Across the city, in the depths of a private estate where morning training sessions had become a sacred ritual, two brothers moved in perfect synchronisation, unaware that miles away, another man was discovering the same impossible truth about wings and talons and the weight of transformation.
The gym was silent, except for the sounds of breathing, equipment, and movement.
Beneath the sprawling Peters estate and far from the white columns and private drives above, the lower level throbbed with tension. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The smooth concrete walls closed in around steel support beams and long mirrored panels. Dumbbells gleamed from the polished racks. A sparring ring stood vacant in one corner, its ropes tight and the canvas floor unscuffed since the last round.
In the centre, moving on a thick black mat, two figures trained in perfect sync.
Duncan and Damien Peters—identical in frame, face, and fury—shadowboxed without a word spoken between them. Their jet-black hair was tightly tied back and stuck to their sweaty foreheads. Their muscles coiled and shifted beneath their taut skin with each movement they made, both brothers shirtless and their broad chests rising in controlled rhythm.
Their bare feet gripped the mat as they circled. Right hook. Pivot. Low sweep. Reset. A rhythm and pattern they followed religiously in their gym.
Their reflections followed them in the wall-length mirrors—just two flawless doppelgängers throwing precise combinations with mirrored precision. The space between them never wavered, and neither of them tried to outpace the other. There was no need because they had trained together since they could walk and had done everything together since birth. They had sparred since they were old enough to bruise, and fought the world shoulder to shoulder ever since the accident that made them heirs instead of sons. Their bond was strong and relentless.
And now, the gym was their haven and their testing ground.
Sweat rolled down Damien's temple, and Duncan's knuckles cracked as he adjusted his stance.
Still, neither of them spoke a word.
There was no grunt and not even a hint of a challenge. There was only the sound of breathing, the whisper of fists slicing through the air and the faint squeak of skin against rubber.
The silence wasn't empty. It vibrated with a mutual intensity and a pressure they had no language or way to explain, but both of them understood.
And somewhere beneath that pressure—beneath the calm and control—there wassomething else that had begun to stir.
Damien struck first.
A sudden blur of motion, and his right arm snapped forward, followed by a lightning-quick left and then another jab, each movement precise and compact. His body flowed naturally with the rhythm, hips turning smoothly and feet planted with the grip of a fighter who knew exactly how to shift weight without giving ground.
Duncan ducked the first jab by a hair, felt the second fly past his ear, and deflected the third with a tight, quick elbow block. He didn't flinch or retreat. His body moved before any thought could form. His i
