Prague bled beneath them.
From the rooftop, Nathaniel watched the Widowmaker Summit unfold in the old opera house—a rotting cathedral where criminals wore diamonds like war medals and drank champagne over the bones of their enemies.
"I thought assassins were supposed to be subtle," Ezra muttered, adjusting the sniper rifle.
Nathaniel smirked without humor. "Subtle died when Lorena Black came back from the grave."
Ezra squinted through the scope. "I see her. Center stage. Looking like the damn Virgin Mary of Murder."
Beside them, Alfreda checked her twin daggers, her mouth twisting into something between a smile and a death threat.
"I hope she brought a coffin," she said sweetly. "She's going to need it."
Inside the opera house, Lorena stood in a gown of black silk, a crown of Widowmaker thorns woven into her hair.
"You served fools," she said, voice rising. "Men who fed you crumbs and called it loyalty."
The factions watched, some spellbound, some furious.
"But I," Lorena purred, "will make you gods."
A roar of approval shook the rafters.
In the shadows, Celeste and Alfreda slipped through the crowd, knives hidden beneath silk.
"This is suicide," Celeste hissed.
"Good," Alfreda whispered back. "I'd hate for it to be boring."
Above them, Nathaniel signaled Ezra.
"Cover the exits. If things go to hell—"
Ezra grinned. "When things go to hell, you mean."
Nathaniel gave a grim chuckle. "Yeah. When."
He pulled a small black device from his jacket—a detonator linked to enough explosives to turn the opera house into a memory.
His thumb hovered over the button.
One signal from Alfreda, and he'd burn it all.
He just prayed she wouldn't give it too soon.
On the floor, Lorena continued spinning her web.
She revealed footage from the Vault—leaders caught in acts so foul even the Widowmakers flinched.
Blackmail.
Murder.
Betrayal.
Whispers filled the hall. Some turned against each other already, knives sliding from sleeves.
Lorena smiled like a mother watching her children play.
Alfreda felt bile rise in her throat.
"This isn't power," she muttered to Celeste. "This is rot."
Celeste nodded grimly. "Welcome to the family business."
Then Lorena spoke the words that shattered the night.
"And now," she said, "I give you your new king."
Every eye turned—
—to Nathaniel's photo flashing on the screen.
Lorena smiled like a snake.
"My blood. My heir."
Up on the roof, Ezra choked.
"Uh. Did she just—?"
Nathaniel's hands clenched the ledge until his knuckles turned white.
"No," he growled. "No, no, no—"
Inside, chaos exploded.
Shouts. Guns drawn. Allegiances shattering like glass.
Celeste cursed. "We're made."
Alfreda grabbed her hand. "Then let's make it worth it."
They burst from the shadows, blades flashing.
Celeste cut down two guards before they even saw her coming. Alfreda spun, slicing a traitor across the throat, blood painting the marble floor.
From the balcony, Nathaniel watched Alfreda fight.
Ruthless.
Beautiful.
Deadlier than any army.
He yanked his comms.
"Ezra! New plan! Cover Alfreda. I'm going in."
Ezra swore. "You people are insane!"
Nathaniel laughed—a dark, broken sound—and vaulted off the roof.
He crashed through the opera house's stained-glass dome, shards raining around him like glittering knives.
The crowd screamed.
Nathaniel landed hard, rolled, and came up firing.
Three Widowmakers dropped.
Lorena's eyes met his across the wreckage.
She smiled, slow and venomous.
"My son," she whispered.
Nathaniel raised his gun.
"I'd rather die," he spat.
Lorena just laughed.
A deep, rich laugh that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
"You already have," she said.
And then she pressed a button.
The floor beneath Nathaniel exploded.
Not a bomb.
A trapdoor.
He fell, slamming into darkness, the world spinning.
Concrete. Chains. Ice-cold air.
He was underground.
And waiting in the dark—
Was the real Widowmaker secret.
Above, Alfreda screamed Nathaniel's name, slashing through anyone who got between her and the hole in the floor.
Celeste fired at Lorena, missed, and dove behind a crumbling column.
The opera house buckled under the weight of gunfire and explosives.
And still—
Lorena stood untouched, a dark queen in a crumbling kingdom.
In the pit below…
Nathaniel staggered up, blood trickling from his temple.
Before him stood rows of glass tanks.
Children.
Soldiers.
Experiments.
Widowmakers bred, not born.
A whisper slithered through the air.
"Welcome home," said a voice Nathaniel hadn't heard since he was twelve.
His father's voice.
And stepping from the shadows—
was a man Nathaniel had buried with his own hands.
Alive.
Benedict Black.
Smiling.