Zion.

  Walkyria knew the place. She’d lost a few nights there, blurred memories of laughter and strong drinks. But it felt odd to see that address marked in the message on her communicator.

  Grey, choosing Zion? That didn’t make any sense.

  Standing before the entrance, her eyes scanned the space. It was still daytime, so there was no movement, no music, none of the energy she remembered; only a guard at the door, expressionless, hands clasped in front of his body.

  She frowned, suspicious, until she felt the presence before even hearing the footsteps.

  Grey.

  He appeared behind her, as if the place belonged to him. A small smile curved his lips when their eyes met.

  “Good morning, Walkyria.” his gaze dropped to the small suitcase by her side. “I see you came prepared.”

  She didn’t answer. She just felt foolish, standing in front of a building whose ground floor used to pulse with parties and drinks at night, and now she was there, backpack on her shoulder and a rolling suitcase at her feet.

  He kept the smile, walked past her, and gestured with his chin for her to follow. Still puzzled, she obeyed in silence. Without saying a word, he shot a firm look at the guard, who immediately stepped aside.

  “Let’s go.” he said simply, his voice deep and direct, and moved ahead.

  Walkyria followed, the strangeness of the empty place weighing in her stomach. The interior, once vivid in her memories, now felt hollow; the vast space dimly lit, their footsteps echoing like a confession of every move.

  Grey walked without hesitation, like someone who had known the path for a long time. He led her down a narrow side corridor that ended before an elevator with metal doors. His hand was scanned; a faint buzz answered. Then, silence.

  The display flickered, showing the elevator rising. Walkyria crossed her arms, impatient.

  “Would you mind telling me what we’re doing here?”

  Grey didn’t take his eyes off the panel.

  “You’ll understand on the seventh floor.”

  The doors opened with a dry snap. They entered. The silence was thick, broken only by the mechanical hum of the lift carrying them up. Walkyria felt the tension climb with every illuminated number.

  When the panel marked the floor, the elevator halted with a soft jolt. The doors opened to a wide corridor, lit with an almost clinical precision. Further ahead, muffled voices echoed from behind a reinforced door.

  Grey stepped forward, posture composed, as though this place were simply an extension of himself.

  “We’re here.”

  The place was nothing like the underworld Walkyria remembered from Zion. It looked almost like the discreet lobby of a private hotel. Pale leather sofas were arranged around a sleek glass table where trays of fruit, bread, and small snacks rested.

  A few people occupied the seats: two laughed quietly, relaxed; another flipped idly through a datapad, the bluish light reflected in his eyes; further back, someone was dozing off, arm draped over the couch.

  There was no rush, no military stiffness; only the disarming naturalness of people who knew exactly where they were and whom they served.

  Walkyria followed Grey without a word. He didn’t stop, nor offer explanations. He led her through one of the short side halls, its smooth walls reflecting the cold light, until they reached a plain, unmarked door.

  Grey opened it, motioning for her to enter.

  Beyond it, the atmosphere shifted. A wide, yet unadorned room awaited them. At its center stood a large round table with a dark polished surface. Around it, several agents were already seated. Their postures varied: one reclined, another had his hands clasped on the table, others exchanged quiet, attentive glances as they spoke in low tones.

  Then a voice rose, calm, almost gentle:

  “Walkyria, correct?”

  She looked up. Grey made a nearly theatrical gesture of introduction:

  “Meet our Conduit, your new superior... our Queen. Cecilia.”

  The woman at the head of the table leaned forward slightly, her smile warm, a stark contrast to the coldness Walkyria had braced for. Her short, voluminous hair, arranged in firm waves, gave her an imposing, almost theatrical air that matched her refined posture. Despite her advanced age — she must have been past sixty, perhaps more — there was an impeccable elegance about her, the kind of sophistication that didn’t fade with time, only deepened.

  Her attire was sober but perfectly tailored, adorned with discreet jewelry that reflected the contained glow of a woman accustomed to setting the tone of every room she entered.

  “Welcome to the Order, Walkyria.” Cecilia said, her calm gaze locking on hers. “Welcome to the Court.”

  ? ? ?

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  It was still difficult for Walkyria to believe that the very same building where she had once spent nights drifting between drinks, laughter — and other less innocent distractions — would now become her new home.

  After the formal introduction, Grey had escorted her back to the elevator, taking it several floors higher. When the doors opened, she found a setting similar to the one below: something reminiscent of a hotel reception area, spacious and quiet, though this time completely empty.

  She followed him in silence, still trying to process everything she was seeing as they moved down a carpeted hallway lined with low lighting. Farther ahead, the space widened, suggesting a small antechamber. From there, another stretch of corridor extended, four doors aligned discreetly and symmetrically along the wall.

  Grey stopped in front of the last one. He opened it with a firm motion and, without saying a word, simply gestured for her to step inside.

  “Get ready.” he said, in the practical tone of someone who no longer expected surprises. “In thirty minutes, I’ll be back. We’re heading out for your first field mission.”

  Walkyria crossed the threshold, giving the room a quick glance before turning back to him, the corner of her lips curving into a half-smile.

  “The brothel job didn’t count as a mission?”

  Grey let out a short breath through his nose, something between a restrained laugh and disbelief.

  “That was a test.” his faint smile stayed, fixed in place as if out of habit. “To see if you had the stomach for this.”

  She folded her arms, shifting her weight to one side.

  “Stomach I had. What I’m missing is the guts to actually... finish someone off.”

