The first light of dawn crept through the heavy velvet drapes, pale and thin, painting the living room in shades of gray. Navira's eyes opened before she was ready for them—a slow, reluctant surface from a sleep that had been more exhaustion than rest. The fire had died to embers, and the air carried the chill of morning.
She was alone on the couch. A blanket had been tucked around her, and the indentation on the cushion beside her was empty now, the warmth long gone. Somewhere in the house, muffled sounds drifted—the clatter of dishes, low voices, the smell of something cooking.
She pushed herself up slowly, her bones heavy, her mind already sharpening into the shape of the day ahead. Birthday. Ritual. Staged death. The words sat in her chest like stones.
She swung her legs off the couch, the floorboards cool under her bare feet, and followed the sound. The kitchen door was half-open, light spilling across the hall floor, and she heard Nami's laugh—bright, alive, unmistakable. Relief touched her, thin but real.
But when she stepped through the doorway, the relief didn't last.
The kitchen was warm. Nami stood at the stove, spatula in hand, laughing at something Kiaan had said—he was leaning against the counter, a coffee mug balanced on his palm, his dark eyes crinkled with amusement. Nic was at the island, slicing fruit with the deliberate precision of a man who had centuries of practice. Sierra was pulling plates from the cabinet, her voice rising over the others as she described something about a spell she'd been working on.
The scene was so ordinary it almost hurt.
And then the voices stopped.
One by one, they turned. Smiles faded. Eyes moved past her, toward the space she had just left, toward the figure she hadn't noticed until now.
Reyen.
He sat in the armchair by the cold fireplace, legs spread, elbows on his knees, a blood bag held loosely between his fingers. The lamplight caught the dark hollows under his eyes, cut shadows across the sharp lines of his face. Beside him, a small pile of empty blood bags—ten, maybe more—lay crumpled like discarded wrappers.
He was watching her. Had been watching her. The stillness in his posture said he hadn't moved since she'd been asleep.
Navira lifted her head slowly, letting her gaze drop to the blood bags, then back to his face. Her throat tightened, but she didn't let it show.
He tilted his head. The movement was slow, deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey. Then he smiled—that sharp, hollow smile that didn't touch his eyes—and said, "Ready to tell me what you're up to yet?"
The kitchen went quiet. Nami's hand stilled on the spatula. Kiaan's coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth.
Navira didn't answer. She held his gaze, let the silence stretch, then walked toward the kitchen without a word.
His voice followed her, low and amused. "I'll just fuck it out of you later, then."
She stopped.
The room held its breath. Nami's mouth opened slightly. Sierra's hand went still on the cabinet handle.
Navira turned, walked back to him, and slapped him across the face.
The crack of her palm against his cheek cut through the silence like glass breaking. His head snapped to the side, dark hair falling across his face.
He stayed like that for a beat. Then he licked his bottom lip, slow, tasting the split, and turned his head back to her. The smile was gone.
He pushed himself up from the chair, rising to his full height, and stepped into her space until there was nothing between them but inches and the heat of his breath. His dark eyes bore into hers, flat and cold, and when he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate.
"Do that again and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth."
The threat hung in the air between them, tangible as smoke. Nami's hand had dropped the spatula. Kiaan had set down his mug. Nic stood frozen, fruit knife in hand, his jaw tight.
Navira looked at him. Straight into those dark, empty eyes—the eyes of the man who had held her two nights ago, who had whispered her name like a prayer, who had told her he loved her with his whole chest and meant it. She saw nothing of him in this face. And somehow, that made it easier.
She lifted her chin. "All bark, no bite."
His eyes flickered—something sharp, something almost impressed—but it was gone before she could name it.
She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm, and walked into the kitchen without looking back.
The warmth of the kitchen hit her like a wall. Nami was already moving, pulling out a chair at the table, her expression carefully neutral. Nic turned back to the fruit, his knife resuming its work, but his shoulders were tight. Sierra busied herself with the coffee pot, her movements a little too quick.
Kiaan was the only one who met her eyes. He gave her a small, quiet nod—no words, just acknowledgment. She nodded back.
She sat down at the table, her hands flat on the wood, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
From the living room, she heard the rustle of a blood bag being lifted. The wet, hollow sound of him drinking.
No one spoke. The eggs sizzled on the stove. Steam rose from the coffee pot. And somewhere in the house, a clock ticked toward the hour when everything would change.
Navira watched the morning light creep across the kitchen tiles, gold now instead of gray, and she counted the hours until she would die.
Fourteen, maybe. Less, if the ritual took longer than she planned.
Nami set a plate in front of her—eggs, toast, a small pile of fruit—and squeezed her shoulder once before returning to the stove.
"Eat," Nami said softly, her back to Navira. "You'll need your strength."
Navira picked up her fork. The eggs were warm. The toast was buttered. Everything tasted like dust.
