Chapter 45: Plague

Chapter

Forty-Five

PLAGUE

T he old mine outpost looms before us, a jagged scar carved into the mountainside. My eyes scan the perimeter, searching for any sign of movement along the wall. It looks deceptively weak, crumbling in places, overgrown with stubborn vegetation clinging to life in this harsh landscape.

I know better.

Reinmich doesn't do anything by halves, especially when it comes to fortifications. But Azarel chose this as our best point of entry for a reason. The thought of my brother sends a fresh wave of unease through me, but I push it down.

There's no room for doubt now.

Our hidden forces should be in position, melting through the woods like shadows. I picture Valek among them, silver eyes gleaming in the darkness as he readies his rifle.

For once, I'm glad to have the snake on our side.

And not just because he came through when I needed him most.

Nikolai paces beside me, his blood-red coat a splash of vivid color against the muted tones of our surroundings. But apparently, there's no talking him out of his ostentatious optics, even in the middle of a war. To be fair, if Reinmich's forces notice us, it will be because of the army, not his obnoxious fashion sense.

His scarred face is twisted in a skeptical sneer as he mutters, "Weak point, my ass. This contact of yours had better come through."

I meet his gaze steadily, keeping my voice calm and assured. "He will. He's a man of his word."

The words taste bitter on my tongue. Once, I would have staked my life on Azarel's honor without hesitation.

Now... I'm not so sure.

But I can't let that uncertainty show.

Not when so much is riding on this moment.

I sense Whiskey and Ivy's worry. Turning to them, I offer a reassuring smile. It feels forced, but I hope it's convincing enough.

With deliberate movements, I reach for the leather plague doctor mask hanging from my belt. This one is adorned with golden Surhiiran filigree, but otherwise, it's a replica. The familiar weight of it in my hands is oddly comforting. As I slip it on, adjusting the leather straps, a sense of rightness settles over me.

This is who I am now.

A healer and a harbinger of death in equal measure.

At least for tonight.

Whether I survive this day or not, it's the last day I'll don this mask. Either I'll die, or I'll wake up tomorrow in a new life with my pack.

With Ivy.

The mask's eye lenses tint the world in shades of amber, making it all look surreal. It's fitting. What we're about to do still feels like a fever dream at times.

I check my watch, unease coiling in my gut as I note the time. We're cutting it close. Too close. A traitorous voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe I was wrong. Maybe honor doesn't mean anything to Azarel anymore.

After all, our brotherhood once meant something too.

And look how easily that crumbled.

The seconds tick by, each one feeling like an eternity as restless energy rippling through our forces. The Surhiiran troops stand at perfect attention, a sea of white and gold, while Nikolai's mercenaries shift and mutter amongst themselves. Two very different armies with drastically different skill sets, united for one impossible goal.

Just as I'm about to signal a change in plans, the world erupts in chaos.

Explosions rip through the air, a thunderous storm that shakes the very ground beneath our feet. Plumes of dust and debris billow upward as charges detonate all along the wall. In the distance, the stone checkpoint guard tower collapses in on itself, taking out anyone unlucky enough to be inside. The only threat we have to worry about on this side of the city.

For a heartbeat, all I can do is stare.

He came through.

Azarel kept his word.

"Wow," Whiskey breathes reverently.

"Better than fireworks," Ivy agrees.

A fierce relief tainted with dangerous hope wells up inside me, mingling with the adrenaline already blasting through my veins. Beside me, Nikolai's face splits in a wolfish grin.

"Well, well," he purrs, drawing his gaudy golden revolver and twirling it on his finger. "It's showtime."

I nod sharply, turning to General Larihm. The Surhiiran commander's eyes are bright with determination above his scarf. "You know what to do," I say, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

Larihm bows deeply. "May our Goddess watch over us all, Your Highness."

Little does he know my goddess is by my side, in the flesh.

With that, he turns and begins barking orders to our troops. The air fills with the sound of weapons being readied, of boots pounding against earth as our forces surge forward.

I draw my own weapon. The Surhiiran blade that's become an extension of myself once more, despite all our years apart. Its pristine metal seems to glow in the fading light, a beacon of hope amidst the carnage about to unfold.

"Alright, you crazy bastards," Whiskey calls out, his grin fierce and wild. He's always marched to the beat of his own drummer, and he's the only one of us not wearing a mask. "Let's go fuck shit up!"

