Chapter 2 Jade in the Mud

“Eris! Move it! Table four is a disaster—the customers are going to get eaten alive by mosquitoes!” my manager, Gardo, barked, punctuating the order with a sharp kick to the bucket of filthy water beside me.

Iron Roots is a place where the air tastes like rust and hope is a concept that hasn’t been invented yet. In this shadowed corner of Vespera, the only law is survival. And for three years, I have been its most dedicated student.

I was scrubbing the floor of The Rusty Gear, a jazz club that reeked of cheap cigars, stale beer, and the broken dreams of its patrons. My hands, once pampered with the finest oils and manicured to perfection, were now calloused and stained with grime. My raven hair was matted, hiding the porcelain skin that had once been my father’s pride.

Dirty water splashed onto my worn t-shirt. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even look up. The “Eris” they knew was a ghost—mute, deaf, and hollow. Just another piece of street trash.

But beneath the curtain of my hair, my eyes were locked on the clock. 9:00 PM.

The heavy steel doors of the club groaned open. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The drunken roar of the crowd died into a suffocating silence. Even the saxophonist stumbled over a note. Power had just walked into the room, and power like that didn’t belong in a hole like this.

Then, I caught it.

Through the stench of the bar, a familiar scent cut through the air—sandalwood, rain, and expensive tobacco.

FLASHBACK STING: THE JADE PEDESTAL

Ten years ago. The chandeliers of the Valderama Estate glittered like fallen stars. The dining table was overflowing with food I can no longer name. My father, Roberto, was laughing, his arm draped around Julian’s father. We were celebrating a successful merger.

Julian—then a boy of twelve with eyes that hadn’t yet turned to stone—leaned in close. He held my small hand under the mahogany table. “Don’t be afraid, Margo,” he whispered, his voice a solemn vow. “No matter what happens, I’ll always protect you.”

I believed him. I believed in the warmth of his palm and the scent of the cologne his mother had given him. Then, the world turned to ash. The fire came. The handcuffs came. And the boy who promised to protect me became the man who watched me burn.

PRESENT

Julian Thorne stood in the VIP section, surveying the crowd like a god inspecting a dumpster. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that likely cost more than the entire block of Iron Roots. His gray eyes were clinical, searching for something—or someone.

This is it.

I played my part. I carried a tray of glasses toward Tino, a notorious local thug. I knew Tino—he was drunk, handsy, and easily provoked.

“Hey, gorgeous… why so filthy?” Tino sneered, his hand clamping around my wrist with a grip that made my skin crawl. “Come here. Let’s wash you down with some gin.”

He tipped his glass over my head. The cold sting of alcohol ran down my face, burning my eyes. The crowd laughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian’s gaze flicker toward us. He was watching.

“Let go,” I said, my voice a low, raspy warning.

“What was that, sweetheart? I didn’t hear you, trash!” Tino laughed, hauling me toward his lap.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I let three years of street-fighting instinct and pure, unadulterated rage take the wheel. I used his momentum, twisted my wrist, and drove my elbow straight into his throat. As he wheezed, I snatched a glass bottle from the tray and shattered it against the edge of the table.

In one fluid motion, I pinned his hand to the wood with the jagged edge, the glass teeth grazing his jugular.

“I said,” I whispered, my eyes burning with a lethal elegance that felt like a homecoming, “let me go.”

The club went dead silent. Julian was on his feet now, his gray eyes narrowed, fixed on my face. For a split second, his mask slipped. He felt it—the ghost of the girl he once knew, the “Jade of Valderama” reaching out from beneath the mud.

I stood up slowly, stepping over the whimpering man on the floor. I wiped a smudge of blood from my lip with my thumb, a movement as graceful as a debutante’s. My eyes locked with Julian’s.

I didn’t see a savior. I saw a target.

Julian approached me, his stride predatory and effortless. When the guards tried to intervene, he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. He stopped inches from me. Up close, the scent of his cologne was a violent assault on my memories.

