Page 4 of Breaking Ophelia

“Cheating is just winning by other means. The Hunt is not about fairness. It’s about outcome. We will fund the Night Hunt, in your tradition, but make no mistake, we do not care about how the outcome is achieved, just that it is and you stay under control.”

The Board can’t answer that. Their hands tighten on glass stems, knuckles straining white.

I take a sip of the brandy. Burn and sweetness. I could get used to it.

The Billionaires don’t linger. They deliver their message, leave the Board to stew in the aftermath. When they go, the pressurein the room releases. The torches seem brighter, the air less weighted.

Abelard stares into his empty glass as if he wants to smash it and use the shards. “They want us to fail.”

Valence rubs her head, “They want to run the Hunt themselves.”

Rhett asks, “Wouldn’t you?”

Julian raises his glass in a mocking toast. “To legacy.”

Colton chuckles and slaps his hands on the table, startling the half-dead board, “To survival.”

Abelard gestures and one of the aides brings out a scroll, yellowed and curling at the edges. He unrolls it like an uncoiling snake, the words in black gothic script, written in blood or something that dries the same way.

He reads, voice crackling:

“Once per generation, the girls of Westpoint will be chosen by the Board. Their names entered into the Book, their bodies prepared for the Hunt. The runners will be released at the witching hour. If caught, they are claimed. If not, they are erased. This is the law. This is the cycle.”

Every syllable lands like a hammer on anvil.

He keeps reading, but the words barely matter. I know the script, have since I could walk.

This is merely formality.

A reminder.

Abelard concludes: “Failure to uphold tradition will not be tolerated. Blood will be paid.”

Julian just can’t keep his fat fucking mouth shut, “And what of us? If we go off script?”

Abelard’s gaze whips to me, the others. “You understand your role. You will lead the Hunt as your bloodlines demand.”

I nod, and the movement is minimal but final. Julian snarls, but shuts the fuck up and leans back, gesturing with his hands for Abelard to continue.

“Then let us seal this covenant,” Abelard sighs. He opens the case and withdraws a knife that is not ceremonial, not antique. It is modern, with a bone handle and a blade that looks like it was made for skinning. He stabs it point-first into the obsidian table and unscrews the top from a silver flask. He pours a little of its contents into a waiting chalice—red, viscous, unmistakable.

The Board takes the knife in turn, slice a thumb, and let the blood drip into the cup before passing it to us.

When it’s my turn, I don’t hesitate. The blade is cold and sharp, and I press until the pain spikes, then dulls. My blood beads bright before sinking into the liquid, vanishing.

Then Abelard stirs it with the knife and lifts the chalice.

“Legacy,” he says, and the word is a verdict.

He drinks first, then passes it. Each person drinks, even the ones who want to spit it out. When it comes to me, I drain it. There’s a taste under the iron—something metallic, something sacred and profane.

When the ritual is done, he wipes the knife on a linen square, tucks it back in the case. He nods once, turns on his heel, and leaves. His work is done; the threat is both delivered and accepted.

The Board follows, leaving only us sitting there, lost in thought.

Rhett nudges the cup with a fingertip. “Cheers,” he mutters, “they better have picked a hottie for me.”

Julian grins, teeth pink with leftover blood. “Old traditions. New tricks.”