Wraith lets out a bone-chilling roar of agreement, already moving toward the breach in the wall with deadly purpose. Thane falls in beside him. They're both wearing masks that are nods to the ones they wore as Ghosts—a gas mask for Wraith, and a skull mask for Thane—but theirs, too, have gilded accents and gold threading.

I turn to Ivy, drinking in the sight of her. Even in the midst of this madness, she's breathtaking. Her fiery hair whips around her face, and there's a determined set to her jaw that makes my heart swell with pride and love.

"Stay close," I tell her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "No matter what happens in there?—"

"I know," she cuts me off, squeezing my hand in return, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "No recklessness."

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. There's so much more I want to say, but now isn't the time.

We have a war to win first.

I keep Ivy close as we weave through the chaos erupting around us, my heart pounding against my ribs. The sounds of battle echo off the stone buildings of the capital. Gunfire, explosions, screams. The air is thick with smoke and the acrid stench of cordite.

But we have a mission.

Thane and Wraith are hunting their father as we speak.

Like a cockroach, he'll skitter off the moment he realizes the capital is doomed to fall, and we can't let him get the chance to shore up reinforcements. In the meantime, Whiskey, Ivy, and I are heading straight for the Council chambers. I catch glimpses of Valek's handiwork as we move. Guards dropping silently from their posts, precise shots that speak of a master marksman watching over us like some sort of unhinged guardian angel.

"This way," I murmur to Ivy, pulling her into a narrow alley as another explosion rocks the street behind us. Debris rains down, but we're already moving.

She stays close, just like she promised. Her small hand is warm in mine as I guide her through the labyrinth of side streets and back alleys. We're taking the long way around, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the bulk of the fighting is concentrated.

A flash of movement ahead makes me freeze, but it's just a cat darting between trash bins. Still, I press Ivy against the wall, shielding her with my body until I'm certain it's clear.

"I'm fine," she whispers, but she doesn't fight my protective instincts.

Even now, in the middle of a war zone, she's trying to reassure me .

We reach a fire escape and I boost her up, following close behind. The metal creaks beneath our weight as we climb, but it holds. From this vantage point, I can see the full scope of the battle unfolding below.

Surhiiran troops in their pristine white uniforms clash with Reinmichian forces in the streets. Nikolai's mercenaries move like shadows through the chaos, striking where least expected. The sound of combat is deafening, but we're above most of it now.

A guard appears on the roof ahead of us, but before I can even reach for my weapon, he drops with a neat hole between his eyes.

Valek's work again.

"Remind me to thank him later," Ivy says dryly.

"If you must," I say with a sigh, earning a small laugh that makes my chest tight.

We make our way across the rooftops, staying low and using the ventilation units for cover. The Council chambers loom ahead, an imposing structure of glass and steel that seems to mock the poverty surrounding it.

I spot Whiskey's bulk near the service entrance, his massive frame unmistakable even at this distance. He's setting charges around the reinforced door, moving fast. He knows exactly what he's doing.

My heart drops with relief at the sight of him unharmed and doing his favorite thing that isn't related to Ivy. Or me.

Blowing shit up.

"There," I whisper to Ivy, pointing him out.

She nods, my relief mirrored in her gaze.

We pick up our pace, keeping to the shadows. More guards fall silently as we approach, Valek clearing our path with surgical precision. My lenses help me catch the subtle glint of his scope from a distant tower he's taken over, and I allow myself a small smile.

The snake has his uses.

When we reach Whiskey, he's just finishing with the last charge. "Took you long enough," he says without looking up from his work. "Was starting to think you got lost."

"Some of us prefer not to charge straight through the middle of a war zone," I reply.

He grins up at us, eyes bright. "Where's the fun in that?"

A bullet whizzes past, striking the wall behind us with a spark. We all drop instinctively, but the guard who fired it is already falling, another perfect headshot from Valek.

I watch Whiskey's face light up with that manic grin I've come to both dread and appreciate. He's practically vibrating with excitement as he waves us back behind a ventilation unit.

"Stand back and watch," he yells, sprinting toward our position as if we have anything better to do. "This is my favorite part!"

He dives behind cover just as the first charge detonates.

The explosion rocks the building, sending tremors through the steel beneath our feet. The reinforced door doesn't just blow open, it disintegrates in a spectacular display of fire and shrapnel. The secondary charges go off in quick succession, each blast perfectly timed to create a devastating chain reaction.

I have to admit, it's impressive in a chaotic way.

Shouts of alarm echo from inside as guards pour through the smoke-filled opening. They're well-trained, moving in tactical formation despite their surprise, but we're ready for them.

