That morning, Istanbul was shrouded in a light mist—like a veil of silver silk draped across the ancient buildings. The chill of autumn seeped deep into the bones, but La Reyna was already dressed, ready. A charcoal grey coat hugged her frame, and dark sunglasses covered the eyes that hadn't known true rest since she emerged from the Vault.
In her hand: a black leather bag containing gallery documents, a replica of an ancient mural, and a satellite phone. Hidden beneath a folder of artifacts was a folded blade etched with the El'Raez sigil. Not just a weapon. A legacy. A warning.
She stepped out of the temporary apartment without looking back. On the cobbled street below, the same black van was waiting. Emir stood by the door, engine humming, his posture as rigid as ever—but his eyes... those eyes betrayed something more than duty.
"Where to today, La Reyna?" he asked, voice low, carrying an undertone of unease he didn't intend to show.
"Eminönü. The gallery that wanted to revisit the Syrian shard is expecting me," she replied. Then she turned slightly. "But that's not the most important thing today."
Emir gave a slow nod. Through the rearview mirror, he watched her—this woman he had come to know in silence, but never truly reach.
"What do you feel?" he asked, barely more than a whisper.
"Like I'm being watched since last night. Not by you. Not by the police. Someone more... trained."
He didn't answer immediately. He just exhaled slowly and drummed his fingers against the wheel.
Without further word, the van rolled through the narrow Istanbul streets, weaving through pedestrians, street coffee vendors, and a city that never truly slept.
But something stirred within Emir.
He wasn't just driving. He was guarding.
And he knew—when shadows moved, silence would soon break.
Behind Ayra Gallery
The alley was narrow, damp, and carried the scent of rust and old machinery. Tucked between two crumbling stone buildings in Eminön, it was a forgotten path in a city racing toward modernity. The smell of charred coffee from a nearby cart mingled with fumes from aged engines. But the man didn't flinch.
He sat astride a matte-black Triumph motorcycle, retrofitted with no plates or visible ID. Sunglasses reflected the grey light, and a military-style jacket shielded most of his face. In his left hand, a satellite phone blinked. The GPS dot moved.
"Target exited at 8:07 AM. En route to Ayra Gallery," he spoke into a throat mic, his tone precise and cold.
"Status: accompanied by local male named Emir. Ex-militia. Class C access. Combat-capable."
A deeper voice responded on the other end, calm and calculating:
"Do not engage. Do not injure. Just track her movements. Lucien's position is also being traced. Wait until the fire meets the flame."
The rider tilted his head slightly. "Orders from Meridian Unit confirmed?"
"Direct from the Fifth Shadow of the Council. We are the eyes. Not yet the hand."
The line clicked off. He stored the phone, eyes scanning the direction where the black van had just turned toward the gallery.
Within his jacket, a micro-drone activated—silent, nearly invisible.
Today, that woman... she was at the heart of a war no one else could see.
Inside Ayra Gallery
Sunlight streamed in from the skylight, casting soft halos onto the marble floors. The air was tinged with old oil paint and the scent of premium coffee brewed for VIP patrons.
La Reyna stood still in front of an ancient mural, allegedly from the Hittite era. She knew better. Beneath the pigments and dust, the carving hinted at a Vault key. The coiled serpent—identical to the symbol etched on her El'Raez ring.
Today, she dressed with quiet intent.
A midnight-blue vintage tailored blazer framed her silhouette. A pair of black satin flared trousers elongated her legs. Underneath, a dove-grey silk blouse draped her skin like whispered memory. Her stiletto heels—silver-tipped and weaponized—clicked with authority.
Her hair was pinned neatly with an antique phoenix clip—the only heirloom from her mother. Deep wine lipstick stained her lips. Behind Celine sunglasses, her eyes remained unreadable.
But those who knew... would understand. That calm was not peace. It was containment.
Elise, the gallery curator, spoke in French-accented English:
"I understand you're not here solely to purchase, but if the Syrian shard proves authentic, its resale value triples. Perhaps—"
La Reyna wasn't listening. She nodded occasionally, eyes distant. Fingers danced across the hidden screen of her satellite phone.
Draft 1:
To: Inez
Sorry for the silence. I'm safe. But this is only the beginning.
Draft 2:
To: Enzo
Secure the Lisbon files. No questions. The answers are coming.
Draft 3:
To: Lucien
I thought I was strong. But the Vault... reminded me who I truly am.
If you still want the truth—I'll tell you everything. Not as an heir. But as me.
She didn't send them. Not yet.
Just saved them under a folder: Unfinished.
Behind her composed smile to Elise, her mind screamed. Her soul had not returned whole from the Vault.
La Reyna moved from the mural toward the Mesopotamian collection. Her breath shortened. Heartbeat quickened. Not from fear—but from instinct.
Footsteps.
Light, calculated.
Not a tourist. Not Elise.
She turned. Nothing.
But her gut didn't lie.
Raising her leather bag, she sent a silent signal to Emir outside.
Her reflection on a nearby glass panel caught a silhouette—someone standing too long at the Eastern Roman exhibit.
Not touching. Not speaking.
Just watching.
"Don't show weakness," she whispered in Spanish to herself.
She smiled.
Turned.
And walked out of the gallery with grace.
Her fingers now curled tightly around the El'Raez blade hidden between them.
And this chapter?
Had only just begun.