Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 44
“Can you walk?”
“Can I fly? No. Can I walk? Maybe. Can I run while being shot at? We're about to find out.”
Viktor's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “That's my brother.”
We moved as one. Viktor supporting Dom. Me covering our backs. Arrow nocked. Ready.
The palace was chaos. Alarms. Smoke. Guards everywhere trying to contain a fire that had already spread beyond Marcel's office.
We made it to the hidden passage near the kitchens. The one I'd used for years to sneak out. The one Viktor had discovered and never mentioned.
Inside, darkness swallowed us. The door closed. Silence fell except for our breathing and Dom's occasional grunt of pain.
“We need to get him to Noah,” Viktor said.
“Already called it in,” Dom managed. “Extraction at the east gate. Five minutes.”
“You called for help before you got shot?”
“Seemed prudent.”
Viktor laughed. Actually laughed. Dark and relieved and completely inappropriate. “You beautiful paranoid bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
I watched them. These two men who'd survived god knew what together. Who trusted each other with the kind of certainty that came from shared trauma and countless operations.
Brothers in everything but blood.
“Thank you,” I said to Dom. “For tonight. For helping.”
He looked at me. Blue eyes sharp even through pain. “You are family now. And I don't let family fight alone.”
We emerged at the east gate just as headlights cut through rain.
Adrian's car. Black. Bulletproof. Probably illegal in six countries.
Noah was already out, medical bag in hand. He took one look at Dom and went into professional mode.
“In the car. Now. I need better light.”
We climbed in. Noah worked on Dom's shoulder while Adrian drove. Fast. Controlled. Getting us away from the palace before someone connected the dots.
I sat in the back, satchel clutched to my chest. All the evidence. All the proof. All the truth I'd been hunting for eighteen years.
Viktor's hand found mine. Squeezed.
“You got it?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. Couldn't speak past the tightness in my throat.
We ended up at the Greenwich safehouse. Noah stitched Dom's shoulder while Viktor paced and Adrian made phone calls in three different languages.
I spread the files across the table. All the evidence laid out like autopsy photos.
Financial records showing payments to known militants. Communication logs coordinating attacks. Route plans amended in Marcel's hand.
And the Queen's file. Proof he'd orchestrated her death.
My hands shook as I photographed everything. Uploaded it to encrypted servers. Made sure it couldn't be destroyed or buried.
Viktor appeared beside me. Silent. Solid.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I will be. Once he's dead.”
“Sebastian—”
“Don't.” I looked at him. “Don't tell me revenge won't help. Don't tell me it won't bring her back. I know. I've known for eighteen years. But I need this. I need to see him pay.”
Viktor was quiet for a moment. Then: “I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Da. When Anya died, I killed everyone responsible. Every single one. And it didn't help. Didn't make the pain less. Didn't bring her back.” His hand found my face. “But I would do it again. Because some debts can only be paid in blood.”
I leaned into his touch. “How do you live with it? Knowing revenge doesn't fix anything?”
“I do not live with it. I survive it.”
“And that's enough?”
“Some days.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “Other days I have you. And that is more than enough.”
I kissed him. Slow. Deep. Tasting like hope and violence and everything we'd fought for.
When we broke apart, Dom was watching us from across the room. Stitched and bandaged and smiling despite the pain.
“You two are disgustingly sweet,” he said.
“Shut up,” Viktor replied. No heat. Just affection.
“Make me.”
Adrian appeared in the doorway. “It's done. The King knows. He's issuing arrest warrants. Palace guard is mobilizing.”
My heart kicked. “For Marcel?”
“For Marcel. His assets are frozen. His accounts seized. He's officially a fugitive.”
I looked at Viktor. Saw the frustration carved into his face before he even spoke.
“Nothing,” he said. Voice flat. Dead. “We intercepted the shipment. Four trucks. Armed escort. Everything went according to plan.”
“And?” Adrian prompted.
“Medical supplies. Actual fucking medical supplies.” Viktor's hand slammed against the table. “Bandages. Antibiotics. Exactly what the manifest said. Marcel played us.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
“He knew,” I said. Voice hollow. “He knew we were coming.”
“Da. Probably knew the moment we started planning.” Viktor's jaw worked. “Whole operation was clean. Professional. We disabled the escort. Secured the cargo. Documented everything. And found nothing we can use.”
Dom shifted on the table where Noah was still stitching his shoulder. “So the bastard's smart. Doesn't mean he's untouchable.”
“Doesn't mean he isn't,” Viktor countered. “Without physical evidence from the shipment, all we have are the files.”
“Which are enough,” I said, pulling the satchel closer. “Financial records. Communication logs. The Queen's file with his handwriting on route changes three days before she died. This is ironclad.”
Adrian moved to the table, studying the documents I'd spread out. “It's good. Very good. But Marcel will claim forgery. Will say someone used his office. Will bury us in legal challenges while he disappears.”
