Shadera saw this for what it was. His attempt to assert dominance, to flaunt his power. To tell her without words—he was the Heart and the laws did not apply to him.

  His face was nothing like Greyson’s. There was no glimpse of softness, no humanity left. Maximus Serel was a blade honed to its final edge—skin stretched tight over high, predatory cheekbones, eyes a colorless gray that revealed nothing. His hair was a perfect silver, not a strand out of place, and the lines that scored his face were proof of a long life of repeated victory.

  He gazed at her with the interest of a man examining a new strain of disease under glass.

  Shadera forced herself to meet his eyes, refusing to look away even as the old terror surged up from her childhood. There’d been stories, always, of what Maximus did to the rebels he caught before he took them to the execution platform. Of the torture he inflicted before taking their final breaths for all of New Found Haven to witness.

  He reached down and gripped her chin, forcing her head up. His fingers were cold, soft—evidence of a life lived in luxury. He turned her face left, then right, as if cataloging the wounds.

  “You look nothing like I expected,” he said, releasing her. “I remember your parents, you are the product of their fraternization between rings.”

  She swallowed back a snarl at his words, using every ounce of strength she had left not to let the rage explode from every pore.

  Shadera bit her tongue to stay silent.

  “Why are you still alive? Do you know?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

  “I don’t care,” she snapped, spitting a clot of blood at his shoe. “I’m not afraid of the Heart, and I’m not afraid of your unmasked face. You don’t scare me, Mr. President.”

  Maximus knelt, the movement so smooth it was almost a dance. He wiped the blood from his shoe with a handkerchief, then tossed the cloth into her lap.

  “My face is not what you should fear, Shadera Kael.” He straightened. “You are nothing but a cockroach, and the only reason you’re not dead is because I have use for what you do next.”

  He turned away, replacing the mask as the doors to his office hissed open.

  Greyson Serel entered the room and Shadera’s body reacted before her mind did. She bolted upright, pain radiating through her side as she stared at the man she’d shot point blank.

  “You,” she growled at Greyson as Maximus returned to his seat behind the desk, regarding them.

  Greyson’s back straightened, his eyes darting to his father then back to her, his own surprise evident in his body language.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” Greyson snarled, and Maximus’s head snapped toward him.

  Maximus didn’t need to say a single word, the look he gave his son from behind his mask was enough for the warmth to be sucked from the room. Every fist clenched, every hair stood straight, as if they all were preparing to attack, preparing to rip out tendons and shred skin.

  The President waited until the silence had grown its own beating heart, until the nerves and violence had leached all the color from their faces. Then he steepled his fingers together and spoke.

  “You will be married next week, in a public Vow ceremony. To each other.”

  It took Shadera a full three seconds to process the words. Then it registered—every molecule of vitriol igniting in a single searing line down her throat.

  “Fuck no,” she spat.

  “Not happening.” Greyson’s reply overlapped hers, but it was no softer.

  Maximus’s hand twitched in amusement. “You misunderstand. This is not a request. It is the only solution left to preserve order. Now, both of you, sit.”

  Shadera’s gaze darted to Greyson, searching for some sign that this was a trick, a trap, a hallucination conjured by the pain leaking through her blood. But he was as stunned as she was, blue eyes hollow behind the obsidian mask.

  “Now.” The word was a command from the President’s mouth and Shadera choked back the bile rising in her throat from the thought of following his orders.

  Greyson moved first, taking the few steps left to the chair at her right, and reluctantly fell into it. A muscle in Shadera’s jaw jumped once before she finally moved, before she obeyed and sunk down in the chair beside him.

  Maximus’s mask gleamed as he leaned forward. “If the world learns that the Heart’s Executioner removed his mask for a Daggermouth, the foundation of our society will collapse. The law is absolute. Only the Vow sanctifies that exchange.”

  Greyson clenched his jaw. “It was an accident. She was trying to kill me.”

  Shadera scoffed, her eyes narrowing on him. “You took your mask off like a little bitc—”

  The President’s hand shot into the air, silencing her before she could finish spewing the long list of profanities piling on the tip of her tongue, and ignored her insult.

  “History is not made by accidents, Greyson. It is made by consequences.” Maximus turned to Shadera. “You will be granted the status of elite. The first of your kind. And through you, the rings will see that even the worst animal can be tamed by the Heart. That even a Daggermouth can turn against their own.”

  “I would rather kill myself than marry him,” Shadera answered, her voice so sharp it left her throat raw.

  Maximus’s laugh was soft, almost pitying. “Then you will die. But not before I send your precious rings to hell. I will burn every Daggermouth in the Boundary, every rebel, and their ashes will fertilize my gardens. Is that what you want for your people?”

  Her people. His words echoed in her skull.

  Who the hell did they think she was to the rings?

  Shadera swallowed, the threat landing as he’d intended. She knew he’d do it, that he’d level an entire ring just to make a point.

  Greyson spoke up, his voice tight. “This is insane. You want to marry me to the woman who tried to assassinate your own blood? Who nearly ended the legacy you claim to worship?”

