The God of war They Burned Is Back

The Reconstruction

The guards surrounded Callum in a loose circle, boots scraping marble, hands on weapons. Thirty of them at least. Maybe more filtering in from the corridors.

Porter pushed himself upright, blood dripping from his split lip. He spat red onto the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You think you’re tough?” His voice was thick with rage and pain. “You just assaulted Mercer security. You’re done.”

Callum stood motionless, hands at his sides. The forged score rested on the music stand behind him like a silent witness.

Porter stepped closer, emboldened by the reinforcements. “You know what Julian Reed was? A mediocre composer who got lucky. His work was forgettable. That’s why nobody remembers him.”

The other guards shifted nervously. Something in the air changed.

“Octavia Mercer made classical music what it is today,” Porter continued, warming to his speech. “She’s a visionary. Your father was—”

Callum moved.

One moment he was still. The next, his hand gripped the back of Porter’s head and drove it downward with devastating force.

Porter’s face met marble with a crack that echoed through the hall. Teeth scattered across the polished floor like dice. Blood sprayed in a wide arc.

Callum held him there, grinding his ruined face against the stone.

“Say his name again,” Callum whispered.

Porter made a wet, gurgling sound.

Two guards rushed forward. Callum released Porter and turned—his boot caught the first guard’s knee, hyperextending it backward. The man screamed and collapsed. The second guard swung his baton. Callum caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted. The shoulder dislocated with a pop.

Three more came at once. Controlled savagery—Callum broke one’s wrist with a sharp strike, drove his elbow into another’s solar plexus, and swept the third’s legs before he could draw his weapon.

Ten seconds. Six guards incapacitated.

The circle of security widened, uncertainty rippling through their ranks.

Callum straightened his jacket and looked down at Porter, who was crawling away, leaving a trail of blood.

“You,” Callum said, pointing to a guard whose nose he’d broken. “Clean that up.”

The guard stared, confused.

“Your blood, on the floor. Clean it.”

“I—I don’t—”

Callum took a single step toward him. The guard flinched and dropped to his knees, using his sleeve to wipe at the blood smearing the marble. His hands shook violently.

The other guards watched in frozen horror.

No one moved to help their colleagues. No one spoke.

Then came the sound of engines—multiple heavy vehicles approaching.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Callum saw them arrive: nine black SUVs pulling up in perfect formation outside the symphony hall’s main entrance. Doors opened in unison.

Men poured out—sixty of them, maybe more. They wore combat gear, moved with military precision. Some carried equipment cases. Others hauled a massive object wrapped in protective covering.

The guards in the hall exchanged confused glances.

“What the hell—” one muttered.

The operatives entered through the main doors. Their boots hit marble in synchronized rhythm. They filed into the east wing carrying professional sound recording systems, archival restoration tools, concert-grade instruments in cases, and the massive wrapped object—a gilded frame, twelve feet tall.

They formed ranks before Callum.

As one, they knelt.

“Conductor,” the lead operative said, his voice carrying through the silent hall.

Callum’s eyes moved across the rows of bowed heads. Sixty-three operatives. He had fought alongside most of them, men and women who had found him through reputation alone — the God of War, they called him in the circles where such things were whispered. He had vetted each one personally across years of work in four countries.

He trusted fifty-nine of them without question.

The other four were probationary—recent additions, brought in for this specific operation because he needed the numbers. He had not finished vetting them. He had noted that and filed it as an acceptable risk.

He was reconsidering that now.

Because as the operatives knelt in unison, Callum’s gaze snagged on a detail most people would not notice.

Third row, far right. An operative named Dex—one of the four probationary recruits. Broad-shouldered, efficient, kept his head down. Good at blending.

Every other operative in the room had their eyes on the floor, posture fully surrendered.

Dex’s chin was tilted at a fractional angle. Not enough to read as defiance. Barely enough to register at all.

But his eyeline was on the music stand.

On the forged score.

Callum did not break stride. He gave no indication he had seen anything. His voice remained calm and clear as he turned toward the portrait.

“Tear down that portrait. Build the frame where it belongs.”

“Yes, sir.”

The operatives moved immediately. A team approached Octavia’s grand portrait with tools. Within minutes, they had it unhooked from its reinforced mounting. The massive canvas came down, Octavia’s painted face staring sightlessly as they carried it away.

Another team set the gilded frame in place—ornate and beautiful, worthy of a master’s work. But it was empty, a void where Julian Reed’s legacy should have hung.

The symphony hall guards could only watch as Callum’s people worked with professional efficiency, transforming the memorial space. Some unpacked archival equipment. Others positioned concert-grade instruments as tribute pieces around the frame.

Callum walked to the empty frame and knelt before it, the forged score held carefully in both hands.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry it took so long.” He looked up at the empty space, seeing something the others couldn’t. “I was weak then. A boy who couldn’t protect you. Who couldn’t save Matthias.”

Silence.

“But I’m not that boy anymore.” His fingers tightened on the score. “I swear on this—your final work, written in his blood—I will restore your name. I will burn her empire to silence. Everyone will know the truth.”

He stayed there, kneeling, head bowed.

His operatives stood at attention, waiting.

The Mercer guards didn’t dare move.

Finally, Callum rose. He placed the forged score on a velvet stand positioned before the empty frame, the fragment displayed like a holy relic.

Then, without turning, he spoke quietly to the operative standing nearest to him on his left—a woman named Renn, one of the fifty-nine he trusted completely.

“Third row, far right,” he murmured. “Dex. When we move out, put him in the secondary vehicle. Separate from the others. Don’t tell him why.”

Renn’s expression didn’t change. “Understood.”

“Don’t alert him. Don’t touch him. Just separate him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Behind him, Porter had managed to prop himself against a column, his destroyed face a mask of blood. He was shaking, whether from shock or rage or fear.

“You…” Porter’s voice was slurred, broken teeth making speech difficult. “You don’t know… who you’re dealing with…”

Callum turned slowly.

“Silas Grave,” Porter spat blood. “He’s coming for you. Octavia’s enforcer. The man who—” He stopped, realizing his mistake.

“The man who what?” Callum’s voice was ice.

Porter’s eyes widened. He tried to crawl backward.

Callum crossed the distance in three strides and crouched before him, bringing them eye to eye.

“Finish your sentence.”

“I—I don’t—”

Callum’s hand shot out and gripped Porter’s throat. “The man who what, Porter?”

Porter’s resistance crumbled. The words tumbled out in a panicked rush.

“The man who set the concert hall explosion. Fourteen years ago. Silas Grave. He’s Octavia’s right hand. He handles her problems. Makes them disappear.”

Callum’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his eyes—not surprise. Confirmation.

He released Porter, who collapsed gasping.

Standing, Callum looked at the empty gilded frame, the forged score on its velvet stand, the memorial space he’d carved from Octavia’s temple of lies.

A name he had tracked across two continents, through dead ends and burned sources and three men who had gone quiet permanently before they could talk.

Silas Grave.

Porter had just handed it over in thirty seconds of panic. Either Porter was genuinely terrified and had no training in resistance, or he had been told to give the name up.

Callum didn’t know which yet.

He filed it beside the thing he’d noticed about Dex—the fractional tilt of the chin, the eyeline on the score.

Small things. But in Callum’s experience, small things were the only things that told the truth.

“Silas Grave,” he said quietly, as if tasting it.

His operatives waited for orders.

The guards watched in terrified silence.

Callum’s voice cut through the hall, calm and absolute.

“Good. I was hoping to meet him.”