LEGACY

  The first thing you learn about legacy is that it tastes like rust. Not the fresh kind that forms on morning dew, but the ancient stuff that's seen empires rise and fall. The kind that gets in your blood, under your skin, in the marrow of your immortal bones.

  Maxwell's eyes fix on something in my underground sanctuary. A child's toy - a wooden marionette, strings cut, lying abandoned in a corner. Centuries of dust make it look like a corpse.

  "Thinking about children again?" he asks, voice careful. Professional. We both know what happened last time I considered legacy.

  My strings dance in the stale bunker air, cutting shadows just because they can. A hundred and fifty years since Moscow. Since the twins showed me what real power looks like. My stolen abilities still feel weak, distant. Like holding onto a dream that keeps trying to wake up.

  The memory comes back like a bad habit...

  *****

  You want to know the funny thing about immortality? It gives you too much time to think.

  A century and a half of playing shadows games. Of pulling political strings instead of reality's threads. Presidents dance to my tune. Prime ministers fall like dominoes. But it's all just theater now. The real power - the kind that makes physics cry - belongs to the twins and their new Fellowship.

  I watch them sometimes, through eyes and ears bought with mortal gold. Watch them gather the powered ones that keep appearing. More every year now. The Unweaving picking up speed. They call it "recruitment." I call it what it is - culling the herd. Any power user who won't join gets eliminated. Can't have competition when you're trying to guide humanity's evolution.

  But something's been nagging at me. Like a splinter in my immortal mind.

  Legacy.

  I've had lovers. Hundreds across the centuries. Been careful though. Very careful. The thought of creating something like the twins - of bringing that kind of power into the world without control - it sits in my gut like swallowed glass.

  Then she finds me.

  It happens in Singapore. Again. This city and I have history. Bad history. The kind that leaves scars on reality itself. I'm watching the sunset from a penthouse balcony. The sky's missing stars again. More every night now. The Unweaving picking up speed.

  "Impressive view," a voice like honey over broken glass. "Though I preferred the old skyline. Before you and the Light Weaver redecorated."

  I don't turn. My strings taste her presence - power that makes physics uncomfortable. "Fellowship assassin? Or just another evolutionary dead end?"

  She laughs. The sound makes air molecules dance. "Neither. Both. Does it matter?"

  Now I turn. She's beautiful in the way nuclear explosions are beautiful. Dark hair shot through with strands that don't quite exist in this dimension. Eyes that see too much. Skin that seems to shift between states of matter.

  "You're one of them," I say, strings writhing with anticipation. "One of the new ones."

  "Close." She steps forward, power radiating off her in waves that make reality hiccup. "I'm what comes next."

  The fight starts like they always do - with reality having a seizure.

  Her first attack turns air to crystal. Not metaphorically - literally transforms oxygen into geometric patterns that shouldn't exist. My strings cut through them, but each shard spawns new impossibilities.

  "That's new," I admit, launching a counterattack. Lightning arcs between my strings, the last remnant of Maelstrom's stolen power that still works reliably.

  She moves like mercury, each step leaving afterimages that attack independently. "The Fellowship thinks small. Tries to control evolution." Her smile turns predatory. "I prefer to embrace it."

  Her next attack is pure chaos theory given form. Probability itself becomes a weapon. My strings slice through manifestations of quantum uncertainty, each cut spawning new timelines of violence. She showed me glimpses of multiple realities of my demise and could feel them all, but they were only glimpses.

  I respond with everything I have left. Lightning turns the air to plasma. My strings become a web of electric death. The penthouse around us starts coming apart at the atomic level.

  "Stolen power," she taunts, dancing through my assault. "Borrowed strength. You're trying to fight the future with outdated weapons."

  She's right. My stolen abilities feel weak against whatever she's become. Like bringing a knife to a nuclear war. Perfect.

  Pain is just weakness leaving the body. And I've got plenty of weakness to spare.

  I launch my strings in a pattern I haven't used since my battle with Lark. They cut through her defenses, draw blood that exists in five dimensions simultaneously. She smirks.

