Prologue
Rook
London bleeds gold tonight.
Rain glosses the streets until they gleam like polished bone, and the city hums beneath me — a thousand engines, a thousand secrets, all fed by fear and currency. The Masked Riders move in silence through the underbelly, but their reach stretches farther than any crown in this godforsaken country.
I am that crown.
Rook. The King.
To the outside world, I’m just another ghost in leather and gold, another faceless monarch on a machine that roars like a dragon.
But down here, in the catacombs beneath St. Dunstan’s, men kneel when I enter.
“Two minutes,” Ash murmurs from the mezzanine. His voice drips through the comms. “Our guest’s convoy just crossed the bridge.”
I lift my mask — matte black, gilded with Masked etchings — and settle it into place. It’s more than anonymity. It’s absolution. When I wear it, the blood belongs to someone else.
The meeting room smells of smoke and rain. Vale lounges near the table, twirling his knife. Wraith leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes hidden behind the wolf-skull mask. Saint pours two fingers of whiskey, always pretending we’re civilized men.
We’re not.
“Tonight’s not a shipment run,” I remind them. “It’s a debt collection. Ivan Kolev’s been sitting on the Ministry tapes for three months.”
“Think he’s gotten chatty?” Vale asks, voice lazy. “Or just stupid?”
“Both.” I glance toward the CCTV feed Ash throws up on the wall. A man in an expensive suit, flanked by two guards, steps out of a sleek black car. “Bring him in.”
Ash’s fingers dance over the controls, and the steel doors hiss open.
Ivan enters like he’s already been condemned — wet, pale, trembling despite the tailored coat. The sound of his shoes on the marble is too loud. Behind him, his guards are forced to kneel by Wraith’s men before the door even closes.
He places a drive on the table.
“I’ve brought what you asked for,” he says, voice quivering.
“No.” I take the whiskey Saint offers, swirl the amber. “You’ve brought me what you think I asked for. The full archive.”
“It’s—” His throat bobs. “It’s not all there. Some files corrupted.”
“Corrupted?” Vale’s laugh is a blade. “Cute word for missing.”
Saint crosses himself out of habit. “You know the penalty.”
Ivan stammers, “Please, Rook. I—”
But his mistake isn’t begging. It’s the flicker in his eyes when I say her name.
“Ember Calloway.”
He freezes.
And just like that, I have my answer.
Ash glances up from the monitor. “He tried to scrub her from the drive. Amateur work.”
“Show me.”