  “It is poetic,” Maximus replied, “don’t you think?” He turned his head, letting the light catch the perfect planes of his golden face. “What better way to demonstrate that the Heart’s will cannot be challenged. Not by love, not by hate, not even by violence.”

  Shadera watched as Greyson winced then straightened. “This dishonors Brooker’s memory. He died by a Daggermouth’s hand.”

  Her head snapped toward him, surprise flashing across her features. She would’ve known if it was a Daggermouth that killed the first heir. It would’ve been celebrated. “How do you know it was a Daggermouth?”

  Greyson didn’t so much as look at her as he responded. “Because the contract accepted and signed by Jaeger Nolin was displayed on his body when it was left for us to find in the center of the Heart.”

  For a moment the entire world seemed to recede into that one terrible fact. Shadera let the knowledge settle in, and a strange calm spread through her. She could almost laugh, and, in fact, her lips did twitch at the corners, the beginnings of a feral smile.

  She wished that contract had been hers.

  Maximus cut the silence. “You will have one week, six days precisely, to come to terms with this decision. Until then, you will reside together in Greyson’s apartment, under surveillance to… get to know one another. If either of you attempts to break the arrangement, the consequences will be instant and absolute.”

  He pressed a button under the desk, and a section of wall rotated to reveal a massive display. The screen flickered to life, showing a grainy image of a man moving through the Boundary’s alleys. His stride was instantly recognizable.

  Jameson.

  Maximus flicked to the next angle. Shadera saw Jameson’s face, tired but smiling as he ducked into a makeshift clinic and crouched down beside a group of rebel children. She went cold, her blood freezing as she watched him.

  “You see,” Maximus said, voice gentle now, almost fatherly. “We know where your loved ones are. We know who you care for. And if you fail to comply, the first bomb will fall on the clinic where your friend aids the rebellion. Then the next, and the next, until there is nothing left but smoldering dirt. It will take only a word from me.”

  He stood, looming over them both.

  “Do you understand?”

  Shadera gripped the armrests so hard her nails tore open the fabric. Every muscle in her body screamed to lunge, to rip his golden face off, to die if it meant taking him with her. But Jameson’s face, and the children beside him, anchored her to the chair.

  Greyson’s hand moved to his wound. He sat still, but the tension in him was visible, a slow build toward something inevitable.

  “I understand,” Shadera said, the words acid in her mouth.

  An exasperated breath burst from Greyson’s lips at her answer, his eyes darting back to Maximus and narrowing. “And what of me, Father? Will you bomb your own precious Heart if I don’t obey? Will you execute your last living heir on live stream to prove a point?”

  “No,” Maximus spat down at his son, his fingers splaying across the desk as he leaned on his palms.

  The screen flickered to a different view at his back. Two figures stood in the frame, one in a mask Shadera recognized to be that of his daughter, Lira Serel. The other mask, adorned with gold and copper patterns she didn’t recognize.

  Greyson shot to his feet, a snarl rolling from behind his mask as he leaned over the desk toward his father. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Just as I told Shadera, I know where to strike, know what buttons to push that will make you beg for this Vow if I must,” Maximus clipped back, no emotion in his voice. “I love Lira, as I love all my children. But I have no use for her or Callum. You do not have a choice, Greyson. You will obey in the end, as you always have.”

  The silence that followed was inhuman, as if a veil had been cast over the world to mute all sounds. Shadera watched as Greyson’s chest rose and fell at a rapid pace, his fists curling around the lip of the desk as if he were anchoring himself to it so he wouldn’t strike.

  Once again, Maximus broke the silence. “Now, my son, do you understand?”

  Greyson’s jaw worked, the veins bulging along the ridges of his neck. He didn’t speak, didn’t move outside the small dip of his chin.

  “Excellent,” Maximus said, a renewed vigor in his voice as he clapped his hands together. “Please make Shadera feel at home. I will expect you both at our family dinner in a couple days.” He tapped a command into his desk as he said the words and the doors to his office hissed open, four Veyra guards standing in wait on the other side.

  Shadera slowly rose from her chair, her mind already plotting, already scheming ways to finally end the Serel bloodline once and for all. She hadn’t seen when the Veyra officer moved to her side and pushed her forward. She jerked her arm away from him, finally turning toward the door and marched toward her next prison cell—Greyson Serel’s home.

  From behind, she felt Maximus’s eyes on her, watching every step. The last king in a city built on bones.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN SOMETHING IS WRONG

  JAMESON SLIPPED OUT THE back door of the clinic, the smell of sickness and blood clinging to his clothes like death’s perfume. The sun hung low over the Boundary, casting long shadows across cracked concrete and rusted metal as storm clouds began to fill the evening sky.

  For days, he’d thrown himself into helping the wounded, distributing the medicine smuggled in on Veyra patrol vehicles—anything to keep his mind from dwelling on Shadera’s silence. But the hollowness in his chest only grew with each passing hour.

  She should’ve been back by now.

  In another life, Jameson thought he might have been a doctor, if circumstances had provided the means for him to follow that dream. But it hadn’t. He was born to the Boundary, and ‘Boundary rats’ were not worthy of an education. So, instead, he read as much as he could, learned everything old textbooks would teach him, and shadowed the clinic’s physicians.

