Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“Stand down,” Jaeger ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s with us.”

Weapons lowered reluctantly, but remained visible, a reminder that trust was a luxury extended to Mikel that could be snatched back at any moment. Mikel moved to join their table, keeping a careful distance from Jameson as he sat.

Kestrel Farrow entered the bar from the back door, emerging from the shadows as she quietly cut off a phone call, and slid her tablet into a pocket, then smiled at them. “Hello, boys,” she drawled, nodding toward the bartender for a drink. “You ready to fuck up the Heart?”

Jameson’s brow furrowed, looking between her and Mikel. “You already knew he was a part of this?”

“There are a lot of things I know that you don’t, Vine,” she said, casually sitting and pushing her chair back onto its hind legs. “The Cardinal rebellion plays a different role than yours, being so close to the Heart.”

He ignored the slight jab. “Well then, let’s get started. Tell me everything I don’t fucking know.”

Farrow shook her head, a lock of golden hair falling across her sharp features. “We need to wait for the others. We only discuss this once.”

“What others?” Jameson demanded, frustration now bleeding into his voice.

“Him,” Jaeger said, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he gestured toward the door.

Jameson turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as his eyes connected with Callum Thane, the Broker. His gun was drawn in an instant, barrel pointed at the center of his head. Farrow’s sharp gasp echoed in the space behind him as Lira Serel stepped into view, maskless.

Lira froze in the doorway of Wolf’s Head, her hand hovering over the gun strapped to her thigh. She knew exactly who each of the eyes focused on her belonged to from the surveillance she’d done over the years for the media, but her sight narrowed to a single point—Captain Mikel in his pristine Veyra uniform, sitting among the rebels like he belonged there.

The bar fell silent. Even the dim neon lights seemed to hold their breath, casting colors across features hardened by years of Boundary survival. Blood decorated Jameson’s face like war paint, his clothing soaked in darker stains. She recognized the look in his eyes—the same wild fury she’d seen in her own reflection after she’d put a bullet in Marcus Webb’s head only hours ago.

Callum shifted slightly, positioning his body between her and Jameson’s gun. The gesture was so subtle, so instinctive, that Lira doubted he was even aware of it.

“I advise you point that thing away from me,” Callum said, nodding to the gun trained on his head. His hands remained visible, relaxed at his sides, but Lira knew how quickly those hands could produce a weapon of their own.

No one moved. The tension pulled tighter, an invisible wire about to snap.

Callum broke the silence again with a low chuckle that somehow made the air in the room even heavier. “Well, well, I’m more shocked every day by the traitors you’re collecting, Jaeger.” His eyes flicked briefly to Mikel. “Tell me, does the Veyra Captain still have the President’s tracking device under his skin, or did you cut that out before letting him in on all your secrets?”

Mikel’s hand unconsciously moved to his forearm where Lira knew all high-ranking Veyra officers were implanted with trackers. The gesture was confirmation enough.

“He’s clean,” Jaeger answered. “All of my people are clean.”

“Your people,” Jameson spat, gun still trained on Callum. “Since when did Heart aristocracy become your people, Jaeger?”

“Since they proved more useful than your emotional outbursts,” a new voice cut in. “Put down the gun, Jameson.”

Lira recognized her immediately—Kestrel Farrow, Cardinal’s most notorious information broker. Their rebel leader. The woman whose contacts had been in Brooker’s personal effects.

“The princess of the kingdom finally coming to play with the big boys,” Kestrel said, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Welcome to the rebellion, Lira Serel. I was wondering when you’d come to the dark side.”

Jameson’s gun wavered slightly, confusion flickering across his blood spattered face. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Jaeger slammed his fist against the table and Lira’s blood curdled in her veins at the sound, like a gunshot in the tense silence. A programmed reaction to her own father’s violent outbursts.

“Everyone. Sit. Down.” Each word of Jaeger’s carried the weight of a command, not a request. “We don’t have time for this territorial bullshit."

Reluctantly, Jameson lowered his weapon, though his finger remained dangerously close to the trigger. He backed toward the table but didn’t sit, positioning himself with a clear line of sight to both entrances.

Callum guided Lira forward with a light touch at the small of her back. The contact anchored her, kept her moving even as her mind raced through possibilities, assessing dangers, formulating responses. This was familiar territory for her—navigating treacherous social waters, reading the undercurrents of power and intent. She’d been doing it since childhood in her father’s government. Only the setting had changed.

