Veiled in Rivalry | The Dark Tale of Passion and Power| [18+]

Chapter 13: The Bitter Triumph

"Power isn't found in the victory alone, but in what you're willing to sacrifice to claim it. In the end, it's the blood of the betrayed that inks the final chapter of conquest."

---

Viktor Giovanni

---

Midnight crawls over the city like a predator, swallowing everything in its path. The cold hangs thick in the air, so thick you can taste it. My fingers clench the steering wheel, knuckles white, as I drive through the fog that blankets the road ahead. The old Mercedes glides silently, its engine barely a whisper beneath the weight of the night. There's a stillness in the streets-a kind of oppressive quiet that feels unnatural, like the world itself is holding its breath, bracing for the storm. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of ice under the tires.

I keep the headlights dimmed, just enough to see the narrow, twisting road that leads up to Volkov Castle. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror out of habit-nothing. No cars behind me, no movement, just the empty darkness stretching endlessly. It's as if the world has already surrendered to the inevitable clash, conceding to the chaos that's about to erupt.

The phone buzzes on the seat beside me. I glance at the screen. Father.

I pick it up, holding it to my ear without a word. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, each syllable cutting through the silence like a knife through flesh.

"Война началась, Виктор." (The war has begun, Viktor.)

I say nothing at first, letting the words hang in the air between us. My pulse quickens, but outwardly I remain still. Cold. Detached. This is what I've been waiting for. Every move, every sacrifice, every betrayal-it's all been leading to this moment.

"Хорошо," I finally reply, my voice barely more than a murmur. (Good.)

I hang up before he can say anything else. There's no need for more words. The pieces are already in motion. The gears are turning, and nothing can stop what's coming. I can feel it, deep in my bones, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks. The air is heavy with it, the tension crackling like electricity just waiting to ignite. War isn't just about the bloodshed-it's about control, about taking what's yours and watching everything else crumble beneath your feet.

The road twists sharply as it climbs the hill toward Volkov Castle, the fog growing denser, thicker, until the world outside the car is little more than a blur of shadows. The castle looms ahead, barely visible through the haze, its jagged silhouette cutting against the night sky like the bones of some long-dead beast. It's ancient, a relic of a forgotten time, and it feels alive, pulsing with the weight of the battles it has seen.

Tonight, it will witness one more.

The wind picks up, a sudden gust that rattles the bare branches lining the road. They scrape against each other, a harsh, grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. I pull into the courtyard, gravel crunching loudly under the tires. The castle rises above me, its stone walls dark and foreboding, casting long shadows that seem to stretch out like grasping hands. The air is cold, biting, and I can feel it creeping into my bones as I step out of the car. My breath forms in clouds around me, each exhale a reminder of the life still clinging to me-life that may not last the night.

The courtyard is empty, silent. Too silent. My fingers twitch at my side, instinctively reaching for the gun hidden beneath my coat. But I don't draw it. Not yet. Instead, I stand there, letting the cold seep into my skin, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.