The cool metal of Henrik’s energy pistol still shimmered in the dim light of the ruined apartment, its blue emitter a beacon of immediate threat. Olenka felt the subtle shift of the floor beneath her boots as the apartment’s internal integrity dissolved, the entire structure now a liability. Henrik Kordas, a man who had orchestrated the downfall of her lineage, now stood before her, offering a chilling decree. “Pack your things, son. We are going home.” Not a command to her, but to Miko. Her son, who remained perfectly still, a silent sentinel amidst the debris. He had understood. Olenka moved first, not towards the energy pistol, but towards Miko. Her hand, steady despite the adrenaline still coursing, touched his shoulder. “Take only what you need, Miko. This is not a vacation.” Her voice stayed flat, stripped of the maternal tremor she fought to suppress. He looked up at her, then back at Henrik, his small face unreadable. Henrik’s gaze followed her movements, but his pistol did not waver from her forehead. “No need,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. “Everything you possessed here is now Kordas property. We’ll outfit him properly.” He gestured with a minute movement of his chin towards the three incapacitated Kordas commandos. Two lay motionless, one convulsed weakly, trapped by Olenka’s custom security grid. “Secure the perimeter. Collect the boy’s… belongings. He’ll travel with me.” A hulking figure, the last remaining Kordas operative, moved with practiced efficiency, disarming Olenka’s modified pulse rifle and securing her, not roughly, but with an unyielding grip. Another team of corporate security, dressed in the dark grey uniforms of Kordas Bastion’s internal enforcement, streamed in, bypassing the disabled defenses with grim precision. They ignored Olenka, focusing on their primary objective: the five-year-old boy. Miko, surprisingly, offered no resistance as one of the guards gently scooped him up. He was a small bundle of compliance, his eyes fixed on Olenka as he was carried towards the shattered doorway. “Take her,” Henrik commanded, his eyes still on Miko. “To the transport. She rides with us.” Olenka was guided, not pushed, from her ruined apartment. The drilled precision of Kordas’s forces went off without a hitch. Outside, the night air was sharp, smelling of ozone and recent violence. A black, heavily armored ground transport, a ‘Goliath’ model with reinforced ceramite plating and blacked-out windows, idled at the curb. It was designed to repel anti-vehicle munitions, a mobile fortress. Inside, the cabin was plush, insulated against both sound and impact. Miko was already strapped into a child restraint seat, his small hands clasped in his lap, a strange calm about him. Henrik slid into the seat opposite Miko, across a small, polished obsidian table. Olenka was placed beside him, the escort operative taking the forward-facing jump seat, his weapon holstered but clearly accessible. The Goliath’s internal systems hummed, a low thrum that vibrated through the floor. The door hissed shut, sealing them in a cocoon of controlled opulence and chilling uncertainty. Olenka expected a debriefing, an interrogation, perhaps even a summary execution once the vehicle reached a more private location. Instead, Henrik turned to Miko, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “Miko,” he said, the name sounding foreign, yet possessing an undeniable resonance on his tongue. “I am Henrik. Your father.” Miko’s gaze remained steady. “You were angry on the screen,” he observed, his voice clear and uninflected. “You breached my firewall.” Henrik’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second. “A necessary measure. To find you.” He shifted his attention to Olenka, his eyes suddenly barren of their fleeting warmth. “You understand the implications of this discovery, Olenka?” “I understand you have secured an heir,” Olenka stated, her voice flat. “And I am a convenient route to legitimize him, and perhaps, to control my remaining Varga assets.” Henrik leaned back, his posture relaxed, yet radiating latent power. “Astute. More than that. Miko is Kordas. That makes you… a bridge. A necessary, if temporary, component.” He paused, allowing the implication to settle. “We will be married. Immediately. A binding union, codified by the Protectorate’s fastest legal channel. It will legitimize Miko’s claim, secure the integration of any latent Varga security protocols you possess into the estate's framework, and prevent any… external attempts to destabilize the Kordas line.” His gaze flickered towards the operative on the jump seat. Olenka met his gaze. The audacity was breathtaking. Marriage. A practical alliance, cold and calculated, as sterile as a lab experiment. Yet, within that chilling proposition lay an opportunity. Unrestricted access to the Bastion. To its innermost layers, its offline mainframe. Her ultimate objective. “I accept,” she said, her voice betraying no emotion. The word hung in the air, absolute and measured. She saw the flicker of surprise in Henrik’s eyes, quickly masked. He had expected resistance, a protracted haggle. Her swift compliance verified her ruthless pragmatism. “Good,” Henrik said, a note of satisfaction in his tone. He reached for a control panel integrated into the table, the obsidian surface glowing faintly as he tapped a sequence. “Inform my legal team. Prepare for an expedited nuptial decree. Twenty-four hours.” The Goliath rolled forward, gliding through the city’s unseen arteries, its armored bulk humming low. The interior remained quiet, save for the low hum of the engines. Miko looked out the window, a small silhouette against the blur of the city lights. Olenka’s mind raced, mapping new pathways of sabotage, envisioning the integration points. Her revenge, she realized, had just been granted an express pass. Suddenly, the guard in the jump seat shifted. His hand, instead of reaching for the armrest, plunged into his combat vest. A glint of polished durasteel. Not his sidearm, but a smaller, blade-like weapon, designed for close-quarters work. Before Henrik or Olenka could react, the guard lunged, not at either adult, but directly at Miko. The blade arced toward the boy’s throat, a swift, brutal strike intended to sever the nascent Kordas line. “No!” The guttural roar erupted from Henrik’s chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. Faster than Olenka could comprehend, Henrik was across the table. His hand intercepted the guard’s wrist with bone-jarring force. The blade clattered to the floor. The guard, his face contorted in a grimace of desperate intent, tried to twist free, reaching for a secondary weapon. He was a mole. Jurgis. It had to be Jurgis. To prevent the Kordas dynasty from securing an heir, ensuring its eventual collapse. A new player in the tactical game. Henrik didn’t speak. He didn’t draw his own sidearm. His left hand locked onto the guard’s neck, a vise of bone and muscle. His right fist, balled and hard, slammed into the man’s jaw. The sound was sickening, a wet crunch that echoed in the confined space. Again. Again. Henrik’s blows were precise, ruthless, free of hesitation. The guard struggled, flailing against Henrik’s grip. Blood splattered against the plush interior, staining the obsidian table. Miko, trapped in his seat, watched with wide, unblinking eyes. Olenka felt a cold thrill. This was the raw, untamed Kordas, a force of nature. The guard went limp, his body slumping against the reinforced seat, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Henrik released his grip, his chest heaving. He retrieved a pristine white cloth from a hidden compartment, wiping the blood from his knuckles with meticulous care, his gaze never leaving the deceased guard. When his hands were clean, he looked at Olenka, his eyes still burning with a primal, terrifying intensity. “You have twenty-four hours until the wedding,” he stated, his voice a low gravel edge. “Welcome to the Bastion.”

The Binding