  Her counterattack rewrites local physics. Gravity forgets which way is down. The very air turns hostile, each molecule becoming a tiny universe of pain.

  We tear through the penthouse like gods having a domestic dispute. Every impact cratering concrete. Every exchange rewriting small sections of reality. The building's support structures start to fail, thirty stories of prime real estate remembering that gravity exists.

  "You're holding back," she says, reforming from scattered probability. "Prove to me that I’m not wasting my time."

  I respond by turning my strings into conduits of pure destruction. Lightning and shadow and stolen power all mixed together. The attack catches her mid-taunt, opens lines of red across skin that shouldn't be able to bleed.

  "Better," she grins through blood that glows from within. "Now show me the real you."

  The building chooses that moment to give up. Supports fail. Concrete becomes abstract art. Thirty stories of architecture decide to experiment with interpretive dance.

  We fall together through collapsing infrastructure, trading attacks that make physics write strongly worded letters of complaint. Her power warps probability around us, turning deadly debris into quantum uncertainty. My strings cut through manifestations of chaos, each slice leaving reality a little more frayed.

  Impact comes like a cosmic punchline. We crater the street, sending shockwaves through bedrock. Cars flip. Windows shatter. Power lines commit suicide.

  I stand first, spitting blood that tastes like borrowed time. "Who are you really?"

  She pulls herself from the wreckage, her form shifting between states of probability. "Someone who sees further than the twins. Than their precious Fellowship."

  "The Unweaving," I say, watching her power make reality uncomfortable. "What do you know?"

  "I know everything." Her smile turns fractal. "About what's really coming. About what the twins are actually building toward. About why your stolen powers are failing."

  My strings dance with violent interest. "Talk fast."

  "Not here." She gestures at the gathering crowd, at emergency vehicles painting the night in red and blue. "Too many pieces in play. Too many eyes watching."

  I consider killing her. My strings certainly want to. They hunger for whatever new power she represents. But curiosity... curiosity is a stronger addiction than power.

  "You have 15 minutes to explain yourself" I tell her. "Make them count."

  She smirks. “Like you could actually kill me.”

  She begins to walk off. “Follow me.”

  She leads me to an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city. The kind of place reality goes to die. Walls covered in equations that hurt to look at. Air thick with probability fluctuations.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Scarlett's hideout looks like a mad scientist's fever dream. Quantum equations cover every surface, each formula describing ways reality shouldn't bend. Probability matrices float in holographic displays, showing fractured timelines and splintered possibilities.

  "The Unweaving isn't just about power," she says, manipulating strands of quantum data with her probability field. "It's about accessing the spaces between spaces. The quantum foam where reality breaks down and rebuilds itself."

  My strings taste something ancient in her calculations. Something that makes even stolen power nervous. "The twins think they can control it."

  "The twins are blind." Her laugh distorts local physics. "They're looking for someone who can fracture their psyche across quantum realms. Create a parallax effect that opens reality like a door." She turns to face me, power making her form shift through possibilities. "But they're looking in the wrong direction."

  Understanding hits like quantum uncertainty. "They can't access it themselves."

  "No one alive can." Her smile turns predatory. "But someone could be born with the ability. Someone whose genetics combine the right... elements."

  My strings go still. Very still. "You want to breed it."

  "I want to create it." She steps closer, hips swaying with deadly grace. Her probability field makes reality hiccup, but it's her presence that makes my immortal blood run hot. Power radiates off her skin like heat, like hunger, like promises written in quantum foam. "My ability to manipulate quantum states. Your strings are capable of carving new worlds. Combined in the right way..."

  "No." The word comes out like broken glass.

  "You haven't heard the best part." Her power makes air molecules dance. "I've seen the timelines. Traced probability threads across centuries. The child wouldn't manifest the ability - but their line would. Generations down, when genetics and quantum evolution align perfectly."

  I think about the twins. About power born instead of stolen. About legacies written in blood and reality.

  "You're talking about creating someone who could shatter existence," I say, watching her probability field make uncertainty principle nervous. "Who could break down the barriers between every possible reality."

