The God of war They Burned Is Back

Silas Grave

The guards surged forward on Desmond’s command—a wall of tactical gear and weapons converging on Callum’s table from all sides.

Callum rose slowly from his chair.

He set his wine glass down with careful precision, adjusted his jacket. Then tapped his knuckles once against the table’s edge. The sound was soft, almost gentle. Aldric had called it the Hollow Strike — the oldest technique in a lineage of twelve, the one he had made Callum practice for three years before allowing him to use it against a living target. The effect was catastrophic.

An invisible shockwave exploded outward from the point of contact. The air itself seemed to ripple, distorting like heat waves off summer asphalt.

Every guard within fifteen feet was lifted off the ground and hurled backward. They flew through the air—bodies spinning, weapons scattering, and crashed into walls, tables, the ornate champagne fountain. Crystal exploded, tables collapsed. A string instrument from the quartet’s corner shattered against marble.

The guards hit surfaces hard enough to leave cracks. The ballroom filled with the sounds of impact—bodies meeting stone, glass breaking, men groaning in pain.

Twenty guards, down in an instant.

The remaining security forces froze, their advance halting mid-step.

Callum reached for his wine glass and took a measured sip.

Upstairs in the observation lounge, Warren Cole’s wine glass slipped from his fingers.

It shattered on the floor, burgundy liquid spreading across white marble, but Warren didn’t notice. He stood at the balcony railing, staring down at the carnage below with his mouth open.

“That’s… that’s not possible,” he whispered.

Beside him, another figure stood motionless. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His hands rested on the railing, fingers relaxed. His face showed no emotion, just cold, analytical interest—Silas Grave.

Octavia’s enforcer. Her problem solver. The ghost who made complications disappear.

“Interesting,” Silas said quietly.

Warren turned to him, panic creeping into his voice. “You saw that, right? He just—he moved, and they all—”

“I saw.”

“What is he?”

Silas didn’t answer. His eyes tracked Callum’s movements below with the focus of a predator studying prey.

On the ground floor, chaos had erupted. Guests screamed and fled toward the exits. The tactical guards who hadn’t been caught in the shockwave backed away, uncertain. Their training hadn’t prepared them for this.

Desmond stood frozen near Callum’s table, his face pale. The baton he’d grabbed from a fallen guard trembled in his hand.

Then something in him snapped—pride, or rage, or desperation. He raised the baton and lunged forward.

“KNEEL!” he screamed.

Callum didn’t even turn his head.

He flicked his wrist.

The baton flew from Desmond’s grip as if yanked by an invisible wire. It spun through the air in a tight arc and slammed into Desmond’s kneecap with a crack that echoed through the ballroom.

Desmond’s scream was raw and animal. He collapsed instantly, both hands clutching his shattered knee. The baton clattered away across the floor.

Callum turned slowly. Looked down at the writhing figure.

Then he stepped forward and placed his boot on Desmond’s chest.

“Please—” Desmond gasped, tears streaming down his face. “Please, I—”

Callum began to apply pressure.

Slowly, methodically. Watching Desmond’s face turn red, watching him struggle to breathe.

“Your mother built an empire on my father’s corpse,” Callum said quietly. “She burned him alive and stole his legacy. And you—” he pressed down harder, “—you live in luxury off that theft.”

Desmond couldn’t respond. Could barely breathe. His hands scrabbled uselessly at Callum’s boot.

Callum leaned more weight down. Desmond’s ribs creaked.

“Stop.”

A commanding voice rang from above, cutting through the chaos.

Callum’s eyes lifted.

On the grand staircase, two men descended. Warren Cole in the lead, his face ashen, hands shaking. Behind him, moving with deliberate calm, was the man who’d spoken, Silas Grave.

He was perhaps fifty, but age sat lightly on him. His movements were economical, precise—the walk of someone who’d spent decades learning exactly how much force every situation required. His gray eyes were cold and analytical.

Warren reached the bottom of the stairs and pointed a shaking finger at Callum. “You—you can’t do this! Do you know who we are? The Mercer family owns this city! You’re finished!”

His voice was too loud. Too desperate.

Callum didn’t acknowledge him. His attention was fixed on Silas.

Recognition flickered between them—predator seeing predator.

Silas stopped ten feet from Callum’s table. Warren stumbled to a halt beside him, still sputtering accusations, but Silas raised one hand and Warren fell silent immediately.

“Let him up,” Silas said.

Callum increased the pressure on Desmond’s chest. Desmond made a choking sound.

“I said let him up.”

“I heard you.”

Silas’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve made your point. You’re dangerous, skilled. You have legitimate grievances, I can see that much. But if you kill the heir to the Mercer empire, this ends only one way.”

“It ends that way regardless.”

“Perhaps.” Silas took one step closer. “But you came here for a reason. Not just to hurt Desmond. You want something.”

Callum’s boot remained pressed against Desmond’s chest, but he didn’t add more weight, didn’t remove it either.

“I want Octavia.”

“Then killing her son won’t bring her here faster.”

Silence stretched between them. Warren looked between the two men, confusion mixing with his fear.

Finally, Callum lifted his boot, and stepped back.

Desmond rolled onto his side, gasping, coughing, one hand still clutching his ruined knee. Two bodyguards rushed forward to help him.

Silas watched this calmly. Then his gaze returned to Callum.

“What’s your name?”

“You already know it.”

“Humor me.”

“Callum Reed.”

Warren’s face went white. “Reed? As in Julian Reed?”

“His son.”

“But you’re supposed to be—you disappeared after the fire—”

“I didn’t disappear,” Callum said. “I was being trained.”

Silas’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Trained by whom?”

“Someone who knew the truth about the concert hall explosion.” Callum’s voice dropped to something deadly. “Someone who knew it wasn’t an accident. That the gas lines were sabotaged. That my father and brother were murdered.”

Warren stammered. “That’s—you can’t prove—”

“Can’t I?”

Silas remained perfectly still. But something shifted in his expression—a calculation being made.

“You think Octavia was involved,” he said.

“I know she was.” Callum stepped away from his table, moving closer to Silas. The two men were nearly the same height. “I know she recorded my father’s work in secret. Stole his legacy. Built her empire on his corpse.”

“Those are serious accusations.”

“They’re facts.”

“Facts require evidence.”

Callum’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I have evidence. But more than that—I have you.”

Silas’s expression remained neutral. “Meaning?”

“You set the explosion. You personally sabotaged the concert hall.” Callum’s voice was soft. Certain. “Fourteen years ago. You stood in the shadows and watched my father and brother burn.”

Warren gasped. “Silas, that’s insane, you would never—”

But Silas didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it either. He simply stood there, gray eyes locked with Callum’s, assessing.

The ballroom had gone completely silent. Even the injured guards had stopped groaning.

Silas and Callum faced each other, ten feet apart, the air between them heavy with unspoken violence.

“Interesting,” Silas said finally.

Then he moved.

The two men confronted each other face-to-face.