The car ride back to the estate was silent. Owen sat beside John, staring out at the passing city lights as if each flicker were a warning. His father’s words on the balcony still lingered like poison in his veins—power is worth any price, even blood.

John lit a cigarette, the smoke curling in the dim interior. He didn’t speak, but Owen could feel the weight of his silence. The boy finally whispered:
“He said it without saying it, John.”
John’s jaw tightened. “Thanos has been saying things without saying them his whole damn life.”

The gates of the Royal estate opened, steel grinding against steel, and the car slid inside. The house stood like a fortress against the night, its windows glowing faintly. Armed men patrolled the courtyard, their shadows long and uneasy. The city was in uproar, and so were the Royals.

Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Owen followed John into the council chamber beneath the estate. The room was a sanctum of power—polished obsidian floors, carved stone walls, a massive oak table that seemed to hold centuries of blood oaths within its grain.

At the head of the table sat Leslie Royale. His silver hair caught the dim light, his expression carved into something colder than stone. To his right was Uncle Ben, posture relaxed, eyes gleaming like a chess master mid-game.

Thanos was absent. That absence was louder than his presence would have been.

“Owen,” Leslie’s voice carried the weight of command. “Sit.”

The boy obeyed, sliding into the high-backed chair. He was no longer asked to leave the room. That fact alone felt heavier than any crown.

Ben leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The gala was useful. Every rival showed their hand—some too eagerly.” His gaze flicked to Owen, sharp, testing. “What did you see?”

Owen hesitated only for a breath. “I saw fear hidden under laughter. I saw men who want to look like kings but wait for someone else to bleed first.” His voice was quiet but steady. “And I saw my father… talking too much to men who should never be trusted.”

The silence that followed was surgical. Leslie’s eyes, old and merciless, rested on his grandson.

Ben’s lips curled faintly, impressed. “He doesn’t flinch.”

Leslie finally spoke, his tone slow, deliberate. “Thanos forgets that this family was built on silence, not noise. His hunger makes him careless.”

Owen’s heart pounded, but his face remained calm. He asked the question anyway.
“Grandfather… what if he’s not just careless?”

The chamber chilled. John shifted at the wall, his hand brushing the inside of his coat where a pistol rested. Ben’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

Leslie studied Owen for a long moment, the kind of look that stripped a boy down to his bones. Then he leaned back. “Careless or traitor—both end the same way.”

The words hung heavy, a death sentence without a name.

Ben broke the silence with a sip of whiskey. “For now, perception matters more than truth. If the council senses weakness inside our own walls, they’ll carve us apart before Zeke or Ronald make their next move. The Order thrives on division.”

“Then we don’t divide,” Leslie growled. His gaze cut to Owen. “Boy, listen well. Trust no one completely—not your allies, not even your blood. Especially not your blood.”

Owen met his grandfather’s stare. There was no tremor in his voice when he answered:
“I already don’t.”

A faint, cruel smile ghosted across Leslie’s lips. Ben exhaled softly, as though he’d just seen the first spark of something dangerous ignite.

The meeting ended as suddenly as it began. Ben rose, already whispering to aides about surveillance, about following the threads of money and whispers. Leslie stayed seated, his eyes still on Owen, as if measuring him against the weight of the dynasty.

Later, as Owen walked the long corridor with John at his side, he finally spoke. His voice was low, certain.
“They already suspect him.”
John flicked ash from his cigarette. “And you?”
Owen’s eyes were ice. “I don’t suspect. I know.”

They stepped into the cold night air. Above the estate, storm clouds gathered, swollen with thunder. The fractures of blood were widening—and Owen Royale was no longer standing in them. He was stepping into them.