“Then we don't give him time to disappear.” My voice came out harder than I meant. “The King's issuing arrest warrants. Palace guard is mobilizing. We move now, before he can run.”
Viktor's hand found my shoulder. “We will. But smart. Not reckless.”
“There's a difference?”
“For you? Sometimes no. But tonight, yes.” He looked exhausted. Blood on his jacket from the operation. Dirt under his fingernails. Eyes hollowed out from two days without sleep. “We intercept failed. But we got you out alive. Got the files. Exposed him. That's enough for now.”
“It's not enough until he's dead.”
The words hung there. Raw. Honest. Violent.
Noah looked up from Dom's shoulder. “You're all insane. You know that, right?”
“Probably,” Adrian agreed. “But we're insane together.”
“That's supposed to be comforting?”
“It's the best I can offer.”
Noah laughed. Tired. Real. “Then I'll take it.”
Adrian's phone buzzed. He answered. Listened. His expression shifted.
“Understood. We're moving now.” He hung up. Looked at me. “That was your father. Marcel's gone. Left the palace an hour ago. Private airfield outside London. We've got people en route but he's got a head start.”
My fists clenched. “So he runs.”
“For now,” Viktor said. “But we will find him.”
“When?”
“When he makes a mistake. When he gets comfortable. When he thinks he's won.” Viktor's eyes locked on mine. “And then we finish it.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to demand we hunt him now, tonight, before he could disappear into whatever hole he'd prepared.
But Viktor was right. We were exhausted. Bleeding. Running on adrenaline and rage.
And Marcel was smart. Patient. He'd planned this.
“Fine,” I said. “We regroup. We heal. And then we hunt.”
Adrian nodded. “Agreed. You two head back to the palace. The King needs to see you're alive. Needs the files. We'll keep digging. Find where Marcel's running.”
Viktor was already moving, gathering gear. “Come on. Before someone realizes we're all in one place.”
We left in shifts. Different routes. Standard procedure even when everything had gone to hell.
Viktor drove me back to the palace. Through rain that had finally started to ease. Through a city that looked cleaner in the dark.
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
“We should've seen it,” he said finally. “Should've known he'd anticipate the intercept.”
“He's been playing this game for thirty years. We've been playing for three days.” I touched his arm. Felt muscle like steel under fabric. “We'll get him.”
“I wanted to give you his head tonight.”
The brutality of the admission should've shocked me. Didn't.
“I know. But tomorrow works too.”
“Does it?”
“Has to.” I looked at him. At this man who'd tear the world apart for me. “Because if we keep running on rage alone, we'll make mistakes. And mistakes get us killed.”
“When did you become the voice of reason?”
“When you became the one ready to burn everything down.” I squeezed his arm. “We balance each other. Remember?”
His hand left the wheel. Found mine. Held on like I was the only thing keeping him anchored.
26
EMBERS OF THE CROWN
SEBASTIAN
Morning came soft through mist, turning the mausoleum grounds into something that looked like memory.
I walked alone. Cloak heavy with damp. White rose in my hand, thorns biting my palm through the cloth. The pain felt right. Necessary. Small penance for taking eighteen years to find the truth.
Marble statues lined the path. Dead kings. Dead queens. All the ancestors who'd worn the crown before it crushed them. Their stone faces watched me pass, judging or indifferent, impossible to tell which.
The gardens sprawled around my mother's tomb like she'd planted them herself. White roses everywhere. The kind that bloomed even in winter. The kind that refused to die no matter how hard the world tried to kill them.
Like her. Like me.
Rain had eased to mist that clung to everything. Turned the world soft-edged and gentle. Made it easier to pretend she was just sleeping instead of eighteen years dead.
Her tomb stood apart from the others. Simple. Clean. Just her name and the dates that bookended a life too short. No grand proclamations. No lists of titles or achievements. Just:
QUEEN ISABELLE LAURENT
BELOVED WIFE, MOTHER, SOVEREIGN
I knelt. The wet grass soaked through my trousers immediately. Cold. Real. Grounding me in the present even as my mind lived in the past.
“We found him,” I whispered. My voice cracked. Broke. Like I was thirteen again and watching her bleed. “The man who took you from us. The one who changed the routes. Who made sure you'd be in the right place at the right time.”
The rose trembled in my hand.
“Marcel.” His name tasted like poison. “Papa's closest friend. The man who stood beside us at your funeral and cried like he'd lost something precious. Who helped raise me. Who taught me politics and strategy and all the ways to smile while bleeding inside.”
I traced her name on the stone. Felt the carved letters under my fingertips. Cold. Permanent. Final.
“You were right about the rot. It was standing beside us all along. Pretending to help while it hollowed us out from the inside.”
Anger and relief tangled in my chest until I couldn't separate them. Couldn't tell which was which.
“I'm sorry it took so long. Sorry I didn't see it. Sorry I couldn't—”
My throat closed. The words stuck.
