Loyalties Burned
Regina Voss
The Council Chamber smells of lemon polish, old mahogany, and the metallic tang of a pending execution.
I walk down the center aisle, my boots clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. To my left, the tiered seating is filled with Vampires—the Purist faction, wearing charcoal suits and expressions of bored disdain.
To my right, the Crescent Pack stands in their tactical grays, a wall of muscle and fur radiating heat and hostility.
They aren't looking at me like I’m a person. They are looking at me like I’m a contagion.
Social Status: Excommunicated. Threat Level: Existential.
Zephyr walks beside me. He doesn't touch me—public displays of the bond are dangerous here, a provocation to the Purists—but I can feel him.
The silver blood in my veins hums in resonance with his presence. He is the shadow at my shoulder, the silent partner in this hostile negotiation.
"Shoulders back," his voice whispers in my mind, carried along the Soul-Lien.
"You are not the defendant, Regina. You are the plaintiff. They broke the contract, not you."
I know, I project back. But they have the gavel.
We reach the center of the room—a circular depression in the floor known as the Well of Truth.
It is supposed to be a place where lies cannot be spoken without burning the tongue.
But as I look up at the dais where the High Council sits, I know the magic here has been tampered with. The air tastes greasy. The "Truth" has been edited.
At the head of the dais sits Cassian.
My cousin. The Alpha.
He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin has a gray, pallid cast that speaks of sleepless nights—or dark magic.
He isn't wearing his usual military fatigues. He is wearing the ceremonial robes of the High Justicar, a role he usurped when the previous Council fell silent.
He looks down at me. There is no love in his eyes. There isn't even hate. There is just calculation. I am a line item he needs to cross out to balance his books.
"Regina Voss," Cassian announces. His voice is amplified by the acoustics of the chamber, booming over the mumuring crowd. "You have been summoned to the Neutral Ground to answer for crimes against the Supernatural Order."
"I wasn't summoned," I say, my voice steady, projecting to the back rows. "I surrendered. There is a difference."
"Semantics," Cassian dismisses with a wave of his hand. He picks up a scroll—a mirror of the one we found in the Vaults, but this one is black paper written in white ink.
A forgery. "You stand accused of High Treason. Of conspiring with the demon Daxios to destabilize the Ley Lines. Of murdering Pack Enforcers in the Ward-Tunnels. And of engaging in forbidden blood-magic with a known enemy of the state."
He points a finger at Zephyr.
"The vampire Zephyr Nightfall is an accomplice," Cassian declares. "But you, Regina... you are the infection. You are the bridge that let the rot in."
A growl ripples through the Pack side of the room. I see faces I know. People I grew up with. People I protected as an Auditor. They look at me with bared teeth.
"You have no proof," I state. "I have the ledger, Cassian. I have the logs of the payments you made to Daxios."
"Lies," Cassian says smoothly. "Fabrications created by your demon master to sow discord. We are not here to debate your delusions, Regina. We are here to excise the tumor."
He stands up, the robes billowing around him.
"The prophecy demands a sacrifice," Cassian says, his eyes gleaming with a fanaticism that chills my blood.
"A Blood Heir must fall to save the city. You brought this doom upon us, cousin. It is only fitting that your blood pays the debt."
He isn't trying me. He is preparing to slaughter me.
I look at the exits. Blocked by heavy infantry. I look at the Councilors flanking Cassian. They are nodding, bribed or enchanted into compliance.
Trap, my tactical mind screams. It’s a kill box.
"I demand the Right of Challenge," I say, playing my only card.
"If you want my blood, Cassian, come down here and take it yourself."
Cassian laughs. It is a dry, rattling sound that doesn't reach his eyes.
"The Right of Challenge allows a Pack member to contest leadership," he says, descending the steps of the dais. "But you are no longer Pack, Regina. You are Rogue. You have no rights."
"I am a Voss," I counter, my voice rising. "My blood is the foundation of this House. You can strip the badge, but you cannot strip the DNA."
I reach into my jacket and pull out the data crystal I bought from Grix in the market. I slam it onto the stone plinth in the center of the Well.
"You want evidence?" I shout. "Audit this."
I channel a pulse of hybrid magic into the crystal. It flares to life, projecting a massive hologram into the air above us.
It isn't a graph. It isn't a spreadsheet. It is a memory.
The air in the chamber shimmers, resolving into a grainy, black-and-white image.
It shows Cassian standing in a shadowy office. He is shaking hands with Daxios.
“The Pack will be yours,” Daxios’s recorded voice purrs, echoing off the marble walls.
