Inevitable
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Sliverhero
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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Snow hammered against the glass of Atlas Tower, winds screaming high above the Kingdom. Inside the office, the storm was quieter, but far more venomous. Jacques Schnee stood before the tall mirror mounted between awards and commendations, jaw tight, eyes burning.
The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.
"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."
His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."
His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.
"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.
"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.
"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.
"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.
"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.
"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."
The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.
"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.
"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.
Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."
He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.
"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.
The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.
"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."
His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."
His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.
"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.
"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.
"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.
"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.
"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.
"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."
The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.
"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.
"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.
Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."
He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.
"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.