Page 26 of Allie

As we moved closer, the rituals grew more intense. A woman, robed and masked like the rest, stepped forward with a blade that glinted ominously in the candlelight. My heart hammered against my ribs as she raised it above a bowl, her voice rising in a crescendo that commanded silence from the gathering. With a swift, practiced motion, she drew the knife across her palm, crimson blooming and dripping down to sizzle in the basin below.

"Blood for power," she intoned, and a collective murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Blood for power," they repeated, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Beside me, I felt Asa's hand brush against mine, a silent reassurance that radiated warmth. Draven's arm pressed against my back, steely, while Roan's presence at my other side was a calming force. But even their solidarity couldn't quell the turmoil within me.

My own magic flickered like a flame caught in a storm. It wanted to lash out, to cleanse and purify, but I urged it to stay hidden.

It was a test of wills, keeping my light subdued. With every chant, every ritualistic gesture that celebrated the void, my magic strained against my resolve. It yearned to break free, to expose the charade and scatter the shadows. But I couldn’t let it. Not here, not when exposure meant danger, not only to me, but to the men I trusted and relied on.

I could feel the prickle of dark energy crawling across my skin, seeking the warmth of my hidden light. It was like walking a tightrope over an abyss, balancing between revealing too much and succumbing to the overwhelming darkness.

The flickering candles did little to illuminate the faces of those gathered, but I didn't need light to recognize the shock of red hair that could only belong to Grant. He stood among the cultists, his stance calm as if he belonged there—which was absurd, wasn't it? My heart fell to my feet. Was he part of this?

"Guys," I hissed under my breath, trying not to break our collective facade of bemused interest. "Nine o'clock. Red mane. Please tell me I'm hallucinating."

"Damn," Draven muttered, a frown creasing his brow beneath the hood that shadowed his eyes. "That's him alright."

"Grant?" Roan's voice was laced with disbelief. "What's he doing here?"

"Maybe he's infiltrating like us?" Asa suggested, though his tone held more hope than conviction.

I watched, heart hammering against my ribcage as Grant leaned into whisper something to a cloaked figure beside him. The figure nodded solemnly, handing Grant a small vial that shimmered with a dark, viscous liquid. My stomach churned. That didn't look like the behavior of someone merely snooping around.

"Doesn't seem like he's just snooping," I murmured, struggling to keep the disappointment from seeping into my voice. Grant always had this easy charm about him that made you want to trust him. To see him here, seemingly at ease... it felt like a betrayal.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Roan cautioned, ever the voice of reason even when surrounded by potential enemies. "We don't know the full story."

"Right," I sighed, focusing on the ritual unfolding before us. But my gaze kept darting back to Grant, trying to piece together the puzzle of his presence.

Seeing him in this setting, exchanging whispers and potions, a part of me wanted to unravel the mystery surrounding him. Another part, the one that remembered his playful banter and clever remarks, wanted to pretend I'd seen nothing at all. But there was no denying the cold seed of doubt that had planted itself in my mind. What if Grant was more involved in this dark web than any of us realized?

"Alright, stay sharp," Draven said, tightening his arm around my shoulders ever so slightly—a protective gesture disguised as casual contact. "We've got a job to do."

"Focus on the mission," Asa added, though his eyes too flickered towards Grant with an unreadable expression.

"Stay close," Roan instructed, and we moved as one.

My fingers trembled as I slipped the sheaf of papers from the alcove, hidden behind the draping black velvet along the wall behind us. It was where we saw the woman had placed the papers earlier.

"Got it!" I whispered to Draven, who nodded sharply, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

"Let's move," he breathed, and we ghosted through the shadows in the dark room, Asa and Roan flanking us.

The documents felt like a live grenade in my hands—dangerous, vital, a key to unlocking the secrets of Doyle's death and the cult's plans. We were so close to getting out undetected, weaving through the press of bodies cloaked in dark robes, when a voice cut through the air.

"Hey! You four!" A cult member, his face shrouded by a hood, pointed directly at us. "What are you doing back there?"

Adrenaline surged, icy and hot all at once. My pulse skyrocketed as my feet instinctively bolted forward. Roan grabbed my arm, pulling me along as we broke into a run. The sound of shouting and footsteps chasing us reverberated off the stone walls.

"Split up!" Asa called out, darting left. Draven yanked me right, while Roan took a straight path.

"Meet outside!" Draven yelled over his shoulder. I could barely hear him over the blood roaring in my ears.

We zigzagged through corridors that became a blur of torchlight. My breaths came in sharp gasps, the cold air stinging my lungs. Fear clawed at my chest, but underneath it lay an exhilarating rush—the kind of high-stakes gamble that made you feel painfully alive.

"Left!" Draven commanded, and we veered into a narrow passage. Behind us, the sounds of pursuit grew louder, more frantic.