Prologue Caius #2
The young Billionaire lifts his glass, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “And yet, their bloodlines are robust. Their alliances, intact. Maybe there’s something to their... innovation. Seems choosing your own mate has it’s perks, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quiet, you insolent child. Do not forget you are here in your father’s stead.”
The Board doesn’t know whether to bristle or bow. Julian covers a laugh with a cough; Bam’s hand curls around his glass until I hear it creak.
“They made a mockery,” Valence hisses, “of everything we built. You do not experiment with legacy.”
A woman leans in. “Sometimes, experiment is the only path to dominance. Unfortunately, their choices have put them outside of our purview, meaning their matches are useless to us. We had so hoped to use Noah’s legacy to enhance our power, but it appears Kairo and his dogs refused to bow. Such is life. We will rebuild.”
The room tilts, just a little. Everything within Westpoint has always been precise, measured. There are three parts to make the Academy run smoothly.
The Board: who cling to ritual, to hierarchy, to the lie that power flows down predictable channels. A training center to funnel wealth, control and prestige to those who are deemed worthy.
The Billionaires: who are the flood that erodes the banks, takes over stock exchanges, buys power with money and corruption.
The Vicious Kings: who are the mafia that protect the funders from unscrupulous actors. They also deal with defectors.
I watch, listening. Observing. Every twitch, every glance, every held breath. Rhett meets my eye, lips twisted. He wants to see this burn.
Always in the middle of chaos, Rhett is.
Colton barely moves, but his gaze tracks the youngest Billionaire’s hands.
The conversation becomes a fencing match.
Abelard sighs, “Deviation weakens us. It breeds contempt. Contempt breeds rebellion.”
The leader smiles with his teeth. “Rebellion breeds winners. Every generation is built on the graves of the last.”
Rhett, unable to help himself, “Sounds messy. I like it.”
“Silence, pug.”
The Board recoils, but they’re outflanked. The Billionaires circle the table, never breaking eye contact with their targets. The message is clear: this is their arena now, and the Board just a set of aging referees.
Julian leans back. “What’s the point of all this, if everyone cheats?”
“Cheating is just winning by other means. The Hunt is not about fairness. It’s about outcome. We will fund the Night Hunt, in your tradition, but make no mistake, we do not care about how the outcome is achieved, just that it is and you stay under control.”
The Board can’t answer that. Their hands tighten on glass stems, knuckles straining white.
I take a sip of the brandy. Burn and sweetness. I could get used to it.
The Billionaires don’t linger. They deliver their message, leave the Board to stew in the aftermath. When they go, the pressure in the room releases. The torches seem brighter, the air less weighted.
Abelard stares into his empty glass as if he wants to smash it and use the shards. “They want us to fail.”
Valence rubs her head, “They want to run the Hunt themselves.”
Rhett asks, “Wouldn’t you?”
Julian raises his glass in a mocking toast. “To legacy.”
Colton chuckles and slaps his hands on the table, startling the half-dead board, “To survival.”
Abelard gestures and one of the aides brings out a scroll, yellowed and curling at the edges. He unrolls it like an uncoiling snake, the words in black gothic script, written in blood or something that dries the same way.
He reads, voice crackling:
“Once per generation, the girls of Westpoint will be chosen by the Board. Their names entered into the Book, their bodies prepared for the Hunt. The runners will be released at the witching hour. If caught, they are claimed. If not, they are erased. This is the law. This is the cycle.”
Every syllable lands like a hammer on anvil.
He keeps reading, but the words barely matter. I know the script, have since I could walk.
This is merely formality.
A reminder.
Abelard concludes: “Failure to uphold tradition will not be tolerated. Blood will be paid.”
Julian just can’t keep his fat fucking mouth shut, “And what of us? If we go off script?”
Abelard’s gaze whips to me, the others. “You understand your role. You will lead the Hunt as your bloodlines demand.”
I nod, and the movement is minimal but final. Julian snarls, but shuts the fuck up and leans back, gesturing with his hands for Abelard to continue.
“Then let us seal this covenant,” Abelard sighs.
He opens the case and withdraws a knife that is not ceremonial, not antique.
It is modern, with a bone handle and a blade that looks like it was made for skinning.
He stabs it point-first into the obsidian table and unscrews the top from a silver flask.
He pours a little of its contents into a waiting chalice—red, viscous, unmistakable.
The Board takes the knife in turn, slice a thumb, and let the blood drip into the cup before passing it to us.
When it’s my turn, I don’t hesitate. The blade is cold and sharp, and I press until the pain spikes, then dulls. My blood beads bright before sinking into the liquid, vanishing.
Then Abelard stirs it with the knife and lifts the chalice.
“Legacy,” he says, and the word is a verdict.
He drinks first, then passes it. Each person drinks, even the ones who want to spit it out. When it comes to me, I drain it. There’s a taste under the iron—something metallic, something sacred and profane.
When the ritual is done, he wipes the knife on a linen square, tucks it back in the case. He nods once, turns on his heel, and leaves. His work is done; the threat is both delivered and accepted.
The Board follows, leaving only us sitting there, lost in thought.
Rhett nudges the cup with a fingertip. “Cheers,” he mutters, “they better have picked a hottie for me.”
Julian grins, teeth pink with leftover blood. “Old traditions. New tricks.”
Bam looks at the line of blood on his thumb, then wipes it on the tablecloth. “I’m fucking starving. Let’s go eat.”
Colton glances at the chalice, the knife, the stains on the velvet. “Let’s go to Penny’s. A beer to wash the taste of your STD’s away would be fucking nice, Bam. You can pay.”
I stare at my own hand. The blood has stopped flowing, but the cut is a bright red mouth, grinning up at me. This is how you inherit a world: you take the wound and you keep it open.