Storm

[Elias's POV]

I paced the length of the room, my boots striking against the worn wooden floor, each step a dull, rhythmic thud that filled the quiet space. The air smelled of dust and old stone, the remnants of a past life clinging stubbornly to the walls of the place we now called home.

At the center of the room, a battered table held court, its surface littered with maps, scattered notes. Rowan, Handy, and Tobias sat around it, their faces drawn in deep concentration, locked in yet another one of their endless debates about the war. The low murmur of their voices ebbed and flowed, a constant undercurrent of strategy and second-guessing.

Tobias leaned forward, his fingers drumming restlessly against the table's edge. "What if that Joey guy doesn't take the bait? What's your plan then, huh?" His voice carried a sharp edge of doubt, skepticism woven into every word.

Rowan barely spared him a glance, his expression calm, unwavering. "Why wouldn't he?" His voice was measured, deliberate, like someone explaining something painfully obvious. "They'll come, even if they suspect a trap. Arrogance will drive them forward. They'll bring, at most, twenty-five men. Any more than that, and they'll risk stretching themselves too thin, especially with the Hounds breathing down their necks."

He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's not about whether Joey bites. It's about making sure he doesn't see the hook until it's already too late."

Tobias inhaled sharply, steadying himself before he spoke again. "You heard the Link. There are two hundred of those bastards. What makes you so sure Joey will only bring twenty-five?" His tone was edged with frustration, his fingers tightening around the rim of the table as if willing it to provide an answer.

Before Rowan could respond, Handy leaned forward, his usual easy smirk settling onto his face. "Because this ain't an ambush, lad. They can't just stuff fifty men into their pockets and waltz in unnoticed."

He tipped his chair back slightly, arms crossed over his chest. "Thirty, maybe—if we're being generous. But that's pushin' it. Joey's supposed to be dumb as a rock, yeah? I doubt he's got the brains to be cautious."

He let out a low chuckle, flashing a glimpse of his teeth in something that wasn't quite a grin, but more of a wolfish amusement.

I watched them trade words, their confidence so assured, their calculations so clinical. Once, I had wanted to be like them—to be a real part of this, to contribute more than just standing on the sidelines.

I had wanted to belong. But now, hearing them speak so casually about the coming bloodshed, about how many bodies would fall and when, I wasn't so sure anymore.

My gaze drifted toward Talia. She sat apart from the conversation, unmoving, her eyes closed, her breathing steady. Meditation, I realized.

Something to do with her mana, maybe? I didn't fully understand it, but she looked… distant. Almost otherworldly, as if she was somewhere else entirely while the rest of us were here, steeped in the grime of war and strategy. And for the first time, I found myself envying her detachment.

The door groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting the intrusion, and Alicia stepped inside, breathless, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. It was clear she'd been running.

The shift in the room was immediate. Rowan and Tobias were on their feet in an instant, hands already moving toward their weapons. A knife glinted in Rowan's grip before he even finished turning toward her. Tension crackled in the air like a coming storm.

"What happened?" Rowan's voice was calm, measured—no theatrics, no wasted words. Just the sharp edge of urgency, coiled and ready to strike.

Alicia swallowed, pressing a hand to her chest as she fought to steady her breath. "It's the Hounds—" she managed before exhaling sharply, still catching up to her own words.

Every muscle in the room seemed to go rigid.

"I mean, they were attacked," she clarified, forcing the words out between gulps of air. "I heard it from the traders in the market. This time, it's worse. The violence is spreading, and it's not just them tearing at each other anymore." She hesitated, her voice wavering slightly. "Two civilians. Dead."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating. The rules of this war had always been unspoken—gangs fought gangs, and the city turned a blind eye. But now, the lines were blurring, and innocent blood had been spilled. That changed everything.

"What?" The word came out sharper than I intended, my voice tight with the weight of something I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. I stepped toward Alicia, searching her face for any sign that she might be exaggerating, that this wasn't as bad as it sounded. But she only met my gaze, steady and grim.

"I don't have all the details," she admitted, running a hand through her hair. "But from what I picked up, The Angels hit one of The Hounds' spots. It wasn't just some random skirmish—they went in hard. Killed one of their guy's kids. And someone else got caught in the crossfire. Just… some bystander. Wrong place, wrong time."

The words hit like a fist to the gut. My stomach twisted, nausea curling at the edges of my thoughts.

A kid. An innocent.

