Southern pole of Inaccessibility

Alex looked at his father with a conflicted expression, his face betraying emotions he rarely showed. He took a deep breath before shaking his head.

"I can't," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "I already told Charles—I want to fulfill my duty, but not now. I need to finish what I started. Until the time is right, I will continue my life as it is."

His father, Lord Ironhart, observed him with an unreadable expression, the weight of his gaze pressing down on Alex like a mountain. Then, after a few moments, he nodded in approval.

"Very well," his father said, his voice carrying a tone of finality. "I trust your judgment. You will take the position when you are ready, not when others deem it so."

A heavy silence settled over the grand office, the air thick with the unspoken bond between them. The room was a fortress within a fortress—dark wood panels lined the walls, etched with subtle, swirling patterns that caught the flickering light of an enormous chandelier overhead. Its crystals refracted the glow into a thousand tiny prisms, casting a warm, golden hue across the space. Lord Ironhart's desk dominated the center, a slab of polished obsidian that gleamed like liquid night, cluttered with stacks of paper reports, holographic tablets, and a few scattered pens—relics of a man who balanced tradition with modernity. The screens on the tablets flickered faintly, displaying streams of data that Alex couldn't yet decipher, a silent testament to the empire his father commanded.

Lord Ironhart leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, his injured arm resting carefully in its sling. The scar on his temple stood out in the soft light, a jagged testament to the violence he'd endured, yet his presence remained unshaken—a mountain weathered but unbowed. Alex stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his posture steady despite the storm of emotions within. He'd braced for resistance, expecting his father to demand his immediate ascension, to pull him fully into the Ironhart fold. But this quiet acceptance, this trust, caught him off guard. It was a gift he hadn't anticipated, stirring gratitude and a quiet pressure in his chest.

Lord Ironhart's lips curved into a faint smile, breaking the silence with a warmth that softened his stern features. "Now, tell me… how has life been outside?"

Alex smirked slightly, the tension easing as he let himself relax into the question. "Boring, compared to here. But it had its moments."

His father chuckled, a low rumble that filled the room like distant thunder. "I expected as much. And those two friends of yours?"

Alex's expression darkened briefly, a shadow crossing his features as memories of Anurag and Krarth surfaced—their laughter, their relentless teasing, the sting of Krarth's proposal to Selene that still lingered like a bruise. But he quickly masked it, smoothing his face back to neutrality. "Still the same. Clueless, but loyal—in a way, I suppose."

Williams chuckled as he heard it, the sound warm but restrained, and Alex caught the knowing glint in his father's eye—a look that said he understood more than he'd let on, but he wouldn't press further. Alex appreciated the restraint; some wounds were still too raw to prod.

"Hmm." Lord Ironhart tapped his fingers on the desk, the rhythm slow and deliberate, each tap a faint echo against the obsidian surface. "You know they were never just your friends by coincidence, right?"

Alex exhaled sharply through his nose, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the desk. "Yeah… Charles already let that slip. So, even the university head was changed before I entered?"

"Indeed," his father confirmed, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, as if discussing a routine operation rather than a decades-long manipulation. "We've had eyes on you the entire time."

Alex leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with a dry, incredulous laugh. "So much for free will."

Lord Ironhart let out a low chuckle, rich with amusement, his good hand resting lightly on the armrest. "No such thing exists for someone like you. Now, come. It's time to recover what you've lost."

The shift in tone was subtle but commanding, a pivot from casual reminiscence to purpose. Alex straightened, his curiosity sharpening as his father rose from his chair. Despite the sling and the faint stiffness in his movements, Lord Ironhart moved with a grace that belied his injuries—a testament to the unyielding strength that still coursed through him. He gestured toward the door with a tilt of his head, and Alex followed, their footsteps syncing into a steady rhythm across the polished marble floor as they left the office behind.

The corridor beyond was a gallery of power—walls lined with towering portraits of stern-faced ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow them as they passed. Display cases flanked the path, holding artifacts of Ironhart's legacy: swords with glowing edges, rifles that hummed with faint energy, and strange devices that pulsed with an otherworldly light. Servants in gray uniforms moved silently along the edges, their heads bowed as they dusted frames or adjusted screens, their presence a quiet hum beneath the castle's grandeur.

They reached the grand iron gates of Castle Iron, towering slabs of dark metal engraved with intricate designs that shimmered faintly in the moonlight streaming through high windows. The gates were more than an entrance—they were a statement, a declaration of power etched in steel. As father and son stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against Alex's skin, carrying the salty tang of the ocean and the faint hum of machinery that permeated the island. The courtyard beyond was alive with subtle activity—guards patrolled the perimeter, their dark uniforms blending into the shadows, while drones buzzed overhead, their engines a soft whine against the distant crash of waves.

