CHAPTER 4

HORDE

The basement smelled of copper and bleach. Dr. Hamir sat motionless on the leather couch, staring through the barred window at the sliver of twilight beyond. A bloodstained towel lay crumpled in his lap, his long fingers methodically working the fabric between them as if he could erase the crimson embedded in his cuticles. Behind him, Selema’s remains decorated the concrete floor like a grotesque still-life—her head positioned neatly on the stainless-steel table, glassy eyes fixed in a permanent expression of surprise. Let her see, he thought. Let her understand what betrayal costs.

He rose, stepping carefully around the visceral debris, and began collecting the organs—lungs like deflated balloons, the liver’s dense weight, the kidneys nestled in their fatty casing—depositing each into a galvanized metal box with the precision of a coroner.

”Kahlil!”His voice carried up the stairs, sharp but controlled. ”Come downstairs. Now.”

The old man arrived within moments, his polished Oxfords tapping a genteel rhythm against the steps. Even before the knock came—three precise raps—Hamir caught the scent of his sandalwood cologne cutting through the metallic stench.

”You called for me, sire? “Kahlil’s voice brimmed with reverence, as though summoned to a royal audience rather than a slaughterhouse.

”Clean this,” Hamir said, gesturing to the carnage without looking at it. ”The vigilantes have started targeting our associates. That fool butchered poor Edwin last night—thinking himself some crusader against corruption.” His jaw tightened. ”We cannot waste time on these insects. Not when true purification awaits.”

Kahlil bowed. ”Your council convenes in an hour, sire. The White Horde expects you.”

Hamir exhaled through his nose. Upstairs, the mansion hummed with preparation—crystal clinking, silk rustling, the murmur of servants executing their duties with military precision. He ascended to his chambers, where steam from the marble shower already fogged the mirrors.

By the time he emerged, every detail was perfected: the gold-threaded tuxedo, the razor-sharp part in his hair, the citrine cufflinks that matched his eyes. Below, Kahlil remained in the basement, scrubbing tile grooves with a dentist’s focus. Above, laughter and violin music spilled through the halls as Veraopur’s elite arrived—beautiful, oblivious, and hungry.

Hamir adjusted his tie in the mirror. Tonight, the Horde would feast twice.

The servants moved like shadows under Kahlil’s silent command—polishing silver, lighting candles, their eyes never lifting above waist-level. None questioned when their master’s right hand vanished into the basement, arms laden with industrial polythene rolls, stainless steel tools, and the distinctive amber bottles of nitric acid. In the glittering world above, his absence went unnoticed.

The dining hall stretched cavernous before the gathered elite, its endless mahogany table groaning under candelabras and tiered platters of saffron-rice towers, quail stuffed with figs, champagne flutes catching the chandelier light. Yet the air hung thick with uneaten delicacies and unshed tears. Ten chairs stood occupied where there should have been eleven. Edwin’s empty seat at the center gaped like a missing tooth.

A hush fell as the rear doors swung open.

Hamir entered like a stormfront, his golden tuxedo absorbing the light as if it might ignite. The sharp crack of his knuckles against oak silenced the last murmur.

“My brothers and sisters of The White Horde...

We gather tonight under the weight of unbearable loss. Edwin’s chair sits empty, his wine glass untouched, his laughter silenced forever by the hands of some self-righteous *vermin* who dared strike at one of our own.

This was no random act of violence. This was *declaration of war* against everything we have built. Against the order we maintain. Against the very laws we crafted with our own hands to protect this city from the filth that would see it burn.

And I ask you now...

Shall we let this stand?

Shall we cower behind our gilded doors while common street thugs think they can murder our brothers and face no consequence?

No.

We will *hunt* this animal. We will drag him through every court, every prison, every dark corner of this city until he begs for the mercy he denied our dear Edwin.

But this is bigger than one killer.

The police look the other way. The judges grow complacent. The so-called ‘vigilantes’ multiply like rats in the shadows, thinking their *petty morality* gives them the right to judge us?

No more.

Starting tonight, we remind Veraopur who truly controls its fate.

Burn their stations.

Raze their homes.

Let every last one of them choke on the ashes of their defiance.

And when the city wakes tomorrow to the smoke on the horizon, they will know one truth above all others...

We are justice.

We are order.

We...are...THE WHITE HORDE!”

The Horde erupted. Fists pounded tables hard enough to crack porcelain. A diamond necklace snapped in someone's fervor, scattering stones across the table like hail.

Through the chaos, Hamir remained still—a statue of cold fury. Only his eyes moved, tracking the servants who flitted along the walls. Their faces remained carefully blank, but their hands trembled as they refilled glasses.

Let them tremble, he thought. Let them all tremble.