THE SHADOW’S KING REVENGE

Magnus Cross

The guards rushed at him from three directions, batons lifted high. Their boots slammed against the marble floor as they moved in unison. This wasn’t new to them. They were trained to control crowds, handle troublesome guests, and deal with protesters who slipped inside. 

Dominic stood.

He didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't raise his hands to defend himself. He simply lifted his right foot and brought his heel down hard against the marble floor.

The impact shouldn't have done anything. A shoe hitting stone. But the sound that came wasn't a tap, it was a crack like thunder breaking overhead. The floor beneath Dominic's foot spiderwebbed with hairline fractures that spread outward in a perfect circle.

Then the shockwave hit.

It was invisible, a pulse of force that radiated from the point of impact like a bomb going off underwater. The guards closest to Dominic were lifted off their feet and thrown backward. Bodies slammed into marble pillars with bone-breaking force. Three men crashed through the champagne fountain in an explosion of crystal and sparkling wine. Two more hit the far wall and crumpled, leaving spiderweb cracks in the plaster.

Tables overturned. Chairs skidded across the floor. A bronze sculpture of a dancer toppled from its pedestal and shattered on impact. Screams filled the ballroom as guests scrambled for the exits, designer gowns and tailored tuxedos trampling each other in panic.

Glass rained from the chandeliers overhead, tinkling like windchimes as it fell.

Dominic sat back down. He picked up his wine glass, somehow still intact, and took a slow sip. Around him, guards writhed on the floor, clutching broken ribs and twisted ankles. One man tried to crawl toward the exit, his leg bent at an angle that made people look away.

The ballroom had gone from elegant to warzone in seconds.

Upstairs, in the private observation lounge that overlooked the main floor, Derek Cole sprayed a mouthful of wine across the glass partition. He was in his fifties, silver-haired and distinguished, a real estate developer who'd partnered with Vivienne on three projects. He'd seen a lot in his career. Labor disputes. Angry investors. Even a bomb threat once.

He'd never seen anything like this.

"What the hell was that?" Derek's voice came out strangled.

The man standing beside him didn't answer immediately. Magnus Cross stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the chaos below with the detached interest of someone studying an insect under glass. He was tall and lean, somewhere in his sixties but moving like a man half that age. His hair was iron-grey, cut military short. A thin scar ran from his left temple to his jaw—a memento from conflicts no one talked about anymore.

"Interesting," Magnus said quietly.

"Interesting? The man just..." Derek gestured helplessly at the carnage below. "He didn't even touch them!"

"No. He didn't." Magnus's eyes tracked Dominic's movements, cataloging every detail. "Which makes him considerably more dangerous than I anticipated."

On the ground floor, Tristan Ashford stood frozen near the VIP section, his face pale. His bodyguards had scattered with the shockwave, leaving him alone and exposed. He stared at Dominic, at the destroyed ballroom, at his security team broken on the marble floor.

Then something in Tristan snapped.

He lunged forward and grabbed a baton from a guard's limp hand. His fingers closed around the grip as he charged toward Dominic's table, screaming incoherently. The weapon rose above his head.

"Kneel! You'll kneel for what you've done! You'll—"

Dominic flicked his wrist.

The baton tore from Tristan's grip like it had been yanked by invisible strings. It spun through the air end over end, a black blur against the chandelier light. Then it changed trajectory mid-flight and slammed down into Tristan's shin with a crack that echoed through the ballroom.

Tristan's scream was high-pitched and raw. He went down hard, both hands clutching his leg. The bone had shattered, even from a distance, you could see the unnatural angle. His expensive tuxedo pants were already darkening with blood.

"Please," Tristan gasped, tears streaming down his face. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't—I can't—please—"

Dominic rose from his chair and walked over. His shadow fell across Tristan's face. Without a word, he placed his boot on the side of Tristan's head and began to apply pressure. Just a little at first. Then more.

Tristan's pleas became incoherent, a babble of broken syllables and animal sounds. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at Dominic's ankle. The marble floor was slick with his tears.

Dominic leaned forward, shifting more weight onto his boot.

"STOP RIGHT THERE!"

Dominic paused. He didn't lift his boot, but he stopped applying pressure.

At the far end of the ballroom, the grand staircase descended from the observation lounge. Two figures appeared at the top. Derek Cole looked sick, one hand gripping the railing for support. Beside him, Magnus Cross descended with measured steps, each footfall deliberate and controlled.

The remaining guests parted like water as the two men walked through the ruined ballroom. Derek's eyes darted everywhere—the broken guards, the shattered fountain, the destroyed sculptures, while Magnus's gaze never left Dominic.

They stopped ten feet away from where Dominic stood over Tristan.