Page 57

R.I.O.T

S he killed Death; why the fuck does that not surprise me?

Of course it had to be her. There's chaos wherever she goes, a trail of destruction that seems inevitable, like a storm you can see coming but can't quite stop. But this? Killing him? I didn't think even she could pull it off. And yet, here we are.

My jaw tightens as I watch Mammon; his chaos is rolling off him in waves, his obsidian eyes blazing as he stares her down, the weight of his grief and fury palpable.

The room feels like it's moments from combusting under his power, and it doesn't help that she's standing there smirking, blood still trailing down her mouth, as if this is some kind of game.

But it's not. Not for Mammon. Not for any of us.

I made a deal. With him, of all people. Mammon—the embodiment of chaos. If she had a hand in his brother's imprisonment, she was his. The terms were clear. Straightforward. But I didn't think she killed one of them. No one kills one of them.

He turns to me then, his dark eyes narrowing, sharp and dangerous. "You said she was mine."

The weight of his gaze is enough to crush most men, but it has little effect on me. My grip tightens, my knuckles whitening, because I know what I have to say next isn't going to sit well with him. It's not like I'm thrilled about it either, but facts are facts, and I don't deal with delusions.

"If she killed your brother," I say, my voice steady but firm, "you don't stand a chance."

The words land like a strike, and I see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes before his fury flares higher, brighter. His chaos swells, spilling out in jagged bursts that rattle the room, but I don't move.

I glance back at her, sitting there like she's already won, the same damned smirk playing on her bloodied lips. She killed Death, and the sheer audacity of it should terrify me. Hell, maybe it does.

But all I feel is resolve. Because no matter how this plays out, one thing is clear; whatever we thought she was, whatever we thought she was capable of, we underestimated her. And now, we're all paying the price.

I should have killed her on that rooftop. It would have been easy. A clean strike, a decisive end. And yet, I didn't. I hadn't killed her in the days leading up to the incident, either. When every logical part of me screamed that it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

She made it easy, too. She never ran, never fought me the way she should have. There were moments, fleeting but not deliberate when she would let her guard down completely, and it would have taken nothing to end her. But something would stop me. Something always stopped me.

Her words—sharp and fearless and hard to ignore. Her voice—low and steady, daring me to finish what I started. Her touch was fleeting but searing like she was teasing me, waiting for me to follow through.

And her eyes.

That was the worst of it—the thing that always stalled my hand.

Those dead, empty eyes that should have made it easier but didn't. Because sometimes, when she looked at me, I saw myself.

The pain buried beneath the apathy, the trauma laced into every moment, every breath. I know that weight. I carry it, too.

Maybe, just once, I let myself believe she was different. That beneath all the blood and chaos, there was something salvageable. That maybe, even when she forced my hand, she thought she deserved whatever was coming.

I'm not sure what I wanted when it came to Nightmare, because from the moment I saw her, I knew I needed her close. There was no reason for that feeling. It was instinct.

But there's one thing I do know; I hate hurting her.

The castle hums with a familiar energy and the air seems heavier; the silence fuller and the walls shimmering, pulsing faintly with the presence of my guests. Boots echo against the stone floors, a foreboding sound that catches the attention of the entire room, but I barely register them.

My eyes find her. She's leaning against the wall, still as death, her expression unreadable as she looks to the ceiling. The others shift, their gazes darting, their movements cautious, but she remains unmoving, unbothered. And then, slowly, her gaze lowers, meeting mine.

Her eyes are blank.

Not defiant, not resigned. Just… empty.

Because she already knows. She knows what I'm about to do. She knows I'm going to give her to them.

There is no plea, no fight, no flicker of surprise in those deadened eyes—but I never expected there to be. If anything, it looks like she expected this all along. Like it was inevitable.

The doors swing open, and a hush falls over the room. Heavy. Crushing. And they enter.

Their steps are unhurried, but each movement carries weight. Their presence is a force—thick, undeniable. The air bends to them. The room seems to shrink around them.

First comes Queen Maya Crux of the Second Division. Regal. Imposing. She glides forward, her gown spun from pure gold, catching the dim light and throwing it back in shards of brilliance. Her crown gleams, sharp edges curved like blades, more a warning than a symbol.

Beside her is Queen Helena Imperium.

