The rain fell like shards of glass, slicing through the air as the city of Crescent Heights stood still.
The marble square outside Parliament Hall, usually buzzing with chatter and the click of expensive heels, was now smothered in silence. Thousands of black umbrellas filled the space, bobbing slightly under the storm. The air smelled of wet stone and incense, sharp and choking.
At the top of the steps lay a golden coffin, the metal gleaming even under the heavy gray sky. Soldiers in ceremonial uniforms stood at rigid attention, rifles polished to perfection, their expressions carved in stone.
Inside the coffin rested Adrian Veynar, the man who had ruled the nation for two decades with an iron fist and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
The King without a crown. The architect of Crescent Heights' rise and its darkest sins.
And now...dead.
The Chancellor stepped forward, voice quivering as it echoed across the square.
"Let us honor the legacy of our late Prime Minister, a man whose vision carried this nation into the future. May his spirit guide us still."
The crowd bowed their heads. Some wept, some clutched their umbrellas tighter, some whispered prayers into the storm. Yet not all were mourning.
In the second row, standing ramrod straight, was Elena Veynar.
Her black veil concealed most of her face, but not her eyes cold, storming, alive with fury. Unlike the rest, she shed no tears. Her jaw was set, her fists clenched at her sides.
She didn't believe her father had died of "natural causes."
No, Adrian Veynar had too many enemies, too many knives pointed at his back. Someone had struck first. Someone had stolen him away before Elena could make peace with him or destroy him herself.
Father, whoever did this… I will find them. And I will burn their world to ash.
Her lips barely moved, but the vow was real, and it burned hotter than the torches flanking the coffin.
From the edge of the square, in the shadows of an old stone archway, Damian Korr watched her.
He wasn't here to grieve. He was here to calculate.
Tall, lean, his black suit tailored so sharply it looked like armor, Damian seemed untouched by the rain. His umbrella was a sleek, custom-made carbon frame, held loosely as though even the storm bent to him.
To the public, Damian was Crescent Heights' golden boy—a self-made billionaire who had transformed Korr Industries into a powerhouse of innovation. To those who whispered in dark alleys, he was something else entirely: ruthless, patient, and dangerous.
Now, as his dark eyes locked on Elena, his lips curved into the faintest smile.
"She's just like him," he murmured to himself. "But angrier. And anger makes people sloppy."
Beside him, his aide shifted nervously. "Sir, should we return to headquarters? The board is expecting you."
Damian didn't look away from Elena.
"No. Let them wait. Today isn't about business. It's about opportunity."
The aide hesitated. "And Elena?"
Damian's smile deepened.
"If she doesn't make her move, I will. Either way, the throne won't stay empty for long."
Far away, on the other side of the sea, a private jet touched down on the wet tarmac of Crescent Heights International. The engines whined, then fell silent.
The cabin door opened, and Rafael Halloran descended.
The rain soaked his coat instantly, but he didn't flinch. Tall, broad-shouldered, with streaks of silver in his dark hair, Rafael looked like a man carved from the battlefield itself. His scarred hand gripped the rail as though it were a weapon.
Exiled five years ago after a scandal involving military contracts and a failed coup in a neighboring state, Rafael had spent his time in exile biding his time, watching from the shadows.
Now he was back.
Not because he mourned Adrian Veynar—Rafael had no love left for the man. But because Adrian's death had shattered something fragile: the balance Rafael himself had once brokered between the politicians, the corporations, and the underworld.
Without Adrian, chaos would bloom. And chaos was Rafael's playground.
A black sedan waited at the bottom of the steps. His driver opened the door, but Rafael paused, eyes narrowing toward the city skyline glowing faintly through the rain.
"Send word to the old contacts," he ordered. "Tell them Halloran is back. And I want every whisper about Veynar's death on my desk by morning."
He slid into the car, and the door shut with a heavy thud.
The game had begun.
Back in the square, the funeral reached its climax. The bells of Parliament tolled, their deep booms echoing across the city. The soldiers lifted the golden coffin, carrying it slowly down the marble steps toward the crypt beneath the Hall.
The crowd murmured prayers, the sound blending with the rain. Reporters jotted notes under umbrellas, cameras whirring. Somewhere, a child cried, and the sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Elena did not move. She stood rooted, her gaze fixed on the coffin as if sheer will could drag answers from its gleaming surface.
Behind her, whispers spread. "She hasn't cried." "She didn't even speak at the eulogy." "Cold as her father."
Let them talk. They didn't understand. Elena wasn't cold. She was fire barely contained.
As the ceremony ended, dignitaries filed back into Parliament Hall. Umbrellas folded, chauffeurs scrambled, and the crowd dispersed into the rain-slicked streets.
Elena lingered. She moved only when the soldiers disappeared into the crypt, the golden coffin vanishing into shadows.
She turned sharply, her veil snapping with the wind, and strode toward the waiting black car. Her driver, an older man with weathered eyes, opened the door silently.
"Where to, Miss Veynar?" he asked.
Her voice was steady, lethal.
"To the archives. If there's a lie about my father's death, it begins on paper. And I intend to rip it apart."
The driver nodded, but in the rearview mirror, his eyes flicked nervously. Even he could feel it, the storm that followed Elena wherever she went.
Damian watched her car pull away, rain streaking down the tinted windows. His aide cleared his throat.
"Sir, she looks determined. What if she actually discovers something?"
Damian chuckled, low and cold.
"Then she'll do the work for us. Let her chase ghosts. By the time she finds truth, it'll already belong to me."
Night fell. The storm didn't ease.
In his penthouse overlooking the city, Damian poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid glowing in the dim light. He stood at the window, watching lightning fork across the skyline.
Behind him, his aide shuffled papers. "The stock market trembled today. Adrian's death has made investors nervous. They want reassurance."
"Good," Damian said, sipping. "Fear makes them obedient. By tomorrow, Korr Industries will rise as the anchor of stability. We'll feed them just enough calm to keep them hooked."
"And Elena?"
Damian's reflection smiled in the glass.
"She's the perfect decoy. While the world watches the grieving daughter, I'll rewrite the future."
Across the city, in a dim apartment with peeling paint, Elena tore through files. Old medical records, transcripts, surveillance reports—all carefully organized in the archives, now spread chaotically across her table.
Her hands trembled, but not with grief—with rage. Each line she read only deepened her suspicion.
Her father hadn't died of natural causes. The timing, the symptoms, the witnesses, it was too clean, too convenient. Someone had orchestrated this.
She slammed her fist on the table. "Damn you, Father. You made enemies out of everyone, and now one of them has won."
Her reflection in the window stared back at her, eyes burning. "But I will find them. And when I do, I won't stop until they beg for death."
And somewhere, as the city drowned in rain, Rafael Halloran studied a map sprawled across a hotel desk. Red marks dotted it, politicians, tycoons, generals.
His finger hovered over one name. Damian Korr. Then another. Elena Veynar.
He smiled faintly. "Three players on the board. Good. Let's see which of you wants the crown badly enough to bleed for it."
The storm outside roared, as though the city itself sensed the blood that would soon be spilled.
Three lives, three paths, converging on the same throne.
A throne carved not in gold, but in blood.
And only one could claim it.