A beacon of purity, bound to be sullied by this unholy union.
After a moment steeped in false pleasantries, Alexander exhaled heavily, lowering himself to the imposing mahogany desk that dominated the room.He gestured toward two chairs, their ornate carvings more a testament to excess than taste.
“Please, have a seat, gentlemen,” he instructed.
I complied, lowering myself into the heavy chair.The wood groaned beneath me, a quiet protest to the unfolding conversation.
Alexander steepled his fingers, his gaze assessing.He was a man who calculated his every move, and this—this—was his opening gambit.
“Lord Hassan, your reputation precedes you.”His tone was almost indulgent, as if he were drawing me into some elaborate game he believed himself destined to win.“The Anatolia Timehunters are renowned for their prowess.It is a great honor to host one of such esteemed standing.”
“The honor is mine,” I returned smoothly, allowing my words to carry the right measure of civility.Play the role.Become the mask.
A pause.
Then, with methodical ease, I added, “I heard about the tragedy of your sons.My condolences.”
The words passed my lips like silk, effortless and empty.In the recesses of my mind, however, there was no grief, no sympathy.
Those sons had been cut from the same cloth as their father—ruthless raiders, men who had spent their lives wielding power like a bludgeon.They had met the fate they had earned.
Alexander nodded stiffly, the briefest flicker of something passing over his features before vanishing entirely.“Thank you,” he said, but there was no sorrow, no grief—only the hollow response of a man who understood loss not as pain but as inconvenience.
“Their loss is deeply felt.”
“Indeed,” I acknowledged, keeping my voice even.
Inside, my thoughts moved like pieces across a board, arranging themselves for the next play.
The game had begun.
And I would play my part to perfection.
Alexander’s gaze darkened, his voice laced with venom as cold as his frostbitten soul.
“It was the Black Wraith who killed them.That masked scourge.”
A shiver coursed through him—fear, rage, or perhaps anticipation.Then, with a sudden burst of fury, he slammed his fist onto the desk, making his crystal glass rattle in protest.
“That man must be caught and tortured.We will make an example of his death.”
His voice rose like a gathering storm, each syllable charged with wrath.“His men are decimating our Timehunter societies.He released a foul poison and burned the place to the ground.”
I lifted the brandy to my lips, allowing its warmth to coat my throat, buying myself a moment to weigh my response.Careful.Calculated.
“Why do you think it’s just one person?”I asked, letting my words hang like an unwelcome guest.“In our society, we operate in teams.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened.“It has to be him,” he insisted, as stubborn as the ancient oaks lining his estate.
I tilted my head slightly, feigning intrigue.“A serial killer craves notoriety.He wouldn’t change his stripes.This is the first we’ve heard of a poison being used.I’d wager it was someone different.”
A test.A flick of the blade, seeing how deep I could injure, before he noticed the wound.
“Nonsense,” Alexander scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.“The Black Wraith is the culprit.He has been known to experiment in his killings.”
Experiment.
Has he?