“All I require is the Heir. Deliver Regina to the Vaults, and I will erase the debts of the Crescent line.”
“Done,” Cassian’s voice replies. “She is a liability anyway. Too much of her father in her.”
Gasps ripple through the room. The wolves on the right shift uneasily, looking from the hologram to their Alpha.
"He sold us!" I scream, pointing at Cassian.
"He didn't save the Pack from bankruptcy. He mortgaged our future to a demon!"
Cassian’s face twists. The exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a snarl of pure, animalistic rage.
"That is a fabrication!" he roars. "Demon trickery!"
"It is the ledger!" I yell back. "The numbers don't lie, Cassian! You are the traitor!"
The crowd is moving. The vampires look amused, sensing weakness. The wolves look confused, their loyalty fracturing.
Cassian sees it. He sees his control slipping.
"Enough!" he bellows.
He raises his hand. But he doesn't shift into a wolf.
Purple light erupts from his palm.
It isn't Pack magic. It is Witch-Metal energy. It is Daxios’s power.
"Truth is treason!" Cassian screams.
He hurls a bolt of necrotic energy straight at me.
It happens in slow motion.
I brace myself, raising my arms to shield, summoning the gold-shadow of the bond.
But I am not fast enough.
"Regina!"
A body slams into me from the side, knocking me out of the path of the bolt.
Ryke.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't think. He saw the threat, and he moved.
The purple bolt hits him square in the chest.
There is no sound of impact. No explosion. Just a sickening hiss as the necrotic magic dissolves the tactical armor, the flesh, the bone.
Ryke hits the floor.
"NO!" I scream.
I scramble over to him, my hands slipping in the blood that is already pooling on the white marble.
"Ryke!" I press my hands to his chest, trying to hold him together.
But the wound is horrifying. It is a black, gaping void where his heart should be. The edges of the flesh are smoking.
"Hey, Reg," Ryke wheezes. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Blood bubbles past his lips.
"Don't talk," I sob, frantically pouring my own magic into him.
"Hold on. Zephyr can fix this. He has the blood. Zephyr!"
I look up. Zephyr is there, kneeling on the other side. His face is pale, his expression stricken.
He reaches out, hovering his hand over the wound.
He shakes his head.
"The structure is gone," Zephyr whispers. "There is nothing to anchor to."
"No," I beg. "No, no, no. Ryke, look at me."
Ryke’s hand comes up, trembling. He touches my cheek, smearing blood on my skin.
"I knew," he whispers, a faint smile touching his lips. "I knew you weren't a traitor."
"You idiot," I cry, tears dripping onto his face. "Why did you jump?"
"Pack protects Pack," he breaths. "Even... the strays."
His hand falls.
His chest stops moving.
The light in his eyes—that warm, golden-brown warmth that used to be my entire world—fades into gray static.
He is gone.
The silence in the Council Chamber is absolute. Even the Purists are quiet.
I stare at Ryke’s body.
My best friend. My first love. The boy who taught me how to throw a punch.
The only person in the Pack who never looked at me like a mistake.
Dead.
Because of a lie. Because of a ledger that wouldn't balance.
Something inside me snaps.
It isn't a loud noise. It is the sound of a cable parting under too much tension. It is the sound of a foundation crumbling.
The wolf in my chest—the fierce, fiery presence that has been my companion since birth—howls once, a long, mournful sound of agony.
And then she goes silent.
The heat leaves my blood. The gold fades from my vision.
I feel cold. Empty. Fragmented.
I stop crying. I stop shaking. I stop feeling.
I am just a shell. A vacant unit.
"Regina?" Zephyr’s voice is sharp, worried. He touches my shoulder.
I don't respond. I stare at the blood on my hands. It looks like ink.
"She’s broken," a voice says from the dais. Cassian. He sounds triumphant. "The Bridge has collapsed."
Cassian steps down, the purple magic wreathing his hands. "Finish them. Kill the leech. Take the girl. She is useful property."
The wolves surge forward, weapons drawn.
I don't move. I don't care. Let them take me. Let them erase me.
But Zephyr moves.
He stands up. He steps over Ryke’s body, placing himself between me and the army.
He doesn't draw a weapon. He doesn't raise his fists.
He adjusts his cuffs. He smooths his tie.
He looks at Cassian, and for the first time, I see the Sovereign fully unleash the Financier.
"You devalued the wrong asset," Zephyr says. His voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of a mountain.
He raises his hand.
"The time for law is over," Zephyr announces, his eyes turning solid, abyssal black.
"Now we use the software to delete you.".
The shadows in the room rise up—not as darkness, but as teeth.