As the aircraft cruised steadily through the night sky, Alexander sat in silence, his mind still piecing together the fragmented memories that had returned to him. He turned his gaze to the man seated across from him, his demeanor calm but carrying an air of authority.
"Who are you?" Alexander finally asked, his voice composed but firm.
The man gave a slight bow of respect. "Young Master, I am Charles, the head butler of the Lord Williams. I was sent to retrieve you."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. Even after regaining his memories, something felt off. "My memories… they don't feel complete. Why is that?"
Charles sighed. "That is correct, Young Master. You have not fully regained your memory. What you now know is just the things u had to know to come back with us. To fully restore your memories, you must return to the base. Only then will the remaining barriers be lifted."
Alexander nodded slowly, but a lingering doubt remained. "Why now? I wasn't supposed to return until I graduated. What happened?"
At this, Charles' face darkened. His expression became solemn, his tone grim. "Your Lord Father and Lady Mother were attacked while on a diplomatic trip. An alliance of nations attempted an assassination. To their misfortune, he survived—though gravely injured."
A fire lit in Alexander's eyes. He knew his father. He knew his family. Any force that dared move against them would face only one fate—complete annihilation. Still, he asked, "What did you do?"
Charles did not hesitate. "The heads of the nations were changed."
Alexander leaned back in his seat, his suspicions confirmed. The mercenary family never forgave. They erased threats, reshaped nations in the shadows, and ensured that betrayal was repaid in blood.
The aircraft's interior was a cocoon of advanced technology, its sleek walls reflecting the faint blue glow of digital panels embedded seamlessly into the metal. Alexander shifted in his seat, the leather cool against his skin, and studied Charles more closely. The man's graying hair was neatly combed, his suit impeccable—a stark contrast to the tactical gear of the two guards standing silently behind him. Their rifles hung at their sides, matte black and etched with faint lines that pulsed faintly, hinting at energy beyond standard weaponry.
"How long have you served my father?" Alexander asked, his tone probing, seeking cracks in the butler's calm facade.
Charles met his gaze evenly. "Ah of course, the memory about me should not be fully restored, sorry for my impudence. I've served your father for over forty years, Young Master. I was appointed head butler before you were born, tasked with overseeing the household and, when necessary, carrying out Lord Ironhart's direct orders—like retrieving you tonight."
"Forty years," Alexander echoed, leaning forward slightly. "Then you were there when I was… taken away?"
A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossed Charles's face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I was. It was a decision made for your safety, though it pained your parents greatly. I've watched over you ever since, from a distance."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Watched over me? You mean spied on me."
Charles didn't flinch. "Ensured your safety, Young Master. Your life in Washington, your adoptive family, your education—all of it was under our protection. We couldn't risk losing you to chance."
The words stirred a mix of anger and curiosity in Alexander. He wanted to press further, to demand details of those lost years, but the gaps in his memory held him back. Instead, he circled back to the incomplete pieces. "These barriers you mentioned—what's still locked away? What don't I know?"
Charles adjusted his posture, hands folding neatly in his lap. "Your training, for one—the skills you were taught as a child, the strategies ingrained in you before the suppression. Beyond that, the full extent of Ironhart's operations: our networks, our resources, our enemies. Those memories are tied to your physical presence at the base, where the technology can safely unlock them without overwhelming you."
Alexander rubbed his temples, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes. "Overwhelming me? That pill didn't exactly feel gentle."
"It wasn't meant to," Charles admitted. "It was a primer, a key to the door. The rest requires more… finesse."
The aircraft's hum shifted slightly, a subtle change in pitch that drew Alexander's attention to the window. The ocean stretched endlessly below, its dark surface shimmering under the moonlight, but a faint distortion caught his eye—a ripple in the air, like heat rising off pavement. He frowned, leaning closer, but Charles's voice pulled him back.
"We're nearing the perimeter," the butler said, glancing at his communicator. "You'll see soon enough."
Alexander's questions multiplied, but he held them in check, focusing on the news that had upended his plans. "Tell me more about the attack," he said, his voice hardening. "Who dared to try it? And why?"
Charles's face darkened again, his fingers tightening briefly before relaxing. "It was a coalition—several nations, minor players with delusions of grandeur, backed by a larger shadow. They believed they could destabilize Ironhart by striking at its heart during a rare moment of vulnerability. Your parents were negotiating trade routes, a diplomatic front for securing new alliances. The ambush came at sea, near an uncharted islet."
Alexander's mind flashed to the memory of waves crashing against cliffs, the island's towering defenses. "They underestimated us."
"Gravely," Charles confirmed. "Your father's quick actions saved your mother, but he took the brunt of the assault—explosives, gunfire, a coordinated strike meant to leave no survivors. He survived, barely, and the retribution was immediate."
"How immediate?" Alexander pressed, the fire in his eyes flaring brighter.
"Within hours," Charles said, his tone cold and precise. "Our operatives infiltrated their capitals. By dawn, their leaders were gone—replaced with those loyal to us or too terrified to resist. The world saw it as a series of unrelated coups. No one dared trace it back."
