He kneels, they lower the medallion chain across his shoulders and announce him.
“High Chancellor Carmichael.”
When he rises, the crowd erupts into applause. But he doesn’t look at them. He looks at me. And I know, in that moment—There’s no throne high enough to hold him.
He was born to burn the world down.
And I was born to hand him the match.
ONE YEAR LATER
Blood’s still under my fingernails. Didn’t have time to scrub it out—not that I care.
“You’re late,” Raze mutters, adjusting the tight collar of his dress shirt like it’s choking the life out of him. “Lemme guess—one of your playthings down in the Depths needed extra motivation to talk?”
I ignore him, brushing past. My jacket swings over my shoulder, black as always.
“What gave it away?” I mutter. “The dried blood or the smell of piss?”
Alistair clears his throat, lips twitching. “I told you not to come here without showering.”
We pass through the carved stone archway of theTomb of Valor—a grand, grotesque marble room that the Sovereign uses once a year to pat itself on the back. But this year, it’s mine.
Mine to use.
Not for them.
For her.
A massive silver plaque waits at the center dais. The engraving catches the light—In Honor of Lev Veronin. Posthumous Induction into the Hall of Guardians.The first to be awarded the honor. The name wasn’t my idea. Arsen gave it to me. Said Lev never wanted power. He just wanted to protect. And he did.
Right up to the end.
I step toward the front as murmurs quiet. People hold their breath when I enter a room now. Not because of the title—High Chancellor Carmichael still tastes wrong in my mouth—but because they know I earned it in blood.
And I’ll gladly spill more.
Arsen’s already waiting beside the podium, polished in a dark suit, posture straight as ever.
“Lev recruited me when no one else would,” he says quietly, just for me. “Told me I was wasted in war. Said I belonged here. I didn’t believe him then.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out something wrapped in cloth.
“I kept it all these years. His FSB patch. Thought I’d die with it. But maybe…maybe his legacy belongs with her now.”
I take the cloth, feel the small, worn patch inside—stitched with the FSB symbol and the old Russian letters for his rank. I slip it into my coat. I’ll give it to her later.
I clear my throat and step forward. I don’t need a mic. I speak, and they listen.
“This isn’t for the Sovereign,” I begin, “This isn’t for ceremony or tradition. This is for the man who gave everything so that I could have the only thing that matters.”
I glance down the aisle.Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Her dark hair is twisted back. That black dress hugs her body, and our twin sons—Saint and Deacon—are in her arms. Six months old, they have my eyes.
“Lev Voronin was the kind of man the Sovereign didn’t deserve,” I continue. “But we’re here to make sure we never forget him. He gave the Sovereign everything. His loyalty. His blood. His silence. He followed orders that broke him. Refused ones that would’ve betrayed his oath. He served this institution long after it stopped deserving him. And when the time came to choose between survival and honor, he chose honor.”
I pause.
