The Grim Sovereign

Chapter 14

They called it The Black Spire, a monolith of steel and shadow that stabbed into the night sky like the blade of a god. Every soul in Ravencourt City knew the name, but no one dared whisper it after dark. Rumors said the walls themselves had heard too many screams to stay silent. The place wasn’t just deadly… it was cursed. Police wouldn’t cross its threshold. Government agents avoided it like the plague. Even mafia bosses who ruled the underworld like kings kept their crowns far from its gates.

Some said it was haunted by the ghosts of the men who’d died trying to conquer it. Others claimed it was still alive—breathing, watching, judging anyone who got too close.

I’d been to a lot of dangerous places in my life, but as I stepped out of the car and looked up at the towering glass-and-iron giant, I even felt it—that crawling weight pressing into my chest, daring me to take the next step.

The front was swarming with security. Not your typical bodyguards. These men were legends in their own right—once the most feared contract killers, retired war dogs who had painted foreign deserts red, mafia enforcers whose names were still whispered in back alleys. Their faces were carved from stone, their movements were sharp.

They wore tailored black suits, but beneath the fabric, I could see the faint bulges—shoulder holsters, knife sheaths, concealed. Every man here was a walking armory, smiling like polite gentlemen while holding the capacity to end a life in seconds.

As I approached. Their eyes swept over me—cold, calculating, searching for weakness.

One of them finally spoke, his voice like gravel scraping metal.

“Who the hell are you?”

Before I could answer, the deep, impatient honk of a car horn echoed behind me. I turned my head just enough to see a sleek Bentley Mulsanne rolling up the street. Then a man stepped out — dressed head to toe in a sharp, mustard-yellow suit.

He didn’t look at me at first. He walked past, offering a few casual nods to the guards, who seemed to recognize him immediately.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, before adding, “I’m here to see Hawkthorne.”

The name made my stomach tighten.

Hawkthorne?

The fact that someone casually dropped a name like that here, in front of Black Spire’s gates, told me this man wasn’t just a random visitor. He had ties deep enough to reach into this fortress of sin.

One of the guards narrowed his eyes. “You got an appointment with Hawkthorne?”

The yellow-suited man smiled like he was humoring a child. “Yes. It’s about the reconstruction project he promised me. Tell him I’m here.”

That reminded me of something I’d once overheard about Black Spire — how it wasn’t just a den for killers and mercenaries. The richest of the rich, the power-hungry politicians, the desperate billionaires — they all came here, crawling on their knees when they needed help from one man.

Dr. Milton Carroway.

The devil of Ravencourt.

“Alright,” the guard finally said. “We’ll call him.”

Just then, the man in the yellow suit turned his head toward me. His smirk widened.

“Well, well… Kael Maddox.”

My gaze sharpened. “Do you know me?”

He chuckled darkly. “Who wouldn’t know a traitor like you? The whole of Ravencourt knows what you did. How you betrayed your unit and killed them all.”

I stayed silent, my jaw locked.

“What? Nothing to say?” he pressed.

“I’ve got my own perspective,” I replied evenly. “Anything I say would mean nothing to you.”

His eyes narrowed, then he leaned closer, his voice dripping with mockery. “You and your brother Darren… the same shameless blood. Selling yourselves to the rich. Pathetic.”

Before I could answer, the heavy black doors of Black Spire groaned open.

A woman stepped out, and for a moment, the street seemed to hold its breath. She was tall, her black satin dress clinging to her curves like it had been poured on. A thigh-high slit revealed just enough skin to burn into a man’s mind.

The man in yellow’s eyes lit up with hunger as she approached.

“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice warm and dangerous. She stopped in front of me, tilting her head. “And who might you be looking for?”

I met her gaze without blinking. “I'm looking for Viper.”

The reaction was instant. Every single guard around us moved in perfect synchronization, guns snapping up to aim at my chest.

“Kneel,” one barked. “Or we drop you right here.”

The man in the yellow suit froze, fearing replacing his arrogance, and dropped to his knees without a second thought.

I stayed standing.

“Kneel!” another voice roared, safety clicks echoing like a countdown to my execution.

The moment their rifles locked on me, the man in the yellow suit’s swagger evaporated.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed in panic, eyes wide. “Kneel, damn it! Right now!” His voice cracked. “What kind of cursed name is that to mention in this house? Are you out of your mind?”

