The Grim Sovereign

Chapter 12

Darren didn’t hesitate.

But Mira just stood there, trembling.

Darren came rushing back into the room with a bowl of steaming water in one hand and a glowing red-hot iron poker wrapped in a kitchen towel.

His face was drenched in sweat. Fear clung to him like smoke.

I took the iron and set it beside the water. My fingers flexed around the hilt of my blade, the weight of what I was about to do pressing hard in my chest.

But just as I turned back to Nayla

Mira grabbed my wrist.

Tight.

Her hand shook, but her voice was sharp as ever.

“Are you out of your mind?” she cried. “You’re really going to *burn* my daughter?”

“This isn’t about hurting her,” I said, calm but firm. “This is the only chance we have if you don’t want to bury her by sunrise.”

She stared at me, eyes wild. “You expect me to trust the word of a murderer?”

I smiled bitterly. “No, of course not. Trust the girl’s *black blood* and the fact that she almost died ten minutes ago.”

“Kael is not lying,” Darren said suddenly. “He’d never hurt Nayla. I know him. Mira, please—for once, believe in him. Just this once.”

She looked at both of us, then at her daughter, she was still unconscious, her body twitching faintly, lips blue.

Then her voice cracked.

“If anything happens to her,” Mira whispered, “can you swear on your miserable soul you’ll pay for it?”

I met her gaze without flinching, then pulled out my blade and pressed it to my own throat. “If she dies… I’ll slit my throat right here in front of you.”

Her hand loosened.

Her breath hitched.

Then, slowly, she let go of me and stepped back.

“…Please save her,” she whispered.

No more doubt.

Just a desperate mother with tears in her eyes.

I went to work. I dipped a cloth in the hot salted water and began wiping Nayla’s arms, chest, and forehead. I whispered under my breath, counting her pulse, watching the black veins respond to the salt’s pressure. They twitched—then slowly started to retract.

The virus was reacting.

I took the hot iron and hovered it just above the center of her palm where I had made the incision earlier.

Her body jerked.

I pressed the iron down, only for half a second.

**HISS.**

The smell of burnt flesh was sharp and brutal, but it was working.

Then her body jolted.

**BLURRGHH!**

She vomited violently, a **thick stream of green-black blood** splattering onto the tile floor.

And then—she went limp.

“No—NO!” Mira screamed, rushing to her daughter and lifting her. “Nayla! Wake up! Baby, wake up!”

“Nayla!” Darren called, grabbing her tiny hand. “C’mon sweetheart, stay with us—come on, baby girl—!”

“This is your fault!” Mira screamed at me, eyes filled with fire and tears. “I knew you’d hurt her! You monster—!”

Then… she sneezed.

A soft, sudden, weak little sneeze.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she began to cry.

Mira froze.

Her mouth dropped.

Then she crumbled—arms around her daughter, holding her like the world had ended and restarted at once.

“Thank God, thank you baby, you scared me,” she sobbed, kissing Nayla’s cheeks. “I thought I lost you… I thought…”

Darren sank to his knees beside them, wrapping them both in his arms. He kissed Mira’s forehead, then Nayla’s tiny fingers. “You’re okay now. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”

I stood slowly.

My muscles ached. My shirt was soaked with sweat. My blade was still in my hand.

“She’s stable now,” I said quietly, eyes locked on the child. “The virus is out of her system. Her vitals are clean.”

I grabbed a towel from the side table and wiped my hands.

“You can take her to the hospital in the morning—for a proper checkup.”

I turned to leave.

Darren stood quickly. “Wait—Kael, where are you going? It’s still raining outside.”

I glanced at Mira, who had her back turned to me now, rocking her daughter gently.

“Someone in this house made it clear I’m not welcome here,” I said. “And I won’t overstay kindness.”

“Kael—” Darren started.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You saved my life once. I owe you everything. And I’ll always be grateful for that. But I’ve been alone for six years, Darren. I can find my way again.”

I reached for my bag.

