Page 82 of Honor Bound

Coleridge leaned closer, his smile widening into something almost feral. “I made sure I wouldn’t be the only one haunting you. I offered Zoak an irresistible deal—a fortune beyond imagining. All he has to do is kill you.”

Andri’s breath quickened, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His mind raced, calculating and recalculating every conversation, every alliance. The walls felt as though they were closing in.

“And then there’s Roan,” Coleridge said, his voice softening to a deadly whisper. “You think you know him. You don’t. He’s not a boy anymore. He’s a dangerousman, a warrior. And if Zoak doesn’t finish the job… Roan will. And trust me, you won’t see him coming.”

Coleridge’s image leaned back, his expression smug, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Keep both eyes open, Andri. You’ll need them.” The screen flickered and went black.

For a long moment, Andri stood frozen. His breath came in short bursts, his chest tightening with a mix of fury and fear. Then, with a roar, he drove his fist into the communicator. Sparks flew, the device cracking under the force of the blow.

“Damn you, Coleridge!” he snarled, his voice hoarse. “Even dead, you try to take everything from me!”

His hands trembled; his pulse thundered in his ears. His mind replayed the message, every word, every smirk, every calculated jab. His eyes darted to his computer console. Seconds later, his fingers flew across the controls.

The connection buzzed, and then Zoak’s face filled the screen—calm, collected, and utterly unfazed.

“Director Andronikos,” Zoak said smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his thin lips. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Coleridge is dead. Whatever deal he made with you dies with him,” Andri barked. “I’ll double his offer. Walk away.”

Zoak chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Tempting, but no. You see, killing you? That’s not just a job—it’s a legacy. And legacy matters.”

Andri’s eyes narrowed, his fury bubbling to the surface. “You’ll regret this, Turbinta.”

Zoak’s grin widened. “Perhaps. But if we’re going to renegotiate, we’ll do it in person. Until then….” His expression sharpened.

The screen went dark.

Andri stared at the blank console, his breath ragged. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—cold, sharp, and filled with the twisted promise of retribution.

“Fine,” he whispered. “Let them come. Let them all come.”

He began to pace again, each step slower, more deliberate. “But, Roan… you’ll be last. You’ll watch everything burn first. I’ll take everything from you—everything you care about. The woman, Julia Marksdale, will be the last to fall. I want you to feel it, Roan. To know what it’s like to lose.”

He stopped, his eyes gleaming with madness. “You’ll beg for death before I’m finished.”

And then, softly, he laughed—cold and hollow, a sound that echoed long after he left the room.

* * *

Cyron II Moon Base:

Cryon II’s artificial atmosphere buzzed faintly around him, a static hum that had become a constant companion in Zoak’s days of observation. Perched high above the commerce district, Zoak blended seamlessly into the shadows cast by the complex latticework of towers and walkways that crisscrossed the moon’s city. The dark windows of forgotten offices reflected the soft glow of distant lights, and the muffled sound of transport pods passing overhead was the only noise that broke the silence.

Zoak shifted his weight, his body moving with the practiced ease of a predator who had spent most of his life blending into the shadows. His fingers drummed softly against the sleek casing of his rifle, a steady rhythm as his eyes remained locked on the scene unfolding in Dorane’s office.

A lesser assassin would have pulled the trigger already. A clean shot, an easy kill. Efficient, but ultimately forgettable. Zoak had never been interested in forgettable. He wanted his kills to be poetry—precision wrapped in chaos, death with a message. Every target was a canvas, every strike a signature that left an indelible mark on history. He didn’t just kill people. He killed the idea of them.

The Ancient Knights of the Gallant, Roan, Dorane… all of them. They weren’t just men; they were symbols.

Taking them down wasn’t about the money—though the bounty Andri had offered was enough to make the most hardened assassin’s mouth water. No, this was about something far greater: legacy, his legacy.

Zoak had grown up with nothing. No name, no family, no home. Just a thin blanket of survival instincts and an innate talent for death. The Turbinta had given him purpose, training him in the art of assassination, molding him into a weapon. But they had also given him rules, constraints. For years, he’d followed those rules. Until one day, he’d realized that rules were just a collar and leash—and he wasn’t a Torrian wolfhound.

He’d killed his own master to prove it. But, it had not garnered Zoak the prestige he deserved. His Master had not had any standing among the ranks of Turbinta masters—not like Tallei.

His eyes flicked back to Dorane, watching the man pace the length of his office like a restless animal. Zoak smiled thinly. He’d been observing Dorane for days, and what had started as a routine hunt had quickly turned into something far more interesting. Dorane was unraveling. Something—or someone—was driving him mad. The great and powerful Dorane LeGaugh, the man who held half the galaxy in his pocket, was slipping.

Fascinating.

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