I didn’t flinch. I said it again, clearly, so there was no mistaking it.

“I’m looking for Viper.”

That only made the guards shift their stance, fingers curling tighter on their triggers.

“Kneel,” one snarled, “or we shoot you where you stand. You’ve got three seconds.”

“Three…”

The man in the yellow suit leaned toward me, his voice dropping into a venomous hiss.

“Kneel, you bastard. Kneel before they put you on the ground.”

“Two…”

I didn’t move.

The guards’ rifles rose a fraction higher.

“One—”

“Stop.”

The single word from the woman cut through the air like a blade. Every guard froze instantly, her weapons lowering just enough to show they obeyed her without question. She stepped toward me, her heels clicking softly against the stone. Her perfume was rich, intoxicating, but her eyes were sharper than the weapons trained on me moments ago.

She stood inches away, staring deep into me.

“I love your eyes,” she said softly. “I love that fire in them.”

Without looking back, she addressed the guards. “I’ll walk in and call Hawkthorne myself. For you to know that name, you must also be dangerous.”

Her words lingered as she turned and vanished through the great door.

The man in the yellow suit found his voice again, sneering from where he still crouched.

“How dare you know someone called Viper? Why the hell are you trying to get yourself killed? i***t. Suicide case. A piece of—”

My hand moved faster than his insult. The slap cracked across his face like a gunshot. He flew backward, hit the ground hard, and didn’t get up.

I stood over him. “Time for you to shut the f**k up.”

The heavy gate creaked open again. The woman emerged, this time with a man at her side — a giant, built like a siege engine, muscles straining beneath a tailored black suit. He stopped when his gaze fell on the unconscious man at my feet.

“You're the one who did this?” He pointed at the yellow suit.

“Someone needed to rest,” I said simply.

The big man grunted and waved over the driver. “Take Mr. Pellington and get him home.”

The driver rushed forward, scooping the yellow suit off the ground, and stuffed it into the back of the Bentley before speeding away.

The giant turned back to me. “You the one looking for Viper?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the code?”

I stepped forward until we were only a foot apart, my voice low and deliberate.

“Black Fang – Delta Seven.”

He studied me for a long moment, his jaw working, but I didn’t blink.

Then I leaned in slightly, meeting his stare dead-on. “Tell your men something. I hate it when people point guns at me. I only need ten seconds before I turn this entire side into ashes.”

The silence between us was like a taut wire ready to snap. I didn’t look away.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Lower your weapons.”

One of the guards approached, carrying a strip of thick black cloth. Without a word, they wrapped it tightly around my eyes.

I could hear my own footsteps echo as they led me inside. The air changed immediately — cooler, heavier, almost suffocating. Black Spire was vast, its labyrinth of corridors swallowing every sound, and no one outside knew exactly which block Milton Carroway lived in. This was how they kept it — blindfolds, misdirection, erasing the path from memory.

Somewhere ahead, the metallic chime of an elevator opened. I was ushered in, feeling the shift as we rose. My instincts traced every second, every vibration, every breath of the surrounding men.

When the lift stopped, we walked again. I counted the steps, the turns — every move stored away in my head.

Then I felt my hands untie the cloth.

Light rushed in. I blocked my eyes from the rays of the sun.

I was standing in a spacious office. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked over Ravencourt’s skyline. By the window stood a man in a crisp, dark suit, his hands clasped behind his back, a thin spectacle perched on his nose.

He turned around, and it was no other one but the devil in human form.

Dr. Milton Carroway...

Milton Carroway’s voice rolled out like distant thunder.

“It’s been a while, Kael.”

He gestured toward a leather chair across from his massive desk. “Sit.”

I didn’t say a word, just walked over and lowered myself into the seat. The woman from earlier glided in, carrying a silver tray. Hawthrone, stood to Milton’s right, hands clasped in front of him like a statue, eyes tracking my every move.

The woman leaned in, filling my cup with steaming tea. She winked as the liquid swirled, but I looked away. No distractions. Not here.

Milton’s deep voice filled the room again.

“I must apologize,” he said smoothly. “I haven’t come to see you since your release from prison. I’ve been… occupied. The upcoming election, you understand. After serving at the federal level, I’ve returned to my hometown. I want to serve as mayor now.”

His gaze softened, like a man sharing old war stories.

