The weakness spread through female blood like a disease. He’d seen it in his mother, that soft corruption that had ultimately required her elimination. He saw it in Elara, despite years of careful conditioning. And now in Lira, who’d somehow absorbed these poisonous ideas about equality, about women deserving voices in matters beyond their comprehension.

  Elara was supposed to be one of the good ones. Maximus’s father had vetted her bloodline before they agreed to their Vow. All obedient. All submissive, all women that knew exactly where their place was kneeling at the feet of men.

  His wife was the rotten apple.

  “Do you remember your place now?” he asked, releasing her shoulder to resume his slow patrol around her trembling form. “Or shall we continue this lesson?”

  The response was immediate—a frantic nodding that sent the chain into wild motion. Her legs buckled slightly, knees bending before she forced them straight again. The chain would hang her if she fell too far.

  “Words, Elara. Use your words.”

  The sounds that emerged were barely human, distorted by the mask’s interior design. But he’d had decades to learn this particular language of suffering. “Yes,” she was saying. “Yes, yes, please.”

  “Yes, what?” He stopped behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence but not see him even if the mask allowed vision. “Be specific.”

  More sounds, desperate now. Her whole body shook with the effort of remaining upright, of forcing words through the mask’s confines. “Know… place… know my place…”

  “And will you speak out at my table again?”

  A violent shake of her head, followed by strangled attempts at, “No, never, never again.”

  Maximus considered extending the lesson. There was value in thoroughness, in ensuring the message had truly been absorbed. But he had other matters to attend to—Greyson, the rebellion growing in the rings, the approaching Vow ceremony, the reports from the military base that required his attention. Efficiency demanded he concluded this particular session.

  He produced the key from his inner pocket, taking his time with the motion. Let her hear it, recognize it, feel that mixture of hope and dread that preceded release. The lock was positioned at the back of the mask and she went rigid as the key made contact, every muscle tensing.

  The mechanism released with a soft click.

  The mask came away like the jaw of a wild beast and Maximus pulled it from her head as he circled back to see her face.

  She looked at him for one moment—just one—and he saw it there. The hatred. Concentrated loathing that no amount of training or punishment seemed to fully extinguish. It flickered and died as survival instincts reasserted themselves, replaced by the blank expression she’d perfected over the years.

  Then her legs gave out entirely.

  She crumpled to the concrete floor in a heap of torn fabric and damaged flesh, her body folding in on itself like a puppet who’d lost its crossbar. Her dislocated shoulder struck first, drawing a scream that she no longer had the strength to suppress.

  Maximus stepped back, avoiding the sprawl of her limbs. She lay there gasping, chest heaving with desperate gulps of air. Her hands clawed weakly at the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to push herself up as training demanded. But her body had reached its limits. She could only lie there, shuddering with each breath.

  He watched her struggle for a moment, cataloging the damage with detachment. Nothing permanent. Nothing that wouldn’t heal, nothing that would show beneath her clothing. He’d been precise, as always. Another reason for the mask. It was for her own protection, really, so her face would remain safe from her lessons. The bruises would fade, the cuts would close, the shoulder could be reset. By the time of the Vow ceremony, she’d be presentable again.

  The perfect wife, the perfect mother to the Heart.

  “Miranda,” he called, his voice carrying to the corridor beyond.

  The maid appeared within seconds—she’d been waiting, knowing the routine. An older woman, Cardinal born but elevated to his service through years of perfect obedience. She took in the scene beneath her simple servant’s mask.

  “Clean her up,” Maximus instructed, turning toward the door. “Reset the shoulder first—she’ll need full mobility for her public appearances and to complete her plans for the Vow ceremony. I want her presentable within twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, President,” Miranda murmured, already moving toward her.

  He paused at the threshold, looking back at his wife’s broken form.

  “And, Elara?” He waited until her eyes focused on him, until he was certain she was listening. “Remember that Lira is at the age where her Vow must be considered. I would hate for her to require similar instruction in wifely duties.”

  The threat landed perfectly. He saw it in the way her body tensed, the way her fingers curled into fists around her dirty clothes. Maternal instinct—another weakness, but a useful one when properly leveraged.

  Maximus climbed the stairs without hurry, leaving the sounds of Miranda’s ministrations behind. Each step took him farther from the necessity below and back toward the refined spaces where the Heart’s business was conducted. The transition was seamless. He’d made it hundreds of times.

  Captain Mikel waited in his study, standing at attention despite having waited for over an hour. A good soldier, loyal to the institution rather than the man. The best kind of tool.

  “President,” Mikel acknowledged with a crisp nod.

  Maximus moved to his desk, settling into the leather chair with a soft sigh. The exertions of the last twelve hours had been more taxing than expected. Age was beginning to make itself known in small ways—the ache in his knees from standing, the fatigue that came quicker than it once had. But his mind remained sharp, his will unbending.

  “Report,” he commanded, reaching for the tablet that held the night’s intelligence summaries.

