“But how do I ascend to higher spheres?” Yvette finally asked her most pressing question.
“Not yet,” Ulysses evaded. “Prove your worth through service, pass mental evaluations, and the Council will grant ascension materials. Success isn’t guaranteed… You’ll learn in time.”
“As we climb the Tree, consciousness transcends matter. Humanity anchors us—a tether between spirit and flesh. But even discipline can’t fully ward off corruption.” His tone turned grave. “Impatient fools crumble into monstrosities mid-ascent. Most sane Transcendents refuse advancement despite eligibility. Why gamble everything?” He gestured to Winslow. “The Three Edicts.”
Winslow straightened. “First: Never reveal yourself. Mundanes mustn’t learn of our existence. Breaches incur punishment—execution for severe cases. This also means concealing your mortal identity from fellow Transcendents. Firearms level the field—even low-tier Transcendents can fall to a bullet.” He nodded at Yvette. “You witnessed this firsthand. Secrecy protects more than laws.”
“Sir Ulysses masquerades as a Franco-Albionese noble—medical accolades, royal honors. I play his steward.” Winslow continued. “Next social season, you’ll debut as his protégée. Think of it as… an endless masquerade.”
London’s social season (April-August) saw aristocrats flaunt heirs. Ulysses’ connections would position Yvette among elites—easier than fabricating a bourgeois lineage.
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“Is this necessary…?” Yvette hesitated.
“Essential.” Ulysses sipped Darjeeling blended with Damask rose. “Ancient texts dwell in noble libraries. Street urchins can’t parse Akkadian cuneiform.”
“Why hasn’t any Transcendent reshaped society? Created a utopia?” Yvette mused.
“History’s answer: disaster.” Ulysses’ cup clinked. “Medieval pogroms, pharaohs warring over relics… Two centuries of secrecy birthed this—” He gestured at gaslit windows. “—steam engines, global trade. My tea alone spans three continents. Why upend such marvels?”
“Second Edict: No forbidden rituals.” Winslow resumed. “Even accidental communion with Outer Gods risks catastrophe. Your awakening, being involuntary, is pardoned.”
“Third: No Soul Devouring.”
“Devouring…?”
“Consuming another Transcendent’s essence to ascend. Always involves cannibalism.” Winslow grimaced. “The Devoured’s memories corrupt the devourer—a Frankensteinian abomination.”
“Does ‘ascension materials’ mean…?”
“Absolutely not.” Ulysses cut in. “Council-approved methods only. Soul Devouring tops our purge list.”
By the time birdsong heralded dawn, Yvette realized their all-night session.
“Forgive me—I’ve kept you awake—”
“Awake?” Winslow chuckled. “This is bedtime for society. Operas end at midnight, balls dawn.”
Nocturnal as vampires… Yvette eyed Ulysses’ pallor.
“French convent-bred ladies keep earlier hours,” he conceded. “But you’ll adapt. Breakfast at ten. Pleasant dreams.”
Exhausted, Yvette collapsed into goose-down bedding. Her throbbing brow oozed faintly—legacy of the ice-pick lobotomy. Yet sleep claimed her, visions flickering: masked cultists, golden trees, and a serpent coiling through starlit voids.