A server appeared, setting drinks before each of them. Lira noted that the men and Farrow received whiskey, while she was given wine. Small assumptions about class, even here at the edge of the world. She picked up the glass carefully, then poured the contents onto the concrete floor. Next, she reached for the bottle in the center of the table and poured herself two fingers of amber liquid.

“I must say,” Farrow said, swirling her own drink and eyeing her. “I was surprised to get your call, Lira.”

Callum’s head snapped toward her, genuine shock breaking through his expression. “Your call?” The question hung in the center of the table, laden with implications.

Lira shot Farrow a warning glance, which she acknowledged with the slightest incline of her head. Some things were still not for public disclosure.

“I found Farrow’s contact information on my brother’s phone after his death,” Lira said, choosing her words carefully. “I called it to see if I could gather any clues as to why he died.”

Farrow shared a quick glance with Jaeger at her words, both eyes falling back on her as if assessing.

It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d found Farrow’s contact among Brooker’s things. What she omitted was the truth of why she’d called, the plan that’d formed. But that, she would never speak of until it was carried out.

Lira took a deliberate sip of her whiskey, then set the glass down. “But that’s not why we’re here tonight.” She turned her gaze to Mikel, letting the full weight of her anger show on her face. “Why the fuck are you here? Didn’t you just help my father imprison Shadera and my brother hours ago?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. In the harsh bar light, he looked older than what she saw through surveillance, deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough with an emotion Lira couldn’t immediately identify.

“I did my job,” he said finally. “Your father has become . . . unpredictable. There are things happening in this city that you know nothing about, and my task with the rebellion was to get close to him. I’ve done what is necessary to make that happen.”

Before she could respond, Jameson cut in, his voice sharp with suspicion as he turned to Callum and finally dropped into a chair beside Jaeger. “What about him? Why is Heart Mafia at this table? Why is the Executioner’s sister here at all?”

Callum sucked in an exaggerated gasp. “Mafia? You honor me.”

Jameson’s hand twitched toward his weapon again. “Don’t play games with me, Thane. I’ve lost too much to this fight to be jerked around by Heart elite playing at rebellion.”

“Jameson,” Jaeger warned.

“No,” Jameson snapped. “No more secrets. No more need-to-know bullshit. We’ve lost too much time because we didn’t share information. Because we all thought we were so fucking clever keeping our own little sections of the rebellion separate.” He turned his fury on Farrow. “Did you know Maximus has bombs he’s planning to drop on the Boundary? The drones I told you about. That’s why he is mapping the rings, so he knows where to drop bombs.”

Farrow’s expression faltered for the first time. “What?”

“It’s worse than just bombs,” Callum interjected, and every gaze turned to him.

Lira felt the room tilt slightly, the enormity of the situation finally dawning. She hadn’t known about the bombs. The back of her throat started to burn, acid building from the twisting of her stomach. This wasn’t just about saving her brother and Shadera anymore. This was about saving thousands and thousands of lives.

“They are incendiary gas bombs that will disintegrate human life on contact, while saving the environment from harm.” Callum paused as if he were preparing himself for what he would say next. “The President is calling it The Culling.”

A heavy silence descended over the table, each person absorbing the horrifying truth of Callum’s words.

Mikel broke the silence first. “Greyson and Shadera are being held in your father’s penthouse.” He glanced at Lira. “He has a level beneath his floors that he uses as a private prison for important people.”

Lira’s stomach dropped.

“He will keep it under twenty-four-hour surveillance with Veyra whose loyalty is resolute. We will not be able to get to them until after the Vow ceremony, until after he releases them.” Mikel’s face softened. “I respect your brother, I’ve known for a long while what he has been doing for the rings, and I have tried to protect him, to ease his burdens on the platform when I could, and I will do everything I can to get him out of this alive.”

“Why?” Lira snapped, her voice rising as her fingers curled into fists on the table. “Why do you have such an interest in him? Why do you care what happens to him when you have been following my father’s orders at every turn to hurt him?”

Mikel looked at Farrow only once and she nodded. Then, he took a deep breath and answered. “He’s my son.”

That isn’t possible. That—how could that . . . it couldn’t be possible.

Lira shook her head. Refusing to believe the lie as her breathing began to come in rapid pants. “No. No, that’s not—”

“He’s coming.” Farrow’s voice stopped Lira’s words, and her eyes snapped to her.