  “The Executioner and the Daggermouth returned to his residence without incident. They appeared to go separate ways once they entered the residence. The scheduled executions for this morning went smoothly with no interruptions or hesitations.”

  Maximus nodded once.

  “Ms. Serel was taken to Callum Thane’s residence last night,” Mikel continued. “She remains there as of the last report.”

  Greyson choosing to send his sister to the Broker rather than keeping her close was an interesting development. He had never sent her away.

  “Double the surveillance on my son’s residence,” Maximus instructed, pulling up the security grid on his tablet. “I want constant monitoring of both of them. Audio, visual, thermal. Full spectrum.”

  “Sir, the surveillance in that unit has been experiencing technical difficulties—”

  “Then fix it.” The words came out sharp, edged with threat. “I don’t care if you have to replace every camera and microphone in the building. I want eyes on them at all times.”

  Mikel inclined his head, making notes on his own device. “Should I assign a physical surveillance team as well?”

  “Discrete ones. Nothing that would alert them to our interest.” Maximus leaned back, fingers steepled as he considered the broader implications. “My son is more compromised than I thought. That woman’s influence is… concerning.”

  That was an understatement. Last night had shown him how far Greyson had fallen, how deeply the corruption had taken root. Standing against his father, stepping in line of punishment, sending away his sister rather than maintaining family unity. Each action pointed toward a dangerous independence that couldn’t be tolerated.

  “There’s also the matter of the Vow ceremony,” Mikel ventured. “Security arrangements need to be finalized with it being broadcast.”

  “Triple the usual contingent,” Maximus decided. “And I want marksmen positioned at all elevated points. If the woman attempts anything during the ceremony, or anyone makes an attempt to intervene…”

  “Understood, sir. Lethal force authorized?”

  “No,” Maximus answered immediately. “For anyone else, yes. But not for her. This public ceremony is to show the rings that the Heart can unify even the worst of them. We cannot risk her execution by us being broadcast.”

  The captain made another note, his efficiency a pleasant contrast to Maximus’s useless offspring. This was how things should function—clear hierarchies, immediate obedience, no emotional pollution clouding judgment.

  “I’ll be leaving for the military base in the next few hours and will be unavailable until tomorrow morning,” he informed Mikel, already rising from his chair. “There are matters there that require my personal attention. You have your orders. Do not disappoint me.”

  “Never, sir.”

  Maximus left his study, his mind already shifting to the next challenge. The military base held other concerns—whispers of dissent among the younger officers, questions about what weapons they were building there and how they would be used that bordered on insubordination. These too would require correction, though a different sort than what he’d administered in the room below his feet.

  The Heart demanded order. Order demanded control. And control, ultimately, demanded the willingness to apply whatever force was necessary to maintain it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO EVERYTHING’S PERSONAL

  JAMESON’S BOOTS MADE NO sound as he navigated the service corridor, each step prepared for the possibility of discovery. The air reeked of industrial lubricant and burned wiring even through the bandana—the Cardinal ring’s signature scent. He’d shed his usual tactical gear for nondescript work clothes, the kind that made eyes slide past him without registering his presence.

  Cardinal’s rebel headquarters was nestled between a drone repair shop and an abandoned textile factory, its entrance concealed behind a malfunctioning waste disposal unit. Jameson pulled down the brim of his hat, tugging his hood further over his head as he approached. Three surveillance cameras were on this block—two Heart-issued models mounted on nearby buildings and a smaller, custom unit hidden in the drainage pipe above. He signaled his arrival with three fingers against his chest. Two long taps followed by a single short one.

  The door opened inward, revealing darkness broken only by the faint glow of equipment monitors. Jameson slipped inside, his hand automatically reaching for the gun concealed at his lower back.

  “You weren’t followed?” A voice materialized from the shadows before its owner did.

  “I know how to move through this city,” Jameson replied, his eyes adjusting to the low light. “Even with your ring’s increased surveillance.”

  Kestrel Farrow emerged from the darkness as she pushed off the doorframe beside them and lit a cigarette. Her frame had thinned since he’d last seen her, cheekbones more pronounced, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper. Cardinal ring was taking its toll on even its most resilient daughter.

  “Follow me,” Kestrel said, jerking her head to the side as she turned away and led him deeper into the room.

  The space was organized clutter—communication equipment stacked alongside ration containers, weapon parts disassembled on a workbench, encrypted tablets charging in a row. Through the grimy window, the garish glow of holo-ads on the billboards painted everything in shifting blues and reds, casting Farrow’s face in alternating hues that made her appear both ghostly and fevered.

  She pushed open the door to her makeshift office with the bottom of her boot and gestured for him to sit as she sunk into her chair on the other side of a rusted metal desk and took a long drag.

  “Tell me what’s happening in Cardinal,” he said, taking the seat she indicated and repositioning it with clear sightlines to her and the exit. Old habits never truly died and he knew better than to underestimate her.