Alexander leaned back again, a grim satisfaction settling over him. This was the Ironhart way—swift, silent, absolute. Yet the thought of his father, injured and vulnerable, gnawed at him. "And my mother? She's unharmed?"
"Physically, yes," Charles said. "But the toll… you'll see for yourself."
The conversation lapsed into silence, the aircraft's steady hum filling the void. Alexander's mind churned, piecing together his fractured past and the path ahead. He'd remembered enough—the island, his parents, the weight of his name—to know who he was, but the gaps left him restless. He needed more, but not yet. Not until he was ready.
"I'm not staying," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Not permanently. I'll go back to university, finish what I started. I'll come when it's time—when I'm needed."
Charles didn't react with surprise or protest. He nodded, as if he'd anticipated the decision. "Very well, Young Master. Your will is ours to follow." He pulled out his communicator again, its surface lighting up with a faint glow as he dialed. His voice dropped to a low murmur, speaking in clipped phrases Alexander couldn't fully catch—something about "chancellor" and "cover protocol." After a moment, he ended the call and turned back, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Your disappearance has been accounted for," Charles said. "You were summoned by the university chancellor for special business. You'll be away for some time, but no one will question it."
Alexander raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping in. "That's convenient."
Charles's smirk widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "However… you'll be amused to know that your so-called fate was nothing more than preordained planning. Your friendships, your placement at Howard, even the university head—everything was under our watch. The administration was replaced long before you arrived."
Alexander let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I should have known."
"Indeed," Charles said, his tone almost playful. "Your friends—Anurag and Krarth, was it?—they're genuine, in their own way. We didn't choose them; you did. But we ensured they fit the narrative, posed no risk. The rest—the faculty, the opportunities—it was all ours."
The revelation settled over Alexander like a heavy cloak, both unsettling and oddly comforting. His life had been a stage, every step choreographed by unseen hands, yet he'd still carved out pieces of it for himself—Anurag's laughter, Krarth's teasing, even his unrequited ache for Selene. He clung to that, a tether to the normalcy he wasn't ready to abandon.
The aircraft shuddered faintly as it began its descent, the hum deepening into a low thrum. Alexander glanced out the window, and the ocean gave way to a landmass—an island shrouded in secrecy, hidden from satellites, feared by governments. The Bermuda Triangle. The place the world deemed forbidden. He'd dismissed the stories as myths, but now it loomed before him, its jagged cliffs rising from the sea like the teeth of some ancient beast.
"How do you hide it?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent. "An island this size, this advanced—satellites should've seen it."
Charles followed his gaze. "Cloaking technology, Young Master. A network of drones and signal jammers blankets the Triangle, bending light and scrambling data. To the world, this is a void—an enigma they fear to explore. We've kept it that way for centuries."
The plane angled downward, its landing gear humming as it touched down on a private airstrip with a smoothness that belied its speed. The door hissed open, and a rush of salty air flooded the cabin, carrying the faint tang of metal and earth. Alexander stepped out, his shoes clicking against the tarmac, and froze as he took in the sight.
The island had transformed in the twenty years since his fragmented memories. What had been a covert base—hidden bunkers and sparse outposts—had evolved into a fortified city. Towering walls stretched hundreds of feet high, their surfaces studded with machine cannons that swiveled silently, tracking unseen targets with precision. The landscape buzzed with activity—personnel in dark uniforms moved with disciplined efficiency, vehicles hummed along paved roads, and drones darted overhead, their engines a faint whine against the crash of distant waves. Buildings of glass and steel gleamed under the moonlight, their architecture a seamless blend of elegance and menace, each structure a testament to power and innovation.
A convoy awaited him—three armored vehicles, their matte black surfaces etched with faint, glowing lines that pulsed like veins. Charles gestured toward the lead vehicle, and Alexander stepped inside, the door sealing shut with a soft thud. The interior was sparse but luxurious, with seats of dark leather and a control panel glowing faintly at the front. A driver in tactical gear nodded silently as the vehicle started moving, speeding through the city streets with a smoothness that belied its bulk.
Alexander pressed a hand to the tinted window, watching the city unfold. Towers loomed overhead, their upper levels shrouded in low clouds, while smaller structures—barracks, labs, warehouses—lined the roads. Personnel saluted as the convoy passed, their movements crisp and synchronized, a reflection of the discipline that permeated this place. He caught glimpses of technology he couldn't name—hulking machines with articulated limbs patrolled the perimeter, screens projected holographic maps in open plazas, and weapons pulsed with energy in the hands of guards. This wasn't just a city; it was a fortress, a kingdom carved from secrecy and strength.
"How many live here?" Alexander asked, his voice quiet, almost lost in the hum of the engine.
Charles sat across from him, his posture relaxed but alert. "Thousands, Young Master. Soldiers, engineers, scientists, support staff—all bound by loyalty to Ironhart. This is the heart of our operations, a self-sustaining hub that controls far more than you yet realize."