Static began to rupture in her ears, a tingling spreading over her limbs.

Too much is fucking happening.

“Who?” She could barely hear her own voice. “Who else could be a part of this?”

She felt Callum’s hand suddenly slip into hers on the table, squeezing as if he were afraid, as if she might be ripped away from him.

No one answered her, no one said anything, as the door to the entrance of the bar pushed open at her back. The hinges whined as every eye dragged over her shoulder to a place beyond.

Then out of the quiet, a voice she could have picked out of a screaming crowd sounded from behind her.

“Hi, sis.”

Chapter twenty-nineAt What Cost?

The first thing Greyson became aware of was the pain. It radiated through his skull, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, dragging him up from the black depths of his unconsciousness. He tried to lift his head, but the small movement sent agony lancing down his neck and spine, wrenching a groan from his throat. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, tasting of copper. Of blood.

He forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light that stabbed at his retinas. The room swam into focus slowly, details emerging from the painful brightness. A glass box. A single light recessed into the ceiling, too high to reach even if he could stand. And he couldn’t stand, he realized, because he was tied to a chair.

No, not tied.

The word was too tame, too civilized. He was bound. The same thick red cord used to tie rebels bit into his wrists and ankles, immobilizing his limbs. Sick symbolism courtesy of his father.

More cord wrapped around his chest, his waist, his thighs, welding him to the chair as if it were trying to consume him. He could feel the bruises forming beneath the bonds, his skin screaming at the pressure.

He tested his restraints, straining against the cords until his muscles burned and skin bled. The chair didn’t so much as budge. He scanned the floor, eyes catching on the bolts, the thick rivets securing it to the concrete. An interrogation chair. A chair for traitors and rebels, designed to hold its occupant in place no matter how they struggled, no matter how they fought.

The irony wasn’t lost on Greyson. How many times had he stood in similar rooms, interrogating rebels who were strapped into a chair just like this one? He’d always thought there would be a certain dignity in it, a stoic resolve in the face of death. He’d been wrong. There was no dignity here, only fear and fury, and the dawning realization of his own helplessness.

His head ached, the pain sharpening as his senses returned. He could feel dried blood on his face, cracking as his jaw clenched. The memories were hazy, fragmented. The Veyra descending on them in his father’s office. Shadera’s fingers being ripped from his as they were dragged away from each other.

Shadera.

Her name was a jolt to his system, a spike of adrenaline that cleared the fog from his mind. Where was she? Had they hurt her? The questions churned in his gut, dread mixing with the hot flush of rage.

A sound interrupted his spiraling thoughts. A thud, muffled but unmistakable, coming from his back. From the cell next to his. He went still, straining his ears, hardly daring to breathe.

Another thud. Then another. Then a cry, high and thin, quickly cut off.

No. No, no, no.

“Shadera!” Her name tore from his throat, raw and ragged. “Shadera!”

Only silence answered him. Silence, and then the distinct sound of flesh striking flesh, and a whimper that knifed through him, flooding his veins with terror and fury.

They were beating her. The knowledge settled in his bones like ice, freezing him from the inside out. She was a mere wall away, enduring blows that should have been for him.

This was all his fault.

“Stop!” The word ripped from him, tearing at his vocal cords. “Stop it, don’t fucking touch her!”

His voice bounced off the glass, echoing back to him in mocking repetition. Useless. He was fucking useless.

“I’m right here!” he yelled, straining against the cords until he could feel them cutting into his skin, slicing through flesh. Pain shot up his arms, his legs, his chest, but it was nothing, nothing compared to the agony they would put her through. “You want to hit someone, hit me! Hurt me instead, you fucking cowards!”

His only answer was another blow, another muffled cry that shredded something fundamental inside of him. She was trying not to scream, he realized. Trying to be strong, to not give them the satisfaction.

But he could hear the toll it was taking, each suppressed whimper, each choked off gasp. She was breaking, cracking, crumbling under their brutality, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

“Please just hurt me!” he shouted, his voice cracking.

He wasn’t above begging. Not now, not with her pain echoing in his ears, reverberating in his skull. He would grovel, plead, debase himself in any way they demanded if it would make them stop. If it would spare her.

