Chapter 1: The Weight of the Crown
Chapter 1: The Weight of the Crown
The silence in the hospital room was heavy and suffocating. Evan looked between his father, who was currently on his knees clutching his stomach, and my Uncle Simon, who stood completely still. Simon’s face didn’t register anger. It was worse than anger—it was absolute indifference. To Simon, the two men in the room weren't a threat; they were a mess that needed to be cleared away.
"Dad?" Evan’s voice lost its smug, dominant edge, replaced by a sharp spike of panic. "Get up. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just an old man."
Douglas Harlan didn't get up. He dragged himself backward, his expensive leather jacket scraping against the linoleum floor, his eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed entirely on the faded black dagger and broken crown on Simon's forearm.
"The... The Vanguard," Douglas choked out, his voice trembling so violently his teeth clicked. "You're Simon Vance. The Executioner of the 4th Division. You're dead. You died in the overseas purge thirty years ago."
Simon didn't answer. He couldn't. He had already placed his hearing aids on the tray. He didn't need to hear their excuses, their justifications, or their apologies. He only needed to see. And what he saw was his granddaughter bruised, clutching a newborn baby, while two men celebrated her subjugation.
Evan, arrogant and blind to the reality of his father's terror, stepped toward Simon. "Look, old man, I don't care what kind of biker gang or military unit you used to be in. This is my wife, this is my son, and this is my room. You pack up your muffins and you get the hell out of here before I call security."
Evan reached out to grab Simon’s shoulder.
It happened so fast my eyes could barely track the movement. Simon didn't flinch. He simply caught Evan’s wrist. There was no theatrical struggle. Simon merely squeezed.
The sound of Evan’s wrist bones grinding together filled the quiet room. Evan’s knees instantly buckled. A high-pitched, pathetic shriek left his throat as he was forced down to the floor, right next to his father’s vomit. Simon didn't look down at him. He kept his eyes locked on Douglas.
Douglas began to weep. A grown man, known in our city as a ruthless real estate mogul who used intimidation and corrupt police connections to crush anyone in his way, was weeping on a hospital floor.
"Please," Douglas begged, raising his hands in surrender. "Please, Vance. He didn't know. I didn't know she was yours. We thought she was just an orphan. We thought she had no one."
"That's your mistake," I whispered from the bed, my voice raspy from the trauma to my throat. "You thought because I was quiet, I was alone."
Simon looked back at me. He saw my eyes were open. He sighed softly, a gentle, grandfatherly expression momentarily breaking through his iron mask. He released Evan’s wrist. Evan collapsed entirely, cradling his ruined hand, gasping for air, looking up at Simon as if he had just encountered a demon.
Simon walked back to the tray, picked up his hearing aids, and carefully put them back into his ears. He turned down the volume slightly, then looked at Douglas.
"Douglas Harlan," Simon said, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection. "Thirty-two years ago, you were a dishonorably discharged supply sergeant who stole rations and sold weapons to militias. I spared your life back then because your wife was pregnant. I see the child you spared him for has grown up to be a coward who strikes women."
Douglas hid his face in his hands. "We'll leave. We'll leave the city. We'll give her everything."
"You will leave this room," Simon corrected. "You will go home. You will prepare the divorce papers. Full custody of Owen to Serena. Every asset Evan owns will be transferred to her name by tomorrow noon. If a single lawyer calls her, if a single reporter gets a breath of this, or if I see either of your faces within a mile of my girl..."
Simon paused, stepping over Evan to look directly down at Douglas.
"...I will remind you why they called my unit the Vanguard. And I won't use a gavel to settle the score."
Douglas scrambled to his feet, dragging Evan up by his good arm. Evan was crying now, the "BEST DAD" balloon bobbing mockingly above his head as his father literally hauled him out of the room. They didn't look back. The door slammed shut, leaving only the faint scent of copper, sickness, and apple muffins behind.
Simon turned to me. The terrifying aura vanished instantly. He limped over to my bedside, his bad knee clicking, and sat gently on the edge of the mattress. He reached out with a rough, calloused hand and lightly brushed a stray hair away from my forehead, careful not to touch my bruised neck.
"Are you okay, Serena?" he asked softly.
May you like
I looked down at Owen, who had finally stopped crying and was now sleeping peacefully against my chest. "I am now, Uncle. But they won't stop with just a threat. Douglas has money. Evan has power. They will try to fight back once the fear wears off."
Simon smiled, a slow, grim turning of his lips. "Let them try, darling. They think they own this city. They forget who built the foundations they're standing on."
