In all of the Harbor, everyone knew that Elena and I were a package deal—two souls bound by a single, knotted cord of fate. Thirty years ago, during the Great Dock Riots, she took a blade to the spine for me. In return, I had a rusted rebar rod driven through my abdomen, pinning me to the concrete while the world burned around us. We crawled out of that pile of corpses together, and from the ashes of that night, we built the Iron Covenant. For three decades, we had no children. She was my only kin, my only blood. She used to tell me that God didn't give us children because He was afraid we’d give our lives away to someone else. He wanted us to keep all that fire for each other. I believed her. Until my fiftieth birthday, when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private chapel she had maintained for thirty years—the place where she supposedly kept a "perpetual flame" burning for my protection. The scent of expensive sandalwood was choked by the musky, unmistakable stench of sex. A boy young enough to be my son looked up from her embrace, his eyes wide and startled. In the moment our gazes met, I felt a sickening jolt of vertigo. It was like looking at a ghost. He was the mirror image of me—young, clean, and terrifyingly innocent. Elena didn't flinch. She calmly pulled his shirt over his shoulders, shielding him. Her eyes held no guilt, only the cold, flat indifference of a woman who had let time erode her soul. "Silas," she said, her voice steady as stone. "You’re getting old. Don't let your temper get the better of you." I smiled, a slow, jagged thing. I reached behind my back and drew the pistol from my waistband, pressing the cold muzzle directly against her forehead. "My temper is fine, Elena," I whispered. "That’s why today, I’m only killing one of you."
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