  He pulled his hood over his head to barricade himself against the chill wind that swept through the narrow alley, carrying the stench of industrial waste and sickness. The children inside the clinic were getting worse. Though, two that he’d thought would’ve died by now seemed to be making small improvements—but the victory felt hollow without Shade’s mocking voice asking if he’d gone soft.

  The first prickle of unease crawled up his spine when he reached the end of the alley. A faint mechanical hum, barely audible over the thrum of the crowds beginning to spill onto the streets for the nightly debauchery. He glanced up, casual, as if checking the weather, and squinted his eyes into the last bit of sun.

  A Veyra drone hovered at the intersection, its black carapace gleaming in the dying light. Jameson kept walking, maintaining his pace. Drones weren’t uncommon in the Boundary—they monitored the main thoroughfares, occasionally swept problem areas after riots—but they rarely made it this deep into the maze of forgotten streets and collapsed infrastructure without being shot down.

  He turned left at the next corner, quickening his stride. The hum followed. Another glance over his shoulder confirmed it—the drone had adjusted its course, maintaining the same distance behind him.

  This wasn’t a routine patrol.

  Jameson’s hand slid to the knife strapped against his ribs, then to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the familiar weight a cold comfort. Ahead, the alley split into three paths—one leading toward the market square, another deeper into the abandoned factory district, the third winding up toward the higher terraces. He’d navigated these streets since childhood, knew every crack in the concrete, every hidden passage.

  He chose the middle path, breaking into a jog as he disappeared into shadow. Ten seconds later, he ducked through a hole in the wall of a collapsed building, counting silently as his boots crunched over broken glass and rubble. The passage narrowed, forcing him to turn sideways as he squeezed through a gap that most would miss.

  On the other side, he paused, listening. Silence. Then, the mechanical whir grew louder just as light splintered across the sky, reflecting off the warehouse’s metal, followed by a thunderclap that shook the walls. The drone appeared at the far end of the narrow entrance, its red eye pulsing as it scanned the darkness.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, ducking behind a fallen support beam.

  His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of what was happening. The drone shouldn’t have been able to track him through the building. How was it possible? Standard Veyra patrol drones only had basic heat sensors, not the advanced tracking systems needed to follow someone through solid walls.

  This was not a patrol drone. It was tactical.

  His blood chilled.

  The drone hovered at the entrance for three seconds, then it navigated the narrow gap. Its frame folding in on itself as it squeezed through the passage.

  Jameson didn’t wait to see more. He sprinted through the remains of the building, tightening the straps on his pack as he vaulted over debris and slid under hanging wires. His mind raced through possibilities—a case of mistaken identity, random harassment, or something connected to Shadera’s silence. None of the options eased the knot forming in his gut.

  He emerged into another alleyway as rain began pelting his skin, this one ending in a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Without slowing, Jameson leapt, fingers finding purchase in the rusted metal links. He climbed effortlessly, muscle memory guiding his hands and feet. At the top, he swung his body over the razor wire with inches to spare, dropping fifteen feet to the other side. The impact jarred his knees, but he rolled with it, coming up in a crouch.

  The drone appeared above the fence, hovering for a moment before sailing over, unimpeded by the barrier that could slice human flesh to ribbons.

  “Persistent little fucker,” Jameson muttered, eyes already searching for his next route.

  Water streamed down his face, dripping from his chin and hair. He slicked it back with one hand, his focus on his next steps. The buildings here rose higher, connected by a web of makeshift bridges and collapsed fire escapes.

  He grabbed the lowest rung of a ladder hanging from a gutted apartment complex, pulling himself up hand over hand until he reached a narrow metal walkway fifteen stories above the ground.

  This was not the evening Jameson had planned for himself. No, he’d planned to go home, have a drink, a cigarette, take a load off and wait for Shade’s call.

  Relaxing, normal, uneventful.

  But no, of course he couldn’t have one fucking day of peace in this godforsaken, piece-of-shit, run-down fucking city.

  His boots clanged against the rain slicked grating as he ran, the sound echoing through the concrete canyon of abandoned buildings. The walkway ended abruptly—collapsed decades ago in a ring bombing—creating a ten-foot gap to the next building. Jameson didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the void, arms outstretched, fingers catching the edge of the opposite platform. His body slammed against the side of the building, knocking the air from his lungs.

  He hauled himself up, muscles burning, just as the drone appeared around the corner. It hovered, almost curiously, watching him with that unblinking red eye.

  Jameson scrambled to his feet, chest heaving.

  This was wrong. All wrong.

  He’d evaded Veyra surveillance a hundred times before, but never had they been this persistent, this focused. Something had changed.

  He ducked through a broken apartment window into what had once been someone’s home. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, furniture reduced to skeletal frames by decades of scavengers. He crossed to the door, stepping into a pitch-black hallway that reeked of mold and urine.

  The red glow of the drone’s eye appeared at the window behind him, casting bloody shadows across the floor. Jameson pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath as the drone hovered outside, scanning.

  A new sound joined the drone—the distinctive whine of a second drone approaching from the opposite direction. Jameson’s stomach sank.

  One drone might be coincidence. Two was deliberate.