You’d think a Hunter guild as notorious as Crimson Fang would invest in doors that actually shut.
Lucky for me, they didn’t.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Not exactly.
Okay, fine. I was. A little.
But in my defense, if you leave a door open in a fortress full of spies and killers, that’s not negligence…it’s an invitation.
Inside the room, Pleit stands rigid as iron. Back straight, hands laced behind him like a soldier ready to be judged by the gods.
Veyros lounges in his seat like a king bored with war. Fingers drumming slow against the desk, voice smooth as poisoned silk.
“So let me get this straight,” Veyros says, calm and cold. “A Crimson Hunter is wounded. The attacker was another Hunter. The Blade is gone. And no one has a damn clue why?”
“Yes, sir,” Pleit answers, sharp as a blade unsheathed.
Silence follows…long enough to crack bones.
Then Veyros sighs. A sound full of disdain. “Useless. All of you.”
Pleit doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He’s too smart for that.
Veyros leans back, gaze shifting toward the frost-rimmed window. “And what about that C-Rank?”
My lungs freeze. Just for a second. That’s me.
“He’s fine,” Pleit says, measured and cautious.
“Fine?” Veyros scoffs. “He failed to secure the Blade. He failed to track the attacker. He got himself carved open like an amateur. He’s a liability.”
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Pleit clenches his fists behind his back. His silence screams louder than words.
“Even the best can be replaced,” Veyros murmurs. “If this escalates, I’ll have him executed.”
My hand twitches toward my weapon.
Pleit doesn’t break. “Sir, respectfully, Hunter Alvertium is still one of our best. His record-”
“Statistics.” Veyros waves a hand.
“Level 35, His best stats are Agility and Perception”
I allow myself a smug little smirk. Damn right.
Veyros hums, unimpressed. “And the girl?”
Pleit hesitates.
“You’re sure she was a Hunter?”
“Yes, sir. Her form, her strikes... she was trained. But not by us.”
“Rogue, then. Dangerous. Loose. And if she’s not from us…she’s from someone else.”
A pause. Then Veyros gives the order like he’s discussing weather.
“Put a bounty on her. I want her dead.”
My heart doesn’t skip, it detonates.
I do want her dead too. She sliced me open. My shoulder still aches from her blade. But I need answers first.
And if someone gets to kill her, it sure as hell won’t be some bounty hunter looking for coins.
It’ll be me.
The name comes from the wind, cold, serrated, and brutal.
Storm Fang.
That’s what Pleit says next, voice low like the weight of it might shatter glass.
“She’s Storm Fang.”
Veyros stills. The air thickens. His fingers stop drumming.
Pleit nods once. “The blade. Her stance. Her technique. It’s not just Hunter training, it’s their training. Frost-forged, high-altitude, brutal efficiency.”
Veyros doesn't move for a long moment. Then he laughs. Quiet, cold, and sharp enough to bleed.
“Storm Fang crossed our line,” he says. “Cute.”
“No insignia,” Pleit adds. “She was off-grid. Unmarked. Probably rogue.”
“Rogue?” Veyros echoes, the word like poison in his mouth. “Or sanctioned with deniability?”
Silence answers him.
And then he stands. Not like a man rising from a desk, but like a blade unsheathing.
“Send a squad,” he says. “Four minimum. I want that cave turned inside out. I want her captured if possible. Dead if not. And if Storm Fang dares to protest... let them.”
“But, sir—”
Veyros turns, eyes gleaming with something darker than rage.
“No more warnings. If they want war, they’ll choke on it.”
He sweeps from the room like a storm leaving ruin in its wake.
Pleit exhales. He looks... tired. Older.
And I? I just realized the rules changed.
This isn’t a rogue incident anymore.
It’s the spark.
The thing we all swore wouldn’t happen.
Fangs turning on Fangs.
I mutter to myself, voice dry.
"Perfect. Just perfect."
Because now? Now it’s not just about the girl.
It’s about everything.
And Veyros?
He's not interested in mercy.
He's interested in fire.
