Page 4

4

CALLUM

T he stairs down to the Hollow smell like old smoke, spilled beer, and blood that’s been mopped up more times than anyone wants to count. The bulbs flicker as we descend—cheap yellow light that makes everyone look a little more monstrous than they already are.

Perfect ambiance for a bunch of assholes who still think we’re the apex of the food chain.

Elias is quiet beside me. That’s how I know he’s thinking too much.

“Wanna tell me what you’re chewing on?” I ask as we push through the thick metal door into the bar.

He shrugs. “Just thinking about how you almost got your throat ripped out back there.”

“Almost,” I say, scanning the room. “Key word.”

The Hollow’s packed tonight. Makes sense—full moon energy always gets the blood pumping, days before and days after. And with it in the early moments of the morning, everyone’s here not ready for the dawn.

Our kind come here when the outside world feels like it’s closing in. You want a beer, a brawl, or a bed to crawl into, this is the place.

But there’s also politics. Always politics.

I clock my father at the back booth, nursing something dark in a chipped glass and watching everything like a wolf who’s seen too many winters. He’s broad-shouldered and still scarier than most at twice his age. Elias nods toward him but doesn’t approach.

I don’t either.

Not yet.

Instead, we slide into a table near the edge, under a busted neon sign that flickers RAVEN’S CLAW in half-dead pink. A few of the younger shifters glance our way. One of them—Rafi—nods. The rest don’t bother hiding their wariness.

“Word travels fast,” Elias mutters, drumming his fingers on the table. “Some of ‘em already know you crossed into wolf territory.”

“I didn’t cross into shit. We were tracking a potential trigger. Same as always.”

“Try telling that to Vann.”

I glance across the bar. Sure enough, Vann’s hulking in a corner, scowling like it’s a full-time job. He’s got a pint glass in one hand and a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan. Always has. He’s my father’s favorite pitbull—right up until I open my mouth.

And right on cue, he starts stalking over.

“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

He stops at our table, arms crossed, shadow swallowing the flickering neon.

“You trying to start a war, Wulfson?” he growls.

I look up slowly. “Nice to see you too, Vann.”

“You step into their side of the city like you’re looking for a goddamn invitation. You think they won’t rip us apart the second we blink?”

“Nothing happened,” I say. “I made contact, de-escalated, backed off. Nobody got hurt.”

“You were lucky,” he snaps.

“She was scared,” I counter, sitting back. “You ever seen a werewolf afraid of a shifter?”

That shuts him up for half a second.

“Doesn’t mean they ain’t dangerous. Doesn’t mean they won’t gut us the second we turn our backs.”

I lean forward, voice low. “So will humans. So will other shifters. The only thing that makes them different is the PR.”

“Don’t get soft just ‘cause you’ve been reading peace pamphlets and sniffing around the city.” He spits the word like a slur.

I don’t rise to it. Not this time.

But Elias does. “You weren’t there, Vann. That wolf could’ve attacked. She didn’t.”

“Could’ve,” Vann scoffs. “And one day, she will. Then you’ll both be dead, and I’ll have to clean up the mess.”

I stand, slow and deliberate. I’m taller, but he’s bulkier. Doesn’t matter. I’m done looking up to anyone who thinks war is inevitable.

“You wanna clean up a mess, Vann?” I ask, voice cold. “Start with your damn attitude. I don’t give a shit about old grudges or who howls louder at the moon. I care about keeping our people alive.”

He snarls, stepping in close. “That’s rich, coming from the heir who doesn’t even want the crown.”

“Maybe if the crown didn’t come with blind hate and bullshit traditions, I’d consider it.”

That does it.

His fist flies.

But I’m faster.

I duck the swing, grab his wrist, twist. He grunts, stumbling into the table. Glass shatters. People yell.

“Enough.”

My father’s voice cuts through the bar like a blade. Everyone freezes.

He walks over, slow, steady, every step dragging the weight of command behind it.

“Callum. Vann. Sit.”

We do. Eventually.

Vann’s breathing hard, glaring daggers. I flex my jaw and stay quiet.

Mathis, my father, though I haven’t been able to call him that for a long time, looks at me first. “I heard what happened tonight. You made contact with a werewolf during a solo patrol?”

“Wasn’t solo. Elias was with me. We tracked a triggered scent near wolf territory. Saw a female, partially shifted. I de-escalated. No aggression shown. No blows exchanged.”

“And you didn’t report it.”

“I came straight here.”

He studies me. That unreadable stare he does—like he’s looking through me instead of at me.

“Do you know what this looks like to the others?”

I nod. “Yeah. Like I’m not spoiling for a pointless war.”

Someone scoffs. Vann, probably.

Mathis ignores it. “You’re next in line, Callum. Your words carry weight. You should use them wisely.”

I meet his gaze. “I am.”

Silence stretches.

He nods, once. Just enough.

“Keep your eyes open. And watch your back.”

He walks away without waiting for a reply.

Vann storms off too, muttering something under his breath.

I sit back down, heart still thudding. Elias exhales next to me.

“Well,” he says. “That went about as expected.”

I laugh, humorless. “I’m so fucking tired of being the only one who doesn’t want blood in the streets.”

“You’re not the only one,” he says, eyes on me. “But you’re the only one saying it out loud.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “And that’s why they hate me.”

He clinks his beer against mine. “Better to be hated for thinking than loved for falling in line.”

I look around the Hollow, at the suspicious glares, the clenched fists, the instinct to fight over think.

I know something is on the horizon, but what it is, there’s no way of knowing.