General Hale had not come to surrender—at least, not based on her expression.
"I was hoping I might see your daughter, Hale," said Gideon Malick, striding toward her through the gusts stirred up by the helicopter's rotors. Hale was a very neat and austere woman. She wore a simple black women's suit beneath a thick velvet coat. Her golden hair was tied back into a tight bun, and her makeup was minimal. Her nails were clipped short, and she wore no jewelry whatsoever—her entire presence radiated efficiency.
"I even prepared a gift for her!"
"I don't know where you heard that rumor, Gideon," General Hale replied without a change in tone. "I've never married."
"Oh, I must've remembered wrong. My apologies, I'm far too old," Gideon said with a laugh. "Come, let's go in—the temperature here in the Alps is bone-chilling. I've got a fire going, and you'll find it quite warm. Tonight's perfect for hot mulled wine. You must try the bottle Stephanie picked out herself."
"I'd be delighted, Gideon," Hale answered, following him down from the helipad.
This was an old castle, built centuries ago and once the property of a destitute noble family. After World War I, the previous head of the Malick family had purchased it as a summer retreat. In the summer, the air was crisp and cool, and one could see lush green pastures dotted with sheep. But now it was winter, and the mountain wind carried flurries of snow through corridors paved with blackened stone. Despite her heavy clothing, Hale's face was pale with cold. The warmth offered by the braziers in the passage was minimal, and the mingled scents of burning wood, fuel, and scorched metal made her feel as if she'd stepped into a wartime foundry.
Even though she knew her bodyguard was close behind, she still felt uneasy about the upcoming negotiation. The sound of the helicopter's engine gradually faded until it vanished entirely in the maze-like halls. Gideon Malick extended a hand, inviting her up a set of stairs.
"Perhaps I need an escort," she said, taking his arm. "I might get lost otherwise."
"My honor, madam," Gideon smiled, leading her deeper into the castle. But contrary to what she expected, the interior wasn't some dark, shadowy lair—it was a grand and inviting hall. For a moment, Hale felt as though she had entered a king's audience chamber.
A deep crimson banner hung above the central throne, upon which a golden eagle spread its wings. A golden laurel crown encircled it. Beside the main throne stood a smaller chair, above which hung another banner—this one solid black, embroidered with the ancient Hydra sigil in white. The surrounding walls were lined with heraldic shields bearing crests she didn't recognize—but even without formal study in heraldry, Hale could discern the common themes: serpents, scales, and fangs.
These were the crests of Hydra families.
"The most important function of history," said Gideon, patting Hale's hand, "is to remind us where we come from." He noticed how cold her fingers were—like the snow-covered branches outside. Hale smiled, feigning interest. "I've always had a keen interest in history."
"It's still too cold in here. Let's head to a warmer room and enjoy some food," he said, guiding her through a heavy door.
To Hale's surprise, several women stood within—each clad in pitch-black armor. Her military-trained instincts immediately noted the advanced technology embedded in the suits. Ever since the Defense Department had failed in its attempt to coerce Tony Stark into handing over his tech, the U.S. had found itself back at the starting line alongside other nations in the powered armor race. She hadn't expected the Malick family to possess this level of capability.
Gideon offered no introduction for the women. Instead, he began describing the portraits lining the corridor.
"Each of these paintings honors individuals of great merit and outstanding contribution," he said. "Including those of the Malick lineage."
"I'm grateful you're willing to share the history of your family with me," Hale replied with forced politeness. "But you must understand—I don't have much time."
"Forgive me, another bad habit. I'm old," Gideon chuckled again and continued walking.
As they moved deeper into the castle, the corridor grew darker. Electric lights vanished, replaced by candles and oil lamps. Ahead, something shimmered—Hale thought it was more lighting, but she was wrong.
It was a giant clad in ornate golden armor.
From the moment he appeared, he dominated the space. The hallway barely accommodated his massive frame. He looked like a living statue of a god—draped in a crimson cape, golden pauldrons sculpted with skulls and eagle wings. His armor was etched with intricate engravings—suns, moons, flora, fauna, runes—all embellished with priceless gemstones that reflected the candlelight. His helmet rose into a spired crest, adorned with red plumes. In his hands, he held a halberd of staggering caliber—mounted with a weapon of terrifying bore.
The closer she got, the more Hale felt her courage dissolve. It took every ounce of her willpower not to scream, not to order her bodyguard to open fire. She regretted how ill-prepared she was—she'd never expected the Malicks to possess this kind of power.
No—no, that wasn't right.
She suddenly understood why Gideon had taken her on such a winding detour through the castle's grand hall. He had, in his own way, shown her the truth.
Hydra had a master now.
All of this—super soldiers, powered armor—was a show of the master's might. General Hale didn't doubt for a second that this was only the tip of the iceberg.
She was no longer here to negotiate. She was here to submit.
She had to prove her worth.
When the giant finally spoke, it felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs.
"He is waiting for you," the giant said. He raised one arm and made a gesture of invitation. Only then did Hale realize that this was no medieval armor—this was powered armor of a kind human technology couldn't yet replicate.
He turned to her bodyguard.
"Only you. Just you. Not him."
"We understand, Constantine," Gideon nodded and opened the final door. He gently tugged Hale, still stunned, into the room. He didn't blame her for being overwhelmed—her composure was already a testament to years of military discipline. His own reaction when he first met the Royal Guard had been far worse.
Hale's bodyguard hesitated. He wasn't sure whether he should follow. His eyes scanned the giant's pauldrons, guessing that even his sidearm couldn't scratch such armor—let alone penetrate it.
"She'll be fine," the giant said again. "As long as she satisfies my master."
"Your master?" the bodyguard's every nerve screamed danger. He felt his limbs go numb, but his training barely kept him upright. "Did you take the super soldier serum?"
The giant didn't answer.
He stood in silence—like a machine that had just been switched off.
(End of Chapter)
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