A pristine, snow-white room devoid of windows is impeccably illuminated. Powerful overhead lamps dispel even the faintest shadows. Rows upon rows of flasks, beakers, retorts, and a host of other laboratory equipment occupy numerous densely packed shelves. There are also various devices present, ranging from high-pressure furnaces and microscopes to vacuum chambers. If not for a single peculiarity, this place could be mistaken for a high-tech chemistry lab at some prestigious university. That peculiar detail was the remains of a human body laid out on the table at the room's center.

Humming a lively tune, a stunning young woman clad solely in a protective black apron over her bare body stands near the cadaver. She hums and works with her scalpel. After slicing off a portion of the deceased's heart muscle, the alluring woman drops it into a porcelain cup containing some type of solution, then observes the violent reaction that ensues.

Judging by the look on her face, she's clearly dissatisfied with the outcome, yet the anger doesn't mar her features. Instead, it lends her a unique and dangerous allure.

With a soft hiss, the airlock doors open, allowing a man of average height and build to enter the laboratory. His appearance is utterly ordinary – you'd pass him on the street without a second glance. Brown hair, cropped short, a slightly hawkish nose – nothing remarkable. He could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five – the difference is too vague to pinpoint. He's dressed in a plain red T-shirt without any logos, sporty shorts, and grey sneakers, currently ensconced in transparent lab shoe covers. Without taking a seat on the vacant stool, the visitor initiates the conversation.

"Did you get what I need?"

The man's voice is distinct: deep, assertive, commanding.

"No."

The beauty isn't perturbed by the man's unabashedly ogling her. On the contrary, with a subtle movement of her body, she positions herself at a more enticing angle so the apron both conceals and tantalizes.

"So do it!" The visitor lifts his lips, revealing sharp, inhuman fangs.

"You can demand, order, growl," the lady responds, infusing the last verb with a blatant dose of ridicule. "It won't change anything. You asked for a dozen samples and provided material for them. I managed to make you eighteen. And now what? Instead of expressing gratitude..." She pauses, cutting another piece from the cadaver and tossing it into an empty cup. Only after completing these actions does she resume speaking. "More demands? Well, here are walls, four of them, my patriarch. Talk to them. Honestly, you'll get the same effect – that is, none at all."

"You forget your place, witch!"

"Don't start that again. We both understand very well: without you, there's no me. Without me, there's no you. All of you..."

"You..." The man's growl evolved into a hiss.

"I!" The beauty tossed her head back and, setting down the scalpel, ran her fingers through her hair. "Do you have anything else to say, my patriarch?"

The man glanced at the corpse, took a deep breath, and his face softened slightly.

"I'm sorry."

"Really? Come off it. I don't believe you. You never loved Leo."

"Nevertheless, he was your flesh and blood, grandson. He was..."

"You, all of you shapeshifters, place too much emphasis on blood ties. Blood is nothing. A person is defined not by their clan, but by their abilities."

"You've just forgotten."

"Oh no, I remember," the beauty countered.

"We need protection from these vermin! What you've prepared only enables us to die with honor, not be sacrificial lambs in a slaughterhouse under the invisible spectral blades. We need a cure, and you promised it."

"I did," the mistress of the laboratory agreed. "But alchemy isn't an exact science — it's an art. However..." She licked her lips. "Now I know what I need."

"And what is it?! To bring you the liver of a Creator, as your great-grandmother demanded five centuries ago?"

"She demanded, she received, and she saved the greatest of our clan's patriarchs from certain death, granting him a second youth. It was a fair trade."

"Fair," the Eshin clan's leader reluctantly conceded. "But what can you offer us now?"

"How about unleashing your inner Beasts into what they refer to as Break?"

The man closed his eyes, pondered, and then smiled with genuine anticipation. He then asked:

"And that doesn't require a liver of a Creator?"

"No. I need a raig."

"We've already brought you one! And he wasn't easy to get!" The shapeshifter growled.

"That one was weak, a freshly initiated fool who flaunted his abilities in public. A little something in his drink and you captured him easily. It wasn't that complex of an operation."

"What! Do! You! Need?!" The shapeshifter couldn't hide his irritation.

"A strong one. Experienced. Fully self-aware. With clean blood, free from drugs and everything else."

"A self-aware raig? Have you lost your mind, witch?!"

"Oh, I'm perfectly sane and generally feel fantastic." The Dark Adept of the Lily branch stretched, her splendid figure underlining the sincerity of her statement.

