The God of war They Burned Is Back

Three Years Ago

Three years ago.

The rehearsal had run late. Briar sat in the passenger seat of her father’s car, exhausted, her violin case resting on her lap. Outside, the city streets were empty—past midnight, the theater district quiet.

Mr. Castellan drove in comfortable silence, humming one of the pieces they’d practiced.

“You were brilliant tonight,” he said. “That last movement—”

Headlights blazed in the rearview mirror.

A van accelerated behind them, closing in too quickly.

“Dad—”

The van rammed them from behind. The car lurched forward. Mr. Castellan fought the wheel, but another impact sent them spinning toward the bridge approach’s guardrail.

Metal screamed as the car slammed to a stop, its front end crumpled against the concrete.

Briar’s head rang. Her father was bleeding from his temple and looked dazed.

The car doors opened and footsteps followed.

Six men in dark clothing surrounded the car. One yanked Mr. Castellan’s door open and dragged him out onto the pavement.

“No!” Briar screamed.

They ignored her. Two men held her father while a third drove a fist into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

Briar fumbled with her seatbelt, her hands shaking. One of the men reached for her door—

A shadow dropped from the overhead walkway, silent and fast. The figure landed between Briar’s car and the attackers in a crouch, then rose slowly, clad in dark tactical gear with a face obscured by a mask and the night. He had been following them for three weeks. Aldric had asked him to, quietly, without explanation, the way Aldric always asked things—as if the reason should be obvious to anyone paying attention. Callum had been paying attention. The men surrounding the car now were the reason.

The men froze.

“Who the hell—” one started.

The figure moved like a ghost.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat. The first attacker went down with a broken jaw. The second took an elbow to the temple and collapsed. The third tried to draw a weapon—the figure disarmed him with a wrist lock and used the momentum to throw him into the fourth man.

Both crashed to the pavement.

The remaining two released Mr. Castellan and backed away, hands raised.

“We don’t want trouble, man—”

The figure didn’t speak, just advanced.

They ran.

Six attackers were either unconscious or fleeing in ten seconds.

Briar sat frozen in the passenger seat, her breath coming in short gasps.

The figure turned toward her father, checking his injuries with quick, practiced movements. Mr. Castellan was bleeding but conscious, his ribs bruised but not broken.

Then the figure approached Briar’s door and opened it carefully.

She looked up at him. His face was partially obscured by shadows, but she could see his eyes—dark, calm, and focused.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, controlled.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Good.” He offered his hand. She took it, let him help her out of the car.

“Who—who are you?” she managed.

He glanced at the unconscious men scattered across the pavement. At her father, who was leaning against the car, holding his ribs.

“You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

“But—”

“Go home. Lock your doors. Don’t come back here alone.”

“Wait—your name—”

But he was already moving. One moment he was there, the next he’d melted into the shadows beneath the bridge.

Gone.

Briar stood in the cold night air, her father’s hand on her shoulder, and stared at the darkness where he’d disappeared.

She never forgot his voice. His eyes. The way he moved—like violence and protection were the same dance.

-----

Present.

Briar ran past Warren Cole, who stood pressed against the marble column. Past Lady Cordelia, still sobbing in her chