Altan Stone’s gaze was cold — bored, almost — as he descended the spiral staircase of his mansion. The silk of his robe whispered against his skin, and his bare feet moved soundlessly over the marble, every step deliberate, unhurried. Yet the quiet was heavy enough to make his men still mid-motion. Cards were lowered. Cigarettes forgotten. Even his right-hand man froze, placing the chess piece back onto the board with a soft, guilty thud.

The chandelier’s reflection trembled faintly on the marble beneath his feet, fractured by the stormlight spilling in through tall windows. As Altan reached the bottom step, his hand brushed over the black coils of the lüü tattoo winding up his neck — sky serpents of Mongolian mythology, born of thunder and divine fury. They were symbols of power, of storm and sky. And he was the embodiment of both.

The ink seemed to stir beneath his touch, veins shifting faintly with each measured heartbeat. The marble was cool underfoot, but beneath the serpents, his pulse burned — a restrained tempest.

His men’s eyes followed him in silence. They had been trained to. No one dared speak first, no one dared move unless he allowed it. Patience — his Mongolian bloodline had gifted him that. Ruthlessness — the Russian side had honed it to a blade’s edge. Together, they made him impossible to read, and even harder to defy.

He stopped at the edge of the room, the storm outside growling like a warning. His gaze swept across the silent hall — the expensive art, the quiet fear. His fingers traced the edge of the tattoo once more, as though invoking the serpents coiled beneath his skin. The air seemed to wait.

“Find. My. Wife.”

The words left him like a verdict.

No one questioned, no one breathed wrong. In an instant, the room came alive with motion — the sound of bodies moving with the precision he had drilled into them. Stealth, silence, obedience. Every man dispersed from his place like ghosts, their footsteps vanishing into the corridors of the mansion.