A convoy of black SUVs awaited them, their sleek, menacing forms lined up in perfect formation along the cobblestone path. The vehicles' matte surfaces absorbed the moonlight, refusing to reflect it, and faint blue lines pulsed along their edges—technology Alex couldn't name but felt oddly familiar, like a whisper from his lost past. Lord Ironhart strode toward the lead vehicle, his long coat billowing slightly in the breeze, and Alex fell into step beside him. The doors opened automatically as they approached, sliding back with a soft hiss, and they climbed into the spacious interior.

The seats were upholstered in dark leather, cool and smooth against Alex's skin as he settled in across from his father. A control panel glowed faintly at the front, its holographic display flickering with coordinates, status updates, and a map Alex couldn't yet read. The entire fleet roared to life in unison, engines humming with a deep, resonant power that vibrated through the floor as they moved through the heavily guarded roads winding through the fortified city.

Alex pressed a hand to the tinted window, watching the landscape blur past. The city was a marvel of precision and strength—towering walls rose hundreds of feet, their surfaces studded with machine cannons that swiveled silently, tracking unseen threats with uncanny accuracy. Personnel in dark uniforms moved with disciplined efficiency, their salutes crisp and synchronized as the convoy passed. Drones darted through the sky, their sleek forms weaving patterns overhead, while buildings of glass and steel gleamed like beacons under the moon's pale light. It was a world apart from the cluttered lecture halls and noisy dorms of Howard—a realm of order and power that felt both alien and intrinsic to him.

The convoy reached the private airstrip in minutes, the transition seamless as the vehicles slowed to a halt on the smooth tarmac. Alex stepped out, his shoes crunching against the pavement, and his eyes widened as fighter jets came to life around them. Their engines roared with power, a low rumble that shook the ground beneath his feet, their sleek hulls painted in matte black to blend with the night. Pilots in tactical gear saluted from the cockpits, their visors glinting faintly as they prepared for escort duty, and the atmosphere thickened with precision and efficiency—every movement executed like a well-oiled machine.

The private jet awaited them at the center of the strip, a masterpiece of modern engineering that dwarfed anything Alex had seen in civilian life. Its hull was a smooth, aerodynamic curve, its surface etched with faint, glowing lines that pulsed in sync with the convoy's vehicles—a design that spoke of both elegance and menace. The door hissed open as they approached, revealing a spacious interior—leather seats arranged in a semicircle, a polished wood table at the center, and walls lined with screens displaying real-time data streams. Lord Ironhart boarded first, his steps steady despite the sling, and Alex followed, settling into a seat across from him as the door sealed shut behind them.

The engines roared to life, a deep thrum that reverberated through the cabin, and the jet took off with a smoothness that belied its power. Fighter jets flanked them on either side, their lights blinking faintly against the dark sky, a protective escort that underscored the stakes of their journey. Alex glanced at his father, who sat with his good hand resting on the armrest, his gaze fixed on a screen displaying their flight path—a jagged line cutting south across the globe.

"Where are we headed?" Alex asked, his voice cutting through the hum, curiosity overriding the fatigue creeping into his bones.

Lord Ironhart turned to him, his expression calm but carrying a hint of enigma. "Our research center in Antarctica."

Alex's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Antarctica?"

"The Southern Pole of Inaccessibility, to be precise," his father clarified, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his seat.

Alex tilted his head, confusion flashing in his eyes. "The what?"

"The most remote point on the continent," Lord Ironhart said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most natural destination in the world. "A place no one dares to reach—or knows to look for. You'll understand soon enough."

The jet settled into its cruising altitude, the hum of the engines fading into a steady background drone that lulled the cabin into a quiet rhythm. Alex leaned back, his mind racing with questions. Antarctica? A research center hidden in the ice? It sounded like something out of a science fiction novel, yet the certainty in his father's voice left no room for doubt. He glanced out the window, the ocean giving way to a vast expanse of clouds, their edges tinged silver by the moonlight. The fighter jets remained visible, their sleek forms cutting through the sky like shadows, a constant reminder of the power that surrounded him.

Hours passed in relative silence, the cabin a bubble of calm amidst the high-stakes journey. Lord Ironhart reviewed reports on a tablet, his good hand swiping through screens with practiced ease, his injured arm resting carefully against his side. Alex watched the clouds shift and part below, his thoughts drifting back to Howard—to the lecture halls filled with droning professors, the late-night study sessions with Anurag and Krarth, the quiet ache of watching Selene from afar. It felt distant now, a life slipping through his fingers, replaced by the weight of his true identity—a weight he wasn't sure he was ready to carry, but one he'd chosen to reclaim in his own time.

The jet's descent came suddenly, a subtle shift in pitch that pulled Alex from his reverie. The clouds parted to reveal a snowy wasteland stretching endlessly below—an expanse of white broken only by jagged peaks and swirling drifts of snow kicked up by fierce winds. The fighter jets peeled away, their engines fading into the distance as they returned to their patrol routes, and the jet touched down with a smoothness that belied the icy terrain. The door hissed open, and a blast of frigid air flooded the cabin, stinging Alex's skin and fogging his breath as he stepped out onto the tarmac.