Render unto Kyzer: Chapter 2

[Rōnin 484]

Chapter 1: The Golden Mare

 

- The Sound of Nothing -

 

Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus – 2003

 

The world belonged to Kemal Söze, but even he was beginning to question what ownership meant. At forty, he was wealthier than he had ever dared imagine. His empire, once nothing more than a card table, had spread across the Mediterranean. The Golden Mare, the crown jewel of his early conquests, was now just another cog in a machine too vast for any single man to grasp. He no longer merely dealt in cards and cash under dim casino lights. He controlled ports where no customs officer dared ask questions. He owned banks whose ledgers were written in invisible ink. He could unseat a politician with a word or prop up another with a favor. He didn't just operate within the system, he had become the system. And the most valuable currency he traded in was silence.

 

The old men who had once scoffed at him from the corners of smoke filled backrooms were either rotting beneath gravestones or begging for crumbs. The men who had once followed him reluctantly now wore tailored suits and sipped vintage raki on private yachts, wealthier than they had ever dreamed. And those foolish enough to try and take what he had built? Their names were etched only into the sea. Yet, even amid this dominion, something gnawed at him.

 

In the still moments, when the music from the club below softened and the laughter of drunken tourists faded into the night, Kemal would often find himself alone in his study, staring out over the city that had crowned him.

Kyrenia, under the glow of the harbor lights, looked serene. But Kemal knew better. He could feel the tension in the stone itself, the weight of every bribe, betrayal, and corpse sunk beneath the waves. And in those rare moments of quiet, when no one dared disturb him, the question surfaced like an unwelcome tide. Was this all there was?

 

The peace he had long worshiped had become something colder, something emptier. Not victory. Not satisfaction. Emptiness.

 

And still, the city below breathed in time with him, heavy, restless, and steeped in ghosts.

 

***

 

The Söze estate stood on a hill, its sharp lines glaring down at Kyrenia's harbor. The villa's floor to ceiling windows swallowed the horizon during the day, but at night, they turned to dark mirrors, reflecting only the emptiness inside. From the balcony, Kemal could see everything he possessed. The glow of The Golden Mare and the steady crawl of freighters slipping through the harbor. The slow, orchestrated movements of men who didn't know freedom, only loyalty or fear. Every street below belonged to him. And yet, inside these walls, ownership felt hollow.

 

The villa was architectural perfection, all stone, glass, and yet sterile. Cold floors, high ceilings, and the occasional whir of security cameras pivoting in their housings. It was not a home. It was a mausoleum of success. At its center was Natalya. She sat by the window most evenings, a cigarette dangled loosely between two fingers, trailing smoke that curled against the glass like a prisoner trying to escape. She had once been dangerous.

 

A Russian journalist with sharp instincts, and a pen that could slice through men like Kemal with ease. He should have removed her the moment she got too close to his world. In those early days, he'd even rehearsed it: the car accident or overdose. Easy. Clean. But he hadn't. Somewhere between the questions and the threats, he had made the mistake of wanting her. Not just as a conquest. But as someone who might understand him. And now, years later, she was neither adversary nor companion. She was something worse. Miserable.

 

She spoke little, but when she did, it came with the bite of a woman who refused to die quietly. Her eyes were still sharp, searching for the seams in Kemal's carefully built world. On this night, Kemal stood in the doorway, watching her without announcing himself. "Do you still think about leaving?" he asked, voice low.

 

Natalya didn't turn. She took a slow drag from the cigarette and exhaled. "Every day."

 

Kemal's fingers tightened on the edge of the doorway as he stepped inside. "You stay because of him," he said.

 

Natalya finally looked over her shoulder. The city lights caught in the corner of her eyes. "No," she said, voice calm. "I stay for him. There's a difference."

 

Kyzer. The boy who bound them.

 

Kemal didn't reply, but something hardened behind his eyes. Kyzer had been the chain that kept Natalya tethered, the iron in the collar. And though he never said it aloud, Kemal resented the boy for it. Resented how he had changed the power dynamic between them, and resented that Natalya endured this life not out of fear of him, but out of love for someone else. Kemal returned to the balcony, staring down at Kyrenia, watching as it moved like clockwork, unaware or uncaring of the small wars waged in the hills above. Inside the villa, Natalya returned her gaze to the window. Neither of them said another word. But both knew this house had never been a home. And likely never would be.

 

Moments later, the click of small footsteps through the hallway. A young Kyzer appeared, no more than five, pajama clad and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He clutched a worn, stuffed bear, its seams stretched. His voice was small, "Mama?" Natalya's face softened. She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and immediately crossed the room to kneel before him. He rushed into her arms, burying his face in the safety of her embrace. She whispered in Russian, soothing him, pressing a kiss to his hair. For a moment, there was warmth inside the mausoleum. Kyzer peered past her shoulder at his father, eyes wide and questioning, "Papa?" he asked tentatively.

Kemal remained by the window, silhouetted against the city he owned. He didn’t turn.

 

"Go back to bed, Kyzer," he said flatly.

 

The boy flinched but obeyed, pulling away from Natalya with an understanding nod. His small feet padded back down the hall. Natalya rose, her eyes burning. "He's your son," she hissed under her breath.

 

Kemal’s voice was steady, "He will learn."

 

Inside the villa, the silence returned. But neither of them mistook it for peace.

