The quiet hum of the Guild was something Veyron had come to expect, but tonight, it felt different. The usual grinding of gears was quieter, more subdued—as if the mechanical heart of the Guild was taking a hesitant breath. The shadows in the corners of the massive hall seemed to curl around the brass chandeliers, a reflection of the quiet unease that lingered in the air. Tonight was a turning point, and Veyron could feel it.
Veyron's steps were slow, deliberate, echoing across the stone floor as he walked down the long corridor. His fingers brushed lightly against the cool walls, but his mind was elsewhere—further ahead, as always. As the doors to the council room loomed ahead, the weight of the moment pressed against him. The Guild's leaders awaited him, as they always did, but tonight, they weren't simply curious. They were wary.
The gilded doors opened with a quiet creak, and Veyron stepped inside. Ten figures, cloaked in shadow and power, sat around the massive table, their brass masks gleaming in the dim light. They regarded him with the cold detachment that only those who wielded power without truly seeing its weight could manage. But Veyron knew. They feared him.
"Ah, Veyron Ashwood," a voice said, low and clipped. Master Alric's voice. "You have come at last. We were beginning to wonder if you were too busy for us."
Veyron's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, though his eyes remained cold, calculating. "I've always made time for you, Master Alric. It's your… needs that never seem to cease."
A murmur ran through the room, but Veyron was already walking towards the center. He took his seat without waiting for permission, settling into the heavy silence that followed. These meetings were no longer about diplomacy or alliances. The Guild had grown too cautious, too aware of the power Veyron had cultivated. They were no longer the masters—he was.
"We have heard disturbing reports," another voice spoke, one of the senior members who had always remained in the background. "The untalented have begun to organize. There is talk of an uprising in the Lower Districts. Distillates are spreading faster than we anticipated. We need you to handle this before it escalates."
Veyron didn't flinch. He was prepared for this, for the inevitable tug-of-war for control that would follow his growing influence. "And what makes you think this is something I haven't already accounted for?" he asked, his tone smooth, almost mocking.
"We need you to step in," the voice continued. "You know how dangerous this is. If the untalented start to rise—"
"Then let them," Veyron interrupted, his voice cutting through the air with the precision of a blade. "Let them rise. Let them see what it means to play the game without the rules."
The room fell silent. Master Alric, who had always been a master of subtlety, narrowed his eyes at Veyron. "You don't understand," he said, his voice strained. "If the untalented rise up in rebellion, it could destroy everything we've worked for. It's not just about power—it's about control."
Veyron leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "Control is an illusion," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "It is the belief that one can shape the world as they wish. But the world... the world cannot be controlled. It can only be guided. And sometimes... one must let it burn before it can be shaped anew."
Master Alric's gaze hardened, but Veyron could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. The other members of the Guild were watching him now, uncertain of his intentions. They feared him—and they feared what he might do if they pushed him too far.
"You think you can control them? The untalented?" Master Alric's voice was laced with disbelief.
"No," Veyron replied calmly. "But I can guide them."
With a flick of his hand, a strange shimmer of light appeared in the air before him. A brief flash of translucent blue energy that hung in the air like an unspoken promise. The members of the Guild stiffened, their eyes widening as they realized what they were witnessing.
"The Ash Mirror Doctrine," one of the masters breathed. "You've fully awakened it."
Veyron's smile deepened. "Fully awakened? No. But the potential is there."
The Ash Mirror—his doctrine—was not just about illusions. It was about manipulation, about bending the perceptions of those around him until their sense of reality became a reflection of his will. What he showed them, they believed. What he told them, they accepted.
"I don't need to control them," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving the masked faces around him. "I only need them to believe they are in control."
The room fell into a tense silence. Veyron's words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and for a moment, it seemed as though even the Guild itself had been caught in his web.
The truth was, Veyron didn't care about the untalented or their rebellion. The Guild's schemes, the power struggles—they were all irrelevant. The game was much bigger than this. The Ash Mirror Doctrine was the key. It was his key to reshaping the world.
"Your move," he said softly, his voice laced with quiet challenge.
Master Alric looked at him, his expression unreadable. But Veyron could see the tension, the anxiety in the older man's posture. Alric knew that the Guild was no longer in control—not of Veyron, and not of the city. But there was more at play than the Guild realized.
Veyron stood up, his presence suddenly towering over the room. "I don't answer to you anymore, Alric," he said, his voice cold. "The game has changed. And it's time for you to recognize it."
He turned and walked towards the door, leaving the silence of the council room behind him. As the doors closed, he knew the Guild would never be the same. They might think they controlled the strings of fate, but Veyron had already cut them.
And in the end, all puppets dance to the tune of their master.
The streets of London were still bathed in fog as Veyron made his way through the winding alleys. He moved with purpose, his mind focused, and yet there was something in the air tonight that felt... different. He could almost taste it—the tension, the uncertainty. The city was on the brink of change.
But change was what he thrived on. It was what he'd always craved.
As he walked deeper into the heart of the city, a figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.
"Veyron Ashwood," the voice called, smooth and confident.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The voice was unmistakable. "Miss Caldwell," he said, his tone calm, though a flicker of amusement crossed his face.
The woman before him was tall and commanding, her figure draped in dark, flowing attire. Lady Caldwell—one of the last remaining powers in London. Her eyes glinted with both admiration and suspicion.
"I see you've made quite the name for yourself," she said, her gaze appraising. "But be careful. The city is beginning to wake up. Not everyone is as willing to follow as you think."
Veyron's lips curled into a small, amused smile. "I never asked them to follow," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying a weight that made the words feel like a challenge.
Lady Caldwell studied him for a moment longer, then tilted her head slightly. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Veyron gave her a smile—a cold, calculated thing—and continued down the alley. Behind him, the figure of Lady Caldwell faded into the shadows.
But he knew one thing: in this game of mirrors, no one was safe. And even the most powerful had their reflections to fear.