Storm-wrapped. Deadly. Valadez’s wife moves with the restrained energy of a coming tempest. No crown is needed. The way the air tenses at her arrival, the way the very walls seem to brace themselves, is enough.

Then, King Kwame Abara of the Third Division.

His presence is iron. His posture—steel. Broad shoulders clad in rich silks, polished armour gleaming at his wrists and throat. He doesn't look around the room; he assesses it. Weighs it. Already measuring for threats. Already planning for war.

And then… the last King.

The human King.

His Majesty, King Rayan Akram.

He doesn't shine like the others. He doesn't burn with magic or crackle with restrained divinity. His power is in his absence.

Simple clothes. Dark. Practical. Not a ruler at first glance. A traveller, maybe. A whisper. A ghost.

He moves differently—silent. Erased. His presence is a void, deliberate and controlled.

He doesn't demand attention. He erases it.

Slipping through the space between glances.

Nothing. And yet, everything. An assassin before he was a King, and even now, he moves like one.

Like someone who could slit your throat before you ever noticed he was there.

Then, they stop.

The weight of them—of their power—settles over the castle like an iron shroud. Thick. Suffocating. The air shifts, charged with something just shy of violence.

Behind me, Kyrian and Seth move, silently and smoothly. Their masks slip into place—cool, unreadable, as we face our guests.

Helena Imperium steps forward first, her violet eyes locking onto me with thinly veiled contempt. She carries herself like a Queen, like a ruler who expects the world to bend at her feet. But here, in my castle, her title means nothing.

"Champion," she says, the word coiling off her tongue like a blade wrapped in silk. "You're a difficult man to contact."

I don't offer her even the slightest courtesy. Instead, I tilt my head, allowing my displeasure to sink into the silence before I speak.

"I invited the Supreme Court," I drawl coldly, my words laced with threat. "Not you. Which means… you're intruding."

Helena's gaze narrows.

She tries to mask it, tries to stand taller, to project the same imperious presence she holds in her own domain. But here, she's only a guest. And an unwelcome one at that.

Maya Crux steps forward then, her patience clearly thinner than Helena's. "We'll present her before the Supreme Court," she snaps, eyes dark with fury.

Mia steps forward, her usual regal and intimidating presence shadowed by her sister's appearance. "Maya, we can explain."

"Explain?" Maya's sharp eyes connect with her sister. Standing face-to-face, they're identical, but you can clearly see who the older of the two is; not by their faces, but by their presence. "You had your chance to explain."

"Maya—"

"It's Your Highness!" Maya's voice booms coldly. "She murdered my General's daughter, and you chose to stay silent. Now, I order you to remain silent."

Mia grits her teeth but otherwise chooses to listen to her sister.

"My, my." An amused, chillingly cold voice chuckles. "You'll have to teach me that."

All eyes snap to the source of everyone's hatred. She’s leaning against the wall, her lips pulled into a grin that reveals her bloodied teeth even though the damage has healed.

The first to act is Helena.

It’s the way the air shifts, howling like a living thing, whipping through the chandeliers and rattling the towering glass windows. Plates and glasses lift from the long table, spinning wildly before shattering against the stone walls.

Her violet eyes burn with fury, her dark hair whipping around her like a crown of darkness and wrath.

She lifts a hand, and the wind surges in vicious currents, cold and razor-sharp, carrying the taste of raw magic.

Her fingers curl as if grasping something unseen—something that fights against her hold.

Nightmare.

Suspended above the ground, her body twists midair, caught in the merciless grip of Helena's power. The wind coils around her like invisible chains, crushing, twisting, lifting her higher.

The entire hall groans under the force of it. Chairs scrape violently across the marble floor, tapestries rip from the walls, and the great oak table trembles, its heavy frame shifting, unable to withstand the Queen's fury.

I grit my teeth and clench my fists. Whether or not I invited them, Nightmare is a problem that isn’t mine anymore. I can’t get involved—I won’t.

Helena steps forward, her movements slow, deliberate, as the wind howls louder in response. Nightmare doesn’t struggle; she simply stares down at the Queen. Blood drips from her mouth, her limbs jerking as the unseen power tightens around her throat.

“Who said you can speak?” Helena’s voice is a sharp, cold whisper, but the storm raging around her makes it thunderous.

A decanter explodes through the air, the shards catching in the whirlwind before raining down like glass needles.

