Wings of Iron

[Rowan's POV]

The slums stretched ahead, a maze of crumbling brick and rusted metal, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke.

I walked at an even pace, Valerie keeping stride beside me, the weight of our presence rippling through the streets.

The Scavengers that I used to call my equals a few years back, now covering in fear at the sight of me.

My crew flanked me, a shadow at my back, and ten of the Spider's best moved in formation just behind us—silent, watchful, predatory.

Today was the day.

The day I came face to face with Victor again.

Didn't expect it to happen so soon. What had it been? A month? Felt like longer. The heist might as well have belonged to another life, another version of me.

Even the damn sword had slipped my mind. Wonder what happened to it. If I found it, maybe I'd keep it—hazard pay for all this bullshit.

The city made us wait nearly a week before finally dragging their feet to set up this meeting. Slow bastards. 

But this wasn't just about settling a score. This was the moment I cut the head off the beast—no, not just the head. The heart, the spine, the whole damn thing.

My gaze flicked to Valerie. The queen had to fall, too.

Then, up ahead, the meeting spot came into view. A dimly lit pub, wedged between half-collapsed buildings, its sign long since worn blank by rain and time. It didn't belong to any of the three gangs—not officially. Neutral ground, if such a thing even existed in this city.

I stepped inside without hesitation, my posture straight, shoulders loose, stride measured. Just enough arrogance to keep them guessing. Let them believe I thought myself untouchable.

The room was heavy with cigar smoke and quiet conversations that cut off the second I entered.

A long, battered table stretched before me, lined with men who carried themselves like coiled vipers.

The double-wings. Ten of them, Victor's inner circle, each marked by the two inked pairs of wings flanking their skull tattoos.

And at the far end of the table, where the light barely reached, sat the only triple-wing in existence.

Victor Ironjaw. The legend himself.

He leaned back in his chair, watching me with eyes like tempered steel. Unshaken. Unmoved. For now.

I didn't wait for an invitation. Didn't need one.

Gripping the back of a worn-out wooden chair, I dragged it across the floor with a deliberate scrape, the sound slicing through the stagnant air. Then, I sat, settling into the seat like I belonged there. Like I owned the place.

My gaze swept the room. Twenty men in total. Not just any men—Victor's best.

Hardened bastards, each one carrying a reputation sharp enough to cut. I let the thought settle. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Every single bastard that did that to her, was here. In this room, like nothing happened. I can't wait to slaughter them.

Behind me, my own people fanned out, some taking seats, others choosing to stand. Their postures were loose, almost casual—but their hands hovered close to the hidden steel strapped beneath their coats.

Tension coiled beneath the surface. Not enough to spark violence, but enough to remind everyone in this room that if things went south, blood would spill fast.

Valerie pulled out a chair beside me, her movements measured, careful. She had numbers on her side, but it didn't take a genius to see who really ran this show.

And she hated that. I could feel it in the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against the table's edge.

But what Valerie felt? Didn't matter. 

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table, and let a slow, easy grin tug at my lips.

"So, gentlemen," I said, voice light, almost amused. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Victor's grin was all teeth—sharp, humorless. A predator baring fangs before the kill.

"And who the hell are you," he drawled, his voice low and edged with menace, "to think you call the shots here?" His eyes, dark and cutting, locked onto mine with something between amusement and barely restrained fury.

"Dragging the city into this? That was a rat's move, boy." His fingers curled against the table, like he was debating whether to break it in half—or break me instead.

I didn't flinch. Instead, I let my own smirk settle into place, slow and deliberate. The kind that made men uneasy.

"The city didn't need much convincing," I said, my tone light, almost mocking. "You wouldn't believe how quickly they jumped at the chance once I mentioned your little stunts against their authority."

A low chuckle slipped past my lips, but there was no warmth in it—only something cold and knowing. Something dangerous.

The air in the room shifted, grew heavier. Like a storm rolling in.

Tension coiled through both sides, a silent ripple of unease spreading across the room. Hands twitched toward hidden weapons. Muscles locked.

Every breath, every glance, was measured, calculated. One wrong move, one flicker of aggression, and blood would stain the floor before anyone could stop it.

Then, as if guided by some unspoken command, we all pulled back. No sudden movements. No unnecessary provocations. Just a slow, mutual retreat from the edge of violence.

Victor and I nodded at the same time. A silent acknowledgment. For now, the game continued.

Victor leaned back in his chair, all sharp edges and easy arrogance, his grin never slipping. "So, what do we owe the pleasure?" he mused, voice laced with condescension. "Not every day a pack of street rats think they can sit at the big boys' table."

His words hung between us like a knife, the insult as deliberate as the glint in his eye.

I met his gaze without flinching, letting my own smirk stretch just a little wider—lazy, mocking. I wanted him to see it, to feel it. But behind the expression, I was all steel.

