Jade in the Mud

 

“Eris! Bilisan mo riyan! Ang dumi-dumi ng table four, baka lamukin ang mga customer!” sigaw ng manager kong si Gardo, sabay sipa sa timba ng maduming tubig sa tabi ko.

Ang Iron Roots ay ang lugar kung saan ang hangin ay lasang kalawang at ang pag-asa ay isang konseptong hindi pa naiimbento. Dito sa madilim na sulok ng Vespera, ang tanging batas ay survival. At sa loob ng tatlong taon, naging eksperto ako sa batas na iyon.

I was scrubbing the floor of The Rusty Gear, a jazz club that smelled 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 used to be my father’s pride.

Tumalsik ang tubig sa luma kong t-shirt. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even look up. I just continued scrubbing. Ang “Eris” na kilala nila ay pipi, bingi, at manhid. Isang basurang napulot sa kalsada.

Pero sa ilalim ng magulo kong buhok, nakatitig ako sa orasan. 9:00 PM.

The heavy steel doors of the club groaned open. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Ang ingay ng mga lasing ay biglang napalitan ng isang nakabibinging katahimikan. Even the saxophonist missed a beat. Power had just walked into the room, and it didn’t belong in a place like this.

And then, I smelled it.

Through the stench of the bar, a familiar scent drifted toward me—sandalwood, rain, and expensive tobacco.

Sampung taon na ang nakalipas. Ang chandelier ng Valderama Estate ay nagniningning na parang mga bituin. Ang hapag-kainan ay puno ng mga pagkaing hindi ko na kayang pangalanan ngayon. My father, Roberto, was laughing, his arm around Julian’s father. We were celebrating a successful merger.

Julian, then a boy of twelve with eyes that were still soft, leaned in close to me. He held my small hand under the mahogany table. “Huwag kang matakot, Margo,” he whispered, his voice like a promise. “Kahit anong mangyari, I’ll always protect you.”

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

Julian Thorne was standing in the VIP section, looking down at the crowd like a god inspecting a dumpster. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that probably cost more than the entire block of Iron Roots. His gray eyes were clinical, searching for something—or someone.

This is it.

Sinadya kong dalhin ang tray ng mga baso malapit sa table ng isang kilalang barumbado sa club, si Tino. I knew Tino. He was drunk, handsy, and easily provoked.

“Hey, pretty thing… ba’t ang dumi mo?” Tino sneered, grabbing my wrist with a grip that made my skin crawl. “Halika rito, hugasan kita ng alak.”

He poured his gin over my head. The cold liquid ran down my face, stinging my eyes. The crowd laughed. I saw Julian’s gaze flicker toward our direction. He was watching.

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

“Ano? Hindi kita narinig, basura!” Tino laughed, pulling me closer to his lap.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg for help. Instead, I let the years of street fighting and pure, unadulterated rage take over. Using his momentum, I twisted my wrist and drove my elbow straight into his throat. When he gasped for air, I grabbed a glass bottle from the tray and smashed it against the edge of the table.

With the jagged end, I pinned his hand to the wood, the sharp glass inches away from his jugular.

“Ang sabi ko, bitawan mo ko, tarantado,” I whispered, my eyes burning with a lethal elegance that didn’t belong in the slums.

The club was dead silent. Julian had stood up from his seat, his gray eyes narrowed, fixed on my face. For a split second, I saw his mask slip. He felt it—the ghost of the girl he once knew, the “Jade of Valderama” hidden beneath the mud.

I stood up slowly, ignoring the whimpering man on the floor. I wiped a streak of blood from my lip with my thumb, mocking the grace of a debutante even in my rags. My eyes locked with Julian’s.

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

Julian walked toward me, his movements predatory and graceful. The guards tried to stop him, but he raised a hand. He stopped just inches away from me. Up close, the scent of his cologne was a violent assault on my memories.

“You have a lot of fire for someone who lives in a hole,” Julian baritoned, his voice vibrating through my chest. He reached out, his gloved hand tilting my chin upward.

I wanted to bite his fingers off. I wanted to scream every curse word I had learned in the Iron Roots. But I stayed still. I let him see the “fire.”

“Ang apoy ang tanging bagay na libre sa mundong ito, Sir,” I replied, my Tagalog 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 pulled out a sleek, matte black card with the gold emblem of the Thorne Estate. He tucked it into the collar of my shirt, his knuckles brushing against my neck. The contact was electric, a sickening reminder of the summer secrets we once shared.

“The Sanctum is looking for raw assets,” he whispered, leaning close to my ear. “Marunong kang lumaban. I like that. Don’t stay in the mud, Eris. Come and see how the other half lives.”

He turned around and walked away without looking back, confident that I would follow.

I stood there, the cold gin still dripping from my hair, clutching the black card until its edges dug into my palm. I looked at his retreating back—the broad shoulders of the man who had let my father die in a cell, the man who had 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, for the estate, and for every drop of blood your family stole from mine. This card isn’t my ticket to a new life. It’s my invitation to your funeral.

THE SANCTUM: PRIVATE HOLDING ROOM

An hour later, I was inside a black SUV with tinted windows, being driven out of the slums and into the heights of the Diamond Core. The transition was jarring. From the smell of trash to the smell of expensive leather.

When the car stopped, I was led into a sterile, white room. It was a decontamination chamber.

“Strip,” the female guard commanded.

I obeyed. I stood naked under the harsh fluorescent lights, my body a map of scars from the last three years—burn marks from the estate fire, thin white lines from street brawls, and the deep, invisible scars on my soul.

Cold, pressurized water hit me from all sides. It wasn’t a bath; it was an erasure. They scrubbed me until my skin was raw, as if they could wash away the “Eris” I had built to protect myself. They used expensive soaps that smelled like the flowers my mother used to keep in her sunroom.

They were trying to turn the “Jade” back into a piece of jewelry for their display cases.

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

The door opened, and Julian Thorne walked in.

He had changed into a dark navy shirt, the top buttons undone. He looked at me—now clean, my raven hair damp and flowing, my porcelain skin glowing under the lights. His eyes dilated. The “ghost” was louder now. He walked toward me until I was pinned between him and the cold tile wall.

“Anong pangalan mo talaga?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“Eris,” I repeated, my gaze unwavering.

“Liar,” he whispered, his hand coming up to trace the curve of my jaw. “May nakikita ako sa mga mata mo na hindi galing sa kalsada. You look like someone who lost a kingdom.”

“Lahat kami rito ay may nawala, Sir. Ang pinagkaiba lang, ang sa akin… kukunin ko pabalik.”

Julian’s grip on my jaw tightened. The tension in the room was a physical weight. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the same heat that had promised to protect me ten years 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 how much you’re willing to give to get it back.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just 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 of their sins think he had finally caught his ghost.

I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. I let him see the desperate applicant, the girl with nothing left.

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

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 any other woman. He stepped back, his mask of cold indifference returning.

“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.