  "I'm talking about freedom." She traces patterns in quantum foam. "Real freedom. Access to unlimited power across the multiverse. The ability to rewrite reality's source code."

  My strings remember what they felt in Chronos's dying moments. The things that wait in the void between realities. The kind of darkness that makes darkness afraid.

  "The twins will try to stop us," I warn, though we both know that's not why I'm hesitating.

  "The twins are playing chess while we're inventing new games." Her form shifts through quantum states. "They're so focused on controlling evolution that they can't see the real possibilities."

  She brings up new calculations. Shows me probability matrices that map genetic potential across generations. Each timeline a branching river of power and possibility.

  "You've spent centuries taking power from others," she says, voice soft but cutting. "Isn't it time you created something of your own?"

  My strings dance with violent uncertainty. They remember every power they've stolen, every ability they've ripped from dying gods. But this... this would be different. This would be creation instead of theft. Legacy instead of larceny.

  "The child would be hunted," I say, though we both know I'm running out of objections. "The twins would never stop looking."

  "Good." Her smile makes quantum mechanics reconsider its life choices. "Let them come."

  I study her through strings that taste possibilities. See the power in her probability manipulation. The way it could mix with my fundamental control to create something new. Something dangerous.

  "You're not just looking to create a weapon," I realize, watching her power make reality nervous. "You want to rewrite the whole game."

  "The twins think they're preparing humanity for what comes after physics dies." She manipulates quantum data with casual mastery. "But they're still thinking in terms of control. Of guidance. Of rules."

  "And you want chaos."

  "I want truth." Her form shifts through possibilities. "The truth about what reality really is. What it could be when all the barriers come down. When every quantum state exists simultaneously."

  She shows me more calculations. More probability threads. More possible futures branching like lightning through generations.

  "Our child wouldn't have the ability," she explains, power making mathematics dance. "But they would carry the potential. The right combination of quantum instability and fundamental control. And their children's children..."

  "Would have the power to fracture their consciousness across realities," I finish, finally seeing the full scope of her plan. "To exist in every quantum state simultaneously."

  "To become the key that unlocks everything." Her smile turns triumphant. "The one who could access unlimited power across the multiverse by breaking down the barriers between possible worlds."

  My strings taste truth in her words. Taste possibility. Taste something else too - something that makes even immortal blood run hot.

  "The twins will figure it out eventually," I say, watching probability dance around us. "They'll see the pattern."

  "By then it will be too late." She steps closer, her power mixing with my strings in ways that make physics write letters of complaint. "The potential will be spread too far. Hidden in too many genetic lines. They won't know which branch to cut."

  I think about legacies then. About choices and consequences. About the weight of centuries spent stealing power instead of creating it.

  "You know what you're asking," I say, though my strings are already reaching for her probability field. "What this could unleash."

  "I know exactly what I'm asking." Her form shifts through quantum states as she moves closer, each possibility more alluring than the last. Her scent hits me like quantum uncertainty - danger and desire mixed with something ancient. Something hungry. "The question is: are you ready to stop being a thief and start being a creator?"

  The air grows heavy with possibility. With choice. With the kind of tension that makes physics write love letters to chaos. Her body moves like sin given form, each gesture carrying promises of power and pleasure twisted together until you can't tell which is which.

  "We could be more than just partners," she whispers, lips brushing my ear. Her words make probability dance, make reality shiver. "We could create something beautiful. Something dangerous." Her hands slide under my shirt, trailing quantum fire across immortal skin. "Something that would make the twins' perfect future look like a child's drawing."

  "The twins think they're writing the future," Scarlett says, her power making reality forget how to exist properly. "Let's show them what happens when the future writes itself."

  My strings dance with violent certainty. With hunger. With the kind of desire that makes even immortal blood burn. Scarlett's power responds, her probability field turning each touch into a quantum explosion of sensation. She kisses like she fights - all passion and danger mixed together until you can't tell pleasure from pain.

  "Let me show you," she breathes against my lips, "what we could create together." Her power surges, making reality forget how to exist properly. Making my stolen abilities sing with new purpose. Making everything except this moment, this choice, fade into quantum uncertainty.

