The Paralyzed King

Alistair pulled away from her. He backed up against the filing cabinets.

"You are terminated," he said. "Get out of my house. Get out of my life."

"You can't fire me," Elara said calmly. "I'm essential personnel."

"I will call the police. I will tell them about Sterling."

"And I will tell them about the dam," Elara countered. "And the illegal munitions you kept. And the 'Miller' incident. We go down together, Alistair. That’s the logic of Mutually Assured Destruction."

"Get. Out." Alistair pointed to the stairs.

Elara stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded. "As you wish, General. I'll be outside."

She walked up the stairs.

Alistair ran to the security panel. He punched in the code to lock the heavy steel doors of the tower. He engaged the shutters. He isolated the Horologium.

He spent the next six hours in the War Room, watching the cameras. Elara sat on the bench across the street, reading a book. She looked patient.

Night fell. The rain started.

Alistair’s throat was parched. He reached for the tea she had brought down to the Archive. He hadn't touched it then, but the adrenaline was fading, leaving him exhausted.

He took a sip. It was cold, bitter.

Ten minutes later, his fingers went numb.

He tried to stand, but his legs collapsed. He fell into his leather chair, gasping.

Neurotoxin. A paralytic.

* She poisoned the tea hours ago.*

The electronic lock on the War Room door beeped. *Access Granted.*

Elara walked in. She was wet from the rain. She shook her umbrella out and leaned it against the wall.

"I told you," she said, walking to the desk. "You've gotten soft. You didn't check the perimeter. You didn't check the supplies."

Alistair tried to speak, but his tongue felt like lead. He could only track her with his eyes.

"I didn't break in," Elara explained, answering his look. "I never gave back the master key. You assumed I did because I said 'As you wish.' You trusted words, not actions. Inefficient."

She walked behind his desk. She spun his chair so he was facing the door.

"We have a situation, General," she said, her voice dropping into that crisp, military cadence.

She placed a tablet on the desk in front of him. It showed a live feed of the street below. Three black SUVs had pulled up. Men in tactical gear were exiting.

"The Sons of Kaelen," Elara said. "A radical group formed by the survivors of the families you drowned. They’ve been hunting you for years. I found them. And I sent them your coordinates."

Alistair’s eyes widened.

"Why?" he croaked, the word barely a slur.

"Because you need a war," Elara said. "You need to remember who you are."

She pulled a metronome from her pocket. She set it on the desk.

* Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.*

"They will be at the door in three minutes," Elara said. "They will breach. They will torture you. They will kill you. That is Outcome A."

She walked to the wall of antique weapons—sabers, muskets, and a modern, suppressed pistol in a display case. She took the pistol. She checked the chamber.

"Outcome B," she said, turning to him. "You reinstate me. You give the order. And I handle it."

"You... tipped... them... off..." Alistair managed to wheeze.

"I created a tactical scenario," Elara corrected. "Just like the map. You are surrounded. You are outnumbered. You have a weapon—me. Do you use it?"