Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 2
Apollo lifted his head from where he was sprawled on my bed, tail thumping once against the duvet. His amber eyes tracked my movement, and I saw the question there. The same one every night.
“Stay,” I told him quietly, crossing to scratch behind his ears. His fur was warm under my palm, solid and real in a way nothing else in the palace ever felt. “I'll be back before dawn. Promise.”
He whined, low in his throat, but settled back down. Good dog. Better than most people I knew. Better than me, probably.
I moved to the wardrobe. Pushed aside the formal wear and ceremonial uniforms until I reached the back panel. The hidden door was barely visible unless you knew where to look. Servants' passage from when the palace was first built, back when royalty couldn't be bothered to see the people who kept them alive.
I pressed the concealed latch. The panel swung inward with a soft click.
Old servant stairs descended into darkness, the air thick with dust and stone that had not seen sunlight in a century. Cool air rushed up from below, carrying the smell of old secrets and older stone.
I pulled the door shut behind me and started down.
Each step felt like shedding skin. The signet ring came off first, slipped into my coat pocket where it wouldn't catch light or leave marks. Then the watch my father had given me for my twenty-first birthday, platinum and engraved with words I'd stopped reading years ago. The cufflinks Élodie had picked out last Christmas, little silver lions that were supposed to be fierce but just looked sad.
Everything that marked me as Sebastian Laurent, Crown Prince of Laurentia, heir to a throne built on blood and lies and my mother's corpse.
The stairs wound down through the palace's bones. Past floors I'd never walked. Through walls thick enough to muffle screams. Into foundations laid centuries ago by men who'd understood that every castle needed its secrets, its escape routes, its places where inconvenient truths could disappear.
I counted the steps out of habit. Two hundred and forty-three. Always the same. Always ending in the same place.
By the time I reached the bottom, I was someone else.
The hidden garage smelled like oil and metal and freedom. My motorcycle sat in the center, black and sleek and illegal as hell. No plates. No registration. Nothing that could be traced back to the palace if things went wrong.
And things went wrong often enough that I'd learned to plan for it.
I opened the storage compartment built into the bike's frame and pulled out the case. My hands were steady as I unlatched it, muscle memory taking over. The bow nested inside like a sleeping predator. Dark oak. Handcrafted. Every curve and angle memorized by my fingertips over thousands of hours in my workshop.
I'd built this bow from scratch. Learned to carve wood because my mother used to, because her hands had shaped the little archer I'd carried everywhere as a child. Learned to calculate trajectory and draw weight and arrow velocity because helplessness was worse than death. Learned to hunt because being hunted was all I'd ever known.
The limbs were reinforced with carbon fiber, invisible to the eye but adding pounds of draw weight. The grip was wrapped in leather I'd treated myself, worn smooth in the exact shape of my palm. And wound around it, like a talisman, was my mother's necklace. The silver crescent moon and star she'd pressed into my hand before she died.
I ran my thumb over it, feeling the worn metal, the way eighteen years had smoothed the edges.
“For you,” I whispered.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was all I had.
The quiver came next. Thirty arrows, each one hand-fletched with raven feathers I'd collected from the palace gardens. Half had standard broadheads. The other half had obsidian tips, razor-sharp and weighted for punching through body armor. I'd tested them on ballistic gel. On Kevlar vests. On car doors and brick walls and anything else I thought I might need to shoot through.
I pulled on the tactical gear next, piece by piece, each item transforming me from prince to something else. Something darker. Black cargo pants with reinforced knees that had taken hits from concrete and worse. Combat boots with steel toes that had caved in ribs when necessary. A fitted shirt that moved with me like second skin, didn't catch on anything, didn't slow me down when speed meant the difference between breathing and bleeding.
The shoulder holster came next. Worn leather that smelled like oil and old violence. Inside it, the knife. Eight inches of folded steel I'd commissioned from a blacksmith in East London who didn't ask questions because he knew better. The weight of it against my ribs felt right. Familiar. Like coming home to the parts of myself I couldn't show in daylight.
Then came the gloves. Black leather reinforced at the knuckles with carbon fiber plates that turned my fists into something that could break bone without breaking skin. I flexed my fingers, felt the leather creak, felt the transformation settling into my muscles like muscle memory.
But it wasn't complete yet.
I moved to the workbench where the final pieces waited. The ones that let me disappear into darkness and become someone who could do what needed doing without dragging the crown down with me.
The hood was custom-made. Black ballistic fabric that breathed but didn't tear. Fitted close to my skull, leaving no loose edges to grab. I pulled it on, felt it settle against my skin like a second face. The fabric molded to my features, hiding everything except the shape of my jaw and mouth.
Then the mask.
Black leather, cut and shaped to cover my eyes and the bridge of my nose. Simple. Effective. The kind of thing you'd see in old illustrations of highwaymen or vigilantes who knew that anonymity was the only armor that mattered when you had everything to lose.
I tied it behind my head over the hood, double-knotted it the way I'd done a hundred times before. The leather sat snug against my cheekbones, cut my peripheral vision slightly but not enough to matter. I'd learned to compensate. Learned to move with it. Learned to see in the dark with half my face covered and still hit every target.
