Page 85 of The Arbiter
Then, a low, guttural roar from Deimos, the sound of a man who has run out of patience and is about to tear the world apart to get to what’s inside.
"His mother?"
I whisper, the curiosity I felt moments ago turning into a cold, hollow ache. My mind, usually so fast at diagnosing a problem, is stumbling.
"Deimos never... he never mentioned her."
He lets out a dry, rattling laugh, moving even closer.
"Of course he didn't. To speak of her is to admit he is human. To admit he failed. He lives in a world of calculations because he cannot handle the messy, unpredictable nature of grief."
"What do you mean he handed you the weapon?"
I ask, my voice trembling. I need the truth, even if it burns.
"He was a child. How could he be responsible for what you did?"
"Children are the perfect tools, Madeline," he pauses, letting out a long, almost annoyed sigh.
"They want to please. They want to be useful. I told him we were playing a game of trust. I told him to bring me the silver box from her vanity. He didn't know the blade was inside. He didn't know what I intended to do with it."
He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can smell the expensive whiskey on his breath.
"He carries that guilt in every breath he takes. Every person he kills, every 'cleanup' he performs, is just an attempt to wash that phantom blood off his hands. And now, look at him."
He gestures toward the door, which is starting to warp under the heat of a thermal charge.
"He is about to commit a massacre just to save a woman he met barely a few weeks ago. He is repeating the same cycle of blind, desperate devotion."
I look at the door, then back at the man who broke the boy I am slowly beginning to understand. The fear is still there, but it is being replaced by a fierce, protective anger.
"You're wrong," I say, my voice steadying.
"He isn't repeating a cycle. He’s trying to end one. He isn't out there for you. He’s out there for me."
He reaches for the intercom button, his dark eyes shimmering with a sick kind of anticipation.
"Let’s put that theory to the test. Let’s see if he’ll choose your life over the ledger that could finally destroy my empire."
With a deafening, metallic groan, the heavy door swings wide, releasing a cloud of white smoke and the acrid scent of burnt steel.
His father doesn't flinch. Instead, he reaches into the archive shelf and pulls out a porcelain mask. Featureless, bone-white, and cold. He slides it over his face, turning from a man into a haunting, nameless specter of the Elite.
"The face of the father is a burden he isn't ready for," he muffles behind the silk-lined porcelain.
Deimos storms into the room like a physical manifestation of a hurricane. His suit is shredded, his knuckles are split, and his eyes are wild with a terrifying, fractured light. But before he can take two steps toward me, four of the Elite guards, men built like stone walls, swarm him from the shadows of the corridor.
It takes all of them. He fights with a primal desperation, a guttural roar ripping from his throat as he tries to claw his way to the desk.
They pin his arms, forcing him on the ground, his forehead pressing against the cold marble floor as he gasps for air, his gaze locked onto mine with a frantic, agonizing intensity.
"Madeline!"
He chokes out, the name sounding like a prayer and a death rattle all at once.
His father moves with sickening slowness. He steps behind me, his hand winding into my hair to yank my head back, exposing the pulse point of my throat. I feel the freezing bore of a suppressed gun press firmly against my temple.
"Look at him, Madeline," he commands through the mask, his voice distorted and ghostly.
