Chapter 40 Nikolaj
Nikolaj
The sirens wail through Vintermoor like a funeral hymn.
It’s not a drill, not the usual five-minute protocol run. The red lights flicker against the polished stone, and the intercom crackles to life above my head as I stride out of Combat Strategy. “Security lockdown protocol: Initiate storm quadrant containment. All heirs, report to designated zones.”
I’ve lived through worse storms.
I know exactly where I’m supposed to go—North Wing, Floor Two, Safe Zone Bravo. Every heir has a designated route. Every route is scanned, tracked, and logged. But when I tap my wrist to the scanner, it flashes yellow instead of green.
“Route compromised,” it says.
Bullshit.
Before I can argue with a fucking machine, a secondary map flashes up, rerouting me. West A Hall. Weapons wing. Storage and drills. Not a safe zone.
That’s Dragna territory.
Lorenz and Fischer, the leftover sons of those my brother humiliated, punished, and exiled from our circles not too long ago.
I almost protest, almost force the issue and demand my place in the North Wing where I belong, but the lockdown siren is already blaring, and two guards step behind me like they’re just waiting for a reason to drag me.
So, I don’t fight. I nod once and walk down the wrong hallway, knowing it’s a mistake. It doesn’t feel like an error—it feels like a message. One I’ve answered my whole life, and Dragovich blood isn’t known for running.
The corridor narrows as I move past the glass partitions and sleek reinforced walls with their silver-tinted steel and titanium locks. My boots are loud against the silence of the echo chamber. I pass no one, not even the newer recruits scrambling to find their teams.
I step through the final door, and it seals behind me with a hiss.
The room is dim—emergency lights casting long shadows on racks of blunt-force weapons, knives, and disassembled firearms locked in crates.
And I’m not alone.
I count six. They step out from behind a training barricade like a painting of vengeance come to life—Fischer Dragna in front, Lorenz to his left, and four others I don’t recognize but don’t need to. I know the cut of their arrogance. They smell like loyalty to the wrong man.
This was planned.
Fischer grins like a jackal. “You’re far from the North Wing, Dragovich.”
I take out my cell to send a text, roll my shoulders once, and crack my neck. “And you’re far from relevant. Speak your last words, and let’s get this over with.”
Lorenz laughs, but it’s not the kind that makes people feel at ease. It’s the kind that preludes bone breaking. “Still mouthing off even when you’re outnumbered.”
“Still using numbers to feel brave?” I shoot back. My palms itch. My heart isn’t racing—it’s too steady. That’s how I know I’m about to lose it. “Come on then. Let’s see how many it takes.”
I barely dodge the first punch. Fischer lunges from the side, but I pivot back, catch his arm, and drive my elbow into his ribs.
He wheezes, stumbles, but Lorenz is already behind me, grabbing at my shoulder.
I twist, throw my weight, and slam him against the wall hard enough to make the lights flicker.
One of the other guys kicks at my legs, but I drop low and sweep his knee, sending him crashing onto the concrete with a crunch of bone.
I don’t hesitate. I move how I was trained—quick, ruthless, my fists a blur. I punch until my knuckles split. Headbutt until someone’s nose gives under the pressure. I spit blood and the coppery aftertaste burns like fire.
They didn’t expect me to fight. They thought I’d go down quietly, take it like a prince playing peacekeeper.
But I was raised by wolves.
Fischer swings again, this time with a blade flashing in his palm, and I catch his wrist, twist hard enough to hear the tendon pop, then slam his own knife into his thigh.
He screams—that part is satisfying. But then I turn, only to catch a pipe to the side of my head.
Pain explodes across my skull. My legs buckle, the room tips sideways, but I don’t go down. I clutch the nearest guy’s jacket, drag him down with me, and slam my head into his face so hard I hear cartilage break.
Blood is everywhere—mine, theirs—I can’t tell anymore.
But I’m still moving, still fighting.
They don’t overwhelm me with skill; they overwhelm me with numbers. Eventually, it turns. One boot to my ribs. Then fists from every angle. I’m already bleeding from my temple, vision swimming, muscles screaming from too many hits at once.
It takes three of them to pin me. Someone uses a taser, low-voltage, more to disorient than to paralyze. My knees buckle, but I drag myself upright.
“You’ve been fucking soft since your brother left,” Fischer hisses in my ear, dragging a blade across my chest—not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to burn.
I spit blood in his face, and he loses it.
The butt of a rifle slams against the back of my head twice, and I try to get up again, but someone kicks my arm hard, and the bone snaps.
I roar, and one of them grabs me by the throat while another grabs my hair and slams my head back into the wall. That one I don’t recover from.
My world starts to fuzz at the edges.
“Tell your brother this is what loyalty costs,” Fischer snarls, his face too close to mine. “Tell him the Dragna boys remember. We always remember.”
I’m still swinging, still swearing, teeth bared like I’ve got nothing to lose—but I can feel it.
The slow, dark wave of unconsciousness drags at my legs, choking out the edges of my vision.
The sounds get quieter. My body stops responding the way I need it to.
My arm dangles, broken. My ribs grind with every breath.
I’m going down, but I make them pay for every inch of it.
Even as I black out, I think I hear someone say, “We should’ve done this a long time ago.”
I don’t remember hitting the floor.
I don’t remember the lights going out.