The rhythmic *beep-beep-beep… beep-beep… beep-beep-beep* from Lazar’s monitor continued its urgent cadence, a silent plea hanging in the pre-dawn quiet. Zoya’s fingers stilled over the warm porcelain cup. *Protect… Home… You…* The words pulsed in the air, clear despite their silent nature. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through Lazar’s hand, still resting firmly against her ankle. She blinked slowly, the aroma of Silvan Nectar filling her senses. It was a bizarre, unexpected communication. Her supposed beast-husband, comatose and inert, was sending her a message. She cataloged it, tucked it away, before slowly, deliberately, raising the cup to her lips. The earthy sweetness bloomed on her tongue, grounding her in the surreal moment. This was, after all, the Kavali fortress. Nothing here was truly normal. She finished the tea, rich heat settling through her ribs, then settled back against the pillows, Tsar’s heavy flank a comforting presence against her back. The Morse code had ceased, Lazar’s heartbeat settling back into its steady rhythm, but the words echoed. *Protect… Home… You…* Morning brought an unwelcome jolt of reality. The fortress’s automated voice, usually a soothing, barely-there whisper, announced with an uncharacteristic edge of metallic disapproval, “External intrusion detected. Moravec party approaching. Entry protocol initiated.” Zoya groaned, pulling Tsar’s ear over her face. “Can’t we just block them?” she murmured, her voice muffled by fur. The master console, ever responsive, projected a holographic interface above her, displaying Elias’s frantic attempts to intercept a sleek black ground-sled already accelerating towards the main gate. Elias, looking particularly harried even in holographic form, gave an exasperated shrug. “Apologies, Madame. Ms. Nadia Moravec has somehow bypassed standard visitor authentication. She claims a ‘wellness check’ on your behalf, citing Moravec family privileges. Her entourage includes several… journalists.” Zoya peeled Tsar’s ear away from her eyes. “Journalists?” Her apathy was swiftly curdling into irritation. “At this hour?” Before Elias could offer a further, futile explanation, the master suite’s immense doors slid open with a dramatic *whoosh*. Nadia Moravec, dazzling in a bespoke winter ensemble of shimmering pearl-white, swept in like a blizzard in human form. Her golden hair was perfectly coiffed, her smile a practiced, brittle thing. Behind her trailed two impeccably dressed correspondents, their cameras already clicking and whirring, their flashes erupting in the dim light of the master bedroom. A burly man in a dark suit, Nadia’s personal security, stood sentinel at the entrance. “Zoya, darling! Look at this place!” Nadia’s voice, artificially bright, grated on Zoya’s ears. She gestured expansively, as if addressing an unseen audience. “So… desolate. And you, my poor sister, still in bed? Oh, this is simply heartbreaking! Press, please capture her condition. Our poor Zoya, trapped in this frigid fortress with… the Beast.” Her gaze flicked to Lazar’s still form, a glint of possessive hunger in her eyes. “It must be so difficult for her, isolated from the world, caring for… well, *him*.” Zoya remained half-buried in Tsar’s fur, only her eyes visible. “What do you want, Nadia?” Her voice was flat, laced with the barest hint of annoyance. Nadia tutted, stepping closer, her expensive heels clicking on the polished floor. “Why, a wellness check, of course! Papa was so worried. He heard… rumors. Rumors of neglect, of a pauper’s existence here, despite the Kavali name. We just want to ensure you’re not suffering. Though, seeing this… this spartan arrangement…” She waved a dismissive hand around the opulent room, her gaze lingering on the delicate, intricately carved antique commode by the window. Her eyes were not on Zoya’s welfare, but on the potential spoils she imagined lay within reach. “Spartan?” Zoya finally pushed herself up, Tsar rumbling softly at her side. She snagged the smart-tablet from the nightstand. The room’s ambient temperature, usually a comfortable 22 degrees Celsius, felt suddenly suffocating under Nadia’s saccharine performance. Zoya’s fingers danced across the holographic interface, barely a flicker of movement. An immediate, bone-chilling draft swept through the suite. The temperature plummeted. Frost instantly glazed the metal vents. Nadia’s bright smile faltered, her pearl-white coat suddenly looking inadequate. The reporters gasped, their camera lenses fogging slightly. One of them rubbed his arms vigorously. “Is it always this cold, Ms. Moravec?” he chattered, his breath misting in the air. Nadia shivered violently, her teeth chattering audibly. “Zoya! What in the name of the Glacier Spirits are you doing? It’s freezing!” She hugged herself, her exposed neck prickling with goosebumps. “Just adjusting the ambient climate to match the cordiality of our guest’s intentions,” Zoya murmured, her tone utterly unbothered. She pulled her thick, cashmere blanket higher, Tsar’s dense fur a solid barrier against the sudden chill. “It’s a robust home. Sometimes it gets a little… overzealous with its environmental controls.” The air temperature continued to drop, biting and sharp. Frost began to trace delicate patterns on the inside of the panoramic windows. Nadia’s lips were turning faintly blue. Her bodyguard, looking equally uncomfortable, took a step forward. “Ms. Moravec, perhaps we should conclude this visit.” Nadia, despite her chattering teeth, tried to maintain her facade. “Yes, yes, I believe Zoya is quite alright. A little… chilly, perhaps, but otherwise quite robust, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” She turned to the press pool, forcing a shaky smile. They were already retreating, their fingers numb, their cameras struggling with the extreme cold. “We’ve seen enough. Such a… unique environment.” As Nadia, practically jogging now, hurried towards the exit, clutching a rather ostentatious handbag to her chest, Zoya’s voice cut through the frigid air, casual as a summer breeze. “Oh, Nadia, that’s a lovely *Serenitas* bag you’re carrying. Though, the stitching on the clasp seems a little… off. And the leather grain on the base? Definitely not Kavali-certified authentic Alpin-hide. Such a shame when fakes are so prevalent, isn’t it? Especially on a piece that’s supposed to be limited edition.” Nadia froze, her face draining of all color, not from the cold, but from sheer mortification. The reporters, already halfway out the door, paused, their heads swiveling back. One of them, a keen-eyed photographer, zoomed her camera lens onto Nadia’s bag. Nadia yanked it closer to her body as if it were a burning ember. Her carefully constructed image, her golden girl persona, shattered into a million icy fragments. Her jaw trembled as mottled crimson stained her throat. Without another word, she practically fled, the bodyguard shoving the journalists out ahead of them. Just beyond the suite’s threshold, as the doors began their slow, insulated hiss of closure, Nadia’s furious whisper carried back, sharp and venomous. “Tell Papa… the ‘Extraction Protocol’ is a go. Lethal, if necessary. I’m not letting this… *pauper*… sully the Kavali name any longer. I deserve this.” The doors sealed with a soft thud, restoring the suite’s previous baseline temperature. Zoya twitched once against the residual chill, then sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “Honestly, the nerve of some people,” she muttered, reaching for Lazar’s hand, which was still resting on her ankle. “They just can’t leave a girl to her peace and quiet, can they? And now ‘Extraction Protocol’? What even *is* that, I wonder? So dramatic.” She looked down, intending to complain about the sudden rush of cold air, only to find Lazar’s eyes wide open, staring directly at her. His gaze was impossibly deep, a swirling vortex of something she couldn’t quite decipher, a silent, blazing intensity that pinned her to the spot.

The Golden Sister's Greed