The world tilts again, and I lose her for a moment.
The sound of engines grows louder, closer and familiar in a way that registers even through the haze. My men. They’re close now. Her face tightens with fear she tries to hide, but I see it in the way her pupils dilate, and the slight tremor that runs through her shoulders. I feel her hesitate, and the moment she chooses survival over loyalty to a stranger bleeding out in an alley.
She presses down harder, whispering hurried words I can’t quite hear through the roaring in my ears. An apology laced with regret.
Then she’s gone, and the loss of her presence feels more profound than it should.
The pressure remains for a second longer, her scarf still wedged against my wound, the fabric soft and blood-soaked, and then hands replace hers, larger, rougher, urgent. Mikel's hands. I would recognize his touch anywhere, the way he moves with purpose, never wasting a single motion.
Someone swears in Russian, in harsh, frantic words. The vehicle lurches forward, the tires screaming as we accelerate into the night, and I slip under again.
I wake burning.
Every breath feels like it scrapes against raw bone, like my lungs are lined with broken glass that cuts deeper with each inhale. Pain pulses through my torso in heavy, rhythmic waves that leave me clenching my jaw until my teeth ache and my temples throb in time with my heartbeat.
I’m flat on my back. The air smells sterile, tinged with antiseptic and the faint chemical bite of disinfectant that can’t quite mask the scent of my own blood. A single light hums overhead, the fluorescent buzz drilling into my skull.
Safehouse.
I know it before I open my eyes. The concrete ceiling and reinforced beams built for function, not comfort. This is one of our secondary locations, stripped down and anonymous, designed for exactly this: extraction, stabilization, survival.
My body is immobilized beneath layers of bandages and compression wraps, stitches pulling tight every time I breathe. My movements are restricted in ways that make my pulse spike with instinctive panic. Heat radiates from my side, my ribs, and the place just below where my heart beats too fast and shallow.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the harsh light. The walls are bare, painted industrial gray that has faded and chipped in places. A metal chair sits beside the narrow bed, its surface scratched and dented. Medical supplies are stacked on a fold-out table against the wall. Gauze, tape, bottles of saline, and instruments I do not want to examine too closely.
A chair scrapes softly against the floor, the sound cutting through the stillness.
“Kiren.”
Mikel's voice breaks through the haze, low and even. I turn my head a fraction, pain flaring through my neck and shoulder, bright enough to make my vision blur again before it clears.
He stands beside the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression carved from stone. His face is all hard lines and angles, cheekbones prominent beneath pale skin, and jaw locked in a way that tells me he hasn’t slept. Dark blonde hair falls across his forehead, longer than usual, and his eyes, dark and watchful, track every movement I make. There is blood on his cuff, a crimson smear against the black fabric of his shirt.
“How long,” I rasp, my voice coming out rough and cracked.
“Eight hours since extraction,” he answers without hesitation, his accent thick. “You drifted in and out. The doctor stabilized you enough for transport.”
Doctor.
The word stirs awareness inside me, pulling at threads I don’t want to examine yet. Gray eyes. A voice telling me not to die. Hands pressing against my wound with more certainty than fear.
I swallow carefully, my throat dry and aching. “Status.”
Mikel adjusts his posture, a subtle movement that tells me everything before he speaks. His shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly, and his jaw ticks. “Your father is dead.”
The words land without ceremony, delivered without softening, hesitation, or any attempt to lessen their impact. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for grief to break inside me, or rage, sorrow, or disbelief to surface. Nothing does.
There is only the dull ache of inevitability, the confirmation of what I already suspected the moment I woke in this room instead of a hospital. My father would not have allowed this, the vulnerability, exposure, and weakness of needing anyone. He would have preferred to die on his feet.
“How,” I ask, my voice flat.
“Coordinated assassination. Internal support confirmed it.”
Of course. The words settle over me like frost, cold and unforgiving. My father built an empire on fear and discipline, but fear breeds resentment, and resentment breeds betrayal when given enough time to fester.
The room feels too quiet. The hum of the light presses against my ears, drilling into the silence. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps move through the warehouse. The empire endures, even though its king was cut down.
“A coup is already in motion,” Mikel continues, his tone clipped. “Several captains are posturing. Arkady Voronin and two others have gone silent.”
