Chapter 12: Aelvara’s Game

Kaelren arrived at Ashwalker Headquarters precisely five minutes before noon. The towering structure loomed before him — a striking blend of ancient gothic architecture and sleek modern technology. Dark spires of blackened stone reached skyward, their surfaces traced with glowing runic patterns that pulsed gently like veins filled with molten energy. The main gates opened automatically as he approached, sliding silently aside to reveal the bustling interior.

Inside, the guild hall was alive with activity. Gene Warriors strode confidently across polished obsidian floors. Holographic maps and data streams floated lazily above sleek consoles, casting a spectral glow upon intricately carved stone pillars and ornate tapestries that depicted the brutal history of the Bloodfang Clan.

Kaelren approached the reception area, where a young woman sat behind a high-tech desk, her fingers dancing effortlessly across a holographic keyboard. Her vibrant blue eyes flicked upward, scanning him quickly before her eyebrows rose slightly in amusement.

"You're new," she stated plainly, a playful smirk touching her lips as she leaned forward. "Where's your Ashwalker attire?"

Kaelren hesitated for a brief moment, eyes narrowing slightly.

Puffing out her cheeks in an exaggerated pout, she said, "Well, you're no fun. It's always hilarious watching fresh recruits panic when they think they've messed up on their first day."

Kaelren's tension eased slightly, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "Very funny."

She grinned brightly, clearly satisfied by his reaction. "It's my rite of passage. Welcome to the Ashwalkers. I'm Rina." Her fingers tapped against her desk, and a compartment opened smoothly beside her, revealing a sleek, tablet-like device. She slid it toward him. "First things first, let's get you fitted properly."

Kaelren picked up the device, its surface lighting up with a gentle hum. The screen displayed an intricate design interface, waiting patiently for input.

"Just choose how you want your faction attire to look," Rina explained, leaning casually on her elbow. "Customize it however you prefer — the emblems and symbols will be automatically integrated. Once you're finished, we'll handle the rest."

Kaelren nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. His fingers hovered above it for a moment, thoughts turning inward. He really liked the style he wore during Camp 12. But that gear had been severely damaged and patched too many times to keep wearing. He hated the current black flowing robes he was wearing. He couldn't even dream how someone would fight in them.

Kaelren quickly learned he was terrible at drawing — but that didn't stop him from trying. He sketched with focused care, doing his best to capture the essence of his original armor: a sleeveless black tank, snug across the chest; metal bracers running from wrist to elbow, etched with wear; a crimson headband tied tight across his brow; heavy black combat boots; and long, dark combat pants that resembled jeans — somewhere between soldier and survivor.

After finalizing everything with the design, a system prompt appeared, asking Kaelren for his preferred fighting style and whether he would like to apply combat-recommended modifications to the gear.

Kaelren selected his fighting style and chose yes for modification. The table scanned his body quickly, and the screen went black with a single prompt:

> "Gear in Changing Room 4."

Kaelren handed the device back to Rina and asked where the changing rooms were. She pointed to an elevator and said, "In the gym."

Kaelren took the elevator down to the gym. The doors opened, and what Kaelren saw was quite a spectacle — a huge square underground room, brightly lit, with square fighting arenas, numerous high-tech workout devices, gravity rooms, and even equipment he had no clue how to operate. Then he saw the changing rooms and headed over.

Kaelren stepped through the metal doors of Changing Room Four.

They hissed shut behind him.

The room was dimly lit — intentionally so. No fluorescent glare or sterile shine. Just a soft red glow from wall-runed lamps that pulsed like a slow, sleeping heart. His new gear was laid out on the obsidian bench: reinforced combat pants, sleek metal bracers, black tank top, headband folded precisely atop the pile. Every detail matched what he'd designed. Each item with the Ashwalker's emblem engraved or stitched on.

But that wasn't what stopped him.

Aelvara Zavrekh was already inside.

She stood at the far end, arms folded behind her back, half-silhouetted by the rune lights. Her mask gleamed white-gold. Her silver-white hair was tied in a high war braid, her Ashwalker armor molded to her form with frightening precision — crimson-gray plates carved with claw marks and old runes.

"I was curious," she said at last, her voice a low, silken cut in the silence, "what kind of man you are when no one is watching."

Kaelren didn't move.

His heart didn't race.

He said nothing.

Aelvara's head tilted slightly, her foxlike ears twitching once beneath the curve of her mask. "Not surprised. Not nervous." She stepped forward — measured, elegant. "Most try to assert themselves, then die."

She stopped a few feet from him. Close. Too close for most.

"Strip," she said — not as a command of authority, but a test of composure.

Kaelren removed his robes without a word.

Not for her. Not for the game. Because it was part of the process. He needed to change his clothes. Once his clothes were removed, he just started getting dressed in his Ashwalker gear.

Her lavender eyes, glinting behind the mask, dragging across his frame — they mapped the scars, the layers of muscle, the quiet damage from eleven months of missions and the Cull. No comment. She Studied him, With a hint of red on her face.

"You know why I'm here?" she asked.

"Not really," Kaelren said, calm. Honest.

"Good." She stepped behind him, walking slow. Slightly touching his frame. "Then we're both in unfamiliar territory."

"I've seen a lot of blood," she said quietly, almost as if to herself. "Felt it. Breathed it in until my lungs stank of it. But yours is different. There's clarity in your violence. Precision. It's not hunger. It's… instinct."

Kaelren's jaw flexed once, silent.

"You don't kill because you love it," she continued. "You kill because it makes sense. Because something in your blood told you the math of survival before you had the language. You have inherited Instincts from your beast blood. Only those with the strongest bloodline have them."

She stopped again, now in front of him.

"I wanted to see if that same mind — so ruthless in combat — could be manipulated."

Kaelren raised an eyebrow. "And?"

She didn't answer. Not directly. Just stepped closer.

Close enough for scent. Hers was sharp — silver lilies and bloodroot, laced with something chemical and unplaceable. Pheromones, most likely. A tactical scent.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't break eye contact.

Her mask tilted — studying. "You're not immune," she murmured. "But you're unbothered. That's worse."

A long silence stretched between them like a drawn wire.

Then — softly, quietly — Aelvara said, "Do you know why I wear the mask?"

Her hand rose to the edge of it — fingers ghosting the engraved metal — but she didn't remove it. "The full truth? I was born too beautiful to be taken seriously. Men fell apart. Women turned cruel. I learned early that attention was a blade, and I honed it."

She stepped back finally, allowing space to breathe.

"You're already mine, Kaelren. And I always take what's mine."

"You can try," he said flatly.

He quickly stepped forward, their bodies closer than ever before, and whispered in her ear:

"I like taking things too."

Kaelren then walked past her, leaving the changing room.

A flicker of a real smile touched her lips behind the mask. Her heart beat faster than it ever had in combat.

She turned then, walking toward the far wall — where a panel opened silently, revealing a hidden exit. She paused just before stepping through. One last thought flicked across her mind.

What would she do if he really acted?