She Joked That Everyone Forgot Her Birthday

The sub-chute was a narrow, flooded drainage tube carved into the sea cliff during the Second World War. As Nicholas blew the emergency ballast seals, thousands of gallons of freezing Atlantic seawater rushed into the lower chamber with the roar of an enraged beast.

We dove into the black, churning water, the thermal drysuits Nicholas had tossed me keeping our cores from going into instant shock.

For two agonizing minutes, there was nothing but darkness, the crushing weight of the ocean, and Nicholas’s gloved hand clamped onto mine, pulling me through the high-velocity discharge pipe until we broke the surface inside the shadowed interior of an offshore sea cavern half a mile south of the burning estate.

Bobbing in the pitch-black tide inside the cave was the *Sovereign Shadow*—Nicholas’s high-speed, hydrofoil stealth interceptor, painted matte non-reflective black, docked silently beneath a natural roof of basalt.

Nicholas hauled me onto the wet aluminum deck, his chest heaving, water cascading from his gear. Without wasting a second, he sprinted into the glass cockpit, flipping the pre-ignition breakers for the dual gas-turbine engines.

The instrument panel came alive in low amber hues.

"We have three minutes before their radar sweeps calibrate to sea-surface clutter," Nicholas barked, throwing a dry tactical thermal fleece over my shoulders while he engaged the silent electric thrusters. "Hold on."

The interceptor drifted out of the sea cavern, hugging the base of the cliffs. Behind us, looking back toward the bluffs, the sky was stained a violent, apocalyptic orange. My childhood memories, our shared home, the centuries of history in the Sterling manor—all of it was being reduced to an inferno under the sustained bombardment of the Tribunal's fleet.

"Where are they heading?" I asked, my teeth chattering despite the thermal suit as I slid into the copilot’s seat, strapping the four-point harness across my chest.

"Coordinates from the teleprinter point to the Scoresby Sound fjord system in Northeast Greenland," Nicholas said, his fingers flying across the navigational touchscreens. "It's an abandoned Cold War subterranean naval base designated Site 9. It was built directly over the natural geological fault line that houses the bedrock vault."

Suddenly, the primary satellite transceiver on the console beeped sharply. The screen went black, then flickered with static before settling into an unauthorized live audio feed.

*"She looks cold, Nicholas."*

The voice rattled through the cockpit’s marine speakers. It was smooth, mocking, and laced with absolute triumph.

Nicholas didn't answer. He reached to sever the connection, but I grabbed his wrist. "Wait. Let him talk."

"Arthur" chuckled on the other end, the sound accompanied by the faint, rhythmic chop of a heavy helicopter blade in the background.

*"Elena Vance. Or should I say, the rightful heir to the North Atlantic Charter? I must congratulate you. Surviving a halon purge and a tier-one tactical strike team is impressive for a girl who used to balance harbor freight ledgers in South Boston."*

"Who are you?" I demanded, leaning into the microphone, my voice steady, carrying all the defiance I could muster. "You took a dead man's face. You stole his name. But you aren't a Sterling."

*"Names are trivialities for commoners, Elena,"* the voice replied coldly. *"I am Director Vance's replacement. I am the executor of the Northern Tribunal. For ten years, I lived in your family's shadows, waiting for Nicholas to bring the missing piece to the board. And he did. He brought me you."*

"You don't have her," Nicholas snarled, his knuckles turning white on the throttle. "And you will never reach the primary vault chamber before I sink your ships."

*"Oh, Nicholas. Little brother. You still think this is a race?"* The impostor’s laughter was bone-chilling. *"I don't need to race you. I left an escort behind to ensure your journey north is comfortable. Look at your sonar array."*

On the interceptor's center console, the green sweep of the active sonar picked up three high-speed acoustic signatures rising rapidly from forty fathoms below.