A new sound snapped through the air—the impact of something harder than a fist. Shadera’s pained gasp this time was followed by the unmistakable sound of bone cracking.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Greyson screamed, fury unleashing through his body. “Every last one of you. I’ll hunt you down and cut your throats myself!”

The threats poured from him, vicious and detailed. He described precisely how he would end each of them, how he would ensure their deaths were witnessed and remembered. The words flowed like poison, like blood, like all the darkness he’d kept contained for so long.

But his words fell on deaf ears. Or perhaps they simply fell on cruel ones, ears that reveled in his desperation, in his anguish. The blows continued, relentless, merciless, each one a fresh hell, a new lesson in the depths of his father’s brutality.

Between his screams, between her gasps and the blows and the all-consuming rage, another emotion began to take root in the center of Greyson’s chest as he listened to them torture her. An emotion he’d been denying, suppressing, hiding from.

Strapped to this chair, listening to her agony, that emotion demanded to be named.

Still he refused to acknowledge it.

Her cries were weakening now, fading into little more than ragged breaths and soft, broken whimpers. Greyson’s heart seized at the sound, at the wet rattle in her lungs that spoke of internal damage, of injuries that might never heal.

“Shadera,” he breathed, his voice cracking into shards on her name. “Hold on. Just hold on. I’m here. I’m right here.”

The blows finally ceased, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. Greyson held his breath, straining to hear any sound, any indication that she was still breathing, still fighting.

Then, out of the terrible quiet, a new sound emerged. Footsteps, slow and measured, echoing in the space beyond his cell. The deliberate tread of expensive shoes on concrete, each step a declaration of power, of control.

Greyson knew that walk. He’d heard it on marble floors and parquet ballrooms, had felt it vibrate through his bones as he hid in closets as a child.

It was the sound of his nightmares, of his darkest fears and deepest shames.

The sound of his father.

Maximus Serel stepped into view, his golden mask gleaming in the harsh light. He stood before Greyson’s cell, his posture relaxed, almost lazy in its arrogance. When he spoke, his voice was the rich, smooth baritone of a practiced orator, a charismatic leader. A lie given form.

“Oh, my son.”

Despite the pain, despite the fear and the soul deep anguish still reverberating through him, Greyson felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl. “I am going to fucking kill you.”

Shadera was caught in a world of blood and pain, each nerve ending shrieking in agony. The blows stopped suddenly, the absence of new pain almost as shocking as its infliction. She drew in a shuddering breath, tasting copper on her tongue, feeling it bubble in her lungs.

She blinked through the swelling around her eyes, squinting against the light. Her cell resolved itself in increments, the details filtered through a haze of concussion and Maximus’s best efforts to break her.

She would not break for the devil.

Red cord bit into her flesh, weaving across her body in a grotesque web, binding her so tightly she couldn’t tell where her battered skin ended and the restraints began.

She was no stranger to pain, to imprisonment, to the unique cruelties the Heart reserved for those it deemed enemies. But this . . . this was new. This was intimate, personal in a way that chilled her beyond the freezing cold of the cell.

This wasn’t an interrogation. It was a message. A promise of the suffering to come, meted out not for information, but for the sheer vicious thrill of it.

Her vision focused as she spit blood onto the floor, raising her head as far as she could to see Maximus standing on the other side of the glass, staring into the two cells, surveying her battered form like a craftsman admiring his handiwork.

And to her horror, some part of her felt relief at the sight of him. Relief that his presence meant a respite, however brief, from the brutality. Relief that maybe, just maybe, he would end this, if only so he could be the one to begin it again.

Self loathing rose like bile in her throat. Was this what it took to break her, to make her grateful for the crumbs of mercy from a monster’s table? Is this how Greyson had felt, all those years under his father’s thumb, enduring who knew what degradations and disfigurements?

She thought of Lira, of the confessions torn from her throat in that shattered apartment. The abuses she’d suffered, the wounds she’d hidden, all in the name of survival in this gilded cage of a city.

And for the first time, Shadera truly recognized it. Recognized the impossible choices they’d faced, the parts of themselves they’d had to carve away to endure the unendurable. Maximus hadn’t just broken their bodies. He’d broken their spirits, their wills, their very sense of self.

No one survived the Heart unscathed. Not the princess in her tower, not the Executioner on his platform, and not the assassin in her cage. They were all casualties of this man’s cruelty, this man’s megalomania.

