Page 5 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

THE DESCENT AT CLUB NOIR

Kali’s Emotional State: Fractured calm. Threaded with tension. Grounded in ritual, sharpened by betrayal. She’s bleeding silence and preparing to make others scream.

T

he war room could wait. Kali didn’t head for the council chamber or the vault. Not yet. She turned down the eastern path instead, gravel crunching beneath her boots, frost in the air, and the quiet hum of magic singing low under the earth.

She needed to see her herd.

The barn stood like a cathedral against the rising gray.

Timber and stone, carved with protective sigils so old they vibrated in her bones.

It was the kind of place built by hands that understood both reverence and readiness.

The scent hit first—fresh hay, leather oil, cedar dust, and something else entirely—sanctuary.

She slid open the heavy wooden door, and a soft nicker greeted her.

Bentley trotted up immediately, hooves echoing, and buried his massive head into her chest. She braced against him, one hand fisting the thick mane at his neck, and breathed him in.

He smelled like earth. Safety. Home.

“Hey, big guy,” she whispered, her voice catching .

Bentley let out a warm breath across her collarbone, then slung his giant head over her shoulder and pulled her into a full-body hug. His heartbeat thundered through her ribcage like a war drum meant just for her.

The rest of the herd emerged slowly—ten total, each one a rescue from Amish meat auctions, each one fiercely loyal.

Maple, the gentle draft mare with a heart-shaped blaze.

Ash, the gray Percheron who hated everyone but her.

River, the skittish bay, who only calmed when Kali sang.

Bruno, a tall, proud Belgian with scars across his flank.

Tucker, the youngest, curious, and nosy.

Hollow, the black mare with one blind eye, mothered the whole group.

Indigo, sleek and stormy, is the fastest runner.

Espy, the old man of the group with a crooked ear and an iron will.

. Omen, tall, regal, silent in all movements.

And Bentley. Her anchor. Her favorite.

They surrounded her in a loose half-circle, breath misting in the cold. Protective. Present.

The shadows around her spine didn’t relax. They bristled.

She blinked.

Silas wasn’t there.

No boots on the wall. No off-key whistle. No cigar smoke in the rafters.

Just... absence.

Something inside her went still .

And Vaerkyn—the hellhound, emerged from the shadows behind her, sensing it too.

The beast growled low and looked toward the distant treeline.

Her lips thinned. “We’re not alone anymore.”

Vaerkyn moved first.

The hellhound’s molten gaze swept the treeline, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest. His body shifted—more shadow than beast—as if daring anything unseen to step closer.

Bentley shifted, too.

The massive draft horse stepped in front of Kali without hesitation, muscles coiling, ears flat to his skull. He planted his hooves like roots deep in ancient earth, blocking her body with his own bulk.

No saddle. No command.

Just instinct.

Just family.

Kali swallowed hard, her throat tight with something rawer than fear.

These weren't pets.

They were soldiers.

They were the ones who chose her.

"Easy," she whispered, one hand brushing Bentley’s withers, the other threading through Vaerkyn’s smoke-laced fur .

They both leaned into her touch without breaking formation.

The sky overhead crackled faintly—static in the wards.

Something was coming.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the world could rage and rot beyond the barn walls.

Here, she was sovereign. Here, she was theirs.

And if death wanted her, it would have to go through ten thousand pounds of bone, fire, and loyalty first.

Later — Club Noire

The Maybach Phantom sliced through Manhattan’s underbelly, low, black, and silent. The streets still glistened from a recent rain, reflecting neon like spilled magic.

Teleportation would have been faster, but Club Noire wasn’t the place for quick and quiet.

Presence mattered here. Pulling up in the Phantom sent a clear message to allies and enemies alike: Kali Allani Branche de Lune was not hiding.

She arrived exactly when, where, and how she intended—and the world would take notice.

Inside, Kali adjusted her gloves like an assassin sharpening her blade, watching neon flicker off grey-tinted glass. Her back still ached from tension. Her magic twitched like it wanted a throat. Beneath all the armor, a pulse betrayed her: sharp, hollow, and too fast .

Vaerkyn sat in front of her feet like a demon statue—silent, massive, eyes gleaming with liquid shadow.

Tonight wasn’t about questions.

It was about consequences.

Club Noire rose like a cathedral of temptation—jagged architecture carved in stone and glass, pulsing with enchantments meant to seduce, silence, and surveil. Mirrors blinked across the facade, always watching.

As Kali stepped from the Maybach, Vaerkyn matched her stride.

The crowd parted.

Not because of the dog.

