The cave was still half-buried in silence and dust. Where the entrance had once opened wide to the forest beyond, there was now only a jagged wall of rock and soil, blackened with soot from the firestorm that had swallowed it the night before. The echoes of the dhampyrs' screams lingered like ghosts, trapped in memory, whispering through the rubble.
Cassius Vane stood near the fractured gap, arms folded, his figure stark against the glow of torches wedged into cracks along the cavern wall. His men worked tirelessly around him, moving stones piece by piece, hacking away at twisted supports, their muscles slick with sweat despite the chill seeping in from the mountainside. The clang of iron, the scrape of rock, the occasional grunt of exertion, all of it blended into a steady rhythm, a heartbeat of labor.
Cassius barely moved. His sharp eyes, gray and predatory, scanned the shadows, not the rubble. Clearing an exit was necessary, yes, but his mind was elsewhere, arranging the battlefield that awaited him tomorrow night. The Gryphons. Every detail of their defenses, every whisper of intelligence gathered over weeks, every plan drawn and redrawn until it fit like clockwork.
The dhampyr raid had cost him time, but not resolve. If anything, it had sharpened the edge. He had seen men lose focus after a night like that, rattled by the nearness of death. But Cassius was not like other men. Setbacks did not break him; they clarified him.
One of his lieutenants approached, breath heavy, shoulders dusted in gray powder. "We'll have a way cleared by dawn," the man reported, voice rough but respectful.
Cassius gave a single nod. No praise, no wasted words. Dawn was enough. By tomorrow night, they would not be trapped here, they would be the ones dictating the trap.
He turned slightly, gaze catching on the crude map scrawled against a flat slab of stone deeper in the cavern. Arrows and circles marked his intentions: infiltration routes, fallback points, the locations where fire and blood would run.
The torches hissed softly, smoke curling toward the ceiling like black prayers. Cassius exhaled, a slow measured breath.
The time for gathering was over. The time for striking was near.
And when it came, the Gryphons would learn what true ruin looked like.
***
The elevator hummed as it carried Austin upward, each floor ticking by like a heartbeat he couldn't ignore. The mirrored walls reflected his rigid posture, his clenched jaw, the storm flickering behind his eyes. He tried to steady his breathing, but his mind refused stillness.
The study at the Thornes' mansion flashed before him; blood, shattered wood, the shrieks of dhampyrs. But more than that, the whispers. The suspicion gnawing at him: Farren was behind it. The thought made his chest tighten. He didn't want to believe it, not of the man who had lifted him so far, not of the figure he had trusted to shape Moonstone's future. But the timing… it was too perfect. Too orchestrated.
The elevator dinged softly, doors sliding open into the hush of Farren's penthouse. The place was all glass and steel, city lights sprawling beyond the wide windows like a kingdom at his feet. The air smelled faintly of cigars and expensive polish.
Austin walked through with brisk steps, trying to mask the unease twisting in his gut. Farren was already waiting in his office, seated behind a polished desk, calm as if he had been sculpted into the leather chair.
"Austin," he greeted warmly, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Sit."
Austin obeyed, though his body was taut as a drawn bow.
"About last night," Farren began, his tone measured, "I want your report. Everything you saw."
So Austin gave it. Details of the chaos, the fire, the way the dhampyrs had swarmed with unnatural coordination. Farren listened intently, fingers steepled, his face unreadable in the low lamplight.
When Austin finished, silence stretched between them. It pressed against Austin until he finally broke it. "Tell me something, sir." His voice came low, edged with something dangerous. "That attack… was it you?"
Farren's brow flicked upward, not with surprise but mild amusement, as if the question were almost childish. "Of course not," he said smoothly, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"
"Because things don't add up," Austin pushed, leaning forward. "Your numbers. The polls. They're skyrocketing. This—" he gestured vaguely toward the memory of fire and blood "—this feels too well-timed. Too convenient."
Farren's eyes hardened, though his smile remained. "Careful, Austin. You're chasing the wind. Coincidence does not equal conspiracy."
"But—"
"No." Farren's tone dropped lower, firm but calm. "I don't play games with lives. Not mine. Not yours. Not theirs." He let the words hang, then leaned back, his posture perfectly relaxed. "I called you here for another reason."
Austin's mouth pressed into a line, but he nodded stiffly, listening.
"We've received intelligence," Farren continued, voice pivoting into businesslike cadence, "that an extremist hunter cell is planning an attack on the Gryphon family. Tomorrow night, by all accounts."
Austin blinked, caught off guard. "The Gryphons? I thought…" His words faltered. "I thought you hated werewolves."
Farren chuckled, shaking his head. "What I feel is irrelevant. What matters is what is right. An attack on civilians, on anyone, cannot be allowed to stand. Do you understand?"
Austin swallowed, the weight of the mission settling into him. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Then this is yours." Farren slid a slim folder across the desk. "Find them. Stop them. Protect the Gryphons. Show Moonstone that order still stands."
Austin took the file, rising with a faint nod. His face betrayed nothing. "Consider it done."
As he turned and left the office, the city lights caught the faintest furrow in his brow. Outwardly, he accepted the mission. Inwardly, doubt still clawed at him.
Farren's timing. His words. His carefully polished righteousness.
To Austin, it all smelled less of justice and more of optics.