"Oh, Victor," I said, my voice smooth, casual. "The city didn't tell you?" I let the question linger, tilting my head as if in mock pity. "Guess they don't need you playing lapdog anymore. Shame, really."

Beside me, Valerie went rigid, a flicker of unease tightening her shoulders. What was she so nervous about? Death? There were worse things than dying.

Victor's grin faltered—just for a fraction of a second, a crack in the polished veneer. But then, just as quickly, he threw his head back and laughed. The sound was loud, unrestrained, rolling through the pub like a thunderclap.

It wasn't real amusement.

It was a warning.

The tension in the room twisted tighter, sharp as drawn wires. The men behind him tensed, my own people shifting just slightly, fingers itching toward hidden blades. A single misstep and the floor would be slick with blood.

Then Victor leaned forward, his laughter dying just as abruptly as it started. His grin was still there, but the amusement never quite reached his eyes.

"Let's cut the bullshit," he said, voice dropping to something colder, something final. "We all know how this ends. No matter what words we throw around, this only ever gets settled one way."

His fingers drummed against the wood. A slow, steady rhythm.

Blood.

Victor barely gave me the space to breathe before he struck again, his sharp gaze sliding past me, settling on Valerie with something almost playful—almost.

"But Valerie," he drawled, his voice dipping into something mockingly sweet, "I never took you for the treacherous type. And here I thought what we had was special." His words trailed off into a chuckle, low and edged with something dangerous.

I flicked a glance at Valerie beside me. She held herself steady, shoulders squared, face carved from stone, but I saw the way her fingers curled just a little too tight around the armrest of her chair. I knew the way fear disguised itself in small betrayals.

So, he was as much her demon as he was mine.

Then she spoke, her voice slicing through the tension, sharp and controlled. "Please, Victor," she said, each syllable carefully measured. "The only thing between us are the dead men on both sides."

To anyone else, her words would've sounded strong, unwavering. But I wasn't anyone else. I heard it—the ghost of a tremor, buried deep, barely there. But present.

And that was enough.

My lips curled into something cold, something dangerous. I leaned forward, pressing my hands flat against the table, letting my presence weigh heavy in the room.

The simmering energy, the unspoken threat, the promise of blood—it all swelled between us like a storm about to break.

"Listen up, you angelic bastards," I said, my voice a low snarl, slicing through the air like a blade. "We didn't come here to dance around pleasantries. We came to tell you one thing."

I let the silence stretch, just for a beat, let the weight of it settle into their bones.

"The place. The time." I met Victor's gaze, let my smirk widen just slightly, let him see the certainty in my eyes.

"Bring as many as you want. Call on whatever gods you pray to. Because nothing—" I leaned back, voice dropping into something almost amused, almost cruel— "nothing will save you from me. From us."

The room seemed to exhale, a breath held too long finally released. But no one relaxed.

Then a set of words cut through the air like a blade.

"You bastards—you killed him!"

Talia moved before the thought even registered, before anyone could stop her. One second she was still, the next, she was a blur of fury.

She lunged, fists swinging, catching one of the Angels square in the jaw. He crumpled with a grunt. The second barely had time to react before she slammed into him, sending them both crashing into a table.

Then, chaos.

Chairs scraped against the floor. Bodies surged forward. The air crackled with shouts, the dull impact of fists against flesh, the crash of breaking glass. The tavern became a whirlwind of violence, but Victor and I remained unmoving.

I didn't blink. Neither did he.

We sat like statues, locked in place as the storm of bodies swirled around us. His gaze didn't waver. Neither did mine.

Then he spoke.

"Enough."

Just one word. But it cut through the noise like thunder. The fighting stopped, the chaos dissolved in an instant. One command was all it took.

Impressive.

I exhaled slowly, glancing toward Talia as Tobias dragged her toward the door. Her chest heaved, her eyes not reflecting her rage she seemed to be in, as she passed, she caught my gaze and gave me the smallest of nods.

Victor's voice slithered back into the moment, sharp as a knife.

"You should control your dogs a little better."

A chuckle rumbled up from my chest, dark and amused. I leaned back, considering him for a beat before nodding.

"Perhaps I should…" A pause, the weight of my words hanging between us. Then, a smirk. "Or should I?"

The silence stretched just long enough. Then, I spoke again.

"Three weeks. The ruins of the Risen camp." My voice was steady, final. "Remember that."

I stood, and the movement rippled outward—my people following, the weight of the moment carrying us toward the door.

But just before I stepped outside, I glanced over my shoulder one last time.

Victor hadn't moved.

I flashed him a smile, then walked out into the night.

The cool air met us like a balm, but the tension hadn't faded. I stopped beside Talia and Tobias, my voice low.

"So?"

Talia straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Yeah. Too easy." There was a note of disdain in her tone.

"They didn't notice a thing." But then, a flicker of doubt. "Are you sure he'll do what we want?"

I considered that, my smirk turning sharper.

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "But if he doesn't… I'll just help him make the better decision."

And with that, we disappeared into the night.