She ate anyway. Because Nami was right. Because the day ahead would demand everything she had. Because she needed to be ready when the moment came.
Behind her, in the living room, another blood bag crinkled empty and fell to the floor.
She didn't turn around. She kept eating, kept breathing, kept the plan alive in her chest like a flame cupped against the wind.
And she waited for the hour to come.
Nic turned the television on.
The remote was on the kitchen island, and he picked it up without a word—no explanation, no warning. Just the click of the button, the flicker of light across the wall, the low hum of a morning news anchor's voice filling the silence that had settled over the kitchen.
Navira kept eating. The eggs were cold now, but she worked through them, one forkful at a time, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant the weight of fourteen hours pressing down on her chest.
The anchor's voice cut through the static: "—breaking news this morning from Pine Ridge National Forest, where authorities have confirmed at least twenty fatalities at a campsite overnight. Officials are describing the scene as catastrophic, with evidence suggesting a large animal attack. We're being told the victims range in age—"
Navira's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
The screen showed aerial footage—helicopter shots of torn tents, overturned vehicles, dark stains spreading across canvas and dirt. The camera panned over a cooling unit lying on its side, its contents scattered, and a sleeping bag that had been ripped open and dragged twenty feet from where it should have been.
"—local authorities have not yet identified the animal responsible, but wildlife experts are warning hikers and campers to avoid the area. The investigation is ongoing."
Nami's hand had gone still on the spatula. Kiaan's coffee mug had stopped its slow arc toward his mouth. Sierra stood frozen at the counter, a plate in her hands, her brown eyes fixed on the screen.
And from the living room, a sound.
Low. Quiet. A sound that didn't belong in a room full of horror.
Reyen chuckled.
Every head turned. Navira's hand tightened on her fork, the metal cool and solid against her palm, grounding her in the moment. She didn't turn around. Not yet. She let her spine lock into place, let the fork settle back onto the plate, and listened.
Reyen sat in his armchair, legs crossed at the ankle, a fresh blood bag dangling from his fingers. His dark eyes were fixed on the television. The corner of his mouth was curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—it was satisfaction, pure and unguarded, the look of a man who had done exactly what he wanted and had no regrets.
Nic's jaw tightened. He set down the fruit knife, the blade clinking against the cutting board, and took a slow step toward the living room. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of calm that preceded violence.
"Reyen."
Reyen didn't look at him. His gaze stayed on the screen, on the aerial footage, on the dark stains spreading across the forest floor. He brought the blood bag to his lips and took a long, slow pull, his eyes half-lidding with something close to pleasure.
"What."
Nic's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It was the flat, quiet tone of a man who had already decided what he was about to say, and was simply choosing the words. "Look at the screen."
Reyen's eyes slid toward his brother, slow and amused. "I saw it."
"Twenty people."
"I counted."
Navira's stomach turned. She pushed the plate away, the eggs half-eaten, the toast growing cold. Her hands were steady on the table, but she could feel the tremor building in her chest—a quiet, insistent vibration that threatened to crack through her composure.
Nic's hand moved to the remote. He muted the anchor's voice, the silence sudden and heavy, the images still playing on the screen like a silent horror film.
"Reyen." Nic's voice was still flat. Still controlled. But there was something new underneath it now—a fracture, thin and sharp. "Tell me you didn't."
Reyen tilted his head. The blood bag dangled from his fingers, half-empty, the dark red liquid catching the lamplight. He looked at his brother for a long moment, and then his mouth curved into that hollow smile—the one that used to be warm, used to be mischievous, used to be his.
"What? I was hungry."
The words landed like a stone in still water. The silence rippled outward, stretching across the kitchen, across the living room, across the space between each person standing frozen in the morning light.
Nami's spatula clattered against the stove. Sierra's hands went white around the plate she was holding. Kiaan set his coffee mug down with a soft, deliberate click, his dark brown eyes fixed on Reyen with an expression Navira had never seen on his face before—cold, calculating, the stillness of a man choosing whether to intervene.
Nic's composure cracked.
He pointed at the television. His arm was rigid, his finger aimed at the screen, at the torn tents and the scattered belongings and the dark stains that marked where twenty people had been sleeping hours ago. His voice rose, not loud but sharp, edged with something that bordered on a snarl.
"So you killed a whole campsite, Reyen."
The accusation hung in the air, concrete and undeniable. Twenty names. Twenty families. Twenty lives reduced to a helicopter shot on the morning news.
Reyen's smile didn't waver. He let the silence stretch, let his brother's words settle, let the weight of what he had done press against the room. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up from the armchair.
The blood bag fell from his fingers. It landed on the floor with a soft, wet slap, the remaining contents pooling across the hardwood in a dark, spreading stain.
He took a step toward the kitchen. Then another. His dark eyes moved past Nic, past Kiaan, past Nami and Sierra, and landed on Navira—still seated at the table, her hands flat on the wood, her spine straight, her face carefully blank.
