THE BLOODLINES AND BETRAYALS HIDDEN BENEATH THE GLITTERING ASHES OF THE DUKE'S ESTATE

“Now!” Clara roared just as Vance slammed his fist down onto the enter key of the frequency modulator.

With a loud, metallic pop, the red LED light on the heavy steel door flickered from crimson to a brilliant, life-saving green. The hydraulic locks disengaged with a pneumatic hiss. Clara didn't wait for the door to swing open on its own; she threw her entire shoulder against the heavy steel, shoving it wide open into the steam-filled corridor beyond.

Through the blinding white fog, three masked figures in black tactical gear raised their submachine guns, their silhouettes stark against the corridor lights.

Commander Vance didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee and fired a rapid three-round burst from his rifle, catching the lead mercenary squarely in the chest plate and sending him crashing backward.

“Move, move, move!” Clara commanded, hauling Julian up by his arm and dragging him out of the death trap into the cleaner air of the underground service tunnel.

They sprinted down the long, winding corridor, the sound of heavy pursuit echoing behind them like thunder. Clara led them up a vertical maintenance ladder hidden behind a false panel in the wall, bursting out directly into the moonlit courtyard of the estate's old carriage house.

The cold night air hit their burning lungs like ice water. Julian collapsed against the wooden wheel of an antique carriage, gasping for air as blood trickled from a minor steam burn on his wrist.

“We... we can’t keep running, Clara,” Julian panted, looking around the deserted courtyard with utter despair. “Every exit is guarded. The police are compromised. The Prime Minister wants us dead. Where do we even go?”

Clara stood in the center of the courtyard, her grey maid’s dress torn and stained with soot and mud, but her posture was as unyielding as iron. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the small brass pocket watch they had found in the vault, turning it over in her palm.

“We don’t run anymore, Julian,” Clara said, her voice steady and resolute. “We take the fight straight to the Prime Minister’s doorstep.”

Commander Vance reloaded his rifle with a calm, practiced motion. “It’s suicide without an army, Lady Clara. The capital is locked down under emergency martial law.”