Bren was already pulling up his hood, a habit he'd never quite broken—something he did when he thought he was making a point rather than just stating one.
"Don't think about using Vance, Askai," Brendon warned. His voice had lost its edge; what remained was something quieter, heavier. "You don't know him. Not really. He isn't the charming, cultured prince he pretends to be." A pause. "He's far worse."
Askai's brow creased. He thought of Vance whispering against his pulse just last night, confessing of vulnerabilities where Askai believed none existed. He was human after all.
"You don't know anything about him," Askai said flatly.
Brendon studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "No. You think you do."
He leaned back, fingers lacing together. "I hear things now. I move in the corridors you used to walk so easily. I do the work you trained me for—the quiet invisible wind." His gaze sharpened. "And some of what I've heard about Vance isn't… clean."
Askai scoffed softly. Brendon only shrugged.
"Believe it or don't. Conti's son, Eric, is a tool—too loud and useless. One night he talked himself hoarse after his hired muscle scared him half to death." A flicker of distaste crossed Brendon's face. "Orion, they call him. Apparently Vance had reason to be displeased. Something involving Eric's sister."
He waved it off, as if the details didn't matter. "The story itself is pointless—"
"Well, I want to hear it."
The venom in Askai's voice hit Brendon like a brick.
"Okay…" Brendon relented. "But as I said, it's pointless. Eric is a bastard. Always has been. And I don't mean emotional cruelty—I mean broken bones. He didn't even spare his sister. Domenico Conti calls it tough love." His mouth twisted. "But Vance intervened. They're family friends, anyway."
Askai said nothing, only watched.
"Orion handled the rest," Brendon continued. "One of the two brothers who used to guard Vance. Now he protects Ruby. He also spies on the Contis for Vance—part-time." A brief shrug. "That man always has ulterior motives."
"You're jumping ahead," Askai deadpanned.
"Am I?" Brendon shot back. "Anyway—Orion scared Eric so badly he drank himself into oblivion. I just happened to be sneaking around for some reason that night."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"You remember the time when Moraine was declared a wanted terrorist by the East?" he asked. "When the streets of the West were terrorised into giving him up?"
"What about that time?" Askai leaned in, completely absorbed. As if he could ever forget.
He had thought he'd seen the worst when the fever ravaged the alleys of the West, creeping into homes with a quiet certainty of death. But what followed had been something else entirely.
An invisible force from the East descended upon the West. For raiding a few medicine stocks, they branded Moraine a terrorist. The raid itself had been violent—but calculated. Nothing as meaningless or monstrous as the East portrayed it to be.
The East, however, showed no mercy.
It tore open the West's chest, street by street, body by body, trying to unearth the mystery of Moraine's disappearance. Sanctions were nothing new, but this felt different. Like vengeance. A personal vendetta wrapped neatly in the black-and-white ink of official letters.
The West fought back.
Or Moraine did.
He was God in the West for a reason.
Evidence surfaced where it shouldn't have. Whispers moved faster than soldiers. Moraine redirected the East's fury with surgical precision, turning it on rivals and enemies alike.
Askai had led the charge in those days.
He had walked the streets for Moraine, measuring loyalties, reading fear like a second language. Small gangs folded easily, intoxicated by Moraine's legend. The dock cartels were harder. Askai had risked everything to infiltrate them, to place them squarely in the East's line of fire.
When the East was finished, Moraine returned to collect what remained.
Very little did.
Askai had stood at the centre of that storm—the one that shattered the cartels. And more often than not, he felt it: the sense that someone was watching from the shadows. Someone who saw the naked truth beneath the lies they crafted to draw blood.
Someone who saw it all—and did not care.
In those days, whispers ran through the Eastern ranks. A name spoken softly. Black Maverick.
Askai had assumed it was a commander. Or the codename of the operation.
There was little about that time he did not know.
Which was why the next words out of Brendon's mouth shattered his certainty.
"The whole incident was a machination by the East—to gain access to the docks."
"That can't be," Askai said at once. The idea was absurd. The kind of rambling that came from paranoia or madness.
"Think about it," Brendon pressed quietly. "The dock cartels were a problem even then. Piracy, murders, theft—they were choking the waters around Nolan. You know that. The East wanted them broken, but they couldn't reach them through the layers of smaller gangs guarding the West's borders." He paused. "Do you know who Patrice Regale handed the reins to at that time?"
Askai's breath hitched. He already knew the answer—but dreaded it anyway.
"Vance Regale," Brendon said. "He was the Black Maverick."
The words landed without force, yet they struck harder than any blow.
"He used the fever as a ploy," Brendon went on. "Pestilence wasn't new to the West. We've survived worse. But he dangled the cure in front of us, waited for someone to take the bait. If not Moraine, someone else would have done it. And the Eastern Media didn't exaggerate what happened at that pharmaceutical godown." His voice dropped. "The East Guard slaughtered their own men, burned the place down, and pinned it all on the West."
Askai didn't move. His gaze remained steady, unblinking. The room suddenly felt too small.
"Hard to believe, right?" Brendon said softly. "The East worships their own." Then, leaning closer, almost whispering, he added, "Eric believes Vance isn't a pure Eastern Elite. So has fewer scruples about cutting down those he despises in the East. If that's true…" He trailed off. "I believe Eric should be next."
He fell silent, watching Askai. But Askai only shook his head, burying his face in his hands. He looked—strangely—heartbroken.
The implications spiraled into places Brendon didn't want to follow.
"Have you told anyone?" Askai asked hoarsely. "Moraine?"
"I don't know," Brendon admitted. "There's more—and I don't know if I should tell him at all."
Askai lifted his head, eyes hollow. "What else could there be?"
"Eric gloated that night, saying Vance miscalculated," Brendon continued. "He never intended to give the West a hero. But once the plan began, he had no choice but to follow through. The East took a hit to its image—even though they achieved their objective. Patrice didn't forgive that. Vance was sent abroad."
A beat.
"But he came back."
Their eyes met. The truth slid into place without needing words.
"No," Askai breathed. "It can't be."
"He was the one behind the wheel when Moraine was forced to step down. He was the one who propped up Uncle Tommie." Brendon's voice sharpened despite himself. "Askai—you're seeing someone who terrified that man."
"It's a lie," Askai snapped. "You can't trust the words of a drunk boy who clearly hates him. How come someone turned our lives upside down and we didn't even know his name?!"
"That's one reason I haven't told Moraine," Brendon said evenly. "Maybe he knows about him. Maybe he doesn't. But the logic fits. Vance returns just as Moraine reaches for the Crown. And if even a fragment of this is true—Jordan is in danger." His jaw tightened. "He's the last leverage left. Moraine won't give him up. And using Vance to get him back—"
He shook his head.
"That's not a rescue," Brendon finished quietly. "That's leading a sheep straight to the wolf."