He lifted his hand. His finger extended, pointing at her with the same accusing gesture that Nic had used on him.
"It was either that or it was her."
The room went cold.
Navira felt the words hit her chest like a physical blow—sharp, precise, aimed at the softest part of her. She didn't flinch. She didn't move. She held his gaze, let him see the steadiness in her eyes, the refusal to break.
But inside, something cracked.
Because she understood what he was saying. He had gone hunting. He had found the campsite, found the people sleeping in their tents, and he had torn through them—not because he needed to, but because he had been hungry, and she was the alternative. The one he couldn't touch. The one Malachai had ordered him to protect, even now, even like this.
Twenty people had died so she could eat breakfast this morning.
She didn't look away from Reyen's eyes. She didn't let the crack show. But her hands, flat on the table, pressed hard enough that she felt the wood grain against her palms, and she held onto that pressure like a lifeline.
"You bastard," Nami whispered. Her voice was low, raw, and when Navira glanced at her, she saw tears standing in the other woman's amber eyes, her hands shaking at her sides. "You bastard."
Reyen's gaze flicked to Nami. The smile returned, thin and mocking. "Don't look at me like that, love. We all need to eat. You'll learn."
Nic crossed the space between them in three long strides. His hand closed around Reyen's collar, shoving him back, slamming him against the doorframe with a crack that echoed through the foyer. The television images flickered silently behind them—tents, stains, the slow rotation of a helicopter shot.
"You will not," Nic said, his voice shaking with barely contained fury, "speak to my wife like that."
Reyen didn't struggle. He let himself hang against the doorframe, his head tilted back, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Or what, brother? You'll kill me?" He laughed—a low, hollow sound that didn't belong in this house. "Be my guest. I'd like to see you try."
Navira pushed herself up from the table. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the tension, drawing every eye to her. She walked past Sierra, past Kiaan, past Nami's outstretched hand, and stopped at the edge of the living room—close enough that she could see the shadows under Reyen's eyes, the hollow sharpness of his cheekbones, the faint smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
"Let him go, Nic."
Nic's grip didn't loosen. His knuckles were white against Reyen's collar, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with centuries of brotherhood and betrayal and the unbearable weight of watching someone you love become a stranger.
"Nic." Navira's voice was soft. Steady. "He's not in there. Let him go."
For a long moment, Nic didn't move. His chest heaved. His hand trembled against Reyen's collar. Then, slowly, he released his grip and stepped back, his shoulders rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.
Reyen straightened his collar with deliberate slowness. He smoothed the fabric, adjusted the line of his shirt, and looked at Navira with those flat, dark eyes.
"Smart girl."
He turned and walked back toward the living room, stepping over the spilled blood bag without a glance, and dropped back into his armchair. The television was still playing—silent footage of the campsite, a reporter's mouth moving soundlessly as she gestured at the wreckage behind her.
Navira stood in the doorway, watching him settle into the chair like a king reclaiming his throne, and she let herself feel the full weight of what he had done.
Twenty people.
She put her hands behind her back so no one would see them shaking.
Nami appeared at her side. Her hand found Navira's wrist—gentle, grounding, a warm pressure against the cold chaos of the morning. Her amber eyes were red-rimmed, but her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Navira."
Navira turned. Nami's face was pale, her jaw set, her grip tightening on Navira's wrist with a quiet urgency.
"We can't wait until the party."
The words landed like a second blow. Navira opened her mouth to respond, to protest, to remind Nami that the ritual needed the full moon, the consecrated fire, the specific alignment of the stars and the hour—but the words died in her throat.
Because Nami was right.
Every hour Reyen spent like this was another hour of carnage. Another campsite. Another twenty bodies on the morning news. Another stain that couldn't be washed out, another family that would never see their daughter, their father, their someone come home.
Navira's hands were still shaking behind her back. She let them shake. She let herself feel the terror and the grief and the crushing weight of what she was about to do.
Then she lifted her chin, met Nami's eyes, and nodded.
"Then we move it up."
The words left her mouth before she had fully decided to say them. But once they were out, they felt inevitable—a stone released at the top of a hill, already rolling, already past the point of retrieval.
Nami's jaw tightened. She gave a single, sharp nod, then turned and walked back into the kitchen, her voice low as she spoke to Sierra, to Kiaan, to Nic, the words falling like stones into still water.
Navira stayed in the doorway.
Behind her, the television flickered. The muted anchor's mouth kept moving, describing the aftermath of a night she would never fully understand. The blood bag pooled across the floor, dark and thick, catching the morning light like a mirror.
And in the armchair, Reyen watched the footage with a small, satisfied smile, his dark eyes gleaming in the glow of the screen.
Navira looked at him. Looked at the curve of his mouth, the familiar line of his jaw, the hands that had held her so gently two nights ago now stained with twenty lives.
She turned away.
And she walked into the kitchen to plan her own death.