Beneath the iconic Zephyr Hotel, nestled in the upscale Ridgehall District of Valemir, lay a place known only to the few who shaped the world.
It was called The Chamber—a private intelligence lounge, a deal-maker's sanctum, and a curated safe haven for those who dealt not in millions, but in nations, movements, and dynasties.
Chess Golding sat in a corner booth, bathed in amber light, a tumbler of rare Kyoto bourbon in hand. He wore a dark charcoal hoodie over a crisp black shirt, casual enough to blend in, sharp enough to command. The buzz of the lounge was hushed—every conversation coded, every movement watched by cameras that didn't exist on blueprints.
A holographic map hovered above the oak table in front of him, displaying real-time feeds of satellite footage, global currency fluctuations, and more confidential chatter than a government war room.
But his eyes weren't on the data.
They were on the message blinking in the corner of his encrypted display:
Subject: Nyra Alis – Contact Initiated with Elsa Jefferson. Tone: Testing Boundaries.
Chess leaned back and exhaled slowly.
He had expected Kip Mandari to make his move. But Nyra? That was a wildcard. A dangerous one.
"Is it time?" came a voice from across the booth.
A lean man in his forties, dressed like an off-duty professor, stirred his espresso. His name was Silvan Grei, Chess's chief strategist at Aeris Holdings—and also a retired intelligence ghost from a long-forgotten European black ops unit.
"Not yet," Chess replied. "I want to see what Elsa does first."
Silvan smirked. "You trust her."
"I'm watching her," Chess said calmly. "And she's starting to see. To feel. That's more than most."
"Nyra's not a tourist. She doesn't show up unless Kip's laying foundations. Do we intercept?"
Chess swirled the bourbon. "No. Let her push. Elsa needs to sharpen her claws."
Silvan raised a brow. "Cold, even for you."
Chess gave a quiet laugh. "Love isn't fragile. Not with us. It has to be forged."
There was silence for a while.
Then Silvan spoke again, more cautiously.
"And if Kip decides to escalate?"
Chess's eyes turned to the floating map. One sector glowed faintly red — Kip's last known shell company had made a quiet acquisition in Southern Carthia. Suspicious.
"If he crosses the line…" Chess's voice dropped. "I'll tear his foundations out with my bare hands."
Silvan gave a short nod. "Understood."
Just then, a slim woman with silver eyes approached the booth, dressed in a suit that didn't belong in this century. One of The Chamber's on-site handlers.
"Mr. Golding," she said with professional coldness, "You have a visitor request. A private entry. She wouldn't give a name… but she spoke in the ancient tongue."
Chess's eyes narrowed slightly. Only someone from the Hidden Sect would do that.
He stood, brushing invisible dust from his hoodie. "Send her in. Room Dusk Nine."
The woman bowed and disappeared.
Silvan didn't hide his concern. "Someone from the Sect?"
Chess nodded.
"This night just got interesting."
He strode out of the main hall, passing dark glass panels and concealed doors. The farther in he went, the more ancient the space became—less steel, more stone. This was a place older than the city above it, carved out by empires that no longer had names.
Inside Dusk Nine, the air felt heavier.
And there she was—a figure cloaked in gray, standing beside an ancient scroll embedded in glass.
Her voice was soft, ethereal.
"You've strayed too long from the mountain, Chess Golding."
Chess closed the door behind him.
"And yet... it never stops following me."