The room smelled of blood and power.
Somewhere deep beneath Westdentia, behind a nightclub that few dared speak about, there lay a sanctum—a hive of crime, sealed from the world above by iron and secrets.
The walls, bare concrete and streaked with dark stains, hummed with the muffled cries of those who had dared to cross The Serpent.
She sat at the head of a long black table, untouched by the chaos her orders unleashed.
Elowen.
The mother of Anthony and Giselle Reinhardt.
The leader of The Serpent.
And perhaps the most dangerous woman Westdentia had yet to reckon with.
Her presence was not grandiose or loud. It was something colder, sharper—like the quiet slip of a dagger between ribs. She wore no jewellery. Her sleek black hair was pulled tightly back, and her dark violet eyes—eerily similar to Giselle's—were void of any warmth.
"You disappoint me," she said calmly, her voice soft enough that the trembling men across from her had to strain to hear. "Yet again."
Two bodies knelt before her, both stripped of their arrogance, their faces battered and bloodied by the careful, precise work of her guards.
One tried to stammer an apology, but it was a useless sound, crumbling under the weight of inevitability.
"You thought," she continued, sipping from a crystal glass filled with dark wine, "that you could steal from The Serpent... and buy protection from the King's Claw ?"
She laughed once—an empty, humourless sound.
"The King's Claw won't save you from me."
Without so much as a nod, one of her guards moved forward, dragging a serrated blade down the arm of the first man, slow and deliberate. Blood welled immediately, dripping onto the concrete with soft, wet splashes.
Neither man screamed. Not yet.
Elowen watched, unfazed, her mind already elsewhere.
For years, the Smith family had ruled from the shadows, weaving their claws into every legitimate and illegitimate structure across the country. Kings in all but name.
But kings fell.
And serpents, by nature, waited.
They pinned blames. They stirred wars among smaller gangs. They ignited betrayals within ranks. And Elowen had orchestrated every downfall without lifting her own hands.
The King's Claw empire wasn't invincible.
Not forever.
And when it fell... she would be there to claim its bones.
Her smile tightened.
Of course, that fool in the shadows—the one everyone feared to name—had expected her loyalty, too.
A chuckle slipped from her lips, cold and bitter.
Work for him? Serve another man's kingdom?
She was born to slit kings' throats, not polish their crowns.
The man in the shadows could watch from afar, tightening his web, playing his endless game.
But she was carving her own throne.
A sudden shriek echoed through the chamber as the second man's hand was crushed under the boot of one of her lieutenants.
The other guards watched dispassionately, waiting for her signal.
She raised two fingers lazily.
Silence fell.
The broken men, sobbing quietly, knew what was coming. Mercy did not live here.
"Leave their bodies in the King's district," Elowen said, standing. Her voice carried the finality of a guillotine. "Make it messy. Make it loud."
Her lieutenants bowed silently and went to work.
Elowen moved from the room without looking back, her high heels clicking over the bloodstained floor like a soft drumbeat of death.
She passed the lower corridors where new recruits trained in brutal hand-to-hand combat, where whisper networks spun lies and betrayals like silk.
She passed walls where missing persons' faces used to be pinned—before they became lessons.
At the far end of the compound, she paused near a small, private office.
Inside, old photographs were pinned to a cracked bulletin board—pictures of Anthony, of Giselle, smiling in a world they no longer belonged to.
A rare flicker of something—regret, perhaps—twitched across her features.
But it passed.
Anthony had been too soft. His disappearance had been inconvenient, but predictable. She had warned him: The Serpent had no use for the weak.
And Giselle...
Elowen's mouth tightened.
She had wasted her talents pretending to live like some suburban doll, hiding behind false smiles and family dinners. A weapon sheathed so long it had dulled.
She'll wake up, Elowen thought coldly.
When there's no one left to shield her from what's coming.
The King's Claw were slipping. Their precious Reginald's grip was faltering.
Soon, the streets would run red with their fall—and from that wreckage, the Serpent would rise.
Elowen moved to the window, looking out over the city's shadowy skyline. She barely noticed the chill that fogged the glass.
In the distance, a dark car idled. Watching.
The man in the shadows.
Even now, he observed her every move.
He thought he owned her fate. That he was pulling the strings.
Let him believe it.
When the final knife fell, it would not be in his hand.
It would be hers.
And even kings would kneel before the Serpent's hiss.