CHAPTER 164: LIVANA’S WINTER CHESSBOARD

–Kai–

I know nobody’s just going to drop the money off at our doorstep. We have to climb the snowy mountain to collect it ourselves. A mountaineer’s already waiting at the summit. We’ve even contacted the bank to accommodate us before midnight.

I don’t know what’s going on in Damon’s head. The air burns my lungs every time I breathe; the cold here is so sharp it feels like knives. Still, I force myself to get used to it.

"Are we there yet?" Caine’s voice cut through the wind.

"Bro, we’re not even halfway," Damon replied, his tone clipped but amused. "But you can work your hips for hours when it’s Deanne. How did you get tired easily?"

I barked out a laugh, but the gusts were so strong our voices were almost torn away by the wind.

"Deanne’s different from this freezing mountain, Damon," Caine said, his breath misting in the dark. "She’s the warmth in this cold."

Romantic. I had to admit, Caine had a point. This trek was suicide. Above us, the Aurora Borealis shimmered like a green-gold flame against the black sky, our only real light.

"You’d better make sure your stamina lasts the whole day," Damon muttered, his boots crunching through the snow.

"Oh, that’s why your Ice Queen hated you," Caine shot back without hesitation. "You were never satisfied with her for a day, huh? Should’ve been nonstop? That’s why Livana’s cold toward you—cold like this Greenland wind. You’re too clingy."

I smirked behind my scarf. Brutally honest. I had to agree.

Then a faint clicking crackled through my headset like sleet on glass, a code of ghosts tapping at my skull. Morse whispered its frostbitten language, and my ears became blades, my body a bowstring drawn tight.

The message was simple, but it cut like a dagger in the dark: Turn right. Shadows hunt on the left.

"Boss," I said, my voice low. Damon stopped mid-step. "We need to go around."

He nodded once, no questions, and we veered off the path.

A man camouflaged in the snow raised a gloved hand and sat up, blending with the white until he moved.

"Boss," the man greeted. Damon gave a curt nod back.

I recognized him immediately. The exchange was clean—two identical bags swapped in seconds. Damon didn’t need days to plan this kind of face-to-face mission, but he had anyway. Always overprepared. After a few silent gestures, the man disappeared into the white, heading in the opposite direction.

We strapped on our snowboards, the bindings clicking shut. The mountain fell away beneath us as we slid down, the darkness broken only by streaks of Northern Lights. Our night-vision goggles painted the world in green outlines. Even in the middle of a mission, we couldn’t resist a few tricks, racing each other down to the waiting cars.

But as soon as we reached the vehicles, my instincts prickled. Someone was out there, snapping photos. Probably a reporter—or someone hoping to bust Damon’s operation. Not that it mattered. Damon had already planned for this. And his wife was watching everything anyway. We were deep in the White Queen’s territory.

Then, out of nowhere, bodies started dropping from above—one after another, thudding into the snow like sacks of meat.

"Get in!" Caine barked, sliding behind the wheel. Snow spat from the tires as he punched the gas. The car’s wheels were built for this terrain.

"Did you send backup, Damon?" I asked sharply, my eyes scanning the ridges. "I thought we were operating discreetly."

"Yes, we are." Damon actually chuckled. "I think my wife’s too worried about me. Remember—the girls are at the villa. They’re monitoring our every move."

—Logan—

It was early morning. Livana woke only to monitor her husband’s every movement. Philippine time is nine hours ahead of Greenland. By now, their operation had likely been compromised. The money didn’t come from a legitimate source — it came from London, the kind of filthy business that leaves stains. Livana hates putting funds under names that don’t exist yet. I don’t know how Damon managed to pull it off. She’d said something about co-naming the account or whatever—an elegant dodge, if that’s what it was.

"Erase every shadow of their existence," she commanded, her voice crisp as Greenland’s wind slicing over ice. "No blood needs to stain the snow." A faint smirk curved her lips, deliberate, dangerous. "Leave nothing behind—no whisper, no reflection. Cameras. Lenses. Eyes in the dark." Her words moved through the room like a symphony’s opening note, each instruction striking the Pawns with the precision of a maestro guiding her orchestra.

This was a discrete operation built like a chessboard: Pawns doing the cleansing, Knights on command, Bishops positioned for the larger strikes. How long would they tail Damon before they had enough to move? At that moment, they hadn’t yet gathered the evidence to put him away. They hadn’t even caught him red-handed running an underground network.