Just as I opened the front door, Mira’s voice rang out behind me.

“Wait.”

I turned.

She walked over silently, her eyes red from crying, a document folder in her hand. She dropped it on the table near Darren.

“Take him to Delacroix Security Agency tomorrow,” she said without looking at me. “They’re short on guards. He might find work there. They have accommodation.”

Then she walked away.

Just that.

Darren looked stunned. A grin broke through his face. “Mira, thank you. Seriously, I mean—”

But she was already gone, disappearing into the hallway with her daughter in her arms.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Darren looked at me and shrugged. “Well… that’s the nicest she’s ever been to a guest.”

I smiled faintly. “Let’s hope her daughter remembers me better than her mother does.”

_____________________

The morning rain had faded to a damp mist, trailing fog against the glass windows as Darren drove us down the East Ridge highway. I sat quietly in the passenger seat, my arms folded, eyes following the trees blurring past.

Darren broke the silence first.

“She’s better now,” he said softly. “But… for over a year, we fought that illness. No one could explain it.”

I turned to look at him. “A year?”

He nodded. “Seizures, high fevers, unconsciousness… We tried every hospital. Every specialist. She’s been on more medications than a soldier in a combat zone.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “And nothing worked. Not a damn thing. We thought we were losing her.”

I looked away for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek.

“I’m surprised to see Serpent’s Vein here,” I said. “That virus… it was created in the Western badlands, in Radwan’s underground labs. There were strict quarantines. No recorded spread beyond the zones…”

I narrowed my eyes at the wet road. “So how the hell did it get all the way to the East?”

Darren shrugged. “You know these things always leak. Silent wars leave loud scars.”

We rode in silence for a few more minutes before he said, “I heard about the operation.”

My chest tightened.

“The one that went wrong. The loss of your unit.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, his voice lower. “But the news… told a different story.”

I turned to him. “What story?”

Darren exhaled. “They said you killed them. That you went rogue. Executed all twelve of your men and were caught trying to flee across the border. They painted you like a rabid war dog.”

I stared out the window again, my jaw tightening.

“I figured as much,” I muttered.

“what Mira said…” Darren glanced at me. “She didn’t mean it. She was just scared. She believed what she heard—what everyone heard.”

“I didn’t kill them,” I said quietly, my voice like gravel.

“I know,” Darren replied. “But does the world?”

I said nothing.

“Maybe that’s why Aria won’t see you,” he continued. “Maybe it’s not hate. Maybe it’s fear of what the world might say about Liam—being the son of a supposed murderer.”

I closed my eyes.

“I get it,” I whispered. “I do.”

Suddenly, the dashboard beeped.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

“Damn,” Darren muttered. “Fuel’s low. I should’ve topped up earlier.”

He veered gently toward a nearby filling station just off the highway.

“Sit tight,” he said, parking beside the third pump. “Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

I nodded but stepped out anyway. The air was sharp with the smell of gasoline and wet cement. I stretched my arms and scanned the open lot—a cashier booth, three attendants, a couple of drivers refueling.

Darren popped the tank lid and began filling up.

“Kael,” he called over his shoulder, “just wait in the car, man. You need rest.”

Something in my gut twisted.

My ears rang faintly. That sixth sense I developed in years of covert ops— was screaming now.

I squinted past the far building, to the slope overlooking the station. A sliver of light glinted from a window in an abandoned store across the road like a mirror catching the sun.

But it wasn’t a mirror.

It was a scope.

My pupils narrowed.

“Darren, get down!” I shouted.

He turned, confused. “What?”

CRACK!

The bullet ripped through the air and struck one of the attendants.

Blood sprayed the pump. The man dropped instantly, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Darren froze. “Oh my God—what the hell is happening?!”

“There’s a sniper!” I growled, yanking him to the ground behind the car. “Upper slope, second floor of the hardware store—broken signage. Fifteen degrees left from the main road.”

“Jesus,” he gasped, crawling beside me, hands shaking. “You actually spotted that?”