“You threw yourself in front of that bolt. Chose me over yourself. Didn't hesitate. Didn't think.” Tears burned behind my eyes. Hot. Unwanted. “And I've spent eighteen years trying to be worth that sacrifice. Trying to be what you needed me to be.”
The mist thickened. Turned the world into watercolor. Soft and bleeding and impermanent.
“I don't know if I am. Worth it. Most days I feel like I'm just. Surviving. Going through motions. Playing a part you wrote for me before you knew how it would end.”
I set the rose against the stone. White petals against white marble. Like they'd grown there. Like they belonged.
“But I found him. And we'll make him pay. For you. For Papa. For all of us.”
Footsteps approached through wet grass. Measured. Deliberate. I didn't turn. Didn't need to.
My father's voice came quiet. Careful. “She'd hate this weather.”
I looked up. Found him standing there with an umbrella he wasn't using. Just holding it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Silver hair plastered to his skull. Rain running down his face like tears he was too tired to hide.
“She loved the rain,” I said.
“She loved everything.” He moved closer. Knelt beside me. His knees cracked. Age catching up. “Even when the world gave her reasons not to.”
We looked at her tomb together. Father and son. Two men who'd lost the same woman and never learned how to talk about it.
“Do you think she'd forgive us?” I asked. “For not seeing it sooner? For letting him walk free for eighteen years?”
“I think she'd understand grief makes fools of everyone.” His hand found my shoulder. Heavy. Real. “And that understanding and forgiving aren't the same thing.”
“Are you asking for forgiveness?”
“I don't deserve it.”
“Neither do I.” I touched the rose. “But I'm asking anyway.”
Silence settled. Just rain and breathing and all the words we'd never said.
“I let Marcel become my crutch after she died,” my father said finally. Voice raw. Honest. “Grief makes cowards of kings. Makes you reach for anything that promises to hold you up. Even when that thing is poison disguised as medicine.”
“He used you.”
“He used all of us. I just made it easier.” His grip on my shoulder tightened. “I'm sorry, Sebastian. For being weak. For not protecting you. For letting a monster stand beside us while he planned our destruction.”
The apology hung there. Too big. Too late. Too necessary.
“Then let's stop being cowards,” I said. Placed my hand over his. “For her. For us. For everyone he's hurt.”
“How?”
“By finishing what we started. By making sure he pays for every drop of blood he spilled.”
My father was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. Once. Sharp. Final.
“Justice or vengeance?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“It should.”
“But does it?” I looked at him. At this king who'd spent eighteen years carrying guilt that wasn't entirely his. “She's dead either way. Bringing him to trial or putting a bullet in his skull won't change that.”
“No. But one makes us better than him. The other makes us the same.”
“Then we do it right,” I said. “We bring him to trial. We make sure the world knows what he did. We let history judge him.”
“And if history's judgment isn't enough?”
“Then we'll live with that too.”
My father's expression shifted. Something that might've been pride. Or relief. Or both.
“Your mother would be proud of you.”
“I'm not sure I believe that.”
“I do.” He stood. Offered me his hand. “Come. The rain's getting worse.”
I took his hand. Let him pull me up. We stood there for a moment, looking at her grave, at the roses blooming white against grey stone.
Sunlight slipped through clouds. Brief. Fleeting. Touching her name like a blessing before disappearing again.
A promise of peace that wouldn't last. Could never last.
But it was enough.
Afternoon found us in my father's private sitting room. Fire crackling. Rain against windows. Tea going cold on a table between us.
The room felt different than his study. Smaller. Warmer. More human. Pictures of my mother everywhere. Of me as a child. Of all of us together before the world fell apart.
Evidence that we'd been happy once. That love had existed here before grief hollowed us out.
“What will you do?” my father asked. “When this is over? When Marcel's been caught and tried and locked away?”
I stared into my teacup. Watched steam rise and disappear. “Make the crown worth the blood that built it.”
He studied me. Really looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time in years.
“You sound like her.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Both.” His mouth curved. Sad. Honest. “She had ideals that would've destroyed the monarchy. But she also had the fire to remake it into something better.” He paused. “I see that same fire in you. Have for years. Terrifies me.”
“Because you think I'll burn the kingdom down?”
“Because I know you will. The question is whether you'll build something worth keeping from the ashes.”
The words settled over me. Heavy. True.
“I don't know if I can,” I admitted. “I'm not her. I'm. Broken in ways she never was.”
“You're not broken. You're grieving. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Broken things can't be fixed. But grief? Grief just needs time. And the right person to share the weight.”
I thought about Viktor. About the way he carried his own ghosts. The way we'd learned to shoulder each other's burdens without asking permission.
“I think I found that person,” I said quietly.
My father smiled. “I know you did.”
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a ring. Small. Delicate. Gold band with a single emerald. “Your mother wanted you to have this. When you were ready.”
I stared at it. Recognized it immediately.
Her signet ring. The one she'd worn every day. The one she'd pressed into my palm that night while she bled.
