[Rowan's POV]
Slurp.
The tea was lukewarm, edging toward cold—didn't matter. I drank it anyway, the bitter dregs coating my tongue.
The Hounds' shack was a box of silence, four walls and a roof too small to hold anything but me.
Two months since that day—since the slums ran red, since the screams faded, since the ones I'd called family walked away.
No group. No voices. No nothing.
Just me.
Would they come back? Reach out? Maybe. Probably not. I wasn't sure if I wanted them to.
Elias's last look—pure terror—flashed in my head, unbidden. Talia's fists, clenched like she'd hit me.
Tobias's wild swing, missing again. Part of me wanted it to land, to feel something sharp enough to cut through this haze. But they were gone, and I'd stopped waiting.
The first weeks, I'd convinced myself it was better this way. Cleaner. They didn't get it—Victor had to die, the Spiders had to burn.
I'd done what they wouldn't. The silence was just proof: they were weak, and I wasn't.
But now?
Now it pressed down, heavy as the scar on my neck—jagged, hidden under this damn turtleneck.
My crimson eyes caught the cracked mirror across the room—red pools staring back, cold, empty.
The hand scar flexed as I gripped the cup, a dull ache creeping up my chest. I shoved it down, deep, where I could ignore it. Almost.
They'd screamed at me after—rage, tears, fists. Tobias's punch was the loudest goodbye, even if it never hit. I didn't flinch then. Should've.
Maybe that's why the quiet stung now—not their absence, but mine.
Knock.
Knock.
The sound echoed through the tiny house, cutting through the stagnant quiet like a blade. I stilled, fingers tightening around the ceramic cup in my hands.
So he's here. But what the hell does the city even want from me? It had what it wanted. I had done everything they asked, even bled for it. Even lost for it.
I stood, moving with the ease of someone who should have healed, yet still carried pain in places no one could see.
Ghost wounds, reminders of the day everything slipped through my fingers.
The door creaked open, and there he was—Felix. The man who had sealed my fate with a handshake three months ago.
He wasn't as bad as I first thought. Not good, not trustworthy, but not bad either.
He met my eyes, then gave a small nod.
"Come in," I said, my voice void of warmth, of anything at all.
Felix stepped inside, heading straight for the small wooden table, pulling out the second chair like he'd done this a dozen times before.
I followed, settling across from him. The space between us felt heavier than it should have.
"So?" I leaned back, arms crossed. "What does the city want now? Thought I was done. Thought I gave you everything you wanted."
Felix exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Well, Viper—"
I cut him off before the name could fully settle in the air. "I don't go by that anymore." My voice was sharp, colder than the tea I'd abandoned.
"Right," he muttered, shifting in his seat. "Sorry about that."
A pause.
Then, finally, he said, "It's bad."
My brows pulled together. Bad? After everything, what could possibly be worse?
"Go on." My voice was steady, sharp.
Felix met my gaze, hesitated for the briefest moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
"The city council has issued you an ultimatum."
A slow, tight coil of tension wrapped around my chest, squeezing. Ultimatum? What fucking nonsense. But I didn't flinch, didn't react, just let him continue.
"They've decided you have two choices: execution, for orchestrating a mass murder, or conscription. The same goes for your orange-haired friend."
My fingers curled into fists beneath the table. Talia? They were dragging her into this too?
They had to be joking. Some sick, twisted power play.
"So the deal we cut means nothing?" The words left me cold, like frost creeping over steel.
Felix shook his head, staring down at the worn wood of the table as if it could shield him from my fury. "I tried to argue. But I'm just a soldier, Rowan. Not an official."
I let out a slow breath, controlled. Calculated.
"So... let me get this straight," I murmured, voice low and dry. "You either kill me, or I join the army?"
"Pretty much." Felix didn't flinch. He just let it sit there, like a brick tossed onto the table between us.
Then his eyes drifted sideways, landing on the blade propped against the far wall. My sword. My obsidian Victor-killer.
I caught the look. My frown deepened. That weapon was mine, had earned its place beside me—through blood, through grit, through nights I didn't sleep just trying to tame it.
"You're damn lucky that sword isn't as important as it was made out to be," he said, sinking deeper into the chair, his tone somewhere between bitter and amused.
Then came the kicker. "It was all just a tactic. A way to smoke out the traitors. Each person got a different location. Turns out, the real traitor was the Count's own right hand."
His laugh bounced around the tiny room, dry and hollow, like it didn't belong in this space.So that was it.
The beginning of all this—the chaos, the deaths, the unraveling of everything—sparked by a lie. A setup. Just a game piece on some noble's chessboard.
My jaw tightened, but I didn't let it show past that. Instead, I said, "Well, that's good. Because I'm not giving it back."
I glanced at the blade, its dark surface gleaming faintly in the dim light.
