Kneel For Me: The Immortal Queen's Shadow

"You people are just jealous of my life."

Aedan Marshall lounged on the velvet sofa, his voice dripping with contempt. He stared directly into the lens of the studio camera, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face. He didn't care that millions were watching. In fact, he loved it.

In the corner of the room, standing just out of the camera's frame, Julian Fletcher wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The publicist's hands were shaking. He waved his arms frantically, slicing his hand across his throat in the universal sign to cut the feed.

Aedan saw him. He deliberately ignored the warning. He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You sit behind your screens, typing your little comments, while I live in a mansion you could never afford."

The live chat on the monitor beside him exploded. The text scrolled so fast it was a blur of vitriol. Scum. Cancel Aedan. Privileged trash. The hate was a living, breathing thing, filling the studio with a suffocating tension.

Julian couldn't take it anymore. He lunged forward, his hand reaching for the power switch on the camera rig. "Aedan, stop!" he hissed, his voice cracking.

Aedan's hand shot out, smacking Julian's hand away with a brutal backhand. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "Don't touch my equipment," Aedan snarled.

He stood up from the sofa, his posture rigid with defiance. He looked back at the camera, his middle finger raised high in the air. "This is what I think of your outrage."

The cameraman, acting on pure instinct, hoisted the heavy camera onto his shoulder and stepped forward, shoving the lens right into Aedan's face to capture the explosive moment.

The proximity was a mistake. Aedan's temper, already a lit fuse, detonated. His eyes went wide with fury. He grabbed the front of the cameraman's shirt with one hand and shoved him backward with all his strength.

The cameraman stumbled, his boots catching on a thick cable on the floor. He went down hard, the expensive camera hitting the concrete floor with a sickening crunch. Glass shattered. Plastic splintered.

Silence crashed into the room, broken only by the cameraman's groan of pain. Two production assistants rushed over to help him up, their faces pale with shock.

Aedan didn't even glance at the wreckage. He let out a cold scoff, adjusted his jacket, and turned on his heel. He strode toward the double doors of the studio, leaving the chaos behind him.

"Aedan!" Julian chased after him into the corridor, his shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood. He grabbed Aedan's arm, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric. "Are you insane? You just assaulted a crew member on live television! Your career is over! The family name-"

Aedan whipped around, his arm ripping free from Julian's grasp. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving. "The Marshall family doesn't answer to anyone!" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "Not the public, not the network, and certainly not you!"

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The heavy, rhythmic sound of a wooden cane striking the floor echoed from the far end of the dimly lit hallway.

Aedan froze. The fiery rage in his eyes extinguished, replaced instantly by a flicker of pure, childish fear. He knew that sound. He knew the rhythm.

Sterling Marshall emerged from the shadows. The old man's face was a mask of thunder, his wrinkles carved deep with disgust. He gripped his silver-tipped cane like a weapon.

"Family disgrace," Sterling roared, his voice booming off the paneled walls. He raised the cane high above his head.

Aedan didn't wait for the blow. He turned and ran, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the highly waxed floor. It wasn't the cane he feared, but the cold, clinical lecture that would follow-the freezing of his accounts, the confiscation of his keys, the utter stripping of his freedom. The cane was just the overture. He sprinted down the corridor, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.

Sterling was surprisingly fast for his age. He chased after his grandson, the cane whistling through the air. It missed Aedan's shoulder and smacked against a porcelain vase on a side table, sending shards flying across the carpet.

"Come back here, you worthless boy!" Sterling bellowed, his face flushed red with exertion and anger. "I'll break your legs!"

Aedan didn't look back. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape. The main hallway was blocked. His only option was the side door, the one that was always locked, leading to the private wing of the estate.

He hit the door at full speed. To his shock, the heavy oak door wasn't latched. As he neared, he felt a strange, cold draft emanating from it, and saw the heavy bolt on the frame had been sheared clean off, the wood around it splintered as if from an internal blast. It swung open, and he stumbled into the dark, cavernous space of the family's private gallery.

The air in here was different-cold, still, heavy with the scent of old dust and ancient wood. Aedan's eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness. He could barely see the towering display cases and the long, draped furniture.

"I'll teach you respect!" Sterling's voice echoed right behind him.

Panic seized Aedan's chest. He sprinted forward, his feet scrambling for traction on the slick, polished floor. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing his grandfather's silhouette fill the doorway.

His foot caught on the leg of a display stand. The world tilted. Aedan threw his hands out to break his fall, but his momentum was too strong. He was hurtling directly toward the center of the room.

Toward the massive, gilded portrait that hung on the far wall.

"No!" Aedan screamed, his hands flailing in the dark.

He slammed into the heavy frame with the full weight of his body. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. A deafening crack echoed through the gallery as the ancient wood splintered. The entire portrait shuddered, the canvas tearing under the force of his shoe, and a strange, unsettling vibration hummed through the walls.