Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
The walls around them shuddered. A series of muffled, synchronized detonations ripped through the lower foundation of the manor. The primary load-bearing pillars—rigged with industrial C4 weeks in advance—shattered, sending a tidal wave of dust and falling plaster cascading from the vaulted ceiling.
"You rigged the whole estate?" Damian shouted over the roaring thunder of collapsing stone.
"If I couldn't have the throne, nobody could," Julian laughed hysterically, dropping the remote as the floor beneath them began to tilt violently toward the east wing.
A massive oak beam snapped overhead, crashing down between the brothers and splitting the foyer in half. Flames erupted from the ruptured gas lines beneath the floorboards, turning the grand hall into an inferno of roaring red and blinding white.
Through the wall of fire, Damian saw Julian sprinting toward the reinforced exit leading to the subterranean helicopter pad.
"Marcus! Clara!" Damian roared into his comm-link, coughing violently as the smoke filled his lungs. "Get out of the tunnel now! The foundation is going!"
"We're out, boss!" Marcus’s voice crackled back, faint and distant through the static. "We're in the car. But Damian—get out of there!"
Damian didn't answer. He vaulted over the burning wreckage of the oak beam, ignoring the searing heat licking at his skin. His entire world narrowed to a single point: the man running toward the exit. Ten years of guilt, ten years of a stolen legacy, ten years of living a lie—all of it ended here.
May you like
He burst through the collapsing glass doors just as Julian reached the helipad ledge. The secondary chopper was waiting, its blades spinning wildly in the smoke-filled air, but before Julian could grab the landing skid, Damian slammed into him like a freight train.
Both men tumbled across the concrete pad, rolling toward the sheer three-meter drop overlooking the stone boundary wall.
