One honk, and the sky-high gate opened before the camera could even catch my face. No one dared to make me wait.
My door was swung open by an armed soldier even before the engine of the car was shut off. Then an echo of boots hitting the ground followed as soldiers saluted me the moment I stepped out of the car.
I headed into the building, and every turn I had to make made my fingers twitch with impatience. Why were there so many corridors and so many turns?
After walking for what felt like forever, a twin black door opened up, revealing a dark room lit with dim bulbs and candles.
They always treated this meeting like some occultic watch. The Raskovs were the most dramatic set of people I ever knew.
I stepped into the room and the smell of cigar, polish, and money enveloped me immediately. Men, both young and old, all sat in dark suits around a mahogany table that looked older than most countries, their watch gleaming, so were their eyes.
A throat cleared. “Marshal.” The person’s voice was smooth and familiar. “I was beginning to think that you’ve forgotten your duties.”
My mouth twitched. “I don’t forget,” I said, moving over to my seat. “I prioritise.”
Seriously, I would rather be carving into someone’s skin than be here right now, exchanging oxygen with entitled men who couldn’t be evil boldly.
A faint ripple of unease weaved through the room, the type only I could cause.
The murmur stretched on as I settled into the seat located at the head of the table. The seat reserved for the King.Callan.
Callan had been acting as the regent Pakhan of The Circle ever since the former Pakhan, Eugene Raskov passed.
When the Circle was built centuries ago, the leadership was dynastic. Blood to blood. Name to name. The Pakhan’s heir, biological or adopted, inherited the throne. No debate. No vote. It was a tradition sacred as doctrine. There had never been a problem with this rule or arrangement.
Not until Callan.
He was the first adopted heir to ever reach succession. So when Eugene died and Callan stood next in line, the council panicked. They couldn’t stomach it; a Scottish-born orphan seated atop a Russian legacy. Since they couldn’t outright defy centuries of law, they cloaked their fear and prejudices under political reform.
“For the stability of the forum, we must adopt a vote.”They had said on the day Callan was supposed to be sworn in.
“No one man should hold absolute power,”they preached.“We are not savages.”
But it was never about balance. It was about keeping Callan out.
But they forgot, many years ago, when the Raskovs were bleeding, alliances fraying, enemies circling, it was Callan–10 years of age–they used as leverage. A body to parade, a name to trade. A symbol clean enough to seal deals men like Eugene Raskov couldn’t touch anymore.
They taught Callan how to smile. They taught him how to sign. How to belong just enough to be useful. Although when the blood had to spill, when innocence had to be stripped away to keep the Circle standing, I always stepped forward. BecauseCallan couldn’t survive that reality. For he was made for softer things.
Callan was used by the Raskovs. Still being used. But I refused for him to be discarded. Not after everything I had done. He never saw it, not fully. I had never let him. Because I had always let my brother see the light while I walked the dark corridors carved for him long before he knew their names.
Callan would never know the bargains. The violence. The price for a name such as Raskov. But I did. Because I paid them all.
For me, Callan Raskov was the throne. It didn’t matter if he wore the crown as regent or ruler. It didn’t matter if the council pretended power had shifted. No one was taking it from him. Not after how many times I had bled so he wouldn’t have a scratch. Not after how many deaths I had died in his place…all for this throne.
“It seemed like you were in the middle of something, Marshal.” A faint voice weaved into my thoughts. My eyes scanned the table, the pairs landing on a man sitting at the far end to my right.
It was Mikhail Raskov, Eugene’s younger brother, and I supposed, Callan’s uncle?
His eyes were on my gloves, narrowed slightly, but the suspicion was masked with sheer curiosity. I had forgotten to take them off.
“Yes.” My reply was curt. If he knew there was Zaghan and there was Callan, and if he knew Zaghan was the carefree twin who was keen about the fascinating things in the shadow, he never made it obvious. But he always acted like he knew things about Callan more than anyone else. Cared about Callan more than his stupid adopted father did.
“Well, we’ll make this quick so you can go back to…” Mikhail Raskov gestured at my gloves. “…whatever you were doing.”
“So why are we here?” I finally asked, leaning over the table, my gloved hands clasped on the polished black oak.
“That,” the school principal, Patrick Rozanov, or whatever his name was, said, pointing at the centre of the table where laid, a thin, black folder.