Still, even as the room around her breaks, and Mia protects us from the destruction, Nightmare remains still. Unaffected. Even as her skin splits, and the air tightens around her neck, her golden eyes burn, unyielding.

Then, Maya moves.

Gold rings glint in the candlelight as she lifts her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drags a nail down her wrist. The cut is clean. Precise. Blood wells—thick, dark, gleaming like molten rubies. But it doesn’t fall. It moves.

The crimson coils around her wrist—twisting, stretching, alive. Power hums through the room; a steady, pulsing heartbeat. Then, with a flick of her finger, the blood lashes outward.

Tendrils snap around Nightmare’s wrists, locking tight. The liquid hardens instantly—deep red, translucent, unbreakable.

With a flick of her wrist, the blood-forged chains snake down, anchoring themselves to the floor and forcing Nightmare to her knees.

“Iron may be weak against you,” she murmurs, her voice smooth, venomous, “but a Vampire’s blood magic is unbreakable.”

Nightmare tenses, her muscles flexing as she tests the bonds, but it’s futile; the cuffs don’t budge. They constrict instead, tightening in response to her resistance. Maya simply watches with cold satisfaction.

A single beat passes. Then, King Kwame Abara steps forward, slow and deliberate. The air thickens, heavy with ancient power. A deep, thrumming pulse spreads outward, pressing against skin, bone—against magic itself.

The first sigil ignites.

A violet arc carves through the air, pulsing. Another follows. Then another. Runes of old—complex, absolute—twist and curl like living things, their glow flickering, their presence undeniable. The sequence is complete, seamless, humming with raw, suffocating strength.

Nightmare stiffens. Her shoulders sag slightly under their weight.

Kwame raises his hand, palm open, and the runes surge forward like ink spilling across water. They move as if drawn by an unseen force, converging on her—into her.

The moment they sink into her skin, the effect is immediate.

A choked breath escapes her lips as the raw power within her flickers—dimming, weakening. Her limbs tremble. Her lungs tighten. A faint crease appears between her brows, almost imperceptible, but I see it.

I see her!

She never flinches when she bleeds. She doesn't cry out when she breaks. Pain doesn't touch her face—like she's made of stone, like she's already bled herself dry inside.

But I feel it.

I felt it every time I triggered the enslavement mark and watched her body seize. When Zander slammed her skull into the wall. When that hole was torn clean through her stomach… I know she did it to herself, but I hated it.

She didn't even scream. But I did. Because I felt it. I felt her.

Umbra stirs, a low snarl vibrating through our chest as I step forward. A single step... but three hands stop me.

Seth, Kyrian, and Mammon.

Their grips are steady, unyielding. Their eyes say what they don’t need to; it’s for the best.

My first instinct is to kill them. All of them. How dare they fucking stop me?! Stop me from protecting what's mine. What has always been mine.

The three of them watch me, shoulders tense as my gaze hardens and fists clench. I'm about to summon my power; it’s right there, at the tip of my fingers, crackling, ready to destroy… but a voice.

No. A whimper.

My gaze snaps to her— Nightmare. Her face remains blank, expressionless. Cold as ever. But her eyes… Her eyes are warm. Soft. And suddenly, the anger inside me vanishes as if it were never there to begin with.

Kwame watches her with calculating detachment, his expression unreadable. The runes continue to etch themselves into her flesh, crawling over her inked arms, her throat, her chest—burning without fire, binding without chains.

“A precaution,” he says, his voice low, composed. A judge passing sentence. “There is no escape now.”

The last rune settles, embedding itself deep beneath her collarbone. The glow fades, but the weight remains.

And then, finally, the last King moves.

Silent. Unhurried.

King Rayan Akram needs no display of power. He is power. His gaze alone—sharp, fathomless—shrinks the room.

He steps closer. Watching. Measuring. Deciding.

“Haze,” he murmurs, his voice soft, deliberate, “I hear you saved my General. Funny; he doesn’t seem to remember.”

Even now, weakened, shackled, her power suffocated under theirs—she smiles. Sharp teeth, cold, golden eyes, and a breathless, amused rasp.

“Fickle, isn’t it… The mind.”

For a moment, his expression doesn’t change. The silence stretches, heavy, oppressive.

She knows.

The others want her dead.

This one? He’s deciding how .