Page 41 of When Kings Fall

The air changes immediately. This isn’t the cold, damp tunnel we’ve been trudging through for hours. The walls here are different—cleaner, warmer. Wood panels replace the concrete, and the floor beneath our feet feels sturdier, smoother. It’s like we’ve stepped into a different world, one far removed from the dank, underground corridors we’ve been crawling through.

But it’s still not right. It’s too clean, too polished. Someone’s been taking care of this place, and that only makes me more nervous. Who would maintain a passage like this? What kind of secret are we walking into?

The hallway begins to slope upward, a subtle incline that suggests we’re nearing the surface again. My heart pounds in my chest, the weight of what we’re about to face settling heavily in my gut. We’re close. Too close to turn back now. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is all too easy, too smooth.

Ahead of me, Selene stops. There’s a hole in the wall, a small beam of light streaming through it, casting a narrow ray onto the floor. Without hesitation, she crouches and presses her eye to the opening.

I can’t see her face, but I watch as her body goes still, her breath catching in her throat. After a long moment, she pulls back, her expression unreadable, and nods toward the hole.

I step forward, peering through the small opening. What I see sends a jolt through me.

Dain Kavanagh, Ireland’s president, sits at an ornate desk in a room that looks like something out of a painting. Pastel walls trimmed with gold, a lavish chandelier hanging overhead, and the man himself—calm, relaxed, flipping through papers as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He has no idea what’s coming.

Selene and I lock eyes, and in that brief, silent exchange, we both know what has to happen next.

There’s no going back. No turning away.

I press my hands against the wall, feeling the cool surface beneath my palms as I slide the panel open.

And we step through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Niamh

NONE OF THIS was covered in ballet school.

I’ve done everything right my whole life. Listened to my parents. Obeyed every teacher. Did what I was told, without ever asking why. And yet here I am, standing in the president of Ireland’s private office, about to confront him about a murderous cult, alongside the man I love, who just took down an entire mafia on his own, and a woman who has been running for her life ever since we met.

Diarmuid slides the panel open with practiced precision. My heart slams against my ribs, and I instinctively hold my breath. Every muscle in my body locks as I wait for the explosion of violence I’ve come to expect. Any second now, men will pour in, guns raised, fingers on triggers. They’ll shoot first, ask questions later. They’ll kill us before we get a single word out. Diarmuid, Selene, me—we’re already dead.

But when I open my eyes, it’s just… quiet.

The room is empty, almost absurdly so. No guards. No chaos. Just a few plump chairs arranged around a glowing fireplace. The carpet is so thick it’s like stepping into a dream, and the walls glisten with rose gold and deeper gold accents, like something out of a museum or a fairytale. It’s beautiful. Wrong. All of it is wrong.

And then there’s him.

Dain Kavanagh, the president of Ireland, doesn’t move. He sits at his desk, frozen mid-action, papers in his hands, staring at us like we’re ghosts. His light blue eyes, the kind which seems to see through you, narrow in confusion but not fear. Not panic.He’s… calm. No sudden movements, no scrambling for security. He just watches us, his tie hanging loose around his neck, stubble lining his sharp jaw like he’s been too busy to shave. Too busy doing what, I wonder. Plotting? Killing? How deep does this go?

We’ve walked into the lion’s den, and the lion doesn’t even blink.

The silence grows unbearable. It claws at my throat. I look at Diarmuid, expecting him to say something, but he remains cold, immovable, like stone. Typical. But then I glance at Selene. Selene, who’s always quick with a retort, who never lets a man in power intimidate her—and yet she’s still. Too still. That blow to her head did more than we thought. It knocked the fight out of her. This isn’t Selene. This isn’t right.

I swallow the lump in my throat, about to speak when Selene finally opens her mouth.

“Mr. President,” she says, her voice low and steady, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. It’s the sound of a woman pushed too far. “I’m Selene. This is Niamh, and this is Diarmuid. We’re here because you need to know what’s happening in your country.”

Dain doesn’t respond. His eyes flick from Selene to Diarmuid, then to me, sizing us up, calculating. He’s reading us, trying to figure out if we’re a threat or just a nuisance. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s going to call security and end this right here. But he doesn’t. He lets her continue.

“We are here about a young woman called Sophie Hughes,” Selene says. Her voice sharpens, cutting through the tension. “We believe she was killed by Tyrone Lynch.”

It’s like a bomb goes off internally. For the first time, hearing Selene say it out loud, I feel the heaviness of the accusation. We are accusing the Minister of Justice of a murder.

The president doesn’t speak at first; his brows furrows, there’s no shock. No real surprise. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the papers in his hand. “I must say, Miss Selene, I am intrigued to know how you came to this conclusion.”

“So you know who Sophie Hughes is?” Selene asks a question instead of answering the president.

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