I had seen blood spill before, had stood over the bodies of men who had chosen this life. But this? This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go.

And yet, here we were.

Because Rowan schemed. Because we played our games, moved our pieces on the board, and convinced ourselves we were in control.

And now, the war we started was eating people alive. People who had no stake in this, no choice. Where had we gone so wrong?

Tobias clenched his jaw, his eyes flicking to Rowan, searching for some kind of response—some acknowledgement of the weight of what had just happened. The room held its breath as we all turned to him, waiting.

Rowan met our stares, unreadable as ever. Then, after what felt like forever, he spoke.

"That's unfortunate."

That was it.

I felt something in me snap.

"That's it?" The words tore from my throat before I could stop them. "Rowan, people died out there. Innocent people. People who had nothing to do with this, and that's all you have to say?"

He turned to me, slow and deliberate, his gaze settling on me with a weight I couldn't quite place. Cold, detached—like he was already a hundred steps ahead, like he had already moved past the carnage we were only just processing.

"I know," he said, his voice level, almost eerily calm. "That's why it's unfortunate. But we didn't swing the sword." He let that hang in the air for a moment, his eyes sharp, cutting. "It was The Angels. They did this. And now do you understand? Do you see why I go so far—why I don't stop?"

His voice hardened, any trace of sympathy bleeding out.

"They are animals. Savage beasts." He exhaled, slow and measured, as if he had already made peace with the conclusion he had drawn. "And they cannot be left alive."

"No, Rowan." The words ripped from my throat, raw with fury. "Your schemes led them there. Your thirst for revenge put them in the crossfire. These deaths are on you!"

I was shouting now, but I didn't care. I needed him to hear me—to see what he was becoming before it was too late. Before he turned into the very thing he claimed to be fighting against.

His gaze sharpened, something flickering behind his eyes. A crack in the mask. The air between us thickened, heavy with something unspoken, something dangerous.

Alicia shook her head, subtle but urgent, silently begging me to back down. Talia had risen to her feet now, watching, unreadable.

Rowan's lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, controlled, but carrying an edge that sent a chill down my spine.

"Stop this, Elias." A breath. A beat. "Blaming me won't bring them back."

I could feel the heat rising in my chest, my anger no longer simmering beneath the surface but boiling over. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to contain the fury threatening to consume me.

Across the room, Handy leaned back, watching with unreadable eyes, offering neither support nor interference.

I didn't care. I had to do this.

"Acknowledge them, Rowan!" My voice shook, but I didn't waver. "At least pretend you give a damn! Show something! You can't just deflect this—you know you can't. You killed them!"

The last words came out broken, raw, scraping against my throat like glass. The room felt suffocating, thick with the weight of my accusation.

For a moment, nothing. Just silence.

Then, something in Rowan's stance shifted. A tension I hadn't noticed before pulled taut. And then,

It snapped.

Rowan moved before I could even register it, closing the space between us in a heartbeat. His breath was hot against my face, his voice a raw snarl that sent a shiver down my spine.

"You fucking little brat! You think you get to stand there and preach to me about the weight of war?" His voice cracked, not from weakness but from something sharper—rage sharpened into something vicious, something unrelenting.

His eyes burned, wild and untamed. I had never seen him like this. No one had.

"You are a failure, Elias. A useless, whining little boy who doesn't know a damn thing about sacrifice. I should've raised you better—should've beaten that pathetic softness out of you! You think you've suffered? You think you've bled for this?" His finger stabbed at his own chest, his voice rising, shaking with fury. "I bled for this. Cade bled for this. Not you."

My chest ached, but he wasn't done.

"You can't even stomach a little pain for your own mother! She gave up everything for you, and you stand here, running your mouth like you understand anything!" His voice dropped lower, his words laced with something colder than rage. Contempt.

"Why can't you get it through your thick fucking skull? Get the fuck out of my sight." 

I stood frozen, the air around me thick with the weight of his words. This wasn't Rowan—not the Rowan I knew, not the one who always kept his composure, the one who could turn a battlefield into a chessboard with a single glance. This was something else. Something unraveling.

Before anyone could react, he let out a guttural, frustrated "Fuck!" and kicked the chair with enough force to send it flying. The sound of wood scraping against the floor cut through the stunned silence.

Then he was gone, storming off without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hall. No one moved. No one spoke.

I swallowed hard, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The room felt colder without him in it, but his fury still lingered like the aftermath of a storm.