Because of what walked beside him.

Inside, the club air was thick with spell-laced incense and bass that thrummed like a second heartbeat. The scent of enchanted sandalwood, ozone, and something darker clung to the walls like sweat and secrets.

Irina waited at the threshold of the playroom, mask already in place, posture wickedly relaxed.

“The senator’s preening. Lev’s sharpening.”

Kali’s smile was slow, curved like a dagger. “Good. I’m ready to cut the rot out. ”

The hallway outside the playroom buzzed with a low, dangerous hum — shadows coiling at Kali’s boots, the smell of blood magic still clinging to the air.

Irina leaned against the velvet-lined wall, arms crossed, one stiletto tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the floor.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Kali adjusted the cuff of her glove with careful precision — armor slipping into place, inch by inch.

“You sure about this?” Irina asked finally, voice casual enough to fool anyone who didn’t know her. Not a concern. Readiness. A warning disguised as a shrug.

Kali’s mouth curved — not a smile. Something sharper.

“I’m not here for sure,” she said. “I’m here for blood.”

Irina pushed off the wall, the neon catching the blue in her eyes, making them gleam like twin blades unsheathed.

She stepped closer — a presence, not a shield.

Her hand brushed Kali’s shoulder — a touch so brief it could have been a trick of the light.

“You ever flinch, I break his other kneecap before you blink,” Irina murmured.

Kali's chest tightened — not from fear from the vicious, unshakable loyalty standing beside her .

“Good,” Kali whispered back. “Because tonight? Mercy’s extinct.”

Irina’s grin was pure sin. “Music to my fucking ears.”

The doors to the playroom loomed ahead, closed, silent, waiting.

Irina didn’t just hand Kali the mask — she fastened it herself, right there in the dimly lit hallway.

Soft leather brushed Kali’s cheek as Irina adjusted the ties with quiet, clinical precision. Fingers fast, sure, efficient.

Kali didn’t flinch. Her gaze remained steely. She didn’t need to thank Irina—Irina knew what Kali was capable of. They were already beyond words.

The silence between them was older than words — made of wars fought side by side, of blood spilled without apologies.

Irina smoothed the strap one last time, her knuckles ghosting Kali’s jawline with the barest brush of contact.

“You don’t fall tonight,” she said under her breath.

Kali’s eyes flashed steel behind the mask.

“I don’t fall,” she whispered back.

Irina held the door.

Vaerkyn padded forward, shadows twitching beneath his paws.

Kali stepped into the playroom — a queen already crowned in violence .

Chains hung low and heavy from the ceiling. Velvet-lined restraints gleamed beneath dark light. The runes stitched into the walls pulsed with quiet warning.

Lev waited — blades ready, aura darker than sin.

The senator stood when she entered, cufflinks undone, a smirk already forming—too slick, too certain. He adjusted his collar like he owned the room, gaze crawling over her with the arrogance of a man who thought she could be tamed.

She didn’t offer her hand. Her pulse skipped once, quick and sharp. Not fear. Focus. But the line between the two was thinner than she liked tonight.

“Sit.”

He hesitated. A flick of her magic shoved him back into the chair.

“You speak when I allow it. And only if I decide your voice is worth the oxygen it wastes.”

Lev laid the first blade on the table. It gleamed like a secret about to be punished.

Astraeus stirred. This one reeks of fear. Break him slowly.

Kali’s voice was soft. “I plan to.”

Vaerkyn growled once. The senator flinched, sweat breaking through the cologne, the stench of fear thick enough to choke on .

Kali glanced down, and without a word, her hand slid to Vaerkyn’s massive head. Fingers threaded through smoke-thick fur, scratching behind his ear in silent approval.

The hellhound’s molten eyes closed halfway, a low rumble vibrating deep in his chest, not a growl, but a sound like thunder promising loyalty.

Good boy, she thought, letting her magic bleed into him in a slow, soothing thread.

The senator whimpered again.

Let him watch.

Let him see what true allegiance looked like—and know he'd never earn it.

This wasn’t about secrets. It was about rot—old alliances turned to poison. And tonight? She was the cure.

“Gift from the Empire,” she said softly, sealing it with shadow.

Because loyalty deserved blood, and betrayal demanded legacy.

He'd sold access. Risked wards. That wasn’t a misjudgment.

That was treason.

The shadows rippled.

The game had begun.

And mercy ?

That was never on the table.

Kali stood alone once the blood and screams faded……Mourned for the pieces of her that war kept taking.

The Spiral Mouth had moved.

And Kali?

She was done pretending she hadn’t.