"Maybe a liver from a Creator then? Or a heart?"

"No. A raig. Alive. Aware."

"Actually, my suggestion about the heart of a Creator was sarcasm. Times have changed..."

"I understand your sarcasm, my patriarch. But if you want a cure, well, then you'll have to give me the material, and you'll get it."

"You..."

"Yes, I am a genius, and I'm aware of it. Thank you for finally acknowledging this indisputable fact."

"That's not what I..." But then the man realized he was merely being mocked and fell silent. "No, your demands are impossible."

"And what if I offer the possibility to block a raig's ability to shift to the Break?"

"Hmm..." The clan leader seriously pondered this proposal. "To block... Can't you do it to all of them?"

"I'm just a witch." The beauty regretfully shrugged her shoulders. "Only to one, and then not for more than a day. However, I'm not sure yet how to do it, but I feel it is possible."

"You don't know, but you're asking for the nearly impossible."

"Nearly..." Her smile could melt ice at the North Pole.

The man turned around and headed towards the airlock, but before leaving the laboratory, he said:

"I'll find a way to deal with you, Annabelle. Someday, I will."

"When you find it, be sure to visit, my patriarch. Well, come even if you don't find it." The witch's smile was quite sincere, but the shapeshifter didn't see it, having already exited the room.

After following the shapeshifter with her eyes, Annabelle picked up the scalpel again and leaned over the corpse — the body of her grandson. However, she never had any special feelings for him. He was too weak, like all the gifted men in her family. For instance, this one could barely block a Maker's foresight and ended up overexerting himself to the point of death. A weakling! She genuinely didn't understand how anyone could feel sympathy for such people. Her second grandson is a bit stronger, and she might feel a slight irritation when he dies, which is already in the plans. Several Dark loners who were taken under the clan's wing are also destined to die, but they are inconsequential. However, her granddaughter Catherine is a different story — very young, but what talent! The witch would genuinely mourn her unexpected loss.

The latest experiment was unsuccessful again, but the woman in the apron over her naked body wasn't upset because she knew: patience and contemplation would bring the solution. Setting the scalpel aside and pushing the laboratory glassware away, Annabelle sat on a tall stool, folded her hands, and her eyes clouded over with the haze of thought.

No, the witch wasn't pondering alchemical transformations at that moment; her thoughts were flowing in a different direction.

"Still, sometimes life brings genuine revelations," flashed in her head. "It took almost the entire main branch to die, to die ridiculously — from something for which there is no protection, from a Breakthrough... For a truly worthy one to assume the position of the clan patriarch — for the first time in almost a century and a half." If anyone had seen the grin on the witch's lips at this thought, they might have had a heart attack.

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And no one had paid attention to this young man, who was only thirty-four at the time of the tragedy. No one, herself included. Being the fourth son of the clan leader had virtually disqualified him from any possible claims to the patriarchate. In addition, Trench's character appeared entirely unsuitable for the role of a leader — too impulsive, too emotional, too reckless, too independent... A great deal of "too." Even after the tragedy, when he became the sole fully legitimate heir to the senior branch of the clan, there sounded voices — more than once — of those who deemed him unworthy and demanded a change in leadership. And where are those naysayers now? Exactly.

The youngster transformed, matured in an instant, becoming a man. Tough, strong, cunning, relentless, as befits a true Rat King. Most importantly, he demonstrated remarkable intelligence and truly rat-like resourcefulness.

In a good mood, Annabelle could even admit to herself that Trench's intellect matched her nearly genius mind. Who would have thought that the line of the fourth son would be the savior of the clan, which had been decimated by such vast personnel and financial losses? He has a son who is also growing up to be very, very smart, so independent that he plays a significant role in the Grand and Devious Plan. Not only was a role assigned to him, but he has his own task — at such a young age.

Remembering the boy, Annabelle once again mulled over the idea of pairing her Catherine with the heir. The more she considered it, the more she liked the idea. Catherine with the son, and she — with his father.

Men had long attracted the witch for only one thing. Not power, not money, not influence, not looks, not charisma. It was intellect that ensnared her. And she hadn't met a man with a sharper mind than Trench in a very, very long time. So long, in fact, that she'd already forgotten the names of others.

Moreover, she had clearly made the right modifications to her body this time. The Dark Gifted could feel and see how Trench was drawn to her, how he restrained himself around her with a monumental effort of will. This gave rise to his anger at her, an anger bordering on hatred. It was a shame that she'd soon have to change this appearance since its actual owner would "lose control" of her car on a mountain road and die tomorrow. Or so the official version would go.

