“Dangerous.”
The word spreads like wildfire, panic rippling outward in visible waves. A cluster of Feeders surges forward, voices raised in accusation. Others drag them back, their own fear making them desperate for distance. Zira tries to raise her voice above the chaos, but she’s drowned out by the growing hysteria.
Mairen clutches her son against her chest, tears streaming down her face as Kellan shouts for everyone to stop. But no one listens. The mob is seconds from igniting, and when it does, there won’t be anything left to salvage.
I’ve seen this before. Watched communities tear themselves apart when fear overrides reason. Seen what happens when Feeders turn on each other, driven by hunger and desperation and the terrible certainty that survival requires sacrifice.
I won’t watch it happen here. Not to her. Not to them.
The decision crystallizes without conscious thought.
“ENOUGH.”
The word cracks across the courtyard like thunder, carrying centuries of authority and the unmistakable tone of an apex predator who’s done tolerating insubordination. Every voice cuts off mid-syllable. Every movement freezes.
The silence that follows is absolute.
I step forward, positioning myself deliberately between Bree and the mob. Let them see exactly where I stand. Let them understand what it means to threaten something I’ve claimed as mine to protect.
“Seth is gone,” I say, letting the words hang in the charged air. No point in pretending otherwise. They all saw the scorch mark, the empty space where a man used to be. “You witnessed his disappearance. You felt the power that tore through this place.”
I pace slowly, forcing them to track my movement, to focus on my voice instead of their panic.
“But you also witnessed something else.” My gaze sweeps across the crowd, noting which faces show confusion rather than terror. Those are the ones I can work with. “She did not strike him down. She did not drain his life or tear him apart. Something else took him. Through her.”
The distinction matters. Has to matter. Because the alternative is watching them destroy the first real hope any of us have seen in generations.
“Phil walked away mostly unharmed,” I continue, voice cutting through the uncertain murmurs. “The one who brought threats and violence to our sanctuary—he lives. But the man who stood close enough to touch her, who held her when she was vulnerable—he vanishes without a trace.”
I let that sink in, watching understanding dawn on several faces.
“That was not her choice. That was not her power acting alone. Something older and hungrier reached through her to claim what it wanted. And if we turn on her now, if we abandon her to whatever force is hunting her, do you think it will be satisfied with just one?”
The crowd shifts restlessly, but the murderous edge has dulled to something more like wariness.
I gesture at the destruction around us—the cracked stone, the impossible flowers, the obsidian glass that drinks light like a hungry mouth. “Look at what woke when her blood called to it. Look at how this sacred ground answered her.”
The sanctuary walls pulse with soft silver light, as if responding to my words. Ancient magic flows through stone and timber, power that’s been sleeping for centuries suddenly vibrant and alive.
“That is not corruption,” I say, letting my voice carry the full weight of my conviction. “That is dominion. This sanctuary recognizes her bloodline. It will protect us if we stand with her.”
The political calculation is ruthless but necessary. Frame her as their shield instead of their weapon. Position her power as salvation rather than damnation. Give them something to rally behind instead of something to fear.
But even as I shape the narrative, even as I watch the crowd’s hostility bleed into uncertain acceptance, my private thoughts burn with a different kind of fury.
She’s not safe. Whatever touched her in that void-space, whatever whispered poison in her ear and threaded darkness through her light—it’s still there. Still reaching for her. Still claiming pieces of what should be mine to protect.
The rage that coils in my chest isn’t aimed at her. It’s aimed at the presence that dared to mark her, to leave its signature woven through her power like a brand of ownership.
I will find what it is. I will hunt it through whatever realm it inhabits and tear it apart with my bare hands if necessary.
But not here. Not now. Not while she kneels in the center of devastation, trembling with exhaustion and shame, whispering apologies for power she never asked for.
The crowd has begun to settle, their panic subsiding into watchful quiet. Some still mutter among themselves, but the immediate threat of violence has passed. For now.
Across the courtyard, Stellan catches my eye. That faint, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he’s proud of the show I just gave. Like he knew exactly which buttons to press to get me to act.
I bare my fangs slightly but don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