  Grey leaned against the doorframe. The sigh that escaped him was long and dragged, betraying a kind of weariness, or maybe just the disinterest of someone who’d seen this all too many times.

  “Not very common.” he shrugged. “But you might have to do it again. Occasionally, that’s part of the job.”

  Walkyria just watched him, uncertain whether what she saw was coldness or some strange kind of self-preservation. He was young, yes, but there was weight in him, something not learned through age, but through scars.

  For a moment, her hand lifted almost on impulse, a brief, unconscious gesture, about to touch his face. But as if something in her mind suddenly snapped, she pulled back quickly, hand falling to her side.

  Grey noticed. His gaze slid to hers, sharp, attentive, as if reading some invisible code. Neither of them said a word. They let the silence stretch, heavy and full of unsaid things.

  He was the one who broke it.

  Uncrossing his arms, he let his usual measured smile return calm to his face, unreadable.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  And then he turned, footsteps nearly soundless down the corridor, leaving her alone before the new room and with the strange feeling that, somehow, he had already read her completely.

  Walkyria stayed still, watching his back until he disappeared around the corner. Only then did she notice the air trapped in her lungs. She drew a deep breath, trying to dissolve the uneasy mix inside her — curiosity, irritation, and something she couldn’t quite name.

  There was something about Grey that disarmed her without effort. It wasn’t just his voice — that low, contained, almost lazy tone — but the way he seemed to see her past the surface, as if he could strip her bare without laying a hand on her.

  She shook her head, almost laughing at herself.

  It was just the beginning. Nothing more than a new contact, a new mission.

  Still, when she closed the door behind her, the echo of his voice — thirty minutes — kept pulsing somewhere inside her, uncomfortable and persistent.

  Walkyria frowned at herself. Did I really think about touching his face? she wondered, pouting at her own thought. She didn’t allow it to linger. Dropping her backpack carelessly, she set her suitcase beside the bed that would, from now on, be hers.

  She looked around. The room was simple, functional, yet aesthetically delicate. A small table in the corner held an orchid; the narrow window let in a faint light that softened the space. A bed, a small wardrobe, and a private bathroom, modest but intimate.

  She smiled to herself, satisfied.

  After more than a year living in cramped quarters shared with other women, what the Court offered her now felt like luxury.

  But there was no time for daydreaming.

  She put on the uniform, sleek and form-fitting, and spent a moment studying herself in the mirror inside the wardrobe. For an instant, she allowed reflection to surface. The previous night still lingered in her mind, especially the look in that man’s eyes.

  Johnny’s father.

  She wondered what had become of the brothel after what happened. The scenes that followed were quick, blurred, fragments her mind refused to retain. Yet she remembered, with a tinge of embarrassment, having let herself collapse into Grey’s arms. In that instant, somewhere between rage and relief, she had felt safe — and hated herself even more for it.

  She remembered staying close to him for a few minutes, until his touch loosened subtle, almost imperceptible. Reality had returned like a punch when he stood up and, in an even voice, said:

  “Time to go.”

  Walkyria had tried to stand. Her face was pale, her body trembling, but she still sought composure. Grey watched in silence. Without a word, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, the heavy fabric warming her chilled skin.

  “I don’t need...” she muttered resentfully, trying to shrug off the gesture.

  He didn’t answer. He simply crouched down, slid an arm behind her, and lifted her with ease, ignoring her weak protests.

  “Just fake a little drama.” was all he said, short, voice low but steady. “And leave the rest to me.”

  As they exited the King’s chamber, a few women turned to look at them. There was a subdued murmur, curiosity and speculation in their eyes. Walkyria closed hers, trying to mask the pain, but the burn of embarrassment stung hotter than the bruises on her neck.

  “Where are her quarters?” Grey asked evenly, addressing one of the girls.

  Hesitant, one of the girls led them to one of the shared rooms, the silence heavy with every step.

  With a gentleness Walkyria wasn’t used to, he set her down on the bed. Her fingers instinctively clung to the jacket still draped around her shoulders, as if that brief layer of protection were indispensable. She sighed, weary, before running a hand through her hair, trying to bring order to what little of herself remained.

  For a moment, Grey watched her with the same pragmatic coldness, the same attempt to cling to his role: assess, deliberate, decide. Doubt gnawed at him. Would she be able to move through this world of shadows, or had that night broken her for good?

  The answer came sharp, unwavering. Walkyria took off the jacket and handed it back, her eyes already gleaming with something renewed.

  “If joining the Order means wiping filth like that off the map...” her fingers brushed the purplish bruise on her neck, then subtly outlined the still-aching line of her jaw. Her voice was firm despite the pain. “Then I want in.”

  Grey allowed himself a small, satisfied contained smile. The million-dollar question had been answered.

  Walkyria exhaled. She was in, now, officially part of the Order.

  Her eyes landed on the small knife lying carelessly on the bed. For a moment, she froze, as though the simple object carried too much weight. She picked it up, slowly unsheathing it. The blade caught her reflection, and she saw herself in a way she no longer recognized.

  The thought of killing someone still twisted her stomach; fear, perhaps disgust. As vile as Johnny’s father had proven to be, as strong as the justification was... she knew, deep down, she had failed.

  In the last instant, she simply couldn’t do it.

  She watched the cold gleam of the metal, the flawless edge. Inevitably, she wondered: if the moment came, would I be able to use it?

  She drew a long, heavy breath. Fastened the weapon to her belt, the movement a little hesitant, almost resigned. Apparently, at some point in this new life, she would be tested again.

  And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be a Grey to help her.

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