Another shot rang out.

CRACK!

It shattered the mirror of the car next to us.

People started screaming. A driver ducked into his car and sped off, tires screeching. Another attendant ran for cover.

“Why would they target a gas station?” Darren whispered, trying to keep low.

“They weren’t targeting the station,” I replied, eyes locked on the window above.

“I think they were targeting us.”

The sound of gunfire cracked again, echoing off the shattered concrete walls like thunder. I pressed my back tighter against the pillar, breath sharp and ragged, adrenaline surging. Bullet casings littered the ground like gold teeth, hot and gleaming.

Darren crouched beside me, his hands shaking as he tried to peek from behind the low barrier. The whites of his eyes were wide, frantic.

“What do you *mean* they’re targeting us?” he barked over the ringing in our ears. “You said us, Kael! Why us?”

I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed forward, calculating the shooter’s rhythm, listening for the exact tempo between shots. One second. Two. Four.

“On the count of three,” I said sharply, pushing down my panic, “we move.”

“What?” Darren hissed. “Kael—Kael—do you even hear yourself? Bullets are raining from the damn sky and you’re asking us to *run*? Into *that*?!”

The next shot rang out, shattering the steel pipe inches above our heads. Darren yelped and ducked.

“You want us to run into the bullets?! What the hell are you talking about?”

I finally turned to him. His chest was heaving. His courage frayed to threads.

“It’s a CheyTac M200 Intervention,” I said evenly, voice steady despite the chaos. “Sniper-class. Fires a .408 round. Custom scope. Deadly from over two kilometers out.”

Darren blinked, confused. “What—what the hell does that even mean, Kael?!”

I leaned in closer, voice low and controlled.

“It means…” I held up two fingers, “...it takes him time to reload after every shot. That’s our only window.”

“You’re serious?” Darren stammered.

“Dead serious,” I replied. “He’s not using an automatic. He has to rechamber each round manually. Bolt-action system. He shoots once, pauses to reload, and that’s our gap.”

Darren stared at me like I was a lunatic.

“We're going to run during that pause,” I said. “On my count. Three seconds. We move. If we wait, he’ll pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

Darren swallowed hard.

I didn’t give him time to argue again.

I grabbed a chunk of concrete near my foot—twisted metal still embedded—and hurled it with all my strength toward a rusted oil drum down the alley.

The clatter was loud.

And just as I predicted,

Crack!

The sniper fired again, hitting the drum, sparks flying.

“THREE!” I shouted.

“RUN!”

Darren didn’t hesitate this time.

We bolted from behind cover. My boots hit the pavement hard as we zigzagged through the alley, ducking low, hearts pounding. Another shot came too late—it hit a wall behind us, dust exploding in a fiery bloom.

We hit the car.

I yanked the door open and shoved Darren inside, diving in after him. The engine roared to life under my fists.

I slammed the gear into reverse, tires screeching as we spun away from the kill zone.

---

My mind raced.

I needed to waste his ammo.

A sniper that skilled didn’t fire unless he was confident. That meant his shots were deliberate, precise. But he didn’t know I *knew* his rhythm. His reload pattern.

I could use that.

“Think, Maddox…” I muttered, one hand on the wheel, the other digging through the glovebox until I found an old handheld flare.

Perfect.

As we veered through the twisted city roads, I kept low behind the wheel, glancing at broken windows and rooftops. He was still hunting. I knew it.

I threw the flare out the side window and watched it bounce, sparking violently.

Crack!

Another shot. He went for it.

He wasted another bullet.

Good.

Darren was still panting beside me. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t afford to.

Not yet.

My eyes narrowed as I sped toward the southeast end of the city—the old textile building. Half-collapsed, easy access, and the perfect sniper’s nest.

If I was him, that’s where I’d be.

I floored the accelerator.

We were heading there next.

Because if I was right… the shooter wasn’t just some hired gun.

He knew me.

And I was going to find out why