Vance sat by the window of his penthouse, every movement outside setting his nerves on edge. The city refused to stay still—shadows sliding across the pavement, lights blinking on and off like watchful eyes. Ever since Kyrion had left, restlessness had gnawed at him. It had only been a few hours, yet they stretched like days.
He had listened to Kyrion rant—about Askai being a spy, a denizen of the West, a planted mole—and none of it sat right with him.
Vance was not naïve. He had dragged spies out of their hiding places and killed them with his own hands. He knew exactly how Moraine's reach had crept into the East while he was gone—how private armies had been raised, how intelligence networks had burrowed deep into places they did not belong. He had studied those incursions carefully.
But Askai was nothing like them.
Askai ran from him at every turn.
It was always Vance who pulled him back—by charm, by pressure, by sheer force of presence. A spy did not flee from the one he was sent to observe. A spy did not vanish every time he was given an opening to stay close.
The first time he had seen him, Vance had only been intrigued. A boy reckless enough to crash his party, slipping past Kyrion's watchful gaze as if the rules simply did not apply to him. He remembered the way Askai had looked at Steve—like an inconvenience, a fly he intended to swat once no one was watching.
The memory tugged a faint smile from him.
Then there was the audacity. Askai had spoken openly about the West. Challenged him. Questioned his convictions. No one did that. No one survived doing that. Vance would have slit their throat the moment they forgot who they were speaking to.
Yet he had let Askai walk away.
Worse—he had wanted to keep talking.
Those conversations had not felt calculated or rehearsed. There had been no careful manipulation, no baited words. Askai had simply been… himself. And Vance hated how much that mattered.
Still, Kyrion had not been entirely wrong.
Vance had never given Askai the chance to explain why he left. He had demanded loyalty without offering safety, possession without trust. He could not blame him for disappearing the way he did. And yet, he knew—deep in his bones—that whatever reasons Askai carried were rooted in the West.
That was what made his blood boil.
Askai had walked into something dangerous and refused to let him help. With every passing minute, fear—an emotion Vance had long ago buried—crept back in. He imagined a knock at the door. A report delivered too calmly. A body found somewhere it should not have been.
Where the hell was Kyrion?!
As if summoned by the thought, the door opened.
Kyrion stepped inside.
"What have you found?" Vance asked immediately.
"Askai should be fine," Kyrion replied. "We traced him to Middle Nolan. After that, the trail fragments—too many blind spots in that region. He slipped through. But we have eyes everywhere. The moment he steps out of wherever he's hiding, we'll know."
"So he hasn't returned to the West," Vance said, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
"Not this time. He won't get past me." Kyrion hesitated, then continued, "We've locked down the borders. And—I know you won't like this—but I hired some muscle from the West. They're combing through their own channels."
Vance cut him off before he could defend himself. "I would have done the same."
Kyrion blinked, mildly surprised, but said nothing.
"Secure Middle Nolan," Vance continued, his face suddenly grim. "Send in our private troops but secure the streets. Authorities have been cracking down on the drug cartels in that region. This would only mean one thing - riots. I want every hostile camp rooted out before that. Do whatever we can to minimize the impact but we're claiming Middle Nolan- for once and all. It's overdue."
"Engaging our private troops would leave our own installations in West without much defense. If Valez takes advantage - "
"He wouldn't." Vance snapped. "They're dealing with an internal crisis as we speak."
"No, they can't be—You did something. Didn't you? What did you do, Vance?" Kyrion asked.
For the first time since he had walked in, his voice betrayed him. Not fear exactly, but that cold, tightening awareness that the board had shifted while he wasn't looking. Too many pieces moving at once. Too many threads converging. This was how Vance operated when he was cornered—or when something mattered too much.
Vance turned toward the window.
"Just enough to keep Moraine occupied," he said lightly. Too lightly. "He'll spend the next few days tearing into his own people, trying to weed out the rot."
Kyrion stared at his back. "You destabilized the West. Again."
Vance's jaw flexed. "I delayed him. I can not let him make hay as we right the wrongs done in the Middle Nolan."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when time is what I need." He finally looked over his shoulder, eyes sharp, almost fever-bright. "Focus on Askai. State forces will move in by nightfall. Middle Nolan will be locked down, every street crawling with uniforms. There should be no collateral damage in this war. Remember it, Kyrion, he should not be caught in the cross-fires. I just need him safe. "
Within my reach.
The words sat wrong. Kyrion felt it immediately, like grit between his teeth.
"You're not talking like this is a tactical recovery," he said carefully. "You're talking like—"
"Like what?" Vance snapped, the control cracking just enough to show the steel underneath. "Like I refuse to let him vanish into West's shadow? Like I'm done letting the West decide who I lose?"
Kyrion exhaled slowly. "Moraine doesn't know."
But Vance acted like he did not hear it. He didn't care.
Kyrion had seen this before—years ago, before Vance had learned to bury it under polish and strategy. Back when anger and fear still bled through the seams.
"This isn't just about security, you are rushing things." Kyrion said. "You're moving armies over one boy."
Vance laughed, short and humorless. "Don't insult me by making it sound like a panic response."
Silence stretched. Outside, something shattered in the street below—glass, maybe, or metal—sharp enough to make Vance flinch before he could stop himself. Kyrion noticed. Of course he did.
"You're afraid," Kyrion said quietly.
Vance's hands clenched at his sides.
"I haven't been afraid in years," he said.
"That's a lie."
Vance closed his eyes for a fraction of a second—long enough for the truth to slip through. When he opened them again, whatever softness had been there was scorched away.
"He doesn't know how dangerous this is," Vance said, voice lower now. "He doesn't know what the West does to people it can't own. And he won't let me help. He runs, and I—" He cut himself off, breath sharp. "I don't lose people like that anymore."
Kyrion felt the weight of it settle in his chest. He believed Askai knew much more but there was no way he could make Vance believe that.
"This ends badly if you keep tightening the net," he warned Vance. "If Askai feels hunted—"
"He already is," Vance said. "By forces he doesn't even see. I have many enemies, Kyrion."
Kyrion held his gaze. "Middle Nolan is about to explode. Destabilizing the West might not hold back Valez as we expect it to. It might even trigger him. What if Askai gets hurt because of this?"
Something dark flickered across Vance's face—rage, guilt, something perilously close to desperation.
"Then," he said slowly, "there won't be enough of the West left for Moraine to hide behind."
Kyrion understood then. This wasn't strategy anymore. This was a man standing at the edge of an old wound, pressing down harder instead of stepping back.
Vance turned to the window again, knuckles white against the glass.
He just hoped—to whatever gods still listened—that Askai didn't do something stupid before he could get to him.
Because this time, Vance wasn't sure he would survive the loss.
*****