip tightening around it. That same uneasy sensation of déjà vu settles over you once more. Ignoring it the best you can, you slither down the stairs and back out into the compound.