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I close my eyes and see Niamh’s pale face again, Selene’s strong yet tearful gaze. They need me to be strong. I can’t afford to fall apart now. Wolf is gone, but the ripples of his actions are far from over. There’s still so much to fix, so much to protect.
As the limo nears the church, I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I will face Victor, I will ensure Niamh and Selene are safe, and then I will find Amira. One step at a time, I remind myself—one battle at a time.
The limo slows to a stop, and I glance out the window at the imposing facade of St. Gertrude’s. This is it. Time to face whatever comes next.
I drag myself up the steps of St. Gertrude’s church, every part of my body screaming in protest. The fight with Wolf had taken more out of me than any other fight of my life. My muscles ache, my bones feel brittle, and even my mind is clouded with fatigue. Wolf wasn't human anymore—too far gone, lost to the abyss that every man in our world stares into. It would be so easy to fall, to let the darkness swallow me whole. But I can’t. I’ve always had a reason to stay on the edge, to fight against the pull of the abyss. Especially now, with people depending on me.
I push open the heavy wooden door and step into the cool, dim interior of the church. The silence here is almost oppressive, broken only by the faint echoes of my footsteps. The scent of old wood and incense fills the air, a stark contrast to the stench of blood and sweat that clings to me.
When I reach Victor’s office, I’m surprised to find it empty. The great wooden desk that usually groans under the weight of paperwork and ledgers is completely clear. No papers to pry into, no hints at the webs Victor spins to control the people around him. Just emptiness.
Except for one thing.
On the desk sits an ornate cross, its surface intricately carved and inlaid with gold. The blood of Christ, painted in vivid red, stands out starkly against the pale wood. I know what it means. It’s a summons, a call to action that I can’t ignore.
A part of me that I haven’t faced in a long time stirs uneasily within me. The boy I used to be—the one who trusted the wrong people, who was betrayed by every adult in his life—whispers frantically for me to give in, to let myself fall into that pit. I hate that boy. He’s weak, scared, and always looking for someone to save him.
No. I won’t be that boy again. I’ve come too far, fought too hard to be dragged back into that darkness. I have people relying on me now. I have a reason to fight, a reason to stay on the edge.
As I walk past the pews, I can't help but glance at the great statue of St. Gertrude behind the altar. The patron saint of justice gazes down at me with a motherly expression, her eyes filled with a tenderness I’ve never known. In her hand, she holds a golden cup, and on her chest, a vibrant red, radiant heart pulses with an almost ethereal glow. It feels as if she’s silently offering me strength, a reminder of what I’m fighting for.
I slide into the doorway behind the statue, leaving the quiet sanctity of the church for a more foreboding place. The room is long but not too wide, lined with armed men standing in solemn silence. They don’t look at me, their gazes fixed ahead, their expressions unreadable. At the head of the room stands Victor.
Age has not diminished the aura of power that surrounds him. Even after all these years, the obedience he’s beaten into me forces me to approach him with respect. His cold eyes watch me intently, cruelly, as if dissecting every part of my being.
“Diarmuid,” Victor begins, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “thank you for saving my life.”
If only he knew how close that came to not happening. Amira... The thought of her makes my chest tighten, but I push it aside. This is not the time.
Victor’s gaze never wavers as he continues, “The head of the O’Sullivan family has been chosen, and it is you. Ronan will continue with his business, Lorcan with his politics. But you, my Diarmuid, will be my Warrior King. Now, you are officially the head of an army.”
Warrior King. The title is both a burden and a curse, but I remain silent. Victor pauses, clearly expecting some expression of gratitude from me. He receives only silence.
He narrows his eyes slightly but then continues. “Of course, your slate needs to be cleaned.”
Victor’s words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. He knows why I killed Andrew O’Sullivan. He made me into the deliverer of vengeance, and my uncle was owed that service. But this is different.
Victor’s gaze sharpens, and his voice hardens. “It is important to remember that I am the one who commands you.”
The weight of his words presses down on me, but I stand firm. The boy I used to be, the one who trusted too easily, would have crumbled under this pressure. But I am no longer that boy. I am Diarmuid, and I have a reason to fight.
Victor's eyes narrow as he watches me. He’s been noticing things, picking up on my hesitation when I was ordered to take out Wolf. He knows I haven't been as obedient as he crafted me to be.
“I am ready to forgive you of your sins, of course,” Victor says, his voice a low growl. “But you must first pay for them.”
He steps aside, revealing a small table that was hidden behind him. On its surface sits a simple, thick candle. Its presence is almost ominous in its simplicity.
Victor’s gaze remains fixed on me, searching for a reaction. He finds none. I force my face to remain impassive, my inner turmoil buried deep where he can’t reach.
Slowly, I roll up my sleeves, exposing the damaged flesh of my hands. The one I choose to use is particularly mangled from the fight with Wolf, though both hands bear the marks of that brutal encounter. The skin is raw and angry, a testament to the fury that drove me to pummel Wolf’s face until mybones protested.
I walk past the guards without a glance, my focus on the table and the task at hand. The air feels thick with anticipation as I position myself beside the table.
Victor strikes a match and lights the candle. The flame flickers to life, casting a warm glow that belies the pain it promises. I stare at it, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and memories. This is my penance, my path to redemption. For a moment, I think of St. Gertrude’s statue, her motherly gaze, and the radiant heart on her chest.
Without hesitation, I lower my damaged hand toward the flame. The heat sears my skin, sending sharp bolts of pain shooting up my arm. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to remain still. This pain is nothing compared to what I’ve endured, nothing compared to the guilt I carry.
Victor watches me intently, his expression inscrutable. This is his test, his way of ensuring my loyalty. But it’s also my moment of defiance, a silent vow that no matter how much he tries to break me, I will not fall.