I looked at myself in the small mirror propped against the wall.
Sebastian was gone.
The golden prince with his charm and his smiles and his carefully maintained image had disappeared behind black fabric and leather.
I swung my leg over the bike and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life, purring like a beast waking up hungry. I keyed in the override code for the north gate, watching the security feed flicker on the small screen mounted to the handlebars. Guards turned away right on schedule, same as they had for three years. Cameras looped their footage. For exactly four minutes, I didn't exist.
I twisted the throttle and shot forward into the night.
The rain hit me the second I cleared the gate. Cold and sharp, soaking through my coat in seconds. Thunder rolled overhead, and I couldn't help the grim smile that pulled at my mouth.
Of course it was raining.
It was always raining when I did this. Like the universe had a sense of humor and I was the punchline.
London blurred around me. Streetlights smeared into gold streaks. Neon signs flickered in doorways. The glow of apartment windows where normal people lived normal lives, where sons didn't watch their mothers die, where crowns were just things in history books.
I wove through traffic, cutting between cars and taxis, heading east toward Belmont. Toward the parts of the city the tourists didn't see. Where the crown's influence ended and something darker began. Where men like me could disappear and no one asked questions.
My comm crackled to life in my ear. I'd hacked into the police frequency months ago, riding their channels for intel. Tonight was no different.
“All units, we've got reports of suspicious activity near the docks. Warehouse district, sector seven. Possible weapons trafficking. Approach with caution.”
I changed lanes, angling toward the docks.
The docks had been a pipeline for illegal arms for months now, weapons moving from foreign ports into the hands of radicals and criminals. I'd been tracking the shipments, following the trail, waiting for the right moment.
Tonight felt right.
The warehouse came into view fifteen minutes later, squatting on the waterfront like a rotting tooth. Broken windows. Rusted siding. The smell of oil and river water and something metallic underneath, like old blood. I killed the engine three blocks out and ditched the bike in an alley behind a row of abandoned shops, pulling the bow from its case and slinging the quiver across my back.
Thirty arrows. More than enough.
I'd never needed more than thirty.
I approached from the south side, using the shadows and the rain for cover. The perimeter was weak. Two guards outside, smoking and bitching about the weather. Both armed with pistols, holstered. Not expecting trouble.
Amateurs.
I scaled the fire escape on the building next door, boots finding purchase on slick metal rungs. The roof gave me a vantage point. I crouched low at the edge, scanning the warehouse through the broken skylight.
Eight men inside. Maybe nine. Hard to tell with all the crates stacked up like a maze. They were unloading something from a truck, moving fast, working in pairs. Military rhythm. These weren't amateurs.
I caught a glimpse of what they were handling.
Assault rifles. Military-grade, from the look of them. Stamped with Cyrillic letters I couldn't read from this distance but recognized from intelligence briefs I'd stolen from my father's study.
One of the men laughed, his voice carrying up through the broken glass. “Double shipment next week. Boss says the rally's going to get bloody.”
Another voice, deeper. “About damn time. Tired of waiting around while these royals piss on us from their palaces.”
My jaw clenched.
They were planning something. Something big. Something that would end with blood on London streets and my father standing over more bodies, making speeches about unity while people burned.
Not tonight.
Not on my watch.
I drew an arrow, nocking it smooth and silent. The bowstring creaked, a sound I'd memorized, a sound that felt like home. I sighted down the shaft, compensating for wind and rain and the angle. The man closest to the truck had his back to me, rifle slung over his shoulder.
Armed. Dangerous. Planning to kill people.
Fair game.
I released.
The arrow punched through his spine between the shoulder blades. He dropped without a sound, crumpling like his strings had been cut. The rifle clattered to the concrete.
The warehouse erupted.
“Shit! We're under attack!”
“Where? Where is he?”
“Find him! Now!”
I was already moving. Drew. Aimed. Released. Another man went down with an arrow through his throat. Blood sprayed across the crates, dark and arterial. He clutched at the shaft, gurgling, and collapsed.
Two down.
I dropped through the skylight, boots hitting the top of a crate with a dull thud. Glass rained around me. Someone shouted. I was already drawing again, spinning, firing. The arrow caught a man in the chest as he raised his rifle. He fired wild, bullets stitching across the ceiling, and then he was down.
Three.
I vaulted off the crate, rolling as I landed. Bullets tore through the space where I'd been standing, splinters exploding from the wood. I came up in a crouch behind a metal support beam, breathing steady, heartbeat calm.
This was the part I was good at.
The part where everything else fell away and it was just me and the bow and the people who needed to die.
I counted their positions by sound. Footsteps to my left. Heavy breathing behind the crates to my right. Someone trying to flank me from the far side, boots scraping on concrete.
I pivoted, drew, and put an arrow through the flanker's knee. He screamed, high and sharp, dropping his weapon. I was already moving, closing the distance. Drew the knife from my shoulder holster and drove it up under his ribs. Felt it punch through muscle and cartilage, felt his breath leave him in a hot rush against my face.
Four.