A guard on the left drops with a bullet through his throat sent straight from Valek above us. I take out two more with my throwing knives as they emerge. Whiskey's massive frame rises beside me, his rifle barking out death in controlled bursts.

Between the three of us, it's over in seconds.

I rush into the building and scan the lobby for any sign of movement before making the call. "Clear!"

"Clear!" Whiskey echoes, rushing Ivy into the safety of the building.

Another shot rings out from Valek's position, followed by the distant thud of a body hitting the ground in the distance.

"Stay close," I whisper to Ivy, looking toward the marble stairs. "There'll be more guards on the upper level."

"Where all the little piggies are hiding," Whiskey says with a crazed grin, empty shells clattering to the floor as he chambers his rifle.

"Nice work with the charges," Ivy calls to Whiskey as we move toward the stairs.

His chest puffs up with pride. "Right? Did you see how the secondary blast created that perfect?—"

"We can discuss demolitions theory later," I cut him off, though I can't quite keep the fondness from my voice. "We need to move."

"Oh, you're one to talk about talking too much when you shouldn't," Whiskey calls back to me.

Smoke still curls from the twisted remains of the doorframe as I take point and begin our ascent up the stairs. My boots are silent against the polished stone, and behind me, so is Ivy. Even Whiskey isn't making a sound. The Council chambers lie just ahead, but I know better than to think this will be easy.

The guards up here will be different.

Elite forces tasked with protecting the Council at all cost.

Sure enough, as we round the corner to the upper landing, a hail of gunfire forces us back into cover. I catch a glimpse of at least eight guards in tactical gear, arranged in defensive positions around the ornate double doors.

"Subtle approach?" Whiskey whispers with a look that says he already knowing my answer.

"When has that ever worked for us?" I reply dryly.

He smiles wide. "That's what I like to hear."

Before I can stop him, he charges forward with a wild battle cry, spraying suppressing fire from his rifle. The guards scatter, diving for cover behind marble pillars and furniture overturned to create makeshift barriers.

I sigh internally but move to support him, brandishing my blades as I slip into the shadows.

This is how we've always worked.

His chaos creating openings for my precision.

A guard pops up to take aim at Whiskey, but my throwing knife finds his throat before he can squeeze the trigger. Another tries to flank us, and I'm there in an instant, my blade opening his femoral artery in one clean slice.

Whiskey's massive frame draws most of the attention, his bulk making him an obvious target as he keeps up a steady stream of fire. He's leaving himself exposed, but I know better than to tell him to be more careful. Besides, his reckless assault is keeping them from organizing an effective defense.

I spot movement to my left. A guard trying to circle behind us. My blade flashes out, catching the light as it arcs through the air. The guard drops with a gurgle, clutching his throat.

"Show off!" Whiskey calls out as he reloads.

I'm about to retort when I see it. A guard has managed to get into position behind a fallen desk, taking careful aim at Whiskey's exposed back. My heart stops. I'm too far away, my hands empty of throwing knives.

But then a blade whistles past my ear, end over end, and buries itself between the guard's eyes with deadly accuracy. He drops without a sound, his shot going wide.

I whirl around to see Ivy standing there, her eyes wide with slight surprise. She's holding her arm extended in perfect follow-through form.

The remaining guards fall quickly between Whiskey's suppressing fire and my blades. When the last body hits the floor, silence descends on the hallway.

"Nice form," I say to Ivy, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

"You've been holding out on us, wildcat," Whiskey says with an appreciative whistle as he reloads his rifle. "Saved my ass back there."

"Thanks," she says with a little grin.

I move to retrieve her knife from the fallen guard, wiping it clean before returning it to her. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and even through my gloves, I feel the warmth of her touch.

I watch Whiskey's eyes light up with that excited gleam I know all too well as we position ourselves in front of the Council chamber doors. He's been waiting for this moment.

"Allow me," he says, stepping back to get a running start.

Before I can protest, he charges forward like a bull, his shoulder slamming into the ornate double doors. They explode inward with a thunderous crash that would make his demolition charges proud.

The four guards stationed inside react instantly, but Whiskey is faster. His rifle barks out four precise shots in rapid succession. The guards drop where they stand, their bodies hitting the marble floor with dull thuds.

"Nobody fucking move!" Whiskey roars, brandishing his rifle at the cluster of Council members huddled together like frightened sheep.

I scan their faces quickly, noting Monty Filch among them. The beta looks even more pathetic than usual, practically hiding behind his fellow Council members. Several of them reach for concealed weapons, and my heart leaps into my throat.

