5 – FIRE AND BLOOD

The chandeliers lay in shards across the marble floor, crystal glittering like fallen stars. Smoke curled from the gaping hole where the doors had once stood, thick and choking. Snarls and screams collided with the frantic discord of musicians abandoning their instruments mid-song.

“HUNTERS! TO ARMS!” Rufus bellowed, his voice booming through the chaos.

But most of them had none.

The Ball had been designed for politics and spectacle, not blood. Gowns, not armor. Goblets, not weapons.

A blur of fur and snapping jaws lunged at Sophie through the smoke.

She barely had time to pivot before something gleamed in the air.

“Catch!” Johnny’s voice rang out, wild with exhilaration.

Sophie snatched the shining sword from midair on instinct. The weight of it settled into her palm like an old memory. She drove it forward without hesitation, straight through the rogue’s chest. The wolf’s momentum carried it another step before it collapsed at her feet.

Blood splattered across her dress, hot and slick. Her breath didn’t hitch. Her hands didn’t shake.

Johnny was already laughing, fighting three at once with reckless joy, a broken chair leg in one hand, a blade in the other. “Why the hell would these idiots attack a ball full of Hunters?”

Sophie had the same thought, until she looked closer.

These weren’t strategic rogues. Their eyes were glassy, unfocused. Foam caked their muzzles. Their movements were vicious but erratic, driven by compulsion rather than intent.

Too far gone to plan something like this.

Something else was at work.

She spun, the blade singing through the air. Her gown tore high at the thigh as she moved, silk ripping without resistance. Smoke streaked her skin. Glass bit into her feet, but she barely felt it.

The Ice Queen was gone.

What stood in her place was exactly what Lucian had forged. A weapon.

Around her, chaos reigned. Hunters fought with whatever they could grab, shattered table legs, crystal shards, silver cutlery ripped from display trays. Jax moved like a force of nature, every strike precise and merciless, his expression carved into something lethal. Shiloh was a streak of red through the haze, blades flashing, efficient and cold.

And Pandora...

Sophie caught sight of her crouched behind an overturned table, clutching her golden gown close to her body. Her hair was disheveled, but her dress was pristine. Not a single mark of blood touched her.

She wasn’t fighting.

She was hiding.

A cry cut through the noise, raw and unmistakable.

“Tom!”

Sophie’s head snapped toward the sound.

She saw him then, Tom, standing his ground near the shattered orchestra pit, a dagger in his hand. He moved with desperate bravery, plunging the blade into a rogue’s heart even as another crashed into him from the side.

Claws raked across his throat.

Blood sprayed dark against the marble.

“No...” Sophie broke into a sprint.

She cut down one wolf mid-stride, then another, her lungs burning as she reached him. Tom was already on his knees, hands pressed uselessly to his neck. His eyes found hers, wide with shock rather than fear.

Sophie dropped beside him, pressing her hand to the wound, silver slick with blood.

“Hold on,” she said, voice tight, commanding. “Hold on.”

His mouth moved. No sound came out.

The light drained from his eyes in seconds.

Too fast.

Too final.

Pandora’s scream rang out behind her, sharp and piercing. “TOM!”

Sophie turned just enough to see her standing now, center of the chaos, hands to her chest, face twisted in grief so dramatic it drew eyes from every corner of the hall.

But she didn’t run to him or try to help in any way.

Sophie looked back down at Tom’s still body.

For all his flaws, he hadn’t deserved this.

Another rogue lunged.

Sophie rose in one smooth motion and met it head-on.

What followed wasn’t conscious thought. She went feral. She didn’t feel exhaustion. Didn’t feel fear. She cut through the remaining rogues with terrifying efficiency, blade rising and falling as if guided by something older than her own will.

The fight spilled outward, forced into the courtyard by sheer violence. Sophie rose, sword slick and heavy in her grip, and followed. Smoke stung her eyes as she burst into the night air.

That was when she saw them.

The trucks.

Black. Unmarked. Parked too neatly at the edge of the grounds.

Hunter army trucks.

Her pulse slammed hard enough to hurt.

These wolves hadn’t arrived on their own.

This wasn’t an attack.

It was a delivery.

Later, after the rogues lay in heaps of broken bodies and the screams had dulled into sobs and shock, Sophie crouched amid the wreckage near the blast point. She sifted through the remains of the device that had torn open the hall.

Metal fragments glinted in her palm.

Precision cut.

Manufactured.

Human.

Hunter-made.

An inside job.

Ice slid back into place over her expression, sealing every crack. She would say nothing. Not to Johnny. Not to Jax. Not to Lucian.

Not yet.

Inside the hall, devastation reigned. Blood streaked the marble. Banners hung torn and smoking. Her dress was ruined, ripped to the hip, blackened with soot and gore. She stood amid the wreckage, sword dripping, looking every inch the warrior she had been shaped to be.

Pandora hovered nearby, tear-streaked, shaking, telling anyone who would listen how brave Tom had been. How terrifying it was. How she’d almost lost him.

When she noticed Sophie watching, her expression hardened and spoke so only she could hear.

“You really made a mess of things,” Pandora said quietly, eyes flicking to Sophie’s torn, blood-soaked gown. “Try not to enjoy it so much next time.”

Johnny swaggered over, blood spattered across his cheek, eyes bright. “Damn, Ice Queen. You cut down more rogues than half the room combined.” He clapped her shoulder with genuine warmth. “Can’t wait to have you on our team.”

Sophie blinked once, startled by the praise, then gave a single nod.

Rufus overheard and barked, “Then why the hell can’t she join now? War doesn’t wait for birthdays!”

Murmurs rippled through the survivors.

Lucian strode forward, his presence silencing the hall. Smoke curled around him, black against black, as if it knew where to cling.

“For centuries,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly, “Hunters have lived under an uneasy truce with the Wolf Nation. We struck down rogues, and only rogues, so long as the packs left humans unharmed.”

His gaze swept the carnage.

“Tonight proves that time is over.”

A hush fell.

“Rabid rogues could not have planned this,” Lucian continued. “This was orchestrated.”

Gasps broke through the crowd.

“The Council has convened,” he said, voice absolute. “And we declare this: the truce is broken. The Wolf Nation is our enemy. From this night forward, we are at full war.”

The hall erupted.

Cheers. Cries. Rage.

Lucian’s hand fell heavy on Sophie’s shoulder.

“Sophie,” he intoned. “You will no longer linger in shadows. The council has seen you. You will join the elite hunters as the youngest member ever.” His blue eyes were ice. “And I trust you understand what will happen if you fail.”

The words landed like iron.

Sophie straightened. Her mask held. She bowed her head once.

She kept her face composed, but she knew the ugly truth.

The Ball had been a setup, and Tom was dead because of it.

Sophie made herself a promise she did not speak aloud:

Whoever orchestrated tonight thought they were untouchable.

Whoever it was, she promised, would one day feel the taste of her revenge.

 

For Tom.