The morning sun was barely cresting over Geneva's skyline when Alexander and Emily stepped back into the black car. The vault visit had left them with more questions than answers, but one thing was now certain—Geneva was only a diversion. Marrakesh was the key.
Emily's fingers tapped a steady rhythm against her thigh as she reread the page from the journal.
Geneva is the decoy. But the real truth? It's in Marrakesh.
Alexander leaned back in the leather seat, eyes closed, the journal open on his lap. His mind retraced every coded note, every entry—his father's careful planning now unravelling before him.
Emily turned toward him. "Your father never did anything without ten layers of misdirection, did he?"
Alexander gave a humourless smile. "He trusted fear more than loyalty. Control more than love. That's what made him so dangerous. And so brilliant."
Emily's voice was quiet. "Do you think Marrakesh is another trap?"
He opened his eyes, looking out at the Swiss streets gliding past them. "Maybe. But it's the only lead we have."
They reached the airstrip by mid-morning. The same jet—refuelled, silent, patient—was waiting. This time, Alexander gave the flight path himself: Marrakesh, Morocco.
Six hours later, they landed under a fiery North African sun.
The air shimmered with heat and dust as they stepped onto the tarmac. Emily adjusted her sunglasses and took in the ochre-red city in the distance—the pulse of life and colour already beckoning.
Waiting for them was not a car this time, but a man.
Tall, with grey at his temples and skin bronzed by the sun, he wore a white linen shirt and sunglasses that gave away nothing.
He bowed slightly. "Mr. Knight. Mrs. Knight. My name is Tariq. I was instructed to await your arrival."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "By whom?"
Tariq smiled faintly. "By someone who feared you would arrive too late. He left something for you, in case this day came."
Emily exchanged a glance with Alexander before nodding. "We'll follow."
Tariq led them to an old, nondescript SUV parked near the edge of the airfield. As they climbed in, the dry scent of spices and diesel filled the air. The drive into Marrakesh was winding, vibrant, and disorienting. Tourists bustled in the medina, merchants shouted over each other, and the scent of cumin and rosewater clung to everything.
But they didn't stop in the city.
Tariq drove beyond the chaos and colour, deep into the outskirts, toward the red sands and quieter, older walls. They finally stopped at a walled compound with a rusted iron gate. On the stone archway was an old insignia—faded now, but unmistakable.
The serpent around the chess piece.
"This used to be one of your father's safehouses," Tariq said as he opened the gate. "It was abandoned after the incident in 2009. But he asked me to maintain the vault inside. Said his son would come one day."
Inside, the compound was spartan but intact. Cool stone floors, thick curtains, and the smell of dust and time. Tariq led them to a cellar, opening a heavy metal hatch with a key he wore around his neck.
Down a short staircase, they reached a room chilled by old stone and secrets. At the centre was a large table with only three objects on it:
A black case.
A red file folder.
And a phone—burner-style, ancient, and dusty.
Alexander opened the folder first.
Inside were pages of financial records, handwritten notes, and photographs of three people: a woman in a power suit, a man in military uniform, and a third—a boy, barely in his teens.
Each photo was stamped with the same symbol: a falcon with two wings spread wide.
Emily's eyes narrowed. "These aren't financial targets. They're assets."
Tariq nodded. "Your father believed that exposing the rot wasn't enough. He wanted to collapse it. These people were part of the web that held the network together. Politicians. Arms dealers. Puppets."
Alexander picked up the burner phone.
There was only one message saved on it.
"Vault Mirage. 3rd keyhole. Password: Evelyn."
"Vault Mirage?" Emily asked.
Tariq answered. "It's not a bank. It's a legend. A facility beneath the old French quarter—buried after the colonial era. Your father had it reopened. Used it as a shadow archive."
Emily stepped back, connecting the dots. "So Marrakesh isn't just a stop. It's the foundation."
Alexander stared at the case still unopened. He finally flicked the latches.
