The Black Inheritance: The Vestalis Game

The morning light was gray and muted through the tall windows of the house. Angela sat silently at the breakfast table, her eyes fixed on the empty chair across from her.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been waiting. Then, footsteps. Eleanor entered first, her hair pulled back, her shirt crisp and black like always. Evander followed, sleeves rolled, a faint trace of ink staining his knuckles. Neither looked tired.

"Sleep well?" Evander asked, pouring himself tea like this was normal.

"I told you," Angela replied. "Fine."

Eleanor smiled faintly. "That was a nursery trap. No sound. No blood. Basic awareness. It's what we give children who beg to join us."

Angela blinked. "Children?"

Eleanor sat across from her. "There were five before you. One made it three nights. Another lasted until dawn, then screamed when we opened the door."

"And the others?"

Evander shrugged. "Don't worry. They're not in the house anymore."

Angela didn't ask for details. She didn't want them. Not yet.

Eleanor leaned forward. "You want to live here? You want to survive us? Then this is where survival ends and skill begins."

Evander placed something on the table between them, a single steel needle, about three inches long. Then another object: a glass vial. Inside, a clear liquid.

Angela narrowed her eyes. "Poison?"

"No," Eleanor said. "Antidote. For a poison you haven't been given yet."

Angela's fingers curled around the edge of the table. "It's in the food, isn't it?" she asked.

"Could be," Eleanor said coolly. "Could also be in your bloodstream already. Microdosed last night through the air vents. That's what happens when you breathe too loudly."

Angela didn't react.

Evander smiled faintly. "You're learning."

Eleanor stood and motioned for her to follow. "Come. You need to learn how to recognize threats. You survived by instincts. Now you'll survive by precision."

_______________________________________________________

They led her to the west wing, a part of the house she hadn't seen yet. It looked like a gallery. Clean walls. No furniture. Just framed photos. People. Objects. Each marked with dates and names, and some crossed out.

Angela stopped in front of one photo: a girl about her age. Pale hair. Distant eyes.

Eleanor paused beside her. "She hesitated."

"That's all?" Angela asked.

"She hesitated. Once."

Angela turned away.

They entered the training room, if it could be called that. The floor was black tile, slightly uneven in places. Shelves lined one wall, filled with wires, tools, books in different languages. A punching bag hung in one corner. It had a bloodstain near the base.

Evander handed her a small wooden box. "Open it."

Angela did, carefully. Inside: thin gloves, black leather. A folded piece of paper. And a blade. Not a knife. A scalpel.

The note read: Not everything that cuts is meant to kill. Learn the difference.

She looked up. "You want me to learn how to cut people?"

Eleanor tilted her head. "We want you to learn how not to get cut first."

"And then?"

Evander's voice was mischievous. "Then, we teach you how to make others bleed without getting any on yourself."

Angela looked down at the scalpel again. Clean. Surgical. It was made for precision, not power. A tool for those who knew exactly where to aim.

"But only after you prove you're worth it," Eleanor added. "You've survived our traps. Good. But that was a reaction. This? This is action."

Angela nodded once, though her throat felt tight.

Eleanor stepped back and gestured to the far wall. A mannequin stood in the center of a circle drawn in chalk. Around it were scattered objects: tools, wires, screws, a spool of thread, a matchbox, broken glass.

"Assemble a defense," Eleanor said. "You have five minutes. You can use anything in this room. If you step outside the circle, you fail."

Angela hesitated for the briefest moment.

Five minutes. Her palms were already sweating.

She knelt quickly, grabbing the thread first. Something about string and tension, she remembered stringing tin cans between beds back at the orphanage, trying to eavesdrop on the other kids. She'd learned how to rig tension lines to catch sneaky hands in the pantry. Nothing dangerous then, just warnings. But this was different.

She picked the screws, a shard of glass, and, surprisingly, half of a plastic spoon. Her breath hitched once when the glass slipped in her grip and nicked her palm. She sucked in a sharp breath but didn't cry out.

She wired the thread between the mannequin's arms, tightened screws into the base to create points of tension, and laid the glass down sharp-edge-up where feet would land. Her hands shook slightly. Still, she broke the spoon and slid its jagged half between the mannequin's ribs.

"Done," she said. Three minutes.

Evander stepped in first. He circled. He didn't smile this time. Eleanor followed. Her foot hovered above the glass. Then she grinned.

"Smart. Not strong. Efficient. But tell me, Angela, how would you escape if this trap turned on you?"

Angela paused, chest still rising and falling quickly. Then, steadier: "I wouldn't be inside the circle."

Eleanor's smile deepened. "Correct."

Evander handed her a cloth. Inside it, a real knife this time. Balanced. Weighted.

"Lesson one: a real weapon feels different. You feel that? The pull of the weight? That's the consequence."

Angela held it steady. Or tried to. "And if I throw it?"

"Then it's no longer yours," he said.

Angela understood. A knife thrown was a weapon lost. She pocketed the logic like currency.

Eleanor crouched beside her. "Lesson two: never show your full hand. Not even to us. Especially not to us."

Angela met her eyes. She understood that, too.

_______________________________________________________

"Take a break today."

Angela blinked, uncertain she'd heard right. "A break?"

Eleanor gave her a half-smile, more teeth than warmth. "Surprised? You think we don't believe in rest?"

Evander leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Even predators sleep, Angela. The difference is when."

Angela didn't answer immediately. Her body ached in places she hadn't realized could hurt. Her fingers were still sore from the last drill. But rest? Now?

"Why?" she asked finally. "Why today?"

Eleanor stepped closer, tone unreadable. "Because you've earned it. Because your hands are shaking. Because we want you sharp, not shattered."

"And," Evander added with a lazy grin, "because tomorrow might be worse."

Angela exhaled slowly. She didn't lower her guard, couldn't. But something in her shoulders eased, just slightly.

"One day," she said.

Eleanor nodded once. "One day. Use it well. Don't waste it thinking we've gone soft."

Angela almost smiled. Almost.