But as Maximus’s gaze dragged from Greyson’s cell and met hers through the glass, as cold and pitiless as the eyes of a shark, Shadera felt something kindling in her chest. Not hope, not defiance . . . but understanding. The kind of understanding that could bleed into empathy, into solidarity against a common enemy.

They’d all done what was necessary to survive Maximus’s rule. Now, maybe, they could do what was necessary to end it. If they lived long enough. If she lived long enough.

Maximus stepped closer to the glass, his masked face cocked in a parody of concern. She stared back at him, pouring every ounce of hate, of defiance, she could muster into her swollen eyes. “Fuck. You.”

The sound of Shadera’s words sent relief washing through Greyson’s body. His father laughed at the hate in her tone, at the defiance she still held even after taking his beatings.

His father nodded to one of the Veyra and they appeared in front of the glass with a chair for him. He sat, leaning back as his gaze roamed over the two of them.

Greyson stared at him, hate burning in his eyes. Blood dripped steadily from his wrists now, the restraints cutting through skin and muscle beneath. He barely felt it.

“How dramatic you have become,” Maximus started. “Threats against my men? Declarations of vengeance?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“You raised me to be exactly what I am,” Greyson replied, his voice dangerously quiet. “Remember that when I put a bullet in your head.”

Maximus ignored the threat.

“Did you truly believe your rebel activities would go unnoticed?” he asked, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather over breakfast. “The medical supplies? The credits passed to the rings?” He tilted his head, the golden mask catching the light. “Did you think me blind or merely stupid?”

Greyson’s jaw clenched, his throat tightening at the revelation. He remained silent, refusing to rise to the bait, to give his father the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Your silence is pointless,” Maximus continued, removing his mask and placing it gently on his lap. “I’ve known for months. Tracked every shipment.” He sighed, the sound hollow. “Just as I knew about Brooker.”

The name sent a shock through Greyson’s system. He had nothing to do with this, with Greyson’s choice to help the rebellion.

“What?” The word was a growl leaving his lips.

Maximus folded his hands in his lap. “Your brother was also a traitor. Did you know that?” He shook his head, a soft chuckle leaving his lips. “Of course you didn’t. He was more careful than you.” Something like pride crept into his voice. “More clever. More patient. Until he made his fatal mistake.”

“You’re lying,” Greyson said, but doubt had already taken root.

Brooker had always been secretive, always kept parts of himself hidden, even from him. There’d always been something about his brother, some core of defiance that even Maximus’s cruelest lessons couldn’t quite extinguish.

“Am I?” Maximus asked softly. “Why would I lie when the truth is so much more . . . instructive?”

He stood, moving closer to Greyson’s cell. “Brooker lived a double life in Cardinal for years unmasked. Used an alias, called himself Levi Pierce. Smuggled prisoners out of Heart detention. Diverted resources to the rings.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “And he fell in love with a Cardinal whore.”

Greyson’s breath caught in his throat. This couldn’t be true. Brooker, the perfect son, the dutiful Executioner—a rebel? A traitor to the Heart? And yet . . . it made a terrible kind of sense. Explained his brother’s growing distance in those final months, the strange comments that Greyson had dismissed. The unexplained absences, the odd hours he’d keep. The way he’d sometimes look at Greyson, an apology in his gaze, a sorrow he’d never quite understood.

“You’re saying he was like me?” Greyson finally asked.

“Worse,” Maximus replied. “You merely smuggle supplies. Your brother actually achieved something. He was orchestrating a full-scale uprising. Gathering information for a coup.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t allow that, of course. But neither could I risk the public shame of unmasking, of execution on the platform from my eldest son’s betrayal.”

Cold realization washed over Greyson. “You had him killed.”

“I arranged his removal,” Maximus corrected. “Quietly. Efficiently. Through contracted means that could never be traced back to me.” He turned slightly, his eyes glancing toward Shadera’s cell. “A contract carried out by the Daggermouths. By their most talented mercenary.”

Greyson felt as though he’d been plunged into ice water. He tried to twist in his chair, tried to look at Shadera through the cell wall at his back, but the bindings only cut deeper as they held him in place.

“No,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “No, that’s not—she said she didn’t.”

