Anika Volland moved like a glacier, slow and inevitable, her gaze sweeping over the Vossen penthouse with a proprietary disdain that chilled the air more effectively than the Oestran winter. Her silver silk gown shimmered, a second skin of frozen starlight, as she drifted into the foyer. Two hulking figures, indistinguishable from the heavy-duty security automatons in the lower sectors save for the unsettling stillness in their eyes, followed her. They wore the dark, seamless uniforms of the Volland private retinue, their presence a silent, violent promise. “Bram, dearest,” Anika’s voice was spun sugar and razor wire, “you truly must get rid of these dreadful, dusty things.” Her immaculate hand, adorned with a single, gleaming viridian stone, gestured vaguely at the ancient, hand-carved sideboard Saskia had spent two hours polishing that morning. “They clash so dreadfully with the new-world aesthetic, don’t you agree?” Bram Vossen stood at the far end of the sprawling main salon, a silent sentinel by the panoramic windows that overlooked the frozen spires of the city. He did not turn. He rarely did. Saskia, who had been placing a fresh sprig of frost-bloom into a slender crystal vase, felt her smile tighten a fraction. The sunny mask was a reflex, a shield. Anika Volland was a known variable, a predator with a predictable hunt pattern: target the weakest, then move up the chain. Saskia was currently the weakest link visible. “And who,” Anika purred, her eyes finally landing on Saskia, “is this little ray of… sunshine?” Her gaze raked over Saskia’s neat maid’s uniform, lingering on the subtle, almost invisible mend Saskia had made to a seam that morning. “New staff, Bram? You’re getting so adventurous. Does she even know which end of a silver spoon is up?” Saskia dipped into a low, practiced curtsy, her voice bright enough to crack ice. “Meike, milady. At your service.” She met Anika’s gaze with a wide, innocent smile, letting the bright facade do its work. It was a well-honed weapon, disarming precisely because it seemed so harmless. Anika scoffed, a tiny, dismissive sound. “Meike. How quaint. Like a farmer’s daughter come to the big city to gawk at the sky-spires.” She turned to one of her sentries. “Fetch me some of that atrocious broth Fenja insists on serving. And make it scalding. My constitution requires… fortification.” The brute moved without a word. Saskia watched him go, every instinct in her prickling. Anika wasn’t asking for soup because she was hungry. She was establishing territory, testing boundaries. And Saskia, by virtue of her proximity and apparent subservience, was the first target. The man returned quickly, bearing a steaming bowl of thick, spiced broth on a delicate pewter tray. The aroma, rich with roasted root vegetables and sharp winter herbs, filled the air. Anika took the bowl, her long fingers barely touching the rim. “The air in these old places is so dreadfully… common, isn’t it?” Anika remarked, not to anyone in particular, but her eyes slid to Saskia again. “Hardly fit for a pet, let alone a person.” Suddenly, Skarf, the stray dog Saskia had sheltered, let out a soft whine from beneath the low sideboard where he had been hidden, a dark, matted lump. He’d tried to stay quiet, but the scent of the broth drew him out. Her pulse spiked. She had promised him a sheltered nook, just for a few hours. Anika’s gaze sharpened, her smile a predatory flash. She saw the dog. She saw the way Saskia’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, towards the hidden animal. The air crackled with malice. With a flick of her wrist, Anika sent the steaming bowl of soup spinning. It arced toward the wooden cabinet, a deliberate trajectory aimed not at the dog itself, but at the narrow opening where Skarf’s muzzle poked out. The thick, viscous liquid would hit him full in the face. The world seemed to slow. Saskia moved without conscious thought, her body responding with the cold, precise efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Her fixed grin didn’t falter, not even a millimeter. It stayed pinned to her face, wide and bright, as she stepped between the wood base and the incoming projectile. Her forearm, exposed beneath the short sleeve of her uniform, snapped up. The scalding broth hit her, a searing shock that blossomed instantly into agonizing heat. The ceramic bowl clattered to the marble floor, intact but empty. Her skin screamed. Beneath the fabric, she could already feel the angry flush, the beginning of blisters. Saskia didn’t flinch. Her smile remained, blindingly bright, as if she’d merely caught a falling feather. “Oh, dear me!” she chirped, her tone completely even. “How clumsy of me, milady! I do apologize. Let me clean that right up.” Anika’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something close to surprise, then irritation. “Clumsy, indeed,” she drawled, her voice edged with disgust. “Perhaps you’re not fit for even this simple household, Meike. A maid who can’t even avoid a little… spill.” Before Saskia could dip into another apology, a sharp, violent crack echoed through the vast salon. Bram Vossen had moved. He hadn't spoken, hadn't so much as grunted, but the air around him hung heavy with sudden, crushing fury. His eyes, usually blank, were now dark pits, reflecting nothing but a chilling, absolute rage. His hand, strong and pale, had closed around the neck of a delicate, ten-thousand-credit Vessenberg vase, a relic from the founding of the Conglomerate. He lifted it, his muscles flexing, and then, with a single, guttural sound that was more a tear in the fabric of silence than a human noise, he brought it down. The vase shattered against the polished marble floor, exploding into a thousand glittering fragments. The shards, razor-sharp, danced and spun, one large piece whistling past Anika’s ear, close enough for her to feel the displacement of air. Anika froze, her face a mask of shocked incredulity, then dawning fear. Her retainers tensed, but Bram was already taking another step, then another. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t point, didn’t threaten. He just moved, a silent, implacable force, his eyes locked on Anika, radiating a cold, destructive power that made even her seasoned guards shift uneasily. “Bram, what in the blazes—!” Anika started, her voice finally losing its practiced composure. But Bram simply continued his approach, his gaze burning, forcing her back, step by step, towards the private elevator. The message was clear, brutal, and utterly final. Anika Volland, for once in her life, retreated. Her face, a moment ago so haughty, was now pale, a thin sheen of sweat on her sculpted brow. Her escorts, sensing the unbridled fury radiating from the Vossen heir, hustled her into the elevator. The brass doors slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving a silence that screamed. Saskia stood amidst the glittering debris, her arm throbbing, her smile still unnervingly fixed. Bram stood before her, not speaking, but his gaze swept over her arm, then over the spot where Skarf was now whimpering softly. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and the raw protectiveness in his eyes was almost unbearable. She broke the moment, dropping to her knees. “Right then,” she said, her voice a little breathy, but still cheerful. “A spot of mess to clean up. Nothing to it.” She began to gather the shattered pieces of the Vessenberg vase, her gloved fingers moving with practiced ease. The fragments glinted under the recessed lights, sharp and dangerous. As she brushed a cluster of smaller splinters into her dustpan, her fingers brushed against something hard and metallic, something small and incongruous amongst the ceramic. It was too dense, too cold, too deliberately crafted. She picked it up, palming it swiftly. Her fixed smile didn’t waver, but her internal world went utterly still. It was a micro-bug, no bigger than a thumbnail, of military-grade manufacture. Its casing was a dull, non-reflective composite, designed to blend with any surface. But etched into its side, so tiny it was almost invisible unless you knew what to look for, was a symbol. A coiled serpent striking a stylized, frozen heart. The insignia of the Valen Syndicate. Her syndicate.

Boiling Point