The storm had passed, but the boardroom still felt like thunder.
The grand chamber at the heart of AtherTower was already filled when the doors opened. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast the room in cold morning light, glass gleaming against the dark expanse of polished wood. A screen the size of a wall glowed faintly at the far end, waiting for numbers to come alive.
Directors sat in their usual semicircle, pressed suits and tired eyes hiding nerves beneath layers of arrogance. Legal counsel occupied one corner, whispering in clipped tones. Analysts flipped through thick folders, pens tapping too quickly. The air smelled faintly of coffee, ink, and the metallic edge of anticipation.
Every gaze turned as the sound of heels struck marble.
Lunox entered first.
Her black tailored pantsuit was cut to perfection, sharp as a blade, the satin white blouse beneath glowing faint in the sterile light. Her bun was sleek, unforgiving, not a strand out of place. She walked the length of the room without pause, every step measured, every click of her pale heels echoing like the tick of a clock.
She took her place at the head of the table, blazer shoulders broad, posture unyielding. She didn't need to speak for silence to fall — silence was her companion, following her wherever she went.
Behind her, Freya drifted in like sunlight slipping past storm clouds. Crimson silk clung to her frame, the blouse tied just loose enough to tease, paired with a pencil skirt the color of wine. Her golden hair spilled in waves, loose today, a deliberate rebellion against the rigidity of the room. She smiled at the directors, casual, warm — the kind of smile that turned nerves into longing.
And then came Orion.
He didn't linger in the shadows this time.
Charcoal suit, pressed clean. White shirt buttoned high, sleeves neat, no tie — the only defiance left in the details. His hair was combed back, damp strands still catching the morning glow. He moved with a steadiness that drew eyes, not the hesitant shuffle of a candidate, but the measured stride of someone who belonged in the room.
He chose a seat midway down the table, not at the end where a pawn would sit, not at the head where only legacy had rights — but right in their line of sight.
A murmur spread through the directors, low and uneasy. One of them, an older man with a trimmed beard, leaned toward his neighbor. "He looks too comfortable," he muttered.
Orion sat without hesitation, sliding a slim leather folder onto the table. He didn't open it. He didn't need to.
Lunox adjusted her cuff once, eyes sweeping the room. "This assembly has one purpose," she said, her voice low, frost lacing every syllable. "To test the strength of our future. A simulation will be presented. A crisis imagined. And every director here will see which strategies hold, and which will break."
Her gaze flicked, briefly, toward Orion. Just enough to sting.
"Consider it a measure," she added. "A stage of blood."
Freya leaned back in her chair, crimson silk gleaming as she crossed her legs, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, I do love a good performance."
The older director with the beard cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Then let us begin."
The lights dimmed slightly, and the great screen bloomed with charts, graphs, and projections — a world already crumbling in numbers and lines.
All eyes shifted to Orion.
And the storm began again.
The great screen flickered alive, bathing the boardroom in cold light. Graphs bloomed across its surface — jagged lines, collapsing margins, numbers bleeding red. A world of crisis crafted in pixels.
One of the senior directors stood, shoulders squared, his grey beard trimmed to perfection. He held the remote like a gavel, his suit pressed so sharply it looked like armor. His eyes cut toward Orion with the kind of disdain only a man who had sat too long in power could wield.
"Mr. Light," he began, his voice slow, deliberate. "If you are truly what you claim — not merely lucky yesterday, not merely a spark in a storm — then show us." He gestured toward the screen. "Here is the scenario: supply routes collapsing in the east and west simultaneously. Competitors circling. Our reserves drying. Expansion prospects dead in the water."
He clicked, and the graph shifted, plunging deeper. "Survive this, if you can. Or admit you don't belong at this table."
The challenge rippled across the boardroom, murmurs slipping between directors like restless currents.
Freya arched a brow, crimson lips curving in faint amusement. She leaned back, folding her arms beneath her chest, golden eyes fixed on Orion as though this was theatre meant for her alone.
Lunox's gaze, by contrast, was obsidian. Unmoving. Unblinking. Her expression didn't change, but her fingers brushed against the armrest of her chair, tapping once — a rhythm too faint for anyone but Aurelia, standing by the door, to notice.
Orion didn't move at first.
He sat where he was, charcoal suit catching the pale glow of the screen, hands folded loosely in front of him. The murmurs grew louder with each second of his silence.
Then, without a word, he reached forward.
He plucked the remote from the director's hand as easily as if it had been left on the table. The man stiffened, affronted, but Orion was already moving, rising to his feet, silver-grey eyes lit by the charts bleeding across the screen.
"Your scenario," Orion said, voice calm, cutting clean through the whispers, "isn't fiction." He tapped the graph with the remote. "It's already happening. You just don't see it yet."
A hush rolled through the room.
The bearded director bristled. "Impossible. These are simulations, not reality."
Orion's lips curved — faint, dangerous. "Then your simulations are outdated."
He clicked again, the slide shifting. A new set of numbers appeared, ones not in the director's prepared file. Routes. Percentages. Competitor movements. Data sharper, fresher, alive with urgency.
