Chapter 27 - The Fall of the Matriarch
The muzzle flash lit up the edge of the cliff in a burst of violent orange.
Eleanor Hawthorne’s body went rigid against the iron railing.
She looked down at her chest, where a dark crimson stain was rapidly blooming through the fine silk of her jacket.
She looked at Arthur, her eyes wide with an expression he had never seen on her face: sheer, unadulterated shock.
"Arthur..." she whispered, her voice failing.
The rusted iron railing behind her groaned under the shifting weight, its anchors ripping free from the decayed stone.
With a sickening screech of twisting metal, the barrier snapped.
Eleanor fell backward into the black abyss without another sound.
The darkness swallowed her entirely, her silhouette disappearing into the raging river below.
Arthur collapsed onto one knee, the cold mud soaking through his trousers as he stared over the void.
The matriarch was dead.
The foundation upon which his entire existence had been constructed had vanished in an instant.
"Now we're even," Clara whispered, lowering the revolver to her side.
Arthur looked up at her through the sleet, his eyes hollowed by exhaustion and rage.
"You're a monster," Arthur said, the words barely audible over the roar of the gorge.
"I'm what this family manufactured," Clara replied, stepping away from the cliff’s edge toward the gravel turnaround.
An idling black sedan sat with its headlights cutting through the mist, its engine purring smoothly.
The driver’s door opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out, holding an umbrella.
Arthur raised his rifle, but his hands were shaking violently from hypothermia and shock.
"Don't bother, Arthur," Clara said without turning around. "The ammunition in that magazine was swapped while you slept."
Arthur pulled the trigger.
A dull *click* echoed in the rain.
The chamber was empty.
He lowered the useless weapon, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead.
"Why didn't you kill me?" Arthur asked, his voice rough. "At the wedding. In the vault. Right now."
Clara paused at the rear door of the sedan, her hand resting on the polished chrome handle.
She looked back at him over her shoulder, the cold elegance returning to her features like a porcelain mask.
"Because living with the ashes is worse than dying in the fire," she said calmly.
"Where are you going?" Arthur demanded, forcing himself to his feet.
"To the final masquerade," Clara said, slipping into the leather interior. "You have twenty-four hours to save your city, Arthur."
The door slammed shut with a heavy, armored thud.
The sedan accelerated smoothly down the mountain drive, its red taillights disappearing into the thick fog.
Evelyn staggered onto the terrace, out of breath, her weapon lowered.
She looked at the broken railing, then at Arthur, who stood staring into the mountain dark.
May you like
"It's over," Evelyn breathed.
"No," Arthur said, his eyes hardening into flint. "It's just beginning."