 

***

 

At eight years old, Kyzer Söze was not like other children. There were no bedtime stories in his world, no soft words to soothe him to sleep. Only commands spoken with the gravity of iron. His father, who had built his empire on blood, did not offer lullabies… only lessons.

 

"You must be strong."

"You must never show fear."

"A man does not cry."

 

These words had been pressed into Kyzer like a brand, repeated so often they felt etched into his bones. He repeated them in his head even when no one spoke them, as if saying them would somehow hold the walls of the house together. The villa remained a fortress. Nothing softened over the years. If anything, it had grown colder in his mother’s absence. For a year now, Natalya had been gone. No word, no explanation, not even a lie to fill the space she left behind. One morning, she simply wasn't there.

 

Kemal refused to speak of it.

 

The guards were no help. Their eyes would drop whenever Kyzer asked, only Aslan, his father’s chief enforcer, ever acknowledged the absence at all, and even then, it was with a half-hearted shrug and a muttered, "Not your concern, little prince."

 

Kyzer stopped asking, and then he stopped speaking much at all.

 

He moved through the halls like a wraith, invisible to residents of the estate. Guards posted at every corner, always watching but never speaking unless spoken to. Servants who vanished when Kemal entered the room. Men in expensive suits who came and went through the study. Kyzer obeyed because disobedience had no reward. He loved his mother because she had been the only warmth he ever knew. And he feared his father because fear was the first thing Kemal had ever taught him. But when night fell, Kyzer sought something neither of his parents could give him. He sought escape.

 

He would creep from his room, careful to step where the marble didn’t creak, and make his way to the far end of the eastern wing, where an unused sitting room overlooked the harbor. No one went there anymore. The furniture was still covered in the same white sheets that had been draped the day Natalya vanished. Kyzer would push open the heavy curtains just enough to see the city. From the estate’s perch, the harbor glowed like a spilled bag of jewels. The faint clatter of dishes from the tavernas below. The distant strum of a bouzouki or saz. The uneven, drunken laughter of tourists stumbling from cafes into the warm Mediterranean night. Kyzer would sit there, knees pulled to his chest, watching it all. And sometimes, when the night was still enough, he could almost pretend he wasn't trapped. He could almost believe he belonged to that world down there. Almost.

 

Tonight, however, the heavy oak doors of his father’s study were open, spilling light and the sound of conversation into the hallway. Kyzer, curious and cautious, inched forward and peeked into the room from behind a marble column. Kemal sat at the head of a table, surrounded by a half-circle of men, businessmen, soldiers, and sycophants. One of the men noticed him first, nodding toward the boy with a tilt of his glass.

 

Kemal followed the gesture, his eyes landing on his son without warmth. He smirked, "See there? The little prince graces us with his presence. Mute as ever. The boy hasn't said a word in months. Perhaps he thinks that not talking makes him strong."

 

The men chuckled obediently, though none too loudly.

 

Kyzer swallowed, he could have retreated or hidden, but something sharp rose up inside him. He stepped fully into the doorway. "Where is my mama?" he asked.

 

The room went still. Kemal’s smirk vanished. His fingers, which had been tracing the rim of his glass, stopped. For the first time that night, he had nothing to say. The pause that followed was heavier than any words. The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some lowering their eyes to their drinks. Kyzer stood there, staring at his father.

 

Kemal stared back, jaw tight, eyes hard. Then, without answering, he turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. "Go to bed, Kyzer," he said, coldly dismissing both the question and the boy.

 

But Kyzer did not go to bed. Not truly. He returned to his room, stepping silently through the corridors, just as he always had. Yet tonight, the air was colder. The words still echoed in him. Go to bed, Kyzer. He obeyed, but only in part. Instead of curling beneath the sheets, he crossed the room to the window, pulled back the heavy curtains, and climbed onto the ledge. The glass was cold against his forehead, but he welcomed it. It was honest. It was real.

From here, the city outside called to him. Lights blinked across the harbor. Distant music floated up from the tavernas. And across the narrow street, life unfolded without him. A family argued over dinner, a child cried and was comforted, a couple danced slowly in the kitchen. Even their struggles felt like a kind of freedom compared to the prison he called home. Then, something new. A battered television came to life.

 

Kyzer blinked, drawn forward instinctively. He had seen the glow from across the street many times, but tonight the screen showed something he'd never witnessed before.

 

A rink. Men on skates sliced across a sheet of blinding white. Kyzer blinked.

 

He had never seen ice before. Not in real life, not in photographs. And now here it was, stretched across the television screen, shining like another world entirely. His breath fogged the window as he pressed closer.

The players moved with a speed that stole his breath. Fast. Sharp. Violent. They collided without hesitation, bodies crashing against the boards as the crowd erupted in cheers. The puck darted across the ice, chased by men who seemed to glide more than they skated. It was chaos, and yet it was beautiful. Kyzer sat frozen, his small fingers splayed against the glass.

 

No bribes. No whispered deals. No cold commands about strength and silence. Just motion, speed, and the raw, unpredictable freedom of the ice.

 

He did not understand the rules. He did not know the teams. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time, he was seeing something in motion that could not be controlled. Not even by his father.

The game ended too soon. The family across the way turned off the television. The light snapped out, and Kyzer was left staring at his own reflection. But something inside him had shifted. His heart pounded with a strange new ache, one he could not name, but already feared would never leave him.

 

 

(2184 words)

Edited March 31 by Rōnin