His body hit the ground, and I was already spinning toward the next target. A man burst from behind the crates, knife in hand, face twisted with rage. He was fast. Trained. He slashed at my throat, and I barely got my arm up in time to block.
The blade scraped across the carbon fiber on my forearm, sparking. I slammed my forehead into his nose. Felt it crunch. He staggered back, and I drove my knee into his gut, then grabbed his knife hand and twisted. Bones snapped. He screamed.
I ripped the knife from his grip and buried it in his throat.
Five.
The others were regrouping. I could hear them shouting, coordinating. Three left, maybe four. I needed better positioning.
I grabbed the dead man's rifle and sprinted toward a stack of crates near the back wall, bullets chasing me. Wood exploded. Metal pinged. I dove behind cover and came up firing.
The rifle kicked against my shoulder, familiar and brutal. Three-round bursts. Center mass. One man dropped. Then another. The third took cover behind the truck.
I dropped the rifle and drew my bow again.
This was what I'd come for.
“Come out,” I called, voice echoing through the warehouse. “Make it easy.”
“Go to hell!” The voice came from behind the truck. Terrified. Young. Stupid.
“You first.”
I fired blind, arcing the arrow high. It came down at a steep angle, punching through the truck's roof and into the man hiding beneath. I heard him scream. Heard him thrashing.
Then silence.
One left.
I waited, bow drawn, scanning the shadows. The last man would either run or fight. Most ran. This one didn't.
He came at me from the side, pistol raised, finger already squeezing the trigger. I dropped and rolled as the shot went wide. Came up inside his guard. Grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the gun toward the ceiling. He fired again. Again. The slide locked back, empty.
I stared at him through the shadow of my hood.
“You have no idea who you're dealing with,” he spat. Blood on his teeth. Fear in his eyes.
“Neither do you.”
I swept his legs and slammed him into the concrete. Drove my knee into his chest, pinning him. Drew an arrow and pressed the obsidian tip against his throat, just hard enough to draw blood.
“Who's running the shipments?”
“I don't know.”
I pressed harder. “Wrong answer.”
“I swear! I just move the crates. They don't tell us anything.”
“Then you're useless.”
I stared down at him. At his terrified face. At the way his hands shook. He was maybe twenty-five. Maybe younger. Somebody's son. Somebody's brother.
He lunged.
Faster than I expected. His shoulder drove into my ribs, knocking the bow from my hands. We hit the ground hard, rolling across broken glass and spent shell casings. He was on top of me, fist connecting with my jaw, and stars exploded across my vision.
I tasted copper.
He hit me again. Then again. Each blow rattled my skull, and I realized through the haze that this one was trained. Military, maybe. Or someone who'd learned to fight in places where losing meant dying.
His hands found my throat, squeezing.
I drove my knee up between his legs. He grunted, grip loosening, and I twisted my hips, throwing him off. Scrambled to my feet as he did the same. We circled each other, both breathing hard, both bleeding.
He pulled a knife from his belt. Eight inches of serrated steel.
“Come on,” he growled.
I drew mine.
He came at me fast, slashing high. I ducked under it, felt the blade whistle past my ear. Countered with a strike at his ribs. He blocked with his forearm, twisted, and drove his elbow into my temple.
My vision blurred. I staggered back, barely getting my knife up in time to parry his next strike. Metal screeched against metal. He was stronger than me, heavier, using his weight to drive me back against the crates.
His blade scraped across my shoulder, cutting through fabric and skin. Heat bloomed, sharp and immediate.
I snarled and slammed my forehead into his nose. Felt cartilage crunch. Blood sprayed across both our faces. He roared, stumbling back, and I didn't give him time to recover. Kicked his knee, heard something pop. He went down.
I was on him before he hit the concrete. Kicked the knife from his hand. Dropped my own and grabbed my bow from where it had fallen. Drew an arrow in one fluid motion and pressed the obsidian tip against his throat.
He froze. Eyes wild. Chest heaving.
“The city takes back what it's owed,” I said quietly.
I shifted the angle and drove the arrow through his shoulder, pinning him to the wooden pallet behind him. He screamed, raw and animal, thrashing against the shaft.
But he wasn't going anywhere.
Police sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. I moved fast, pulling arrows from bodies where I could, leaving the ones too embedded to retrieve. I grabbed a rag from one of the crates and wiped down the rifle I'd used, then tossed it onto the pile of corpses.
Let them think it was gang violence. Rival traffickers. Anything but the truth.
I vaulted back up the crates, climbing toward the skylight. Rain poured through the opening, washing the blood from my gloves. I could hear voices outside now. Police. Shouting orders.
I pulled myself through the skylight and onto the roof, then sprinted across the slick surface. Jumped the gap to the next building. Then the next. Putting distance between me and the carnage.
By the time the police breached the warehouse, I was six blocks away, standing on a rooftop overlooking the Thames. The rain had soaked through my coat, plastering my hair to my skull. I pulled off the hood and sucked in air, letting the cold bite into my lungs.
My hands were shaking now. Adrenaline crash. It happened every time.
I stared at my reflection in a puddle at my feet. Blood on my jaw. Rain in my eyes. The same boy who'd knelt beside his mother's body eighteen years ago, now unrecognizable.
