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CALLUM

T hey hit just before noon—when the streets are most crowded, when people feel safest.

Gideon’s Torch doesn’t care about strategy. They care about statement .

The blast rocks the West Market like a goddamn meteor strike. One second I’m walking down the block near the Hollow’s southern edge, trying to ignore a text from Elias about another backroom council brawl, and the next—boom.

The air ignites.

Screaming. Shattered glass. The stench of burning hair and hot blood.

I shift before I realize I’m doing it—my body snapping into combat form, ears ringing, eyes burning with the metallic tang of death. Smoke curls into the sky like some sick victory banner.

Gideon’s Torch doesn’t discriminate. Humans who support supernaturals? Fair game. Supes trying to pass for normal? Targets. Bolvi, witches, vamps—they want us all wiped off the map.

They don’t even care about PEACE anymore. They want a full-blooded fucking purge .

“Callum!” a voice barks behind me. Devon, eyes wide, blood on his temple. “South line’s collapsing—we need you!”

I nod once, already running, already shifting back just enough to shout orders. “Get civilians to the church ruins! Use the sewer tunnel—block three!”

I’m about to follow when I feel her.

That unmistakable crackle. Like flint sparking across skin.

I turn and there she is.

Adora.

She walks straight through the carnage like she belongs in it. Like the chaos bends around her because it doesn’t dare touch her.

I can see it now—see him in her.

She’s taller than Kendall, built lean and dangerous like a blade that never got dulled down by fear. Her blonde hair is darker than her sister’s—cooler, almost ashy under the haze of smoke, streaked with soot and sweat. Her face is sharper, too—cheekbones high, jaw tight, her mouth a hard line. And her hazel eyes—they’re his. Mathis’s. But where his are guarded, hers are wild. Fractured. Lit with something I’m not sure is entirely her.

She looks like a girl who just realized she’s been handed someone else’s life.

“What the fuck,” she says, fire crackling in her voice, “did you know?”

She’s already on me before I can brace, fists clenched, shoulders squared. And even in the midst of chaos, her scent cuts through the blood and smoke—storm-heavy, metallic and sweet, like power just waking up.

“Now’s really not the time—” I start, but she doesn’t care.

“I don’t care if the city’s burning,” she spits. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

I hold her gaze, feeling my pulse throb behind my ribs. “Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

It hits her like a punch, and she stumbles, just a breath, just long enough for me to see what’s breaking inside her. It’s not rage first. It’s pain. It’s grief.

“I heard her,” she says. “My mom. She said your name. She said his name. Mathis Wulfson. She said... he was my father.”

I nod again. Once. Solid.

And something in her snaps .

Her breath shudders in and out. “How long?”

“I didn’t know until I saw you, after your shift. Until I felt it. Saw the way you moved, the way your instincts turned sharp like blades. That’s Wulfson blood, Adora. That’s legacy.”

“Don’t give me that,” she hisses. “You knew. Even before that.”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Bull shit! That’s why you wouldn’t date me!” She shoves me.

“Adora!” I grab her wrists. “I swear. It wasn’t until Kendall brought you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks, voice cracking. “Why the hell would you let me keep thinking—keep wondering—when you knew ?”

“Because it wasn’t mine to tell,” I say. “Because once that secret is gone, everything else starts crumbling with it. Trust me.”

She spins away from me, pacing, pulling her fingers through her hair like she’s trying to rip the thoughts out of her skull. Her hands are trembling—barely—but I see it. I feel it.

“You’re lying,” she mutters. “You’re all liars.”

She looks over her shoulder, and her hazel eyes glow faintly gold. Not from power—but from pain. A light born of fire and fury trying not to drown in itself.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she says. “To be his daughter. Your sister—your fucking packmate.”

“You’re not just pack,” I say quietly. “You’re blood.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m nothing. I’m not even real. I’ve been someone else’s story my whole damn life.”

“I get it,” I say. “I do.”

She stops pacing. Stares at me.

“No,” she says. “You don’t. You’ve always known who you are. Who you come from. You had him. You had a name. I had lies . You want to talk about blood and instincts and legacy? I don’t even know what part of me is mine anymore.”

There’s a silence between us. Charged.

And then softer, “Why didn’t he want me?”

My chest tightens.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe it was him or your mom or the world she was trying to protect you from. But I know this—he didn’t forget. He watches. Every day.”

She closes her eyes, and I swear I see something shift in her face. Just a crack. A flicker of the Adora I used to glimpse—before the weight of her awakening started dragging her under.

Her voice is brittle. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You live,” I say. “You survive. You find out who you are outside of all of this.”

“I don’t think there’s an outside anymore.”

“There is,” I tell her. “It’s standing right here.”

She looks at me— really looks at me—and for a second, we’re just two kids caught in the wreckage of everything our parents broke.

“I should hate you,” she says.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “You probably should.”

She exhales and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t walk away either.

And in her silence, I realize what scares me most.

It’s not the Hollowed. It’s not Gideon’s Torch.

It’s her.

Because Adora’s done pretending. And whatever she decides to be now?

The world won’t survive it unscathed.