Inside: weapons. A compact pistol, two encrypted USB drives, and a medallion shaped like a falcon, split into three interlocking pieces.
Benedict's words echoed in his mind—Let them chase ghosts.
This wasn't about haunting the past. This was about igniting a future none of them had foreseen.
He turned to Tariq. "Take us to Vault Mirage."
The sun was low when they arrived at a derelict building near the edge of the French Quarter. It looked abandoned—boards on the windows, graffiti on the walls. But behind it, through a narrow alleyway, Tariq led them to a stone staircase hidden behind a crumbling wall.
"This is as far as I go," Tariq said. "The rest must be done with blood and memory."
Emily swallowed. "That's not ominous at all."
Alexander smirked faintly, gripping the medallion. He turned it over and saw a small engraving:
"Only the fallen can open what the loyal sealed."
He descended first.
The staircase led to a vast underground chamber—carved from sandstone and reinforced with steel. At the end of the corridor stood a door with three keyholes.
He inserted the medallion.
The second lock opened with the burner phone's password: Evelyn.
And the third?
Emily placed her palm against a panel beside the lock.
A small light blinked. Match found: Emily V. Knight.
Click.
The vault opened with a hiss of stale air and secrets long buried.
Inside, Vault Mirage was unlike anything they had imagined.
Row upon row of shelves held metal cases, data drives, and even older tech—microfilm, tapes, and even physical ledgers. In the centre stood a massive table, and above it, a suspended screen flickered to life at their entrance.
Alexander stepped forward, instinct guiding him to a specific case labelled in red: BLACK DAWN—ARCHIVE 09.
Inside were documents that chilled them to the bone.
A map of Europe with marked locations. Military supply chains. Coded transmissions. And most damning of all—a file labelled Project Ascendant.
Emily opened it. Her eyes widened.
"This isn't just corruption. It's a private military coup plan—years in the making. Your father didn't just run from enemies. He infiltrated them. Tracked them. Documented every move."
Alexander's hands shook slightly as he read. "He was going to burn the world clean."
Behind them, the vault door slammed shut.
They turned instantly, Emily reaching for the pistol.
But it wasn't Benedict.
It was someone they hadn't expected at all.
A woman.
Tall, silver-haired, dressed in white.
"Hello, Alexander," she said softly.
Alexander froze. "Aunt Camille?"
Emily's jaw clenched. "I thought you were dead."
Camille Knight stepped closer, lowering the hood of her shawl. Her eyes were tired, hollowed by time and survival. "I was. To the world. But not to the fight. Evelyn knew that. She sent me into hiding before your father's disappearance."
Alexander struggled to make sense of her presence. "Then why appear now?"
Camille's gaze was sharp. "Because now, the war is at your door. And you need more than ghosts. You need soldiers."
Emily looked between them. "You know what's in this archive?"
Camille nodded. "I helped create it. Evelyn and I spent years collecting the evidence. But your father... he chose a different path. Disappearance instead of exposure. He believed survival was more valuable than justice."
Alexander's voice was low. "And you?"
"I believed justice without exposure was just silence."
Camille moved to the console and inserted a key of her own.
The screen changed.
A list of names. Hundreds.
Politicians. Royalty. CEOs. Generals.
Connected by codes and payments. Hidden under layers of false entities and digital masks.
"This," Camille said, "is the real Knight inheritance. Not the fortune. Not the companies. But this—a reckoning."
Alexander stepped forward.
"Then it's time we begin."
Back in the UK, Benedict Ashthorne stood before a private boardroom filled with shadowed figures. The monitor in front of them blinked.
"Vault Mirage has been breached," one aide reported.
Benedict stared at the screen.
"I told you," he said calmly. "They'd chase ghosts."
One of the older men leaned forward. "And if they find more than ghosts?"
Benedict smiled coldly.
"Then they'll die with them."
But even he couldn't see what was coming.
Because Alexander Knight was no longer the son of a fallen empire.
He was the flame.
And Marrakesh?
It was only the spark.