Our men don’t sing easily. Those they target have assassins wrapped around them like armor. If anyone sings — if anyone sells secrets — it’s treason against the Demon King.

"We’ve primed the strongest tranquilizer, Miss Liva," someone reported.

"Good." Livana dipped her chin in the smallest of nods. "How swiftly does the night claim them?"

"Five seconds," the Bishop in Greenland answered, his voice clipped over the feed.

"Quick." She lingered on the number as though tasting it. "Three heartbeats to turn them into statues, five to sink them into silence?"

"In three seconds, they’re practically locked. At five, they’re gone."

She hummed, a note more contemplative than pleased. "Scour every eye and trace every vein of light. Cameras, addresses—no reflection left unchecked."

"We already hacked the feeds, my Queen." The Female Bishop — her accent thick with Greenland’s vowels — sounded assured. "But nothing suspicious on the streams. Just three boys skating for a moment’s thrill."

Livana’s eyes narrowed. "Look again. Thoroughly. Even innocence wears disguises."

"As you wish." Fingers rattled over keys. Livana exhaled, a motion small yet controlled. "And the girls?" she asked, her voice airy but edged, like silk hiding steel.

"They’re at the villa, tracking the subjects."

Simple facts, precise orders. I watched her move through the room like a map unfolding—elegant, calculated, every fold designed to hide the edges. Curiosity pricked me: how much of that elegance was performance, and how much was cold architecture? The question settled in my chest like a coin I couldn’t decide whether to spend.

However, I’m just a henchman. Her biggest asset. Her wish is my command. But at the same time, I’m her friend. We waited for a few more minutes. Livana didn’t look well. Jane, who woke the same time as Liva, approached us with coffee and hot chocolate for the Queen.

She picked up the cup, holding it close as though drawing warmth into her pale fingers. Jane, on the other hand, looked more tired than either of us. She watched over Livana’s every breath and rise from slumber, only to spend her hours cooking, doing laundry, cleaning the mansion, or tending the indoor garden beneath its glass ceiling — a sanctuary in the middle of all this stone and silence.

"Jane, you look tired," I said, picking up the coffee.

Jane gave me her businesslike smile. A mask. Polite, professional, fake.

"It’s a good thing you notice. You should start doing your own laundry," she answered, her tone sharp yet polished.

Livana laughed softly, pressing her temple with her fingertips.

"Yes, Logan. Perhaps you should." Her voice was velvet with a hidden thorn.

I sighed.

"I don’t really do laundry," I winked at her. "What if I just marry you instead?"

Her lips curved into a cool smile. "I would never wed a man who cannot even cleanse his own burdens."

"I’m kidding," I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

"Logan," she said lightly, almost like a teacher correcting a child, "a woman is not wed to fold shirts and wash away stains. Jane is beauty and strength embodied... do not speak of marriage as if it were a coin you toss for chores."

I groaned. "My God, Livana, I was kidding, alright?"

She only giggled, the sound gentle but laced with mischief.

"Jane," Livana turned, her smile warm as candlelight, "I am sorry you carry the weight of me and this house. Rest today. Do not trouble yourself with breakfast or lunch. Logan will provide."

I stared at her. She knew I could cook, but I wasn’t volunteering.

"Instant noodles, then," I muttered, smirking.

Her laugh was low and knowing. "You were the one who said Jane was weary. A tongue should not speak what the hands refuse to honor."

"That’s because you keep waking at odd hours instead of resting," I pointed out.

"I am truly fine," Jane replied, bowing her head slightly. "Thank you, Madam, for your concern. I will manage."

"Hmm, but I am serious," Livana pressed, her words like silk binding steel. "Take a breath. Let Logan carry the kitchen for lunch and dinner."

Jane’s eyes flicked to me. I sighed in defeat.

"Yes. I’ll cook."

A familiar bark startled us as Choco leapt onto the bed, curling into Livana’s lap, pressing his nose against her stomach as if guarding something unseen.

"Thank you," Jane said, smiling again — though the curve of her lips was still too polished, too practiced. She turned and left.

I looked at Livana.

"Are you happy now?" I asked.

"Yes," she giggled, then added slyly, "but still — do your own laundry."

"Fine!" I threw up my hands. If only she knew I already helped Jane around the house. Jane was tireless, a workaholic, and she couldn’t afford to fall sick — not when she alone knew Livana’s medicines, her fragile balances, her hidden weaknesses.