25. Alexei
The scream doesn’t fade this time.
It multiplies.
My world snaps into sharp, brutal focus as training overrides instinct. I am no longer a king. I am the weapon I was trained to be. Voices blur into noise. Movement becomes vectors and threats. I’m already issuing orders before the second scream finishes tearing through the air.
“Move. Now.” My voice cuts clean and cold. “Team one, north end—go. Team two, lock us down.”
Security explodes into motion. Boots pound. Comms crackle. Half my detail breaks toward the sound, weapons drawn but disciplined, while the rest close ranks around the royal box, bodies shifting to form barriers without being told.
Lady Camille shrieks, high and piercing, and lunges for Agent Travis, clutching his arm and trying to pull him in front of her like a shield. Travis stiffens, jaw locking, but he doesn’t shake her off. Professional and controlled.
“Secure the royals in the back,” I bark. “Now.”
A concealed panel slides open behind us, revealing the reinforced room built for moments exactly like this. Steel-lined walls. Independent comms. No windows. No weaknesses.
“Move!” I repeat.
Hands guide. Usher. Herd. The court stumbles toward safety in varying shades of fear and outrage.
And then I see her.
Elena stands at the center of it all: still. Not frozen. Anchored. She should move with the rest of the royals, but she doesn’t. Her crown doesn’t waver. Her hands are steady at her sides. The storm bends around her, not touching her.
Our eyes meet.
Everything I am fractures into two instincts: protect and hunt.
She sees it. The need in me. The pull toward the field, toward the threat, toward ending this before it grows teeth.
Her eyes soften a fraction.
Don’t, they say.
Then, after a heartbeat that feels like a lifetime, she nods, and mouths the word that strangely puts my entire body at ease.
Go.
I exhale once through my nose and pivot.
I grab the nearest agent by the arm and haul him close, forcing him to look at me. Really look.
“You do not leave her,” I order, low and lethal. “You breathe when she breathes. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he answers immediately.
He’s already moving toward her before I let go.
I steal one last look at Elena, burning it into my memory, before the agent steps between us and blocks her from view.
Then I turn away.
I move fast through the box, down the steps, through the controlled chaos, my hand brushing the weapon at my side without drawing it. Lance and Braydon converge on me at the corridor mouth, both already mid-motion.
“Report,” I bark.
“Intruders confirmed,” Lance answers, falling into step beside me. “North end of the field. Three, possibly four. We’ve got agents redirecting the crowd, using the Victors to help clear lanes.”
Good. The competitors know how to move under pressure. They’ll keep people alive.
“The facility's locking down,” Braydon adds. “All entrances are sealed. No one in or out.”
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
“Kind of regretting not taking the day off,” Braydon teases.
We stop at a junction overlooking the lower level. The sound of shouting echoes from above; controlled, but afraid. Somewhere metal clangs. A whistle cuts sharp.
“Is that a saw?” Lance asks.
I look over the lower level again, the hostiles too far down the field to get a good look.
I angle my head to listen. The air shivers with a new noise; high, whining, then choking as it digs in.
The pitch changes, roughens, and becomes work.
Lance is not far off. An auger cuts into the ground, its teeth finding earth.
Lance glances at me. “How do you want to play this?”
I don’t hesitate.
“This isn’t about a message. The saw means they are looking for something,” I reply. “They aren’t here for the people, something else. Guards up, because they won’t want to fail at their assignment.”
Braydon’s eyes narrow. “Quiet and fast.”
“Precise,” I correct. “We isolate. We end it. No chase beyond the perimeter. Do what you can to take them alive.”
Lance nods.
I adjust the comm in my ear. “All units, this is the King. Switch to silent protocol. Capture first at all costs. Neutralize only if necessary.”
The response is immediate. Crisp. Ready.
As we move, my mind flickers, not to strategy, not to threat, but to her.
Standing tall.
Letting me go.
I will end this quickly.
So I get back to her as quickly as possible.
That is not hope.
That is a promise.
Lance, Braydon, and I move like we’ve done this a hundred times before—because we have—no words, no wasted motion. Our breaths, timing, and intent are all focused on the mission before us.
I signal, lifting two fingers and angling them apart, motioning to split up.
I peel left. Lance and Braydon shuffle right, melting into the tree line as if the forest itself opens for them.
I slow my pace, using my instincts to check our surroundings.
Everything in me wants to focus on speed.
Directness. Violence. I hold back those instructions because surprise can be sharper than any blade if unprepared.
