Chapter 15: A Shadow in the Lineage
The Albanian estate lay in a dignified hush as the night deepened, but inside a dim, private study at the far end of the property, light poured in soft, golden waves over polished mahogany. Kwok stood facing the tall windows, the velvet curtains half-drawn. His reflection stared back at him — sharp eyes, square jaw, and an inscrutable gaze that held both power and restraint.
He'd watched King tonight — from the shadows of the private club lounge — laughing, sipping on aged whiskey, flanked by powerful ministers and respected dignitaries. On the outside, King was composed. Commanding. Revered.
But Kwok saw through the mask. King had been distracted. He was too quiet in moments that demanded his presence. Too still when old comrades told jokes. And the glass in his hand had remained full longer than usual.
"She must be special," Kwok murmured to himself, drawing back from the window and moving to his table, he whispered around corners lately, unspoken by King himself, but floating like perfume in the hallways of the estate and the backrooms of the city.
He didn't yet know what hold this girl had over his brother, but it was strong enough to change him. And that, Kwok decided, made her dangerous — or useful.
He unlocked a thin drawer and pulled out an encrypted device. As the green light blinked alive, he dialed a secured line and spoke into it quietly.
"Find her," he said. "But don't approach her. I want to know where she is, who she talks to, what she does. No contact. Not yet."
A pause.
"I don't care if you have to go through the underbelly of Underground World. Use the old channels. I want results in seventy-two hours."
He ended the call and dropped the device back into the drawer.
Kwok walked across the room, the soft soles of his shoes soundless against the rich carpet, until he reached the large oil painting mounted on the wall. Ortega Albanian, their grandfather, stood proud in the artwork — one hand on a lion-headed cane, the other resting on a globe. He was younger in the painting, regal and indomitable.
Kwok studied the face.
"You always looked at him like he was a god," Kwok whispered. "But not me. I learned from you, old man. Power doesn't get handed down. It gets taken."
King had always been the heir, the name on everyone's lips, the shadow Kwok had lived beneath. But things were changing. The scent in King's suite, the sleepless nights, the sudden softness in his eyes — Valerie was the beginning of something fragile.
And fragility could be weaponized.
Kwok's lips curled into a thin smile. He didn't need to destroy his brother. He only needed to be ready for the moment he fell.
And he would fall. Love made men weak.
Turning back toward his desk, Kwok took a deep breath. The pieces were moving. Valerie was the key. And unlike King, Kwok had no intention of letting his emotions get in the way.
He sat down, opened a new file, and began drafting a silent campaign — a shadow war, invisible to the Albanian family.
But before the game could begin, he needed to know who she really was. Because whoever she was… she had shaken the king.
.......
Across the country, in an enclosed mountain retreat, Valerie rinsed her hands quietly in a clay basin. Her patient, the heir of the Albert Empire, was resting, breath soft and steady after a long acupuncture session.
Her fingers had just brushed the lid when her tablet vibrated on the counter. A message flashed across the screen.
Jackson: Someone's looking for you. Actually — three different groups. Fast. Desperate. All connected.
Val, what did you do?
Valerie blinked. Her fingers froze over the lid of the container. She tapped quickly to respond.
Valerie: Probably Sophia and her mother being dramatic. Ignore them.
Another message came immediately.
Jackson:
Not them. This is higher level. One of the requests is encrypted.
The kind of encryption that whispers government-adjacent.
Val… are you in trouble?
She exhaled slowly, heart ticking like a metronome in her chest. She leaned against the wall, head tilting slightly. Of course it would come to this.
Valerie: I'm not in trouble. I just walked away. That's all. Shut down all records. Lock my trail. No one must find me.
A pause.
Valerie: Don't let them link anything. Not even to World Heart. I'll handle the rest.
Jackson's typing bubble hovered and disappeared again. Finally, it came back.
Jackson: Alright. I trust you. But be careful. You've shaken something. I can feel it.
Valerie looked up toward the mountain sky, the stars heavy and sharp against the black. The breeze grazed her cheek like a whisper.
She had walked away to bring peace to someone who needed it — someone she didn't even know — but the ripples of her steps had reached further than she imagined.
Back in the city, Kwok moved a pawn across a chessboard he'd laid out just for himself.
And in the darkness of the retreat, Valerie vowed to stay invisible.
But the hunt had already begun.
After silencing the tablet, Valerie's breath steadied. The warmth of the food Jennifer Albert had brought still lingered through the container, but her appetite was gone. She wrapped the dish back up gently, then stepped through the narrow hall toward the treatment chamber.
The room was pristine. Herbs hung neatly in bunches along the beams. A soft incense — ginseng and honeysuckle — curled through the air like ribboned steam.
Yurman Albert lay quietly on the treatment bed, torso exposed beneath the linen sheets, his muscles atrophied but still holding the vestiges of a once-strong frame. Twelve years — twelve full years — of immobility had not only weakened him physically but dimmed his spirit. And yet, his breathing tonight was stronger. Even. The pulse at his wrist, when Valerie checked it, beat firmer than it had just a week ago.
She knelt at his side.
Her fingers moved with practiced precision as she unwrapped a clean set of silver needles from a velvet pouch — fine-tipped, forged with high-conductive alloy, capable of channeling energy through pathways the West had long forgotten.
She whispered as she worked — a chant, really. It was how her mentor taught her.
"To awaken the mountain, start with the root.
To unlock the gate, clear the wind.
Where blood no longer flows, let spirit go first."
She inserted the first needle gently at the Baihui — the crown of the head, a convergence point of thought, energy, memory.
Then another — at the Hegu on his hand, the point that calms internal agitation.
Next: Zusanli, on the leg, a command point for revival.
Yurman's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't wake. His body responded, however — the slight tremble in his foot, the sudden pinking of his skin.
Valerie leaned in closer.
"You want to live," she murmured. "You don't even realize it yet, but your soul does."
A second pouch was unrolled — this one carrying prepared herbal compresses soaked in a heated decoction of astragalus, reishi, and cordyceps. With delicate focus, she pressed the poultices along his back meridians to stimulate warmth in the kidneys and spine.
She had worked with the dying before. But Yurman… Yurman wanted to come back to life.
When she finished, she sat beside him in silence, watching the rhythmic rise of his chest. He was sleeping deeply now, but not like before. His breathing no longer sounded like surrender. It sounded like returning.
A soft knock came at the outer sliding door.
Jennifer's voice, muffled but kind:
"I'll come back in the morning. Thank you."
Valerie rose slowly, extinguishing the oil lamp.
She wouldn't stay much longer. The shift in Yurman's health signaled a turning point. If his progress continued — and she believed it would — she would be free to leave within a few days. Maybe less.
But where would she go?
Back to the world? Back to the pain she tried to abandon?
She clenched her fingers slowly, her pulse still humming from the acupuncture session.
If the world still wanted her — and it clearly did — she needed to decide on her terms. Not theirs.
For now, she would pour the last of herself into this boy who reminded her why she once believed healing was more than duty — it was salvation.