Silent Scars

CHAPTER 100

DMITRI VOLKOV

Dmitri Volkov sat in the private chamber above the banquet hall, a crystal glass of untouched brandy glinting on the table before him. He hadn't touched it. He didn't need to. His hands were restless enough without the weight of liquor.

From behind the one way glass, he watched the gathering below. Families moved in practiced grace, women in dresses that cost more than most men's yearly wages, men with smiles sharpened like knives. But all of it, all the money, all the arrogance stilled the moment the Hastings entered.

He saw it. The shift. The hush that fell like a stone into water, rippling outward, freezing laughter mid breath.

Dmitri's jaw clenched. His drink sat heavy in his palm, but his eyes didn't leave the three men striding through the hall as if it were theirs. Leonardo's calm was not bravado, it was something worse, something rooted so deep it made others bend without him saying a word. Marcus carried the same weight in his stare, and the third one, Domain moved like he had been born to violence, death in his eyes as if it were a second language.

Around him, even his allies faltered. The French who had come in so proudly now looked like prey cornered in their own theater. His guards were no better, men trained, hardened, yet their hands shook, eyes refusing to meet Hastings' path.

Dmitri felt it himself, that chill running down the spine, that whisper of instinct telling a man to look away, to bow. But he bit down on it, teeth grinding, fury bubbling through his chest.

That's the kind of power I need.

Power that doesn't demand fear, it pulls it from the marrow of others. Power that walks into a hall full of enemies unarmed, and somehow leaves them trembling.

The door behind him opened with a soft click. His secretary entered, voice tight, strained.

"Sir... the Hastings. They've arrived."

Dmitri didn't answer right away. His head turned slowly, almost too slowly, eyes fixing on the man like a predator deciding if it should bother with the kill. He studied the flicker of panic in his secretary's face, let the silence stretch until the weight of it made the man shift on his feet.

Then Dmitri's grin broke, sudden, jagged.

"Look at you."

He murmured, voice low, almost gentle.

"Hands stiff, throat tight. I can smell the fear on you."

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, the smile twisting wider.

"Tell me, hm?"

His tone sharpened, the softness gone in a snap.

"Are you afraid of Hastings? Of a king who still wears a crown that doesn't belong to him?"

The secretary's breath caught. He shook his head quickly, too quickly.

"N...no, sir."

Dmitri chuckled, the sound bubbling up raw, unsteady, and for a moment it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or rage.

"Good"

He whispered, leaning back again, grin still cutting his face.

"Be afraid. Fear makes the moment sweeter when he falls."

Dmitri's laugh tore through the room, sharp and manic, echoing off the gilded walls.

"Let him wait. Let the so called king stand in my hall and breathe my air until I decide to face him. Isn't that fun? The mighty Hastings, reduced to waiting on me."