Pasha Hassan’s lips twisted into a cold, mirthless smile. “The society you speak of was destroyed long ago. But perhaps you are of a distant bloodline. Prove it to me—both of you.”
His words lingered in the air, heavy with challenge and threat, weaving an inescapable trap around us. There was no denying the finality in his tone, no room to argue or plead.
“Guards,” he commanded, gesturing to the men around us. “Bring them to my office.”
Without another glance, he spun on his heel and strode away, his footsteps fading into the echoing corridor.
The guards closed in, their expressions stoic as they herded us down a narrow hallway lit only by flickering torches—the oppressive silence pressed against my ears, each step a resounding reminder of our peril. When we reached the end, the guards shoved us unceremoniously through a heavy wooden doorway.
Inside, Pasha Hassan’s office gleamed with an unsettling grandeur. The walls were draped in crimson velvet, bordered with shimmering gold inlays, the lavish decor glinting under the light of crystal chandeliers. At the room’s center, an ornate desk stood as a testament to his authority, its surface carved with intricate depictions of Timehunter conquests. Behind it, Pasha Hassan stood with arms outstretched, his expression disturbingly welcoming as though hosting honored guests at a grand feast.
“Let me offer you some refreshments,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward a side table piled high with decanters of wine and platters of exotic fruits. Given the stakes of our presence, the casual offer was grotesquely out of place.
I shook my head, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
“No, thank you. What are the tasks? Let’s get this over with.” My words were sharp, flint against steel, slicing through the room’s ostentatious silence.
Pasha Hassan chuckled softly, the sound dripping with condescension. “How very brave of you,” he said, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “If you were Timehunters, as you claim, you would already know what the trials entail. Every true Timehunter knows.”
“Our society is different,” I retorted, injecting every ounce of confidence I could muster into my voice. “We follow different rules.”
“You are courageous indeed,” he murmured, his gaze sharpening as it raked over me. “You must take after your father.”
The mention of my father sent a jolt through my chest, but I unflinchingly met Pasha Hassan’s scrutinizing gaze, refusing to let him see the cracks in my armor.
“Did you know Amir?” he asked, his question laced with quiet malice. “The man who destroyed the Timehunter society of England?”
The name hit like a thunderclap, dredging up the memory of Balthazar’s revelation—the truth about my father’s identity. The words tasted bitter as I forced them past my lips. “Yes, he was my father.”
Beside me, Olivia’s hand found mine, her grip firm, her silent support grounding me. She understood the weight of that name, the history it carried, the wounds it left behind.
“Then you know,” Pasha Hassan said, his tone deceptively conversational, as though discussing trivial history. “You know how your father, Amir, dismantled and destroyed the Timehunters long ago.”
A surge of anger washed over me, hot and unbidden. “I despise my father and have no connections to him.”
Pasha Hassan studied me, his eyes alight with a calculating gleam. “And why is it that you despise your father? Is it because he destroyed your Timehunter society, which you claim still exists? “
I glared at him, feeling the sting of old wounds.
“I was raised alone,” I said, my words sharp with resentment. “He abandoned my mother. He impregnated her and left.”
The truth of my past, usually locked away, now lay bare between us—a vulnerable offering Pasha Hassan showed no inclination to respect.
His laugh was devoid of any compassion.
“Actions like that don’t matter,” he said dismissively, waving a hand as if brushing away an insignificant detail. “Let’s move on.”
His indifference to my pain stoked my fury, but I kept composed. This was his game, and he relished watching me squirm.
“You’re a powerful warrior,” he continued, his voice smooth, almost mocking. “I’ll negotiate. You know the Timehunters have ten tests, but I will only give you the five most difficult.”
I clenched my fists, feeling cheated.
“How is this fair? Even one test seems like an insult,” I challenged, though I knew fairness held no place in Pasha Hassan’s twisted logic.
His gaze bore into me, unyielding.
“If you are truly a Timehunter, you can do this,” he said, his tone devoid of doubt. “If you pass the tests, I will return the blades, and together, we can reawaken their power. And—” his voice turned sharp as a dagger, “I will safely return your children.”
