05-28-2025, 10:31 PM
Grym had known fear. Controlled it. Weaponized it. But nothing in her years of hunting prepared her for what happened next.
One moment, he was calm—an observer, silent and unreadable. The next, the glass of the control booth exploded in a violent cascade, and the Dreyken shrieked as invisible hands snatched it from its nest of warmth and shadows. Air itself wrapped around the creature’s throat and limbs, pulling it aloft like a marionette. Giovanni stood beneath it, as serene as a statue, conjuring fire with a thought.
The realization struck her cold: He was channeling. A sick weight settled in her gut. She hadn’t even sensed it. Not once during the time they’d walked side by side. She’d let him in, trusted his presence, his silence. And all the while, he’d been hiding a weapon more dangerous than anything they’d faced tonight. A channeler, cloaked and steady, calm as a corpse.
Her body remained still, every muscle coiled in tension, but inside, her thoughts roiled. She had walked beside him, trusted him, and he’d never once let on. It wasn’t the power itself that disturbed her. It was the lie of his calm. Regarding the Russian, she had expected vengeance. Rage, even. A shot to the head. A clean kill. What she saw instead rooted her to the floor like ice.
The creature wasn't simply killed, the Russian enjoyed it. He stalked the control booth like a butcher choosing the right blade, rummaging through drawers until he found what he was looking for: a pair of rusted pliers. Then, with the same calm as the stranger, but with none of the restraint, he began pulling the Dreyken’s teeth one by one, savoring every sound, every twitch of pain. He spoke to it as he worked, grinning as if he were making art. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t necessary. It was cruelty, pure and gleaming.
Grym stood in silence and watched. She made herself watch. The Dreyken was a monster—yes. It had stalked its prey, fed on their blood, planned to keep them as a larder for weeks. But even for something like this, she believed in a clean death. A bullet. A blade. Over and done. This wasn’t just killing it. He was feeding something else; something inside himself.
When it was over and the Dreyken hit the floor with a wet thud, Grym faced them both. She didn't speak. She didn’t have to. Her gaze said everything. Disappointment. Disgust. A quiet condemnation.
Not because the Power was used, but because he had handed the kill over to him. A man who would treat a living creature, even a monstrous one, like a trophy to be mounted, its pain part of the sport. She saw understanding flash in Giovanni’s expression, followed by something uncertain, like guilt. He looked away.
The Dreyken was dead. That mattered. But Grym pushed the emotions down. No time for lectures. No time for fights. She stepped into the heat of the chamber and made her way to the others. The men were still bound, sagging in their chains, faces drawn, eyes unfocused. One moaned, another coughed, barely conscious.
She moved fast, efficient, drawing her knife and slicing bonds. Chains rattled to the floor. Some of the zip ties had cut into flesh, leaving red welts or bruises. She spoke quietly when she had to, checking pulses, rolling men onto their feet when they could stand. Alistair stirred under her hand and met her gaze. She gave him a nod, brief and calm.
“No talking yet,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”
Behind her, the Russian paced like a lion in his cage, bloody pliers still in hand, wearing his satisfaction like a second skin. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see his pride. There were still men to free. Still work to be done.
She moved forward.
One moment, he was calm—an observer, silent and unreadable. The next, the glass of the control booth exploded in a violent cascade, and the Dreyken shrieked as invisible hands snatched it from its nest of warmth and shadows. Air itself wrapped around the creature’s throat and limbs, pulling it aloft like a marionette. Giovanni stood beneath it, as serene as a statue, conjuring fire with a thought.
The realization struck her cold: He was channeling. A sick weight settled in her gut. She hadn’t even sensed it. Not once during the time they’d walked side by side. She’d let him in, trusted his presence, his silence. And all the while, he’d been hiding a weapon more dangerous than anything they’d faced tonight. A channeler, cloaked and steady, calm as a corpse.
Her body remained still, every muscle coiled in tension, but inside, her thoughts roiled. She had walked beside him, trusted him, and he’d never once let on. It wasn’t the power itself that disturbed her. It was the lie of his calm. Regarding the Russian, she had expected vengeance. Rage, even. A shot to the head. A clean kill. What she saw instead rooted her to the floor like ice.
The creature wasn't simply killed, the Russian enjoyed it. He stalked the control booth like a butcher choosing the right blade, rummaging through drawers until he found what he was looking for: a pair of rusted pliers. Then, with the same calm as the stranger, but with none of the restraint, he began pulling the Dreyken’s teeth one by one, savoring every sound, every twitch of pain. He spoke to it as he worked, grinning as if he were making art. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t necessary. It was cruelty, pure and gleaming.
Grym stood in silence and watched. She made herself watch. The Dreyken was a monster—yes. It had stalked its prey, fed on their blood, planned to keep them as a larder for weeks. But even for something like this, she believed in a clean death. A bullet. A blade. Over and done. This wasn’t just killing it. He was feeding something else; something inside himself.
When it was over and the Dreyken hit the floor with a wet thud, Grym faced them both. She didn't speak. She didn’t have to. Her gaze said everything. Disappointment. Disgust. A quiet condemnation.
Not because the Power was used, but because he had handed the kill over to him. A man who would treat a living creature, even a monstrous one, like a trophy to be mounted, its pain part of the sport. She saw understanding flash in Giovanni’s expression, followed by something uncertain, like guilt. He looked away.
The Dreyken was dead. That mattered. But Grym pushed the emotions down. No time for lectures. No time for fights. She stepped into the heat of the chamber and made her way to the others. The men were still bound, sagging in their chains, faces drawn, eyes unfocused. One moaned, another coughed, barely conscious.
She moved fast, efficient, drawing her knife and slicing bonds. Chains rattled to the floor. Some of the zip ties had cut into flesh, leaving red welts or bruises. She spoke quietly when she had to, checking pulses, rolling men onto their feet when they could stand. Alistair stirred under her hand and met her gaze. She gave him a nod, brief and calm.
“No talking yet,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”
Behind her, the Russian paced like a lion in his cage, bloody pliers still in hand, wearing his satisfaction like a second skin. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see his pride. There were still men to free. Still work to be done.
She moved forward.
‡‡ GRYM ‡‡