4 — Wolf

The body had already been cleaned.

But Eirwen could still smell the blood.

It clung to the walls of the chamber like old perfume—something coppery, wet, and shamefully intimate. She stood just behind Domenik, her arms folded, her jaw tight, trying not to look too closely at the steel table.

Ash, one of his Wards, stood to the side like a living weapon. He was tall, brutal in silence, and wore the Laev sigil burned into the leather strap of his chest harness. Not a soldier. An executioner.

“He used his clearance to breach the vault at 02:17,” Ash said. “He left through the east tunnel. Clean. Efficient. No alarms tripped.”

“And the cleaner?” Domenik asked, not looking up.

“Tongue removed. Throat slit. Laev ring taken.”

Only then did Domenik turn to the body bag. Unzipped halfway. Pale, hollow-eyed. No sound ever came from corpses, and yet the silence here felt louder than grief.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “Wolf skull.”

Eirwen’s eyes flicked up. “What?”

He reached into his coat and pulled out something small—black metal, slick with old blood.

The wolf-skull signet.

Marsel’s.

“He didn’t disappear,” Domenik said softly. “He declared war.”

The elevator down to the sublevels was empty. No security. No AI.

Just her.

And him.

Eirwen leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching him without blinking.

“You’re not surprised,” she said.

“No.”

“You trusted him.”

“I tested him.”

She frowned. “You’re saying you knew he’d betray you?”

Domenik didn’t answer. Not directly.

“Loyalty untested is decoration,” he said. “It only proves itself when blood is involved.”

She watched the floor numbers tick down. Thirty… twenty-nine… twenty-eight…

“You going to test mine next?” she asked.

“You’re already being tested.”

The air felt hotter in the enclosed space.

She shifted—just slightly—and the lapel of her coat brushed her collarbone.

His eyes tracked it.

He didn’t move.

But she could feel it—the energy tightening between them like a drawstring.

“You’re staring,” she said.

He looked away. Not because he had to.

Because it would burn more.

“You want to be touched,” he said, voice smooth and cruel. “So badly you’re starting to reach for reasons.”

She didn’t flinch.

But she didn’t deny it, either.

And that silence… was louder than a scream.

The confessional vault was locked with voice, breath, and blood.

Domenik opened it in silence. Inside: one screen, no keyboard, and a single sealed file with a familiar name:

DÁINN, M.

He played the recording without asking her.

Marsel’s face flickered onto the screen.

Flawless. Unrushed. Calm.

“Power maintained by fear,” he said, “is a throne built on ash.”

Eirwen stepped closer. Marsel looked directly into the lens, but it felt like he was looking at her.

“At some point,” he continued, “the silence becomes so loud, it deafens the ones who built it.”

Domenik’s jaw ticked once. That was all.

“And as for the woman,” Marsel said, his tone shifting, “she is the variable. The crack. The match held too close to the fuse.”

Eirwen’s chest tightened.

Marsel smiled, faint and intimate.

“You love her, Domenik. You just don’t know what kind of weapon that makes you yet.”

The screen went black.

Neither of them moved.

Eirwen broke the silence first. “He saw it before you did.”

“He thinks you’re my weakness,” Domenik said. “Prove him wrong.”

He led her back into the Tower’s observation chamber.

The room that watched without blinking.

Mirrored walls. Dim lights. One long panel of screens—dark, waiting.

She stood in the center as he moved to the controls.

“You wanted to know how far I’ve seen you,” he said.

The screens flickered to life.

Not surveillance. Not strategy.

Just her.

In a motel room. One week ago.

She sat on the bed, shoulders hunched. Her hands in her hair. Her face crumpling—not from pain.

From exhaustion.

From grief.

She didn’t know anyone was watching.

Her breath caught. A silent sob. Her back curved. Her hands shook.

The screen froze.

Eirwen stared.

Then turned slowly toward him.

“You watched me break,” she said. “And you saved the footage?”

He didn’t speak.

“You wanted to possess me before you even knew my name.”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to understand you.”

She crossed the room in two steps and grabbed the front of his coat, fists tightening in the black wool.

“So go ahead,” she hissed. “Take it. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t kiss her.

He just said—calm, devastating:

“No. I want you to ask me to.”

The silence that followed was volcanic.

She stared at him. Breath quickened. Chest rising and falling too fast. Her hands still holding his coat, like she couldn’t tell whether she was about to strike him—or beg him.

But she didn’t do either.

And neither did he.

Because restraint was what made it real.

Then—

The lights flickered.

A pulse through the Tower’s spine.

One of the dark screens lit up—hijacked feed. Static gave way to a face.

Marsel.

Live.

He wore a black suit. The Várgr crest burned into the lapel. Behind him: wolves carved into glass, shadows moving fast through machinery.

“You always said silence was loyalty, Domenik.”

His voice was low. Measured.

“Let’s see how loud your empire screams without it.”

The feed cut.

And the Tower alarms began to howl.

⟅━━━━━⟆ ⚜ ⟅━━━━━⟆

Next:

The wolves are in. The touch is no longer optional.