“The government never forgets a sacrifice, Kael. I remain… regretful for what happened.”

I cut him off.

“Is that why you tried to silence all of us? Is that why you’re still after me, even after I walked out of that cell?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

My hand slipped into my jacket, fingers brushing cool brass. I placed the object on the desk between us.

A bullet.

“This,” I said, tapping the round with my fingertip, “is from an Accipiter M-92 sniper rifle. Custom-forged, depleted uranium core. It can cut through two inches of reinforced steel at eighteen hundred meters.”

I leaned back slightly, letting my words sink in.

“It’s scarce. It’s expensive. The kind of ammunition only the presidency can authorize — and even then, only for special operations. Not for street work.”

I pushed the bullet toward him. “And yet, it found me.”

Milton removed his spectacles, folding them with deliberate care. His eyes were calm.

“I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“That same bullet,” I said, my voice low, “almost took my head off a few nights ago. My brother too. No mafia, no mercenaries, no back-alley gunsmiths have access to anything like this. Unless it came from here.”

I held his gaze.

“So tell me, Milton… why are you trying to kill me?”

Milton smiled. Slow. Controlled. The kind of smile you give when you know more than you’re willing to say.

Then he rose from his chair.

My eyes followed him as he crossed the room to a heavy, dark oak drawer. Hawkthorne didn’t move an inch, but I could feel his stare tightening like a vise.

Every muscle in my body coiled.

Without making it obvious, my fingers slid over the armrest until they found the pen beside me. I wrapped my hand around it, hiding the movement with the slow shift of my coat. If Milton went for a gun instead of papers, I’d have a weapon—crude, but enough to make the first move.

He opened the drawer. My grip on the pen tightened.

Then he turned back, holding a thick, weathered file. No gun.

Milton returned to the desk, dropped the file onto the polished wood with a dull slap, and slid it toward me. The man didn’t sit—just stood there, letting me open it.

Inside were photographs. High-resolution. Brutal.

A man slumped against a wall, a neat hole drilled dead center in his forehead.

Another lying on cracked pavement, his throat a red ruin.

A third sprawled across a table, chest punched through in three places.

Milton’s voice was low, deliberate.

“A month ago, the Bavarra Republics presidential house received a message. It was reported quietly through the military channels. There had been a robbery—an armed strike on one of their military depots. Ammunition stolen. High-grade. The kind we both know can’t end up in civilian hands.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“They couldn’t announce it, of course. Would have caused panic in the streets. Shattered the idea of security. But… a week later, these people turned up dead. Exactly as you see in those photos.”

He tapped the file once.

“Their names aren’t important. What matters is that every single one of them had military ties. And now…” He glanced toward Hawkthorne, then back to me. “Even the Black Spire is trying to get to the truth of the issue.”

I looked up from the photos, narrowing my eyes.

“Malik Radwan,” I said. “The te**ist?”

Milton’s smile returned, but this time it was thin.

“The Black Spire is trying to find out.”

I closed the file and stood, the chair’s legs scraping against the floor.

“Fine.”

Milton’s expression softened—just a fraction.

“About your comrades…” he said slowly, his deep voice carrying that heavy politician’s gravity. “On behalf of the government… I’m sorry. I will carry the weight of it to my grave.”

I stared straight into his eyes.

“You’re not in a position to ask me for forgiveness,” I said, my voice low but hard enough to cut through the air. “Wait until the day you come face to face with the people who truly deserve that apology. Then you can make one.”

I leaned forward, not breaking eye contact.

“And pray you end up in heaven… so you can give it to them yourself.”

The silence between us thickened, the kind that presses against your ribs.

I pushed back my chair and walked toward him.

Hawkthorne’s arm shot out to block me, but before I could even react, Milton’s voice cut through.

“Stand down, Hawkthorne.”

Reluctantly, the big man withdrew, though his glare could have cracked stone.

Milton gave me a faint, knowing smile.

“I’ve always admired your military skill, Kael. Even if I blindfolded you, tied your hands, and gave Hawthorne thirty men… you’d still walk out alive. He knows it too.”

Hawkthorne stepped back another pace, his jaw tight, the insult digging deep.

I reached into my coat, pulled out the sniper round, and set it on the desk with a sharp metallic click.

“I’ll come back later,” I said flatly.

Then I turned and walked out without another word.