However, a change in appearance could wait. A judicious use of cosmetics, the right makeup, a slight alteration in gait — no one would link her with the woman who "tragically and prematurely passed away."

The Alchemical Gift of the Lily branch not only facilitated the extension of one's life at the expense of another's energy but also allowed the Adept, with specific rituals, to modify their body and aura to resemble the energy donor. Of course, the copied individual wouldn't survive. Additionally, the replication was only possible if the donor shared a similar physique, height, and weight to the Dark One performing the ritual. This Gift was one of the two foundational elements underpinning the Eshin clan's survival in the absolute Shadow.

Circling back again, the thoughts of the master alchemist for the umpteenth time in recent months returned to the Plan. Once again, she marveled at its elegance, deceitfulness, and intricacy.

The successful attack on BKDW didn't just silence the whispers about the incompetence of the new head of Eshin — it also significantly improved the clan's financial standing, which had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. It improved to such an extent that they would now have ample funds for many, many years.

Many wanted to slow Novilter's progress. For many, the gradual ascent of the wolverines had been a thorn in their side for a long time. The clan received five independent proposals and accepted three. Interestingly, none of the "employers" were aware of each other's existence, and each paid handsomely. And not just a hefty sum. The payments were truly astronomical. The operation was executed with finesse, craftiness, and vileness, for all the evidence the investigators discovered would lead them to a dead end. No analysis of the "poisonous" gases would reveal the full picture because the gas was merely a diversion, not the actual killer of the Break Knights. The raigs were killed by alchemy, with the gases only serving to conceal the traces of the Dark Art. Now, let them dig, let them puzzle over it, let them waste lab time.

Annabelle's eyes narrowed with pleasure. She found it amusing that her future victims brought her into their home themselves, showing her everything, essentially orchestrating their own demise without knowing it. The situation brought a certain level of amusement to the witch. This was the Outer Plan. Much more nefarious than it initially seemed. After all, if anyone tried to trace back to the employers, they would follow the decoy Austrian trail. They'd unearth evidence, real evidence, if they dug deep enough — since the Habsburgs indeed had intentions to hire Eshin to eliminate BKDW, making their similar project the only contender. They had intended to, even started discussions, but backed out at the last moment. The cowardly ferrets swindled Eshin, and they would pay for it. This was a Plan within a Plan.

But all this was merely a distraction. The true Plan, nested within the Plan, within the Outer Plan, was different. The primary goal was the perceived destruction of Eshin. More specifically, convincing the world's key players that their long-standing and elusive enemy had been genuinely obliterated this time, a conviction grounded in facts and irrefutable evidence. Only she and Trench were privy to the intricacies of the Real Plan.

Today marked the commencement of this project. The heir's men and even the group from the eastern monasteries had taken the bait — an allegedly hasty attempt to conceal evidence — and had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Well, let them pursue this line. That's what the Plan hinged on. And every component had its layers of fallback options.

Yes, a Plan of this complexity would invariably contain inconsistencies and discrepancies. It would always demand constant fine-tuning. Like, for instance, her error in alchemical computations that hindered her from concocting the essential instrument for the Plan's final phase. But this was just a temporary setback, a removable obstacle. The key was knowing what to do when a mistake occurred, and she did. The witch had no doubt that Trench would find a powerful raig and deliver them to her. Moreover, time wasn't a pressing concern in this situation — she could afford to wait a month or two.

Besides, the new head would do whatever she instructed. He feared the Eradicator, whose actions he could not predict, too much. His only hope of neutralizing this enemy was she, Annabelle.

Relaxing on the stool, the witch considered the Dark Inquisitor, who hardly perturbed her. She had been engaged in an amusing game of cat and mouse with him for nearly a century and a half — amusing in the sense that the cat was oblivious to the mouse's existence. She had outmaneuvered the Eradicator numerous times and would do so again. Yes, Abel was stronger than her, but she was more cunning, and she had alchemy on her side.

Before returning to her scalpel, the witch stood upright, stretching out, and cast a glance in the mirror. Indeed, this time she had truly perfected her appearance to a tee. Winking at her reflection, the pleased witch picked up her instrument and leaned over the body once again.

With an impassive demeanor fitting of her, the dark adept dissected her grandson's body for reagents. And her reflection in the mirror faithfully mirrored her every move. A reflection in which some might readily recognize a girl named Diana.

Diana Horn.