"Ivy, get down!" Whiskey and I bark in unison.

But she's already moving, diving behind a heavy oak desk with the fluid grace of someone who's spent their life avoiding danger.

And this is the last fucking time she's ever going to have to.

The armed Council members don't stand a chance. Between Whiskey's precise shots and my blades, four more bodies hit the floor before they can even level their weapons. His bullets and my knife lodge into the chest of one at the exact moment, to the point where I'm not even sure which one of us did him in.

"Aww," Whiskey say, clearly having the same thought from a very different perspective, his tone mockingly sweet. "A couple's activity!"

"Oh, shut up," I snap, drawing my gun since that's a far more efficient tool when it comes to dealing with a group.

The remaining Council members raise their hands in surrender, their faces pale with terror.

"Smart choice," I say coldly, moving forward to bind their arms and check them for weapons. We'll need hostages for the negotiations after we take the city.

These sniveling cowards will do nicely.

I'm patting down a particularly whiny Council member when movement catches my eye. One of the guards we thought was dead is rising, his hand reaching for his sidearm. He takes aim at me and all I can feel is relief that it's not one of them. Time seems to slow as I realize I won't be able to react fast enough.

A shot rings out, and I brace for the impact.

But it never comes.

Instead, the guard drops like a puppet with cut strings, a neat hole in the precise center of his forehead. Dark blood pools beneath him, spreading across the pristine marble floor.

"Good timing," I mutter, assuming it's Valek watching our backs as usual.

But when I turn around, it's not Valek's silver eyes I meet.

It's Azarel's ice-blue ones.

My brother stands in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the chaos visible through the broken doors. His gray-and-gold Reinmichian uniform and long black hair are splattered with blood, and his right hand—the one Valek shot—is wrapped in bandages. But the pistol in his left hand is steady as he lowers it.

"You always did have a blind spot on your left," he says dryly.

I stare at him, unable to process what I'm seeing. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life, apparently." His eyes scan the room, taking in the carnage with clinical detachment. "Though I see you've managed to make quite a mess without my help."

"Yo, what the fuck?" Whiskey eloquently summarizes my thoughts.

Azarel ignores him, his lips curving into something that might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it looks more like a predator baring its teeth. "The Council's forces are in disarray. Your armies are securing the perimeter of the city as we speak." He pauses, his eyes finding mine. "I thought you might need backup."

"You said if you saw us again, you'd shoot," I remind him, still not entirely sure this isn't some sort of trap.

"I did," he says, nodding pointedly to the dead guard he just took out. He saunters into the room, the thuds of his polished black leather boots echoing across the vaulted ceiling of the inner chambers.

I see a flash of red as Ivy slowly peeks out from behind the table, watching with the same shock I feel. She jolts instinctively as another shot rings out and one of the unarmed Council members hits the ground.

Before I can react, so does another.

And another.

"What the fuck ?" Whiskey bellows again as Azarel continues walking down the line to the last remaining Council member.

Azarel ignores him as he finally comes to a stop in front of Monty. The beta is trembling in his restraints, and the front of his trousers darkens as my brother approaches. Considering this is the same man who left his omega at the mercy of the enemy, I can't say I'm surprised.

But I am repulsed, all the same.

"Don't do it," I warn, torn between reaching for my own gun and not wanting this to come to a fight to the death unnecessarily. "They were our leverage."

"Wrong," Azarel says calmly, the revolver hanging casually from his left hand as he studies our last sniveling pawn with a degree of coldness that's surprising, even for him. "They were witnesses. I can't have you handing them over to the remnants of Reinmich that rise from the ashes and blowing my cover, now, can I?"

Whiskey's eyes narrow and he looks like he's ready to lunge. "You son of a?—"

Before I can stop him, Ivy pops out of her hiding spot and grabs him by the wrist, hauling him back with her. Azarel ignores them both, his attention fixed on Monty.

I watch my brother, trying to read his face, but it's like staring at a marble statue. Cold. Impassive. Yet something has shifted beneath that icy exterior since our confrontation at the church.

"We can work together," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the tension locking my muscles up. "There's another way."

Azarel's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something almost human behind that carefully constructed mask. Something like nostalgia.

But it's gone as quickly as it appears.

"You chose your path, brother," he says, his voice carrying less venom than before. Almost... respect. Or maybe just resignation. "And I chose mine."

Before I can respond, he turns back to Monty. The beta's eyes go wide as Azarel raises his gun and presses the barrel against Monty's forehead. The wet stain on Monty's expensive trousers broadens.

