The Glass Fortress

The Winter Palace didn’t look like a home. It looked like a bond villain’s bunker carved into the side of a Swiss Alp. It was all jagged concrete, steel, and floor-to-ceiling glass that currently displayed nothing but a swirling, white void.

The blizzard had hit hard at sundown, burying the access roads and killing the cell towers.

Dante paced the perimeter of the Game Room, his boots squeaking softly on the polished marble. He checked his watch. 10:00 PM.

"You're pacing again," a voice drawled from the oversized leather armchair. "It makes you look nervous. Bodyguards aren't supposed to be nervous."

Prince Alexei, twelfth in line for the throne and first in line for being a headache, didn't look up from his tablet. He was small for twelve, pale and sharp-featured, wearing silk pajamas that cost more than Dante’s entire life earnings before the Royal Guard recruited him.

"I'm not nervous, Your Highness," Dante lied, adjusting the earpiece that had been dead silent for twenty minutes. "I'm alert. Control hasn't checked in."

"Maybe they're enjoying the eggnog," Alexei said, gesturing to a silver tray of untouched crystal glasses on the sidebar. "Cook makes it with brandy. Heavy on the brandy."

Dante stopped. He looked at the tray. Then he looked at the door.

"Stay here," Dante commanded.

He didn't wait for Alexei’s protest. He sprinted down the hallway toward the security hub. The silence in the house was heavy, oppressive. It wasn't just the snow insulating the walls; it was the lack of hum from the servers, the lack of footfalls.

He pushed open the door to the security booth.

Three men—veteran Royal Guards, men who had trained Dante—were slumped over the console. Their breathing was shallow, rattled. Beside them, an empty pitcher of eggnog.

"Poison," Dante whispered, his stomach dropping.

* Click.*

The entire house went black. The hum of the ventilation system died.

Then, the emergency lights flickered—not the warm yellow of the generator, but the harsh red of a breach. The smart-glass walls in the hallway, usually opaque for privacy, cleared instantly.

Through the glass, against the white canvas of the storm, Dante saw them. Black silhouettes rappelling down the cliff face, assault rifles slung across their chests.

Dante turned and ran. He burst back into the Game Room.

"Dante?" Alexei stood up, clutching a box wrapped in red foil. He looked small in the sudden darkness. "What’s happening?"

"We're compromised," Dante said, grabbing the Prince’s arm. "Security is down. Hostiles on the north face. We need to move."

"The Panic Room?" Alexei asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"No time. They’ll breach the main doors in seconds. We hit the service tunnels."