The barn smelled like old hay, rusted iron, and sweat that had soaked too deeply into the wood to ever leave. The air inside was thick and unmoving, trapped beneath a high ceiling supported by beams scarred with old knife marks and bullet gouges. Someone had dragged in industrial lights years ago, their harsh white glow buzzing faintly overhead, throwing long shadows across the uneven floor. Outside, the world had moved on. Inside this place, it felt like time had stalled and begun to rot.
Cassius Vane sat at the center of it all, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on a scarred wooden table that had once been used to sort grain. His hands were clasped together, fingers interlocked so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He stared at the surface of the table as voices rose around him, layered and sharp, overlapping like knives clashing in the dark.
He was tired.
Not the kind of tired that came from missed sleep or long travel, but the kind that settled into bone and stayed there. The kind that made even breathing feel like work.
"We lost eight men at Gryphon," one of them snapped, pacing near the far wall. "Eight. And for what?"
"The payout didn't even cover the funerals," another added, voice thick with resentment. "You call that leadership?"
Cassius closed his eyes for half a second.
They were angry, but not for the reasons they pretended. He knew these men. He had hunted beside them, bled beside them, buried their dead. If they were mourning, they hid it well. What burned behind their eyes now was not grief, but arithmetic. Risk weighed against reward. Blood weighed against coin.
"The Gryphons were fortified," Cassius said evenly, lifting his head. His voice carried without effort, low and steady, the voice that had once been enough to quiet a room. "We knew that going in."
"Yeah, and you still sent us in," someone shot back. "For scraps."
A few others murmured in agreement. Cassius felt the sound more than he heard it, a low current of discontent crawling through the barn.
He leaned back in his chair, wood creaking beneath his weight. In his mind, the images rose uninvited. The Gryphon estate burning at the edges. The scream of metal twisting. Men he had trained gasping their last breaths in dirt soaked red. And beneath all of it, the truth he had learned too late.
The Thornes.
It had always been them.
The thought curled hot and vicious in his chest. If this meeting had taken place on a different day, in a different mood, he might have let the fire take him. Might have stood up, drawn his gun, and ended the argument permanently. For a moment, he surprised himself by how little that idea unsettled him.
At least then the noise would stop.
Around him, the complaints sharpened. They questioned his judgment now, his instincts, his ability to lead. Subtle at first, then less so. It was not a mutiny yet, but it was close enough to smell.
Cassius said nothing.
That silence was what worried Gregory.
Greg stood near the edge of the group, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes flicking between the men and Cassius. He had not been with the guild long, not compared to the others. He was younger, leaner, his face still capable of softness. But there was steel in him when it counted. Cassius had seen it, had chosen him for that reason.
John's absence still sat heavy in the room, even if no one said his name. Gregory shifted his weight, took a breath, then stepped forward.
"That's enough," Greg said, his voice not loud, but firm.
The barn quieted. Slowly. Reluctantly.
He turned to face them all, meeting eyes without flinching. "You're right," he continued. "Something's wrong. And pretending it isn't won't fix it."
Cassius looked up at him sharply.
Greg didn't look back.
"You think Cassius has lost his edge," Greg said. "Maybe he has. Maybe he hasn't. But yelling at each other won't answer that."
A few men shifted uncomfortably. This was not the direction they expected.
Greg gestured vaguely around the barn. "This isn't a decision you rush. Not one like this. So here's what we're going to do. We adjourn. Take the day. Think about what this guild has done. What it's survived. What Cassius has done for it. And what you think he'll do next."
Silence stretched.
"We meet back here tonight," Greg finished. "Eleven sharp. And then we talk. And then we vote."
The word vote landed like a stone dropped into water.
Murmurs followed, uneasy and conflicted. No one looked satisfied, but no one challenged him either. One by one, they filed out of the barn, boots scraping against the floor, shoulders tight with unresolved anger.
When the doors finally shut, the space felt cavernous.
Greg exhaled and turned to Cassius. "I bought you time," he said quietly. "I trust you'll use it."
He rested a hand on Cassius's shoulder, a brief, grounding weight, then walked away.
Cassius sat there long after Greg left.
The lights buzzed overhead. Dust drifted lazily through the air. Eventually, he stood, joints stiff, and headed home.
The house was quiet when he arrived.
Too quiet.
Normally, his son would hear the door and come out, even on bad days, dragging himself along the hallway just to see him. Today, nothing.
Cassius's chest tightened as he climbed the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last.
He pushed open the bedroom door.
The smell of medicine hit him first, sharp and sterile, clashing with the faint scent of dust and old wood. His son lay in bed, skin pale, breathing shallow. Sweat dampened his hair, plastering it to his forehead. The blankets were thin, worn from too many washes.
Cassius sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a hand gently through his son's hair. "Hey," he murmured.
His son's eyes fluttered open, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "You're home."
"Yeah," Cassius said, forcing his voice steady. "I'm here."
They spoke quietly. About nothing important. About a book his son had tried to read. About the weather. About a neighbor's dog barking too much. Cassius listened to every word like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
Because it did.
As he sat there, the reality pressed in around him. The empty medicine cabinet. The unpaid bills stacked in the kitchen drawer. The weapons locked away downstairs, polished and deadly, worth more than his house and yet useless for this.
Once, the Vane Guild had been rich. Contracts had flowed freely. Governments, families, organizations that wanted monsters gone had paid handsomely. Then the world changed. The Global Coexistence Act had rewritten everything. Werewolves were people now. Protected. Killing them without legal sanction was murder.
The money dried up.
Cassius had poured what little remained into weapons, intel, manpower. Into vengeance. And now, when his son needed help, there was nothing left to give.
His throat tightened.
He stood abruptly. "Get some rest," he said softly. "I'll be right back."
He left the room before his voice could break.
Downstairs, alone, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. The thought crept in, unwelcome but logical. Maybe it was time to let the guild die. To walk away. To find something else. Anything. To save the only family he had left.
For a moment, that future tempted him.
Then the faces of his brother and niece rose in his mind.
The Thornes.
The promise hardened inside him.
"After them," he whispered to the empty room. "Then it's just us."
He straightened, jaw set, and moved toward his desk. There was research to do. If he was going to hold his guild together long enough to burn the Thorne empire to the ground, he would need every scrap of knowledge he could find.
Outside, night crept closer.
And somewhere else, unseen, plans were already in motion.