The convoy wound through the city, passing training grounds where recruits sparred under floodlights, their movements a blur of precision, and hangars where sleek aircraft sat in silent readiness. Alexander's eyes lingered on a group of technicians adjusting a massive cannon, its barrel humming with a faint energy that made the air around it shimmer. The scale of it all—the technology, the manpower, the sheer audacity—left him both awed and unsettled.
The vehicles slowed as they approached the city's core, and Alexander's breath caught. Castle Iron rose before him, a massive fortress-like estate that dominated the skyline. Its walls were slabs of dark stone and reinforced metal, towering spires piercing the sky, their tips glinting like blades under the moon's pale light. The entrance was a set of double doors, each easily twenty feet high, their surfaces engraved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the shadows—a design that spoke of both artistry and warning.
The vehicle stopped, and the door opened. Alexander stepped out, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he took in the sight. An assembly of servants lined the path to the entrance, dozens of them standing in disciplined formation, their heads bowed in respect. They wore uniforms of deep gray, understated yet elegant, their faces a mix of ages and features but all united by the same quiet deference. He barely registered them, his focus locked on the grand entrance ahead.
The doors opened with a low rumble, revealing a hallway that stretched endlessly into the fortress. Polished marble floors gleamed under chandeliers of crystal and steel, their light casting a warm glow across walls lined with tapestries depicting battles and victories—scenes of Ironhart's legacy woven in thread and light. Screens flickered along the walls, displaying shifting data—maps, troop movements, resource flows—a silent testament to the empire's reach. And there, standing in the center of the hall, was a figure he never thought he'd see again so soon—his mother.
Rivanka Ironhart stood tall, her presence as commanding as he remembered, though time had streaked her dark hair with silver, pulled back in a tight braid that accentuated the sharp lines of her face. Her eyes, a piercing green that mirrored his own, locked onto him, and the moment their gazes met, a flood of memories rushed through him—no machine, no pill, just the raw force of recognition. He fell to his knees, the marble cold against his palms, as emotions surged through him—relief, guilt, longing, all crashing together in a torrent he couldn't control.
"Mother…" his voice cracked, barely a whisper.
Tears spilled down her face as she rushed forward, her steps quick and unsteady, and enveloped him in a tight embrace. Alexander froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the warmth he'd forgotten, the scent of lavender and steel that clung to her—a scent that pulled him back to those fleeting childhood moments. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, feeling the tremble in her frame as she held him like he might vanish again. She clung to him, her breath hitching with quiet sobs, her hands gripping his shoulders as if to anchor herself to him.
"Alexander," she whispered, her voice breaking on his name. "My boy… my little storm…"
He tightened his hold, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, the world beyond them fading into a distant hum, until he let out a teasing cough, his chest tight with emotion.
She sniffled and pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, her smile shaky but radiant as he grinned up at her. "You're getting my shirt all wet, Mother."
She laughed between her sobs, a bright, broken sound that echoed through the hall, and lightly smacked his arm. "And whose fault is that, disappearing on me all these years? Do you have any idea what it's been like, not knowing if you were safe, wondering every day if you'd ever come back to us?"
"I'm here now," he said softly, standing and brushing off his knees. "That's what matters."
Her smile softened, and she grabbed his hand, her grip firm despite the tremor in her fingers. "Come," she said, her voice steadying. "There's someone else waiting."
She led him through the halls, the corridors stretching on like a labyrinth of power and history. Portraits of stern-faced figures—ancestors, he assumed—lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him as he passed. Display cases held weapons and artifacts—swords with glowing edges, devices that hummed faintly with energy—a gallery of Ironhart's legacy. Servants bowed as they moved, their movements silent and precise, but Rivanka paid them no mind, her focus solely on guiding him deeper into the castle.
They reached a familiar office, its double doors towering and carved with the same shifting patterns as the entrance. The doors swung open with a low creak, revealing his father, now an older man in his sixties, seated at a grand desk of dark wood and metal. Stacks of reports and tablets cluttered the surface, screens flickering with data—maps of nations, lists of names, streams of numbers—but his presence still commanded the room despite the visible injuries he bore. A scar ran across his left temple, fresh and jagged, and his right arm rested in a sling, the fabric stark against his dark suit. Yet when Alexander entered, his hardened gaze softened, the lines of his face easing into something almost tender.
Alexander didn't hesitate. He ran to his father, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce hug that made the older man grunt faintly—pain, perhaps—but Williams lifted his good hand and gently patted his son's head, fingers threading through his hair with a gentleness that belied his stern exterior.
"You've grown," his father murmured, his voice rough but warm, a sound that anchored Alexander in a way nothing else could.
Alexander pulled back just enough to meet his father's eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. "I should have been here. I should have known."
Williams shook his head, the motion slow but firm. "No. You were where you needed to be—learning, growing, becoming the man we always knew you could be. And now you're here when you're needed most."
There was a heavy pause, the weight of unspoken years hanging between them. Alexander's throat tightened, guilt and resolve warring within him, but before he could speak, his father's voice cut through the silence, resolute and unyielding.
"It is time, Alexander. Take your rightful place as the heir."