Murmurs surged again, this time edged with disbelief. "Where did he get those numbers—?" one director whispered.
"Impossible. That's restricted—" another hissed.
Orion didn't look away from the screen. His voice remained calm, steady. "If you build strategies on stale data, you're not leading. You're waiting to die."
The words fell like thunder, and the boardroom silenced again.
He turned his head slightly, silver eyes scanning the semicircle of men and women who had built their careers on power inherited, not earned. "So. Do you want me to play your game? Or do you want me to show you the truth?"
The challenge hung heavy in the air.
Freya's smile widened, golden, bright. She whispered, almost to herself, "Oh, this is going to be fun."
And for the first time, Lunox's breath caught — just enough to crack the rhythm of her stillness.
The screen glowed cold, numbers bleeding red across the polished boardroom. Every director sat rigid, some shifting uncomfortably in their chairs, others gripping pens tighter than they meant to. The only sound was the hum of the projector and the faint patter of rain returning against the tall windows.
Orion stood at the front, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding the remote. His posture wasn't nervous, wasn't rushed. He looked like a man delivering a verdict, not an answer.
"Let's begin here," he said, tapping the graph that the bearded director had so proudly unveiled. The numbers quivered under his touch, magnified. "East routes collapsing, west routes under threat, reserves shrinking. You think this is theoretical. It isn't. Look closer."
He clicked.
The chart reshaped itself, colors shifting from blunt red into layered textures of blue and grey. Competitor names appeared — Havelock, Mistral Corp, Zenith Lines — each marked with fresh percentages. Orion's voice cut through the sudden murmurs.
"Your report lists eastern collapse as 'forecasted,'happening in six months." He paused, letting their eyes track the date stamped on his slide. "But it's already begun. Two weeks ago, Zenith rerouted ships through the Caspian corridor. Three days ago, Havelock purchased controlling stakes in two secondary suppliers. Did none of you notice?"
The silence that followed was damning.
One of the younger directors shifted, sweat beading at his temple. "Those moves… they weren't public yet."
Orion's silver eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. "Not public. But visible. If you knew where to look."
He clicked again. The slide zoomed into shipping maps, red lines glowing where pressure points bled. "You talk about reserves drying. But your calculations miss seasonal demand. You forgot winter. In four months, reserves won't just dip — they'll collapse. Not because of global crisis. Because of your oversight."
Gasps rippled. Pens stilled. A hand slammed against the table — the bearded director, face red now. "You presume to accuse this board of negligence—"
Orion's tone never wavered. "Not negligence. Blindness."
He stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the table as the stormlight flashed outside. "You hold simulations while competitors build weapons. You argue over projections while they move pieces on the board. That is not survival. That is surrender."
The older man tried again, voice shaking. "Even if this is true, what you're suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting," Orion cut in. His eyes burned silver in the dim light. "I'm showing you."
He pressed the remote.
The final slide bloomed — a projection none of them had seen, a map bending back in their favor. Western routes doubled, competitor choke points reversed, reserves balanced against risk. At the corner of the screen, a line soared upward, green stabbing through the red.
"This is the play," Orion said simply. "Not defense. Strike. While Zenith ties itself to fragile east routes, we double the west and flood the market. While Havelock wastes resources in secondary suppliers, we choke them by controlling distribution timing. While others hedge, we dominate."
His voice lowered, dangerous. "But only if you stop pretending the world waits for your permission."
The boardroom was silent.
Freya broke it first — a laugh, low and delighted, golden against the cold. She leaned on her elbow, chin resting on her hand, eyes sparkling. "God, he's enjoying this."
Lunox remained still, her black suit catching the lightning flash outside, her face carved in obsidian calm. But her fingers curled once against the armrest, and inside, her pulse raced.
He exposed them. Exposed me. With ease. He didn't just survive the test. He tore it apart.
The bearded director slumped back into his chair, eyes hollowed. No counter came. None could.
Orion lowered the remote, letting the silence stretch until it was undeniable. Then, almost casually, he set it on the table.
"This boardroom talks of survival," he said, voice steady, final. "But survival is not enough. Empires don't survive."
He turned slightly, silver gaze sweeping across them all.
"They dominate."
The last words still hung in the air.
"Empires don't survive. They dominate."
The great screen glowed green behind him, upward lines stabbing into the charts like blades. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, each drop sliding down the glass walls with a hush that made the silence in the room feel heavier.
No one spoke.
The older directors sat frozen, their pens idle, their notes meaningless. One rubbed at his temple, his earlier confidence stripped away. Another shifted in his chair, sweat darkening the collar of his starched shirt. Even the bearded director — the one who had set the test — had sunk back, his jaw tight but no words left to wield.
It was Orion who stood tall, the remote now resting idle on the table. He hadn't raised his voice once. He hadn't rushed, hadn't begged. He had dismantled them piece by piece, and left them with nothing to stand on.
The storm had ended. The silence was his.
Then Freya laughed.
It wasn't polite, or restrained. It was warm and golden, spilling through the boardroom like sunlight breaking stormclouds. She leaned forward, her crimson silk blouse catching the faint glow of the screen, golden hair cascading across her shoulder as she propped her chin in her palm.
