Chapter 41 — POV: Lyra
The city lights were distant specks beneath the jet's smooth hum, each one a reminder of the world I had survived—and the one I still had to command. I leaned back in my seat, stretching my bruised shoulders, feeling the ache in my arms and knuckles. Pain had become familiar, almost comforting in its honesty. Unlike men like the Golden Mask, pain didn't lie.
Kieller sat across from me, silent, inscrutable. His sharp eyes never left the horizon—or maybe they were on me. I didn't care. I wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Not him. Not them. Not anyone. My bruises, my torn jacket, the remnants of the fight—they were my trophies, proof of survival, proof of arrogance unbroken.
I flexed my fingers, testing the strength that remained. Every muscle ached, every nerve sang with adrenaline and fatigue. And yet, in the reflection of the cabin's small window, I caught a glimpse of something more dangerous than any enemy: me. Blood-streaked, bruised, defiant, and alive.
I am a storm. I am the reckoning.
The jet tilted slightly, catching the sun at a sharp angle. Shadows danced across my face. I allowed myself a smirk, sharp and arrogant. If the Golden Mask thought he had seen the depth of me, he had no idea. My rage, my survival, my power—they were only growing.
I replayed the fight in my mind—the warehouse, the leader, the short one. Every strike, every scream, every moment of pure fury. My hands tightened into fists, even as they ached. I hadn't just survived; I had made them regret touching me, underestimating me. Every drop of blood they thought they could spill—they would pay for in the future.
And yet… a flicker of doubt passed, fleeting, almost invisible. The Golden Mask. I didn't know what he had left behind, what plans still unfolded, what shadows lurked. But instinct whispered: he was still out there, and he was patient. Calculated. Dangerous.
I exhaled slowly, tasting the metallic tang of old adrenaline lingering on my tongue. Arrogance, yes—but caution had become second nature. I had learned in fire, in blood, that power without awareness was a trap. Every move mattered. Every glance, every word, every calculated step—I had to be the one writing the story now, not surviving someone else's script.
Kieller's quiet presence reminded me of the storm waiting outside this cabin. He didn't need to say a word. I could feel his calculation—the gears turning behind that cool, arrogant exterior. But I didn't care. The war wasn't his to fight alone, and he didn't own my survival. I did. Every scar, every bruise, every decision—mine.
My reflection in the window shifted again, catching the golden hue of the setting sun. I smirked.
Let them come. Let them watch. Let them think they understand the queen in the dark.
I ran through possibilities in my mind, scenarios, contingencies, enemies, allies. Each shadow cast by the sun was a reminder: the Golden Mask had left his mark, yes—but I had left mine as well. He had underestimated me before, and he would again.
The jet hummed on. The clouds stretched below like soft, indifferent witnesses. I allowed myself to rest for a moment, arrogance blazing quietly beneath fatigue. My hands ached. My body ached. My mind raced. But I was alive. I was mine.
And when I touched the ground, I would remind the world—and everyone who dared call themselves my enemy—exactly who I was.
Because this wasn't just survival. This was domination.
Because the Golden Mask might still be out there—but he had no idea what storm was coming.
And I intended to make him feel every ounce of it.