Page 27 of The First Spark (Dynasty of Fire #1)

The Guardsmen’s Lounge was buzzing with energy, as it always was when Vale posted the week’s duty schedule.

Zane leaned back into his wicker chair, sipped at his kaf, and finished watching a fencing clip as the larger duelist trounced his opponent.

Around him, other guards sat on the edge of couches and wicker chairs, frantically tapping at their holopads.

Zane pulled his duty schedule up. Not bad at all.

“How is it you always snag the best shifts?” a guard grumbled, stopping beside him. “Half-day of hallway patrol, banquet duty—you only have one perimeter check all weekend?”

Zane flashed him a grin. “Just good luck, I guess.”

“Or friends in high places.”

He glanced at the other guard’s screen. Four night shifts and two twelve-hour days. “You got a raw deal.”

“Tell me about it,” the man grunted. “They should put you on the night shifts. You keep half the barracks up, with all that shouting. Only one loud as you is Grant.”

“I don’t sleep well,” Zane muttered, but the guard had already walked away.

He sipped his kaf, breathing in the bitter aroma. He didn’t care for it much, but alcohol only found its way into the lounge at night. He’d tolerate it until he got Avington back, then he’d treat himself to a week-long tasting of the wine cellar.

His knuckles turned white on the cup, and he glowered at the steaming black liquid.

Judging by Hannover’s vague updates and constant excuses, he’d be waiting for that wine tour for a while. For the past two weeks, she’d been holed up in her solar. The few times he’d managed to corner her, she seemed to be avoiding him.

It had been that way since the ball.

Zane scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t meant to humiliate her in front of her court.

He’d thought he could handle it. But he hadn’t danced with anyone since he’d fled Oppalli, and maybe the past had tangled with the present, maybe he’d been caught up in the moment with her body pressed against his and their hands clasped together, but when he’d blinked, he’d seen a different face.

He’d seen blood.

With a shuddering breath, he pushed memories of Oppalli down into the box where they belonged.

But before that, though, before he’d closed his eyes and seen her face… he’d almost enjoyed it.

Hannover was prissy and prudish, and he’d been annoyed when she pulled him away from that delectable maid who’d been seconds from inviting him back to her room—but damn was she hot. And even though she was irritating as hell, she was fascinating.

Zane took a swig of kaf. He’d have to keep holding her at arm’s length. That feeling was too dangerous.

“Wells.” Wright stood before him. His lips were pressed into a thin line. “A word?”

Sighing, Zane set his kaf down and motioned for Wright to sit on the other side of the small round table. The stocky guard plopped into a wicker chair, bringing an overpowering cloud of cologne with him.

“I need a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll pick up two of your shifts.” Wright wrung his hands. “Night shifts, even, if you have any. Or weekends. I don’t care. But I need you to take my perimeter check tomorrow at eight.”

Zane smirked. “Hot date?”

“I wish.” Wright glowered at the screen of his holopad. A vein in his neck jutted out. “I won’t work with him.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The traitor’s son. Grant.” Wright spat the name like a curse, and his face contorted as if he’d tasted something awful.

Zane frowned. The scrawny guard Hannover had asked him to keep an eye on sat a few tables away, engrossed in a book.

As always, Grant was by himself. The rest of the guards gave him a wide berth, shooting him looks of loathing and distrust. Grant didn’t react, but occasionally, his grip on the book’s cover tightened.

“Why are you so desperate to avoid him?”

“My father. He was a lord in Oakwood. Served his father.” Scowling, Wright jerked his head towards Grant. “My father was all I had, but Count Grant forced him to fight. Some Etovian brutes captured him, tortured him for information, and murdered him. I never got a body back.”

Staring at the Wells crest on the memorial for fallen guards, Zane grimaced. Calida had recovered Dad’s body eventually, but he and Mom had already fled for Oppalli. “I get hating his father, but surely Grant isn’t so bad.”

“This one?” Wright scoffed. “He’s nutty as a fruitcake. Convicted for attempting to murder a count’s son. He’s a derelict, I tell you.”

Grant’s book snapped shut.

Wright kept spewing insults, and a muscle in Grant’s jaw popped out as he rose from his seat.

Zane glanced at the hallway to the Captain’s office.

He’d seen enough brawls in the Marines to know what was coming.

It’d be fine as long as the Captain didn’t show up—they’d thrash each other, get the anger out, and move on .

But Grant looked murderous.