  She rocked back in her chair as she lifted her feet to the desk and sighed. “Maximus is dividing us. Methodically, deliberately.” Farrow’s expression shifted, something dark moving behind her eyes. “The Heart’s tightening the noose. New policies rolled out three days ago. Any Cardinal worker who meets production quotas gets extra water and food rations. Those who report suspicious activity get double.”

  “Turning them against each other.”

  “It’s working.” She pulled a small tablet from her pocket, sliding it across the table. The screen flickered to life, showing grainy security footage. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  Jameson watched as ten figures were dragged into frame, their Cardinal uniforms torn, faces bloodied. The agricultural dome’s viewing area stretched behind them—that pristine window into abundance that mocked everything the outer rings endured. The Veyra worked with efficiency, stringing that red rope over the support beams.

  “They were caught trying to smuggle seeds,” Farrow said, her voice flat. “Not even food. Just seeds. The potential for food.”

  “Fucking tyrant,” he muttered under his breath as the footage continued. Jameson’s jaw clenched as the workers were hauled upward, feet kicking, hands clawing at the ropes around their necks.

  “They left them there for five days,” Farrow continued. “Made every shift watch them rot while they worked. Ten Cardinal citizens, strung up like a warning. My people, Ghost. My people.”

  The anger in her voice was controlled, refined into something sharp enough to cut. Jameson recognized it—the same rage that had been eating him alive since childhood.

  “Our people,” he corrected, meeting her gaze head on.

  “It’s not just that.” She leaned forward, her feet landing on the ground with a loud thud as she lowered her voice. “The Heart isn’t just tightening control on rations, they’re preparing for something. Something big. Veyra presence has doubled at all Cardinal checkpoints. The Cardinal workers assigned to weapons manufacturing posts on the base have not come back for ten days now. They have never kept them overnight before this.”

  “Do you know if they are still alive?” Jameson asked.

  “Yes.” Her eyes flicked to the window then back to him. “My sources say they are developing something new, something they do not want anyone to know about, so they are quarantining them until it’s done.” She swallowed. “But I suspect they will never leave that base alive now that they’ve seen whatever it is with their own eyes.”

  Jameson stayed quiet for a long moment, watching as she crushed the remainder of her cigarette. “Cardinal needs to join with us,” he said finally, turning to fully face her. “Your ring has access we don’t—entry points to the Heart, technical expertise, numbers. Combined with Boundary muscle and our network of smugglers…” He let the sentence hang.

  “You’re talking about open rebellion.” Farrow’s voice was neutral, but her brown eyes were sharp, assessing.

  “I’m talking about survival.” Jameson held her gaze. “How long before whatever they’re building at that base is turned on all of us? How many more public executions are we willing to endure? The Boundary’s been fighting back for decades, but we’ve been doing it alone. Imagine what we could accomplish together.”

  A holo-ad for Heart-approved entertainment flashed particularly bright, momentarily bathing them both in artificial daylight. In that flash, Jameson caught the full measure of exhaustion in Farrow’s face. She was beautiful. Golden blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, olive toned skin with freckles scattered over its surface, scars covering her body like the rest of them had. That beauty was what made her dangerous, among many other things. She knew how to use it to get into the right rooms, to manipulate men in her favor. Right now, beneath that beauty, all Jameson could see was the pain written in the way she held her shoulders, the exhaustion from carrying the weight of her ring’s suffering. They had that in common.

  “I have something to add to your intelligence,” he said, reaching into his pocket and placing a small object on the table—a drone chip no larger than his thumbnail.

  Farrow picked it up, examining it closely. “Heart technology, but I have never seen one this small before.”

  “That’s because it’s from a new kind of drone. They can collapse in on themselves to get through tight spaces. They’re mapping the Boundary,” Jameson explained. “They started following me a while ago and I’ve seen them every day since. Each one we’ve shot down has the same type of data. They are cataloging every building, every tunnel, every hidden passage. Creating a complete three-dimensional rendering of both rings.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “That’s the question that keeps me awake at night.” Jameson ran a hand over his face. “You don’t map territory this thoroughly unless you’re planning to do something with it. My guess is whatever they are creating on that base has something to do with it.”

  She stayed silent.

  “We have to do something.” Jameson leaned closer, urgency bleeding into his voice. “Together we’d have a chance. Real coordination, not just parallel resistance. Your workers could sabotage production lines, create shortages the Heart can’t ignore. The Boundary could hit their patrol and supply routes, their security checkpoints. Force them to spread their resources thin.”

  Farrow tilted her head, that birdlike gesture that meant she was truly listening. “And what makes you think the Boundary would follow your lead on this? The Daggermouths have their own agenda.”

  “Because the Heart has one of their own.”

  “Ah.” Farrow’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The infamous Shade. The Heart’s newest acquisition happens to be your—what should I call her? Lover? Partner? Weakness?”

  “Don’t.” The warning in his voice was clear.

  She raised her hands in mock surrender. “I’m simply pointing out that personal vendettas make poor foundations for revolution.”