It had nearly drained me dry when I first got my hands on it—slurping mana like it had been starved for centuries. Took me weeks just to stop it from killing me every time I drew it.
Now, it felt like an extension of me. And I wasn't giving it up. Not for the city. Not for Felix. Not for anyone.
"When do I leave?"
The words slipped from my mouth like a stone tossed into still water. Felix paused, eyes flicking to mine, then looked away with a quiet sigh.
"You've got about a week," he said finally. "Get your shit in order. A caravan's heading out through the wilderness—straight to the camp. Miss it, and… well, you know what happens."
His voice was calm, almost gentle, like he wasn't the one delivering a death sentence wrapped in logistics.
I didn't flinch. Not outwardly. But inside?
I was unraveling.
A week.
One week to shut down the life I'd carved out of ash and blood. One week to bury what was left of who I used to be.
I stared at him for a long second, letting the silence stretch between us, heavy as stone.
Then it came out. Sharp, bitter, loud.
"Bloody fucking beast, you must be pulling my leg, you fucker. A week?"
My voice cracked like a whip. Anger surged in my chest—not the wild, righteous kind. This was slow-burning, sour. The kind that sat in your gut and curdled.
A week. After everything I gave up, everything I lost. That's what I got. Seven days and a reminder to pack light.
Felix just sat there, jaw tight, eyes on the floor like he wished someone else had drawn the short straw.
His face from months ago flickered across my mind—the first time I saw him, standing tall and proud, wearing that polished uniform like it made him better than the rest of us.
Back then, he had the air of someone untouchable—an Awakened, forged in privilege, higher than the rats he came to command.
But now, as he sat across from me, elbows on the chipped wooden table, shadows clinging beneath his eyes, he looked no different than any other weary man.
Stripped of shine, stripped of arrogance. Just another tool in someone else's war.
"So," I asked, voice flat, eyes locked on his, "where am I going? What's this camp, or whatever the hell it is?"
He gave a small nod, scratched the back of his neck, then leaned forward like he didn't want the walls to hear.
"You're actually lucky," he said, and his tone didn't match the weight of his words. "It's a prep camp. One of the better ones. You won't be thrown straight into the meat grinder, at least not yet. You'll get a year of training—then they'll ship you off to die."
There was no cruelty in his voice. Just honesty, plain and dry.A year. A whole year. Somehow, that felt like mercy.
I exhaled slowly, letting that sink in. I wasn't naïve—training wouldn't save me, not if I wasn't ready.
And sure, I probably had more blood on my hands than most kids my age. But the frontline? That was a different kind of beast.
Out there, the monsters didn't crawl in alleyways or skulk in shadows—they charged, screaming, from the wilds. And they didn't stop.
I glanced at him again, quiet for a beat. "You ever been there?" I asked. "The frontline?"
He didn't answer right away. When he did, it came low and slow, like something dredged up from deep inside.
"Northwest border. Two years." He ran a hand over his jaw, eyes unfocused, like he wasn't really in the room anymore.
"Crazy time. We fought anything that moved—humans, beasts, didn't matter. Then the Count found me, pulled me back, made me his."
The weight in his voice told me more than his words ever could. Whatever he'd seen, whatever he'd done—it never really left. It sat behind his eyes, waiting.
"Shit, that reminds me," he muttered, fishing a battered silver watch from his pocket. The thing clicked open with a soft snap, its face scratched but still ticking.
"I gotta go. Can you pass the news to the orange-haired girl, or am I making another trip?"
He was already halfway to the door before he finished the sentence.
"I'll do it," I said flatly, still seated, arms resting on the table's edge.
He didn't bother with a goodbye. Just opened the door and stepped out into the fading light, boots crunching against the gravel path outside.
A moment later, the door swung shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone—along with whatever thin illusion I had left of choice.
I stared at the space he'd left behind, jaw tight. So this is it. The verdict delivered, the path laid out. Not much room to turn now.
Fine.
If this is the game they want, I'll play it the way I know how. Just like I did in the slum—quietly, strategically.
No fanfare. Just blood, grit, and the climb. Conquer. Win. Rise. One rung at a time until I'm the one making the rules.
My chair scraped back as I stood. Muscles still stiff, not from pain anymore, just from the dull weight of it all. I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face, and glanced toward the door.
No use putting it off. Might as well tell her now. Rip off the bandage and deal with whatever comes. Joy, anger, silence—it didn't matter.
Still, part of me hated this. Hated that even a reunion with her wasn't something I got to choose the timing of.
That it came wrapped in orders and bureaucracy and some bastard's ticking watch.
"Can't even have a conversation on my own damn terms," I muttered, grabbing my coat from the hook. "What a joke."
I stepped out, locking the door behind me. The evening air hit my skin like a slap—sharp, cold, grounding.
Time to move.