“Wright—”

The other guard barreled on, louder and more vehement. “Rumor has it he’s a junkie to boot. Ether addict, they say?—”

Grant’s fist slammed into Wright’s face. Wright recoiled, and Grant was on him again, striking Wright’s nose with a vicious crack . Wright crashed into a table, scattered cups and plates, and crumpled to the floor.

Grant lunged.

Jumping to his feet, Zane wedged himself between the two men.

Wright struggled upright, wiping his bloody nose; Zane thrust out a hand and held him back.

Grant’s face reddened, and his eyes burned with murderous fury.

Damn. He was about to spring. Zane scanned the room, looking for backup, but no one was moving.

“Bet your daddy’s real happy, isn’t he?” Wright snarled. “His son’s in a prime position to finish what he started. Tell me, have you started planning how you’re going to kill her yet?”

Grant shoved him and leapt at Wright.

Zane caught his footing and grabbed his shoulder, but Grant shook him off. The two men became a blur of flying fists and stifled curses.

Finally, an older guard yanked Wright away.

As Zane grabbed Grant’s arms, pinning them behind his back, Grant thrashed against him. Zane grunted, straining his muscles. Grant was much shorter than him, but the guy was strong.

Shuffling footsteps and hushed murmurs swept through the guards circling them. Vale marched into the ring, looking furious. Grant stopped struggling, but Zane didn’t loosen his grip.

He’d seen how this would go dozens of times before.

Hell, he’d lived it before. He’d gone limp, let them think they won, then popped the idiot restraining him and smashed the man’s face in.

He smiled, losing himself in those final days of Oppalli.

The memory that always followed made his grin slide away.

“Grant! Wright! What’s gotten into you?” Vale barked.

Both men sputtered, a cacophony of rage. Blood dribbled down Wright’s face. Grant was breathing heavily .

“Wright, my office. Grant, don’t go anywhere.”

Wright shot Grant a death glare as he stomped after Vale. The guards parted in their wake, shooting Wright looks of sympathy.

Zane frowned. Maybe Grant had whaled on him harder than necessary, but Wright had started the brawl. He was hardly the victim.

The door clicked shut. Grant’s breathing calmed. Zane let him go, but Grant launched himself forward and surged to the exit. A guard shoulder-checked him, and a burly man caught his shoulder.

“Captain said for you to stay put.”

“Let go of me, or it’ll be your face I punch in next.”

Zane snorted and disguised it as a cough.

The other guards leaned closer in anticipation of a fight.

Part of him wanted to see it—there were three guards cornering Grant, and he’d stake his money on the runt.

Grant obviously needed to cool off if he wanted to keep his job, though, so Zane waved his hand.

“Let him go. Not our problem.”

Grant jerked free of the guard’s grip and stormed towards the entryway. The guards glared at him as the door slammed shut.

“What’s his story?”

Stunned faces whipped towards him, and Zane shrugged.

“I’m from Oppalli, remember?”

A graying guard sank into a chair at the next table over. “If his father hadn’t committed treason, he would’ve been a count. Probably the richest man on Dali. But after the traitor was arrested, Duchissa Calida and Governor Roth got the Collectivate to strip his inheritance.”

“His father’s Landon Grant,” another said hoarsely.

“The people loved him. More than Roth, even. They called him ‘the Count of the Commons’. He was Duchissa Calida’s strongest ally in the war.

Then she and Roth let his pregnant wife die—left her defenseless, so they could win the Battle of Queensborough.

Her murder was…” The guard shivered. “Brutal.”

Zane’s mouth gaped open. Sagging into his chair, he stared at the door where Grant had disappeared. He’d thought Calida had screwed him over, but that… he couldn’t begin to imagine.

“Count Grant snapped. ”

Yeah, he would’ve too.

“Withdrew for a while, squandered what was left of his fortune. Once the war was over, he tried to kill Duchissa Calida.”

“Now he’s locked up in the prison on the moon, and good riddance,” a middle-aged woman chimed in.

Despite the distaste on the guards’ faces, Zane couldn’t blame Grant’s father. He’d had his revenge, too. It was the last thing he’d done before he left Oppalli.

“And Grant?”

“Deranged convict,” a guard offered, to murmurs of assent.

“Kid’s a loose cannon.” The brewchine hissed as a man poured a cup of kaf. “He beat my count’s son to a pulp.”

“Don’t know why the Duchissa hired him.”

“It’s strange,” Zane muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t think she trusts him, she asked me to…”

He caught himself and looked up. The guards were watching him. Some looked confused, some suspicious.

Raised voices and clomping boots spared him from having to explain. The door swung open, and Vale marched through like a man on a mission. Wright followed. His head hung low.

“Where’s Grant?”