24. Chapter 24
Omniscient
The festive sounds of Family Day faded behind him as the heavy iron gates of the grand estate clicked shut.
The late afternoon sun hung low and golden over the city, but inside the Chairman’s towncar, the air was cold.
Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like dragging broken glass through his throat.
His health was a secret he could no longer keep from. The organ failure was slow, but ruthless.
Knowing his time on his feet was limited, he had made a choice before leaving the festivities.
He had pulled his chief of security aside in the lower courtyard and issued a firm command for most of his guards were to remain at the King and Queen’s estate until the day was over.
Family Day brought hundreds of community members, allies, and potential threats onto the grounds.
Damini and Adanna needed every loyal weapon watching the perimeter and every hand working the floor.
"I am going to sleep," he rasped, his voice barely an ember. "Leave two men at my gates. The rest of you stay here. Protect the King. Protect my niece. "
“Yes, Chairman.”
The grand stone driveway was empty. The usual row of armed guards lining the steps was absent, exactly as he had ordered.
The chairman pushed himself out of the backseat, leaning on his solid cane. His servant opened the wooden front doors, bowing low. Chairman offered a weak wave of his hand, dismissing the man for the evening.
He stepped into the cool, silent expanse of the foyer.
The high ceilings echoed with the hollow tap of his cane. Resting on a carved obsidian pedestal between two stained-glass windows sat a heavy, unpolished brass urn. To any outsider or visiting politician, it looked like nothing more than an expensive antique artifact.
Only the bloodline knew the truth. Sitting in that brass cylinder were the ashes of his late Queen—Adanna’s mother.
Idris stopped in front of the pedestal. He looked at the tarnished metal, the lines on his weathered face softened deeply, weary. He raised his free hand and gave the rim of his hat a gentle tip.
"I’m keeping the line held, little sister," he said, his eyes clouded with pain. "Your daughter is standing tall. She’s reigning beside her King, just like you wanted. I did my part... I made sure she followed her duty. Now let me rest and stop visiting me in my dreams."
He turned away, dragging his exhausted frame up the grand staircase, counting each step like a man calculating his remaining heartbeats.
By the time he reached the master suite, his skin felt clammy. He paused at the foot of his king-sized bed, his vision swimming for a brief second.
He grimaced, rubbing a knotty, trembling hand over his sternum. He chalked it up to the illness—to the brutal physical toll of forcing himself to stand and socialize for hours down at the compound. His body was simply giving out for the night.
He kicked off his leather loafers, peeled back the heavy silk duvet, and eased his frail legs onto the mattress.
The bed was soft, pulling him down into its depths. He sank his head back into the thick velvet pillows, letting out a long, ragged exhale as he closed his eyes, waiting for the dark relief of sleep to wash over his aching joints.
He never heard the door open, and he never heard the floorboards give.
Before a breath could leave his lungs, a thick down pillow was rammed down over his face with brutal force.
His eyes snapped open beneath the dark fabric. A surge of adrenaline ignited through his veins, tearing through his fatigue.
"Mmph—! Ahh!"
He tried to scream, but the sound was instantly smothered into the dense feathers. Instantly, two pairs of thick, iron-strong hands slammed down onto his limbs—one pinning his left wrist into the mattress, the other clamping down on his weak, arthritic right arm until his shoulder joint popped.
Panic exploded in his chest.
He thrashed with everything he had left. The instincts of a warrior who had survived decades of street wars and political bloodshed fought to take control, but the body he inhabited was no longer a weapon. It was a cage of brittle bone and dying muscle.
He bucked his hips, trying to throw the weight off his chest, but the person pressing the pillow down didn't budge. The pressure was suffocating, driving his head deeper and deeper into the mattress, sealing his nose and mouth completely.
Who? his mind screamed against the blinding dark. Who is in my house?!
His lungs began to flame. The air inside his chest turned to pure, searing acid.
He scraped his fingernails against the bedsheets, tearing the silk as he fought desperately to get a hand free. He kicked his legs, his heels thumping helpless beats into the mattress,
The realization was more agonizing than the lack of oxygen. It was a setup. His own protective instincts had been weaponized against him. By sending his men to protect his niece and the King, he had left himself completely defenseless.
His weak heart gave three uneven, fluttering thumps... and then stalled.
His lungs made one final, involuntary spasm against the dense fabric, fighting for air that was never coming—and then went entirely, terrifyingly still.
The bedroom returned to utter silence. The heavy, suffocating pressure on the pillow did not lift. The assassins stayed motionless in the dark, holding the dead weight down for three full minutes to ensure the Chairman would never breathe again.