He pressed a button under the desk, and a section of wall rotated to reveal a massive display. The screen flickered to life, showing a grainy image of a man moving through the Boundary’s alleys. His stride was instantly recognizable.

Jameson.

Maximus flicked to the next angle. Shadera saw Jameson’s face, tired but smiling as he ducked into a makeshift clinic and crouched down beside a group of rebel children. She went cold, her blood freezing as she watched him.

“You see,” Maximus said, voice gentle now, almost fatherly. “We know where your loved ones are. We know who you care for. And if you fail to comply, the first bomb will fall on the clinic where your friend aids the rebellion. Then the next, and the next, until there is nothing left but smoldering dirt. It will take only a word from me.”

He stood, looming over them both.

“Do you understand?”

Shadera gripped the armrests so hard her nails tore open the fabric. Every muscle in her body screamed to lunge, to rip his golden face off, to die if it meant taking him with her. But Jameson’s face, and the children beside him, anchored her to the chair.

Greyson’s hand moved to his wound. He sat still, but the tension in him was visible, a slow build toward something inevitable.

“I understand,” Shadera said, the words acid in her mouth.

An exasperated breath burst from Greyson’s lips at her answer, his eyes darting back to Maximus and narrowing. “And what of me, Father? Will you bomb your own precious Heart if I don’t obey? Will you execute your last living heir on live stream to prove a point?”

“No,” Maximus spat down at his son, his fingers splaying across the desk as he leaned on his palms.

The screen flickered to a different view at his back. Two figures stood in the frame, one in a mask Shadera recognized to be that of his daughter, Lira Serel. The other mask, adorned with gold and copper patterns she didn’t recognize.

Greyson shot to his feet, a snarl rolling from behind his mask as he leaned over the desk toward his father. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Just as I told Shadera, I know where to strike, know what buttons to push that will make you beg for this Vow if I must,” Maximus clipped back, no emotion in his voice. “I love Lira, as I love all my children. But I have no use for her or Callum. You do not have a choice, Greyson. You will obey in the end, as you always have.”

The silence that followed was inhuman, as if a veil had been cast over the world to mute all sounds. Shadera watched as Greyson’s chest rose and fell at a rapid pace, his fists curling around the lip of the desk as if he were anchoring himself to it so he wouldn’t strike.

Once again, Maximus broke the silence. “Now, my son, do you understand?”

Greyson’s jaw worked, the veins bulging along the ridges of his neck. He didn’t speak, didn’t move outside the small dip of his chin.

“Excellent,” Maximus said, a renewed vigor in his voice as he clapped his hands together. “Please make Shadera feel at home. I will expect you both at our family dinner in a couple days.” He tapped a command into his desk as he said the words and the doors to his office hissed open, four Veyra guards standing in wait on the other side.

Shadera slowly rose from her chair, her mind already plotting, already scheming ways to finally end the Serel bloodline once and for all. She hadn’t seen when the Veyra officer moved to her side and pushed her forward. She jerked her arm away from him, finally turning toward the door and marched toward her next prison cell—Greyson Serel’s home.

From behind, she felt Maximus’s eyes on her, watching every step. The last king in a city built on bones.

Chapter elevenSomething Is Wrong

Jameson slipped out the back door of the clinic, the smell of sickness and blood clinging to his clothes like death’s perfume. The sun hung low over the Boundary, casting long shadows across cracked concrete and rusted metal as storm clouds began to fill the evening sky.

For days, he’d thrown himself into helping the wounded, distributing the medicine smuggled in on Veyra patrol vehicles—anything to keep his mind from dwelling on Shadera’s silence. But the hollowness in his chest only grew with each passing hour.

She should’ve been back by now.

In another life, Jameson thought he might have been a doctor, if circumstances had provided the means for him to follow that dream. But it hadn’t. He was born to the Boundary, and ‘Boundary rats’ were not worthy of an education. So, instead, he read as much as he could, learned everything old textbooks would teach him, and shadowed the clinic’s physicians.

He pulled his hood over his head to barricade himself against the chill wind that swept through the narrow alley, carrying the stench of industrial waste and sickness. The children inside the clinic were getting worse. Though, two that he’d thought would’ve died by now seemed to be making small improvements—but the victory felt hollow without Shade’s mocking voice asking if he’d gone soft.

The first prickle of unease crawled up his spine when he reached the end of the alley. A faint mechanical hum, barely audible over the thrum of the crowds beginning to spill onto the streets for the nightly debauchery. He glanced up, casual, as if checking the weather, and squinted his eyes into the last bit of sun.

A Veyra drone hovered at the intersection, its black carapace gleaming in the dying light. Jameson kept walking, maintaining his pace. Drones weren’t uncommon in the Boundary—they monitored the main thoroughfares, occasionally swept problem areas after riots—but they rarely made it this deep into the maze of forgotten streets and collapsed infrastructure without being shot down.

He turned left at the next corner, quickening his stride. The hum followed. Another glance over his shoulder confirmed it—the drone had adjusted its course, maintaining the same distance behind him.

This wasn’t a routine patrol.

Jameson’s hand slid to the knife strapped against his ribs, then to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the familiar weight a cold comfort. Ahead, the alley split into three paths—one leading toward the market square, another deeper into the abandoned factory district, the third winding up toward the higher terraces. He’d navigated these streets since childhood, knew every crack in the concrete, every hidden passage.

He chose the middle path, breaking into a jog as he disappeared into shadow. Ten seconds later, he ducked through a hole in the wall of a collapsed building, counting silently as his boots crunched over broken glass and rubble. The passage narrowed, forcing him to turn sideways as he squeezed through a gap that most would miss.

On the other side, he paused, listening. Silence. Then, the mechanical whir grew louder just as light splintered across the sky, reflecting off the warehouse’s metal, followed by a thunderclap that shook the walls. The drone appeared at the far end of the narrow entrance, its red eye pulsing as it scanned the darkness.

“Fuck,” he whispered, ducking behind a fallen support beam.

His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of what was happening. The drone shouldn’t have been able to track him through the building. How was it possible? Standard Veyra patrol drones only had basic heat sensors, not the advanced tracking systems needed to follow someone through solid walls.

This was not a patrol drone. It was tactical.

His blood chilled.

The drone hovered at the entrance for three seconds, then it navigated the narrow gap. Its frame folding in on itself as it squeezed through the passage.

Jameson didn’t wait to see more. He sprinted through the remains of the building, tightening the straps on his pack as he vaulted over debris and slid under hanging wires. His mind raced through possibilities—a case of mistaken identity, random harassment, or something connected to Shadera’s silence. None of the options eased the knot forming in his gut.