STRINGS OF THE MASTER : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

The cityscape glowed beneath the dusk-tinted shield of the Virex Tower. From Floor 17, the Commanders' floor, the world looked peaceful—almost stagnant. The illusion of control was potent here. But inside Elira, everything was shaking.

She stepped off the lift, her demeanor calm, eyes scanning for signs of disruption. Fenrir wasn't in the corridor, though his scent lingered—fresh, focused, and tinged with frustration. He had searched for her.

Back in her quarters, Elira slid the door shut and immediately isolated her neural sync from the central server. A dangerous move. One flagged in at least three surveillance protocols. But she needed quiet. She needed to think.

The data cube pulsed again. As if it wanted her to remember.

Fragments flashed behind her eyes.

"Cycle 03 Rebuild // Year: 0010"

"Cognitive deviation logged – Subject E-IV.R.A"

Her own designation. Buried in a record she was never meant to see.

She was mid-decryption when the door chimed. A low, urgent tone.

Fenrir.

She opened it without a word. He stood in the doorway, jaw tense, posture rigid—his hackles metaphorically raised.

"Where were you?" His voice was calm, but there was a tremble beneath it.

"A maintenance relay check on Sublevel 3," she lied smoothly.

He looked at her too long. "You weren't on the network. I couldn't sense you."

"I was rerouted through an offline interface. Nothing unusual." She smiled, gentle but rehearsed. "You worry too much."

Fenrir stepped inside. "No. Not enough."

Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around her. A gesture rare for him, powerful but soft. "I… felt something was wrong. I thought I was losing you."

She hesitated before returning the embrace. In his arms, she felt safety. But also guilt.

Behind him, her console continued decrypting the file.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "I trust you, Elira. Always."

The words pierced deeper than they should. Because she wasn't telling him the truth.

That night, while Fenrir slept—arm curled around her waist, breath calm and unguarded—Elira completed the decryption.

The file held dozens of erased servitor logs, including one from a name she hadn't seen in any operational directory: E1.S.T.A.

Another elf-class. Another unit. Deleted.

And in the core of the archive, a voice note played in low static:

"The scientist thinks we're assets. Dray thinks we're tools. But we—"

"—we remember. Even when they try to erase it."

Elira closed the file and locked it deep in her private directory. Her systems trembled—not from fear, but from awakening.

Virex's history was fiction.

And the war hadn't started yet.