"God, that was beautiful," she said, eyes sparkling. "You just gutted them with a smile."
Several directors shifted uncomfortably, but none dared rebuke her. She was an Ather, after all.
Orion's silver gaze flicked to her, calm and unreadable, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed acknowledgment.
Freya's lips curved wider. She tapped her pen twice against the table, a rhythm only she seemed to enjoy. "You know, fresh blood," she murmured, her voice lower now, "you might actually be the sharpest weapon in this room."
The words lingered, not lost on anyone.
Lunox's hand tightened on the armrest of her chair. Her posture remained flawless, shoulders squared, face carved in the same ice that had cowed this room for years. To the directors, she looked unmoved. Untouchable.
But inside, her chest burned.
He didn't just pass the test. He owned it. He made them look like children fumbling with toys while he drew weapons in real time.
Her pulse ticked faster, sharper. And Freya— Her eyes slid toward her sister, who was now smiling openly at Orion, basking in his defiance like it was wine.
The crack in Lunox's control deepened. Reckless. Dangerous. Both of them.
Yet another voice inside, softer, traitorous, whispered the truth. He is not theirs. He is not mine. But he could be.
The thought unsettled her more than the data ever could.
One of the directors cleared his throat, trying to recover some semblance of control. "Mr. Light," he said, voice shaky, "if these… projections are accurate, then perhaps—"
"Not perhaps," Orion interrupted, his tone calm but absolute. "They are."
The man faltered, shrinking back.
Freya's laughter hummed again, softer this time, golden and amused. "Told you."
The silence that followed was different now. Not shocked. Not tense. But heavy with something new — recognition. They had all seen it. Orion wasn't just fresh blood. He was a force.
And Lunox — Ice Queen of Ather — sat unmoving at the head of the table, every eye on her now, waiting for judgment. Her nails pressed crescents into her palm beneath the table.
He's more dangerous than I thought, she admitted, the words curling like smoke inside her. Not because he might fail. But because he might win.
The storm outside had ended, but in her chest, another had just begun.
The last slide faded from the screen, leaving only a pale glow against the polished wood walls. Orion placed the remote on the table with deliberate ease, as if he had never needed it at all. His silver eyes swept the boardroom once, steady, then he sat back down, folding his hands loosely on the folder before him.
Silence.
Not the expectant kind. Not even hostile. The silence that filled the room now was submission — a silence born when men who thought themselves untouchable realized the ground had shifted beneath them.
One director shifted, throat tight, but no words came. Another tapped a pen against his notes only to realize the ink had bled into a shaky mess. The bearded man who had issued the challenge earlier sat stiff, his face pale beneath the trim of his beard, eyes fixed on nothing.
No one dared speak first.
Freya broke the stillness with a soft hum, golden and amused. She leaned back, the crimson silk of her blouse gleaming under the muted light, hair spilling down one shoulder in waves. Her lips curved in a smile too wide to be polite.
"Well," she said, her voice a playful melody in the heavy room. "That was fun."
Her eyes flicked to Orion, sparkling like molten gold. "You do have a way of stealing storms, fresh blood. Almost makes me jealous."
A few directors coughed, trying not to react, but her words landed anyway. Everyone heard the weight in her tone — admiration, interest, challenge.
Orion's expression remained calm. He didn't return the smile, but his eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, enough to make the room shift uneasily. Then he looked away, silver gaze sharp as steel.
At the head of the table, Lunox sat frozen in her own armor. Her black suit framed her like obsidian, her bun perfect, her face unreadable. To anyone else, she was the same Ice Queen as always.
But inside, her chest clenched.
He dismantled them without breaking stride. He silenced them without raising his voice. He made them listen — even me.
Her fingers curled against the armrest, nails biting crescent moons into her palm. Freya smiles at him like he's already hers. And he… Her breath caught, invisible to anyone but herself. He doesn't look at me that way. Not yet.
She forced her face to remain still, her voice sharp as she spoke. "Meeting adjourned."
The directors jolted as though released from invisible chains. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped against the polished floor. Relief spread through the room like oxygen after suffocation.
But even as they rose, their eyes darted back to Orion — not with disdain now, but with caution. With recognition. He was no longer fresh blood. He was a player.
Freya rose slowly, gathering her notes with a laziness that was deliberate, her golden eyes sliding toward Orion once more. She tilted her head, that wicked little smile lingering.
"You make this more entertaining," she said softly, words just loud enough to carry. "Don't stop."
Then she turned, her crimson silk swirling as she strode toward the doors.
Orion followed moments later, silent, his folder tucked under his arm. He didn't look back.
Lunox remained seated, alone at the head of the table. The rain had stopped outside, the city gleaming through the glass, but her reflection in it looked almost foreign — the perfect Ice Queen, staring back with obsidian eyes that trembled faintly with something dangerously close to fear.
Lightning cracked faint across the horizon, silent and distant, a reminder that storms never end. They only wait.
Her inner voice whispered the truth she refused to say aloud.
He's more than dangerous. He's inevitable.
And for the first time in years, Lunox wondered if her empire was slipping from her grasp.
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