A Throne Built on Lies
The silence in the room felt like a scream waiting to erupt.
Damien stood motionless, the weight of Elliot's words crashing into him like a wrecking ball. The shadows that clung to the walls now felt heavier, darker—like they knew the truth before he did. Every step that had brought him here, every fight he had won, every corpse he'd left in his wake… all of it had been leading him to this moment. And now he stood on the edge of a revelation so deep, so corrosive, it threatened to unravel the very foundation of his existence.
"Your father was never meant to inherit the Voss Empire."
Elliot's voice was calm. Too calm. A surgeon before the first cut.
"I was."
He said it with no trace of bitterness, no plea for pity. Just certainty. And something colder—pride.
Damien's pulse thundered in his ears, but outwardly he remained still, his jaw tightening, his fists curling into twin promises of violence. "You're lying."
Elliot didn't flinch. "If I were lying, I'd tell you what you wanted to hear—that your father was noble, that he earned his crown. But he didn't. He stole it. From me. And from you."
The old man leaned forward, and in his eyes Damien saw it—not madness, not regret, but conviction. Unshakable. Dangerous.
"You were raised in a kingdom built on stolen power," Elliot said. "And now that you've found your way back to it… they'll burn the whole world down to stop you from claiming what's rightfully yours."
Damien's world tilted.
Everything he had known—about his family, his legacy, his war—it had all been a meticulously orchestrated illusion. Smoke and mirrors hiding the rot underneath.
His father wasn't a king.
He was a thief.
A Storm Approaches
Damien opened his mouth to speak, to demand more answers, but the air was suddenly pierced by a high-pitched, rhythmic beep—sharp and urgent. It wasn't coming from Elliot.
It was the security grid.
Trouble had arrived.
Jax's voice crackled through Damien's earpiece, breathless and clipped. "Boss. Multiple hostiles incoming. I count three helos and a dozen heat signatures dropping in fast."
Damien turned to Elliot, who had already begun wheeling himself back from the center of the room.
"Who else knows you're alive?"
Elliot's answer was unnervingly casual. "Only the ones who want to erase me."
From the high arched windows above, the faint thrum of rotor blades turned into a roar. Shadows dropped like specters from the sky—black-clad soldiers descending on thick cords, rifles strapped to their chests, faces hidden behind mirrored visors. There was no insignia. No hesitation.
They weren't here to talk.
They were here to cleanse.
"Jax, we need extraction. Now."
"Boat's on the south dock. Two minutes."
"Make it one."
The Siege Begins
The windows exploded inward in a maelstrom of glass and gunfire. Bullets tore through the air, ripping into walls, furniture, concrete. Damien dove for Elliot, gripping the sides of his wheelchair and shoving it hard as the old man ducked instinctively. Rounds punched into the spot they'd just vacated, sparks flying off steel as the kill squad poured through the breach.
"Move!" Damien barked, returning fire, every shot a warning carved in lead.
Jax's voice roared in his ear. "Stairwell access's compromised! You've got a narrow crawl tunnel at grid 3C—leads to the old smuggler's dock. It's your only shot."
Damien spun to Elliot. "How mobile are you?"
Elliot's lips twitched into a wry grin. "Try to keep up."
And just like that, the illusion shattered—he stood up, slow but steady, shrugging off the façade of frailty. With one smooth motion, he snatched a pistol from a dead guard, checked the magazine, and gave Damien a look that bordered on amused disdain.
"You didn't think I survived four decades of exile playing the helpless old man, did you?"
Damien blinked. Then huffed. "Old bastard."
Elliot smirked. "You'll learn."
They ran.
A Path of Blood
The fortress turned into a maze of smoke and screams. The narrow corridors echoed with the brutal percussion of gunfire, the hiss of suppressors, and the occasional sharp scream as another assassin fell. Damien was relentless—moving like a ghost between beams and bodies, his blade quick, his bullets quicker. Every kill was surgical. Every motion born of instinct.
And Elliot… surprised him.
The man moved like a soldier. An old one, yes, but a practiced one. His aim was ruthless. His steps purposeful. He took down enemies with clean headshots, reloaded on the move, never wasting motion.
This wasn't his first war.
It wouldn't be his last.
A grenade boomed behind them, lighting the corridor in a wash of orange fire. The air burned with smoke and blood. Damien grabbed Elliot and shoved him through a rusted side door, kicking it shut just as the hallway behind them collapsed in rubble and flame.
"Emergency stairwell!" Damien growled, hauling the metal panel up. "Down, now!"
They plunged into the darkness, the sounds of the fortress burning above them like an echo from hell.
Who Sent Them?
They emerged into the cool air of night, lungs dragging in breath like they hadn't tasted oxygen in years. The hidden dock was barely visible—half-sunken and reeking of salt—but the boat was there.
Jax stood at the helm, rifle raised. "Get in!"
Damien shoved Elliot forward as more bullets chased them across the planks, splinters flying into the water. He leapt in last, landing beside the throttle.
"Go!"
The engine roared, and the boat tore across the water, cutting away from the island just as another explosion lit the night behind them. Flames licked at the sky. The fortress—a place meant to be forgotten—burned like an offering to something ancient and angry.
Elliot watched the blaze in silence.
"They wanted to erase every piece of this," Damien muttered. "Every scrap of your existence."
Elliot nodded slowly, brushing ash from his coat. "They've tried before."
He looked at Damien—really looked—and there was something there now. Respect. Approval. Calculation.
"And now they know I'm talking."
Damien stared back, eyes cold.
"Who sent them?"
Elliot's expression hardened. His voice, when it came, was quiet—but it carried the weight of a guillotine.
"The true rulers of this empire."
A New War
The speedboat slipped into the open sea, far from the wreckage of the island, the wind biting, the water black. In the distance, the city lights glowed faintly—false stars on a horizon that promised blood.
Damien stared ahead, but his mind was already elsewhere.
This wasn't about reclaiming his inheritance.
This wasn't even about his mother anymore.
This was about the empire behind the curtain—the real one. The shadow government, the ancient bloodlines, the syndicates that puppeteered kings and presidents and billionaires like chess pieces on a rigged board.
They had taken everything from him.
And now they were afraid.
Good.
He clenched his jaw, eyes burning with the fire of a man no longer bound by illusion.
"Then let's show them," he whispered.
His voice was a vow.
"Why they should be afraid."