“And you were dumb enough to believe her?” Maximus snapped, making his way back to his chair and sitting. “I framed him as a Heart informant,” he continued. “Made him appear to be betraying the very rebels he was working with. Made his death seem like rebel justice rather than a father’s punishment.” A soft laugh. “The contract specified to leave his body in the center of the Heart, to make it messy. A fabricated warning to Heart citizens who might consider crossing into the rings. Your Daggermouth performed admirably.”

Greyson couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Shadera had killed Brooker. Shadera had executed his brother, had carried out his father’s twisted punishment.

She’d lied to him.

“You’re lying,” he said again, but the words were hollow now, a desperate attempt to convince himself that this was not the truth.

It couldn’t be the truth.

“Ask her,” Maximus suggested, gesturing toward Shadera’s cell. “Ask her if she remembers the feel of her blade across his throat, of his blood warming her hands.”

He didn’t bother trying to look at her this time. Couldn’t bring himself to try. “I-is it true? Did you do it?”

There was silence for a long moment. Then she answered.

“I didn’t know, Greyson.” The words cracked on his name. Her voice, usually so strong, so defiant, had been reduced to a thready whisper. “I didn’t know he was your brother.”

Something shattered inside Greyson.

A small, choked sound escaped him. The absurdity of it all. The perfect, twisted symmetry. His father’s ultimate manipulation.

“There it is,” Maximus said softly. “The truth. The woman you love, murdered the person you loved most in this world.”

Love.

The word ignited rage in his chest. Greyson couldn’t love her. Couldn’t give form to the feeling that had been growing in his chest, taking root in the very core of him. Not now, not in the face of this betrayal, this devastation. Not after this.

Maximus leaned forward, brushing dirt off his pants as if he had not just placed a grenade between Greyson’s rib cage. “Of course, Brooker’s death was merely the beginning. I had planned similar fates for both of you.”

The words penetrated the pain collecting in Greyson’s soul, pulling him back from the edge of complete collapse. “What are you talking about?”

“Surely you’ve realized by now,” Maximus continued. “The contract on your life. The assassin sent to kill you.”

A growl vibrated through Greyson’s throat, but he bit it back. His mind returning to logic as it always did when feeling became unbearable. His father was talking openly, was sharing secrets. Whatever he said, he could use. He needed to keep him talking.

“I had hoped for her to do a better job,” Maximus said, running his fingers over the mask in his lap. “First Brooker’s death at the hands of a Daggermouth, then yours—a devastating tragedy for the Heart, proof that the rings had become ungovernable.” A pause. “The perfect justification for what comes next.”

“The Culling,” Greyson breathed, horror dawning as the pieces started falling into place. “You planned to use our deaths to justify mass murder.”

Maximus waved a dismissive hand. “Population adjustment—”

“They’re people,” Shadera cut in, her voice laced with poison. “Not statistics. Not equations to balance.”

“They’re vermin,” Maximus countered, not bothering to look at her. “Parasites draining the Heart’s resources, contributing nothing of value. Better to clear them out, make room for those who deserve the protection of our city.”

“Make room for what?” Greyson demanded, a new suspicion forming.

Maximus met his eyes, and a sickening smile twisted onto his face. “For the future. City-states to the north are failing. Their elites—people of culture, education, wealth—need somewhere to go. New Found Haven has the infrastructure, the security. All it lacks is . . . space.”

The full depravity of his father’s plan ossified in Greyson’s mind.

“You’re insane,” Greyson whispered.

“I’m pragmatic,” Maximus corrected. “The world is changing, son. Those who adapt will survive. Those who cling to outdated notions of equality will perish.” He paused. “The old ways, the old power structures . . . they’re crumbling. And it’s up to us, the strong, the worthy, to shape what rises from the ashes.”

“At what cost?” Shadera’s voice cut through the tension between father and son. “How many lives are you willing to sacrifice for your utopia?”

Maximus turned to her, his posture straightening into something threatening. “At every cost,” he said simply. “Whatever is necessary to ensure the Heart’s survival.”

He stood, straightening his dark blue suit.

“The Vow ceremony will proceed as planned. You will both cooperate fully. You will present yourselves as the perfect symbol of unity between Heart and Boundary and use your voices to convince those loyal to the Heart to come forward, to be spared. And in exchange, I will consider modifying my plans. Perhaps sparing key sectors of the rings.” He placed his mask back over his face and turned away from them. “Resist, and I will ensure you watch thousands die before I kill you both. The bombs are ready, the targets selected. One word from me, and the Boundary burns.”