THE DEVIL'S PAWN

FRACTURES

Santi D'vore was unraveling.

The mansion no longer felt like a home. It was a war room soaked in rage. Maps littered the marble table, red pins stabbed into cities like open wounds. Men stood around him—armed, silent, terrified—because Santi hadn’t slept in three days and grief had turned him feral.

“She doesn’t disappear,” Santi said quietly.

No one answered.

His fist came down hard, cracking the glass table.

“My daughter does not disappear.”

A man stepped forward carefully. “Sir… Lucien Vale’s territory matches the last signal. We’re still verifying—”

“VERIFY FASTER!” Santi roared. “Burn their streets if you have to. I want names. I want locations. I want blood if that’s what it takes.”

He turned, eyes red, smile wrong.

“They think taking her weakens me,” he muttered. “They’ve forgotten who taught them fear.”

“Should we negotiate?” someone dared to ask.

Santi laughed—a broken sound.

“Negotiate?” He leaned in close. “I will empty cities before I beg.”

Orders flew. Phones rang. Engines started.

Santi d’Vore was going to war.

.....

Deep underground, time moved differently.

Amara sat on the cold stone floor of her cell, back against the wall, wrists relaxed, eyes sharp. Chains were there for show. The real cage was routine—and she was learning it.

Two guards.

Sixteen steps from the stairwell.

Food drop every eight hours.

One guard limped slightly. The other liked to talk.

She counted breaths.

Counted footsteps.

Counted weaknesses.

When the guards approached with the metal tray, Amara lowered her head, playing the part they expected. Small. Broken. Harmless.

The door creaked open.

“Eat,” one guard said, shoving the tray inside.

As he straightened, someone else walked past the corridor.

Boots. Expensive. Unhurried.

Amara looked up.

Lucien Vale stopped.

It wasn’t intentional. Just a pause—half a second too long. But it was enough.

Their eyes met.

The world narrowed.

Lucien had expected filth, fear, madness. What he saw instead was calm. Sharp. A woman watching him like she was the one behind the bars by choice.

Something twisted in his chest.

“A guard cleared his throat. “Everything’s secured, Mr. Raizel.”

Lucien didn’t respond immediately. His gaze stayed on her—on the intelligence she hadn’t bothered to hide.

Amara didn’t blink.

Then he turned and walked on.

The door slammed shut.

Amara exhaled slowly.

So that was Lucien Vale.

Interesting.

.....

Above ground, Santi d’Vore smashed another glass.

“They have her,” he said to no one, certainty bleeding through every word. “I can feel it.”

He stared out at the city like it owed him something.

“Lucien,” he whispered, voice trembling between fury and grief. “If you’ve touched her…”

His jaw tightened.

“There will be nothing left of you.”

The board was set.

The players were moving.

And Amara—still chained, still

silent—smiled faintly in the dark.

Because cages were temporary.

And wars always created openings.