The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 17 - The Bloodline Grid

​“I don't give a damn about who she's ,” James spat, his voice vibrating with a raw, volatile heat that shook the silence of the cavernous hall. He stood tall, his towering, uncovered frame radiating pure defiance despite his vulnerability. “You want respect? Then let me leave.”

​Father didn’t blink. His ancient face remained as unyielding as carved granite. Slowly, his sharp gaze shifted from James toward the woman standing at the base of the dais.

​“Lyssa. Excuse us,” Father murmured.

​“Okay,” Lyssa replied, her voice smooth but tight with operational urgency. She tapped the screen of her tablet, tilting the interface toward the old man. “But we have located Tidder.”

​She extended a single, black-gloved finger, pointing directly at a pulsing coordinates matrix grid blinking on the digital map. “She's right here.”

​The name struck James like a physical blow. The anger in his chest instantly morphed into a desperate, frantic panic. He took a heavy, lunging step toward the steps of the throne. “Did you just say Tidder? Where the fuck is she? I have to get to her!”

​Lyssa turned her head slowly, her cold, analytical gaze locking onto James’s panicked expression. “To do what, exactly?”

​“She took something that doesn't belong to anyone,” James growled, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white.

​“To anyone?” Father interrupted instantly, his raspy voice rising above James’s tone. He leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing into twin slits of absolute authority. “But me.”

​James froze, the revelation hanging heavily in the damp air between them. “You?”

​“Lyssa,” Father said, dropping his tone into a low, commanding register.

​It was a look she knew all too well—a silent command to drop the subject and leave the room. But Lyssa stood her ground, her fingers tightening against the edges of her tablet.

​“Father, this is the only chance we have to catch her,” Lyssa pressed, her composure fracturing into visible frustration. “We could lose her tracking signature at any second. She already knows someone is looking for her.”

​“Not yet,” Father countered flatly.

​Before Lyssa could argue further, a sharp electronic beep chimed from the device. The pulsing coordinates matrix grid suddenly blinked twice and vanished, replaced by an empty, static screen. The tracking signal had flatlined.

​“No,” Lyssa whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the blank interface. “We just lost her. Fuck.”

​“Lyssa,” Father warned, his voice laced with an icy, dangerous disappointment.

​Instantly, Lyssa let out a sharp, frustrated breath. She didn't say another word. Spinning on her heavy platform heels, she marched back toward the hidden door beside the frame, disappearing into the shadows as the panel slammed shut behind her.

​The room fell into a suffocating quiet. James looked from the hidden door back to the old man on the throne. “How?” James demanded, his voice hollow. “How did she mask her grid so fast?”

​“You don't really know your sister,” Father replied, a faint, mocking shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Not the way you thought you did.”

​The old man shifted his gaze toward Code 202, who had been standing rigidly in the background. “Get him some clothes to put on.”

​Ten minutes later, the heavy constraints of the prison were fully replaced. James stood in the center of the hall, fully clothed in high-grade tactical gear that matched the dark aesthetic from the image 105112.jpg.

​He wore a heavy, matte-black technical tactical jacket fitted with utility straps, metal D-rings, and zippered cargo pockets lining the sleeves, layered over a thick, high-collared black compression shirt. His trousers were rugged, loose-fitting black cargo pants detailed with tactical straps, heavy buckles, and modular utility pouches that tapered sharply into a pair of laced, heavy-duty black leather combat boots. The dark armor made him look like the sovereign predator he was meant to be.

​Father had descended from his high seat and now stood beside a massive, arched stained-glass window at the side of the hall, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out into the torrential rain hammering the courtyard.

​James walked forward, his heavy boots thudding against the stone, until he stood directly beside the old man. He didn't look at the rain. He kept his eyes locked on Father’s profile.

​“What do I need to know about my sister?” James asked, his voice steady but demanding.

​Father didn't even turn his head. “What do you really want to get from her once you see her?”

​“The crystal key.”

​“And after that?” Father pressed.

​“I will use it to buy my friend back from the syndicate,” James said, the image of Todd’s bloody, agonizing torture flashing vividly behind his eyes.

​“And that’s all?”

​“Yes.”

​At that word, Father slowly turned his torso, facing James entirely. James shifted his weight, matching the old man’s stance. They stood eye-to-eye, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a blade.