  Quantum equations glow brighter as our powers mix and merge. Her probability field turns every caress into a cascade of pleasures existing simultaneously. My strings wrap around her bare skin, hungry for more than just power now, each touch making her existence fluctuate between states of ecstasy. Reality holds its breath, like it knows something fundamental is about to change.

  We create our own apocalypse in that abandoned temple. Each fierce kiss fractures physics - her lips tasting of quantum fire and dangerous promises. My hands explore flesh that shifts between states of matter, her skin radiating power that makes my stolen abilities sing. Her nails draw blood that exists in five dimensions at once. Every moan spawns new timelines. The air itself becomes charged with potential - mathematical and carnal.

  When it's over, we lie tangled in a web of my strings and her probability field. The temple's walls are covered in new equations, written in light and shadow and the aftermath of our union. Abstract patterns that describe what we've just set in motion, splayed across reality like the marks on her immortal skin. The future we've just conceived, in every possible way.

  Scarlett traces patterns in quantum foam while reality remembers how to exist properly. Her skin glows with residual power, probability still dancing across her flesh like St. Elmo's fire. "The calculations were right," she says, studying matrices. "The potential is already there. Growing."

  My strings taste truth in the air. Taste something else too - the first seeds of legacy taking root. Of power being born instead of stolen.

  "How long?" I ask, watching her probability field stabilize around her midsection. The way it protects something new. Something dangerous.

  "Nine months until the first step." Her smile makes uncertainty principle jealous. "A few generations until the real show starts." She manipulates quantum data with casual mastery. "The twins won't even know what to look for. Not until it's too late."

  I think about timelines then. About choices spreading like cracks through reality. About the weight of creating something that could either save or shatter existence.

  "They'll hunt us," I say, watching my strings dance with renewed purpose. "Once they realize what we've done."

  "Let them." Her laugh distorts local physics. "They're still playing the old game. Control. Order. Evolution along prescribed lines." Her form shifts through quantum states as she dresses. "We're writing new rules. Creating new possibilities."

  "And the child?"

  "Will carry potential they can't begin to understand." She brings up more probability matrices. Shows me timelines branching like lightning through generations. I study the calculations through strings that taste possibility. See the pattern hidden in mathematical chaos. The way our combined abilities will ripple through time, creating something new. Something that could finally access the spaces between spaces.

  "The Fellowship tried to maintain barriers," Scarlett continues, power making reality hiccup. "Your twins think they're preparing humanity for what comes after those barriers fall. But us?" Her smile turns fractal. "We're going to shatter them completely. Let humanity become what it was always meant to be."

  My strings wrap around her again, drawn to her power like sharks to blood. Like destiny to chaos. She feels different now - her probability field protecting something that exists in multiple quantum states simultaneously. Something that carries the potential to rewrite everything.

  "The Unweaving isn't just reality breaking down," she says, leaning into my embrace. Her power makes my stolen abilities sing. "It's reality remembering what it used to be. Before physics. Before rules. Before the Fellowship tried to cage the infinite."

  I think about the twins then. About their perfect future. Their guided evolution. Their new Fellowship built on old lies.

  "They won't see it coming," I say, watching probability dance around us. "They'll be looking for someone who already has the ability. Someone they can control or eliminate."

  "While we're creating someone who won't just access the multiverse." Her laugh makes air molecules reconsider their life choices. "They'll become it. Exist in every quantum state simultaneously. Turn the parallax effect into a door that can never be closed."

  Outside, the sky's missing more stars. The Unweaving picking up speed, reality unraveling thread by thread. But in here, in this temple of quantum possibility, we've just woven something new. Something that will either save existence or shatter it completely.

  My strings taste change in the air. Taste legacy being written in blood and physics and probability. Taste the first steps of a plan centuries in the making.

  The game's changing. Rules breaking down. The twins think they're preparing humanity for what comes next. But they've forgotten something important.

  Sometimes the best way to win isn't to play better.

  It's to flip the board and invent a new game entirely.