“You have a lot of fire for someone living in a hole,” Julian’s baritone vibrated through my chest. He reached out, his gloved hand tilting my chin up.

I wanted to bite his fingers off. I wanted to scream every curse I’d learned in the slums. Instead, I stayed still. I let him see the “fire.”

“Fire is the only thing that’s free in this world, Sir,” I replied, my tone sharp and cold.

Julian smirked—a dark, twisted expression that promised both salvation and ruin. “Fire is dangerous if you don’t know how to control it. But in the right house… it can be a masterpiece.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a sleek, matte-black card embossed with the gold Thorne crest. He tucked it into the collar of my shirt, his knuckles grazing my neck. The contact was electric, a sickening reminder of the secrets we once shared.

“The Sanctum is looking for raw assets,” he whispered against my ear. “You’re a fighter. I like that. Don’t rot in the mud, Eris. Come and see how the other half lives.”

He turned and walked away without a second glance, certain I would follow.

I stood there, gin dripping from my hair, clutching the card until the plastic bit into my palm. I watched his broad shoulders—the shoulders of the man who let my father die in a cage and kept my brother in a coma for leverage.

I’m coming, Julian, I thought, the hate in my heart finally finding its focus.

I’m coming for the crown, the estate, and every drop of blood your family stole. This card isn’t my ticket to a new life. It’s my invitation to your funeral.

THE SANCTUM: THE DECONTAMINATION

An hour later, I was in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, leaving the stench of trash behind for the scent of expensive leather.

At the facility, I was led into a sterile white room—the decontamination chamber.

“Strip,” the guard commanded.

I obeyed. I stood naked under the harsh fluorescent lights, my body a map of the last three years: burn scars from the fire, thin white lines from street brawls, and the invisible fractures in my soul.

The water hit me—cold and high-pressure. It wasn’t a bath; it was an erasure. They scrubbed me until I was raw, trying to wash away the “Eris” I’d built for protection. They used soaps that smelled like the flowers from my mother’s sunroom. They were trying to polish the “Jade” so they could put it back in a display case.

After the scrubbing, they gave me a simple white silk robe. It felt like a betrayal. Silk was the fabric of my childhood, the fabric of the people who lied to me.

The door hissed open, and Julian Thorne walked in.

He’d ditched the suit for a dark navy shirt, the top buttons undone. He looked at me—now clean, my hair damp and flowing, my skin glowing under the lights. His pupils dilated. The “ghost” was screaming at him now. He backed me against the cold tile wall.

“What is your real name?” he growled.

“Eris,” I said, my gaze level.

“Liar,” he whispered, his hand tracing the line of my jaw. “I see something in your eyes that doesn’t come from the gutter. You look like a girl who lost a kingdom.”

“Everyone here has lost something, Sir. The only difference is… I’m taking mine back.”

Julian’s grip tightened. The tension was a physical weight. I could feel the heat radiating from him—the same heat that promised to protect me a decade ago. Now, it was the heat of a predator who had found his favorite prey.

“Then show me,” Julian said, his eyes dropping to my lips. “Show me exactly what you’re willing to sacrifice to get it.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering inches from mine. I could feel the vibration of his breathing. This was the first test. The first step into the Sanctum. To destroy the Thornes, I had to let the heir to their sins believe he had finally caught his ghost.

I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. I let him see the girl with nothing left to lose.

Go on, Julian, I thought, a cold smile forming in my mind. Love me. Obsess over me. Build me into the perfect weapon.

Because the higher you build my pedestal, the more spectacular your fall will be when I finally push you off.

“I’m ready,” I whispered against his lips.

Julian didn’t kiss me. Not yet. He just stared at me with an intensity that would have broken anyone else. Then, he stepped back, his mask of indifference snapping back into place.

“Welcome to the Sanctum, Eris. Try not to die in the first week.”

He turned and left, the heavy door locking behind him.

I stood in the center of the sterile room, the white silk robe a shroud for the girl I used to be. I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall. Margo Valderama was officially dead.

Eris was born. And she was hungry for blood.