The loft was uncharacteristic of Quinton’s usual opulence, a carefully crafted facade of bohemian normalcy. It was here, behind the unassuming brick exterior, that he allowed his mask to slip. Elora and James had stalked him relentlessly, bypassing his security with disconcerting ease, reminders of their connection to the 13th Universe and the unpredictable power that flowed through them.
“You’re Lyrion,” Elora stated bluntly, her fiery red hair a stark contrast to her melonated features, “Or whatever twisted name you call yourself these days.”
James, always the pragmatist, gripped his ever-present sketchbook tight. “We’ve seen… glimpses,” he mumbled, the words seeming to pain him, “Things you’ve done, the way you move people like pawns.”
Quinton poured himself a single measure of whiskey, not out of hospitality, but as a calculated display of nonchalance. “And children, what grand conspiracy theory have you woven from your fever dreams?”
“Don’t insult us,” Elora snapped, her voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a simmering power that made the loft’s exposed beams vibrate, “We know what you are. We want to know why.”
He sipped his drink, savoring the burn. “Why does the sculptor mold the clay? Why does the artist choose his pigments? Creation, compulsion… call it what you will.”
“You use people!” James exploded, sketches of warped faces and fractured crowds spilling forth from his book. “You broke Luna, remade her. Now there’s this… frenzy around her.”
“Ah yes, Luna,” Quinton feigned thoughtful consideration, “Talent must be nurtured…and sometimes, obstacles must be ruthlessly removed.”
Elora stepped forward, her small frame radiating menace, “You’re not creating art, you’re building an army! But for what? To invade this world?”
Quinton laughed, the genuine mirth startling them. “Invade? My dear, this place is a charming backwater compared to the grand expanse of the 13th.”
The twins exchanged apprehensive glances. This was bigger than they’d first imagined.
“Perhaps,” he continued, setting down his empty glass, “the question isn’t ‘why?’, but ‘what if?’ What if there’s a threat out there, so unimaginable, that only by uniting these two worlds, by honing their passions and obsessions into a focused force…can we hope to survive?”
“A threat you unleashed?” Elora hissed, eyes flashing with emerald light, an echo of their otherworldly origin.
Quinton spread his hands with a disarming smile, “Let’s not get caught up in assigning blame. I play my part, as do you. But there are larger forces at work. You felt them.”
James closed his sketchbook, the drawings settling back into silence. “We don’t trust you, Lyrion, not for a second. But if…”
“If what I say is true,” Quinton finished for him, “then trust isn’t required. Only survival. Now, I have a concert to orchestrate, stars to manage. Unless you’d fancy a career change – the industry always has room for raw talent.”
With that final, mocking dismissal, he turned away, leaving Elora and James steeped in tense silence. Trust was a luxury in their lives, and now, their choices felt more treacherous than ever.
Title: Echoes of Applause
The dressing room mirror glared back, a harsh judge casting Elora’s meticulously crafted image in a cruel light. Tonight’s gala was more than a performance; it was a duel for his attention. Each aria, each meticulously chosen phrase, existed not just for the audience, but for him. Quinton, whose senses thrummed with the recognition of stardom, the invisible electricity of greatness. And he wasn’t here. A champagne flute snapped between her fingers, the jagged crystal a poor match for the shard of ice in her heart. Each splinter of glass mirrored the broken promise reflected in her eyes.
“Late again. Predictably boring,” Saleme hissed from the doorway, her acid-bright smile a practiced mask. Beneath the designer gown and glittering jewels, a familiar tension hummed in the air, a silent song of unspoken rivalry playing between them. “At least I’m here to witness this ‘talent’ of yours. Or has his interest already waned?”
Elora straightened, shards of glass falling unheeded to the plush carpet. “He senses potential,” she countered, but the words echoed hollowly, even to herself. Quinton hadn’t graced one of her performances in weeks. Not since that art student, the one with melancholy eyes and haunting charcoal sketches, had diverted his attention.
“Potential, or a new flavor of distraction?” Saleme’s smile deepened, each curve of vibrant lipstick a weapon. She perched on the velvet couch, seemingly unconcerned, but the twitch of her hand on the gold clutch betrayed her tightly-strung nerves. They both danced to his tune, desperate for that fleeting spark of his attention, the intoxicating mix of validation and uncertainty that Quinton doled out in carefully measured doses.
A knock cut through the building tension. Not Quinton, of course. It was his assistant, perpetually harried, holding out a bouquet of lilies so white they nearly glowed under the stark dressing room lights. “Apologies, Miss Elora. Mr. Chambers has been… detained,” he stammered, carefully avoiding both women’s gazes. The air thrummed with unspoken understanding.
Saleme scoffed, “Detained? More like distracted by another shiny object, adding another notch on his well-worn belt.”
The insinuation hung heavy in the air. Both women knew the pattern – the initial thrill of Quinton’s focus, the slow erosion of attention until they were left clawing for mere scraps of validation. Elora’s fingers tightened around the lily stems until the delicate blooms bruised. It was time to break the cycle, to rewrite the ending of a play where she was forever cast as the desperate supporting actress. Tonight, she would sing for herself.