​“So tell me,” Father murmured, his eyes searching James’s face. “How exactly are you planning to take it from her?”

​James’s jaw tightened. “Why do you care about that?”

​Father let out a faint, dry chuckle—a cold, internal sound—before turning his back on James and looking back out the window. “You're just like her.”

​James frowned slightly, his curiosity growing despite his anger.

​“Tidder… she is an exceptionally brave girl,” Father continued, his voice dripping with an eerie sense of pride. “Smart. Fast. Considerably stronger than she appears. Even when the entire world turns its back on her, she never bows her head.”

​“You talk about her like she’s some kind of legend,” James muttered, his brow furrowing.

​“No, she is no legend,” Father said, his tone dropping into a dark, cynical register. “There is something festering inside that girl. Something far worse than a lack of trust.”

​“I get what you're trying to say,” James cut in coldly. “She’s a traitor to your seat.”

​“And that is precisely why I need you,” Father said, finally turning his head back to look at him.

​“For what, exactly?”

​“Tidder was once a core part of this entire syndicate,” Father revealed, his eyes gleamimg with ancient history.

​James leaned in closer. “And what was she known as inside the walls?”

​“The Pitch,” Father stated flatly. “She was our finest shadow.”

​A deep confusion settled over James. The web was expanding, tangling everyone he knew into a singular, bloody lineage. He stared at the old man, his mind racing. “If she belonged to you… then who the hell is Roman?”

​“He is my son,” Father answered without a shred of warmth.

​James’s breath caught in his throat. “Your son?”

​“But a profound disappointment,” the old man sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Him, Tidder, and Sydney…”

​“I prefer Butcher,” James interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal purr.

​Father raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met him before?”

​“Yes. And your son Roman,” James said, his anger flaring anew. “He has my friend Todd locked in a basement. He’s pouring industrial acid on him as we speak. He wants me to hunt down Tidder and deliver the key in exchange for my friend's life.”

​Father turned back toward the window, completely unbothered by the mention of his son's cruelty. “Do you even know what that key opens, James?”

​James stepped closer, his shadow falling over the old man. “Are you going to tell me?”

​“Have you ever heard the ancient lore of the Crystal Stones?” Father asked.

​“Never heard of it,” James said flatly.

​“If you had, you would know they are real. And they still exist within our grasp,” Father explained, his voice echoing softly against the glass. “There are five stones in total. Each one possesses a terrifying, absolute power.”

​Father began to count them off, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, ominous chant:

​The first possesses the power of Immortality.

The second possesses the power of complete Healing.

The third possesses the power of absolute Wealth.

The fourth possesses the power of Chaos and Darkness.

And the fifth… the fifth possesses the power of Everything.

​“There are only three of those stones whose locations are known to me,” Father murmured, his ringed fingers tapping against his belt. “I have kept them hidden deep, far away from the reach of this continent.”

​James’s mind spun with the sheer weight of the scale. “What about the fourth and fifth stones?”

​“Tidder stole the fifth stone, along with half of the crystal key,” Father revealed, his jaw tightening with a residual fury. “And my pathetic son, Roman, managed to steal the remaining half of the key from my vaults. But the fifth stone is useless without both halves of the key united.”

​The pieces of the puzzle suddenly slammed together in James’s mind. A cold realization washed over him. “That's why she had to infiltrate Roman's syndicate six months ago under a false ledger… She wasn't just running. She was trying to steal the remaining half of the key from Roman so she could unlock it.” James gasped as the sheer scale of the plot became clear. “But… if she succeeds…”

​“She will possess the power of Everything,” Father finished darkly.

​James swallowed hard, his mind racing back to the remaining piece of the puzzle. “But what about the fourth stone? The stone of chaos?”

​Father let out a long, heavy breath, the glass in front of him fogging slightly from his breath.

​“The fourth stone is by far the most dangerous artifact in existence,” the old man whispered, his shoulders rigid. “It is filled with pure agony, hatred, and absolute death.”

​James stared at him, his chest rising and falling heavily. “And where is it?”

​Father turned around slowly, his ancient, predatory eyes locking onto James’s face with a terrifying intensity.

​“It is in the hands of my firstborn son. My most ruthless child and the true heir to the Pitch,” Father said, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute silence as their eyes met.

​“Your brother.”