I hold up a fist. Lance and Braydon wait as instructed.
Four.
I count them by sound before sight, metal scraping earth, the low murmur of voices, the wet pull of soil being dragged aside. No footsteps beyond them. No perimeter guards. No secondary team.
It doesn’t make sense.
The tournament is layered with security even on a normal day. Add the Victors Tournament, the royal court, and Elena. Four armed men don’t wander into the spine of this facility unnoticed. Not with our security protocol.
I inch closer, letting my feet kiss the ground instead of stepping on it.
I see them then.
Three are kneeling on the ground. One standing.
The kneeling men work fast, hands clawing at soil while an auger chews through earth with a dull, ugly whine. The standing one isn’t helping. He’s watching. Shifting. If he isn’t digging, it’s because he is their designated lookout.
My gaze drops and then I see why.
The device strapped around his midsection gleams dully through his jacket, and the switch clasped in his lowered hand.
Explosives.
That’s when it clicks.
I bring my hand to my comm and breathe once. “One suspect wearing a vest. Repeat, explosive device confirmed.”
Across from me, barely visible through branches, Lance stills. Braydon’s jaw tightens.
I give the next signal, slow advance, wide arc. No sudden movement. If the one holding the switch panics, he detonates. If he detonates, this becomes a massacre.
They move.
I draw my weapon but keep it low, close to my thigh. Every step is measured. Controlled. My pulse doesn’t spike, but something colder settles in my gut.
I’m close enough now to hear their voices clearly.
One man tosses his shovel aside. Metal rings sharp against stone. “How much longer?”
Another grunts, irritation thick in his voice. “As long as it takes. We need to confirm if they’re lying and if it still exists.”
The man with the vest shifts, shoe scraping nervously. “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. They’ll be here any second.”
The one on the left, the leader, doesn’t even look up. He shoves more dirt aside with his hands, frantic now. “Security will be focused on the queen. And their faithful king will be right there with her. Besides, we have a failsafe. No one will attack with a human bomb present.”
My jaw tightens until it aches.
The vest wearer swallows. “We only have minutes. We need to go.”
The leader finally looks up. His eyes are hard. Dead already. “If we don’t bring this back, we’re dead anyway.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
So, Oksana did send them.
I know exactly what they’re digging for.
Only Fletcher and I know the truth of what lies beneath this field, or what used to lie beneath this field.
What was buried as soon as it was found.
What once proved the Markova bloodline beyond crown and law.
What was destroyed, or so we were meant to believe, before stone and ceremony were layered over it.
The auger hits something solid.
The sound changes.
The leader freezes, then laughs, breathless. He drops to his knees and scrapes at the earth with shaking hands. “There.” He points. “We’ve reached the stone beneath.”
That’s my opening.
I signal.
We close in.
My foot snaps a branch underfoot.
The leader’s head jerks up, and he bolts.
“Going after the runner!” I shout, already moving.
Behind me, Lance and Braydon step out of concealment, weapons raised. The two kneeling men freeze, hands lifting instinctively. The one with the vest stands rigid, eyes wild, breath coming too fast.
I don’t look back.
The forest explodes into motion as I sprint, lungs burning, boots tearing through undergrowth. The leader crashes through branches ahead of me, reckless, loud. He raises his gun and fires blindly.
The shot cracks past my shoulder into the tree bark behind me.
I veer left, fire once, twice, close enough to warn, not slow. The shot grazes his shoulder, forcing him to shift to the right. I listen to his movements. His stride. The uneven hitch in his right step and his hitched breathing, the pain from the bullet graze to his shoulder.
I cut through a denser line of trees, take a wider arc, then accelerate.
I leap.
My shoulder slams into his spine, driving us both into the dirt. We roll, fists flying, elbows sharp. He fights like an animal, wild, desperate, strong enough to be dangerous, but sloppy against someone with an upper hand.
I take a shot to the ribs, but I don’t even feel the pain. I use my momentum, twist away, and manage to keep my upper hand. I force him onto his back, knee grinding into his chest, forearm pressing into his throat enough to make him gasp. My gun is trained on his face.
“Who sent you?” I snarl. “Oksana?”
His eyes burn into mine. Then he smiles.
“No—”
I see it a fraction of a second too late. His tongue flicks. A tooth shifts.
“Stop—”
He bites down.
Foam spills from his mouth, white and thick, as his body convulses beneath me. I grab his jaw, try to pry it open, but it’s already done. His eyes roll back. His muscles seize. Then—nothing.