"Please," Monty whimpers, his voice cracking. "Please, I'll do anything. Have mercy!"

A cold smile curves Azarel's lips and for once, it touches the ice in his eyes. "Beg," he says simply.

Monty freezes, confusion flickering across his features.

"I want to hear you beg," Azarel clarifies, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "The way she did. And we'll see if it works as well for you now as it did for her then."

I exchange a look with Ivy, seeing the same realization in her gaze as they harden with fury. The same rage darkens Whiskey's eyes.

This isn't the first time these two have crossed paths.

Far from it.

Beside me, Whiskey shifts uncomfortably, but he makes no move to intervene. Even he can read the room well enough to know this isn't our fight anymore.

Monty's pathetic blubbering fills the chamber as he realizes the gravity of his situation. "I'm sorry!" he wails, tears and snot running down his face. "Please, please don't shoot! I'll do whatever you want! Anything!"

His coherent pleas eventually dissolve into hysterical sobs and curses alternating with even more desperate bids for mercy.

There's none to be found in Azarel's gaze as he stands there, watching and listening, drinking it all in.

Savoring it like a fine wine.

I've never seen my brother smile like this before. It's not just cold or cruel. It's vindictive. Satisfied. Like a predator finally cornering its prey after a very long hunt, licking its lips before taking the first bite.

"Goodnight, Monty," Azarel says softly, almost tenderly, a mocking sneer curling his upper lip.

The gunshot echoes through the chamber like thunder.

Monty's body crumples to the floor, joining the other Council members in their growing pool of blood on the marble floor.

I study my brother's face as he lowers his gun, trying to reconcile this version of him with the one I grew up with. The dedicated soldier. The perfect son. The man who put law and country above everything and everyone else.

And this, of all nights, is the first time in my life I've ever wondered if we're really not so different after all.

The thought makes me glance at Ivy.

Perhaps I understand my brother better than I thought.

"Fuck," Whiskey finally breaks the silence, his voice unusually subdued.

Azarel doesn't acknowledge him, his eyes still fixed on Monty's corpse. Then, in an instant, his usual mask of indifference is back in place.

He turns and walks past the corpses, past the bullets, past the fallen knives, and freezes in the doorway. He looks back at me with one final glance. "The next time we see each other, we'll be enemies again."

It's not a threat.

Not quite a warning, either.

Just a casual statement of fact.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I answer.

And then, I see it. For just an instant, a flicker of a smile.

Then, he's gone.

The heavy silence in the Council chamber is broken only by the distant sounds of battle echoing through the broken windows.

"Holy shit," Whiskey says beside me. "Your brother is intense."

I let out a heavy sigh, looking at the bodies littering the marble floor. "And now our leverage is gone."

"Negotiation is overrated anyway," Ivy mutters.

I can't help but chuckle, pulling her close with one arm. The warmth of her against my side helps ground me, reminds me why we're here. "We do have an army," I muse. "And the capital." I pause, considering the new reality we find ourselves in. "I suppose that will have to be enough. Perhaps the time for negotiating is over, anyway."

Whiskey shifts his weight, adjusting his rifle as he glances toward the door where Azarel disappeared. "What do you think he's gonna do when he realizes we transferred Cosima to Nikolai?"

"He'll have to go back to what's left of Reinmich first to secure his cover, unless he wants to bring her back into a warzone," I murmur. "Something tells me she wouldn't appreciate that. Right now, he thinks she's in Surhiiran custody, so there's no reason for him to rush it. Once he realizes who has her, we'll be long gone and he'll pick her up, same as planned."

"Yeah, unless that crazy bastard double crosses us and decides to keep her," Whiskey says, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Why would he do that?" I ask.

Whiskey shrugs. "Could take weeks for Azarel to get to her. What if he gets attached?"

A dry laugh escapes me, and I shake my head. "Nikolai is getting what he wants. His weapons. There's nothing a man like him values more than that."

Whiskey's eyes drift to Ivy, and a knowing smile spreads across his face. "Yeah, you're probably right," he says. Then he grins. "His loss."

I catch his meaning and pull Ivy closer instinctively.

He's right.

"Come on," Ivy says, tugging gently at my arm. "Let's go find the others."

She's right. We need to regroup, to make sure Thane and Wraith succeeded in their mission.

To see this through to the end as a pack.

I take one last look at the Council chamber, at the bodies of the men who thought they could control our world through fear and manipulation. Their blood seeps into the cracks between the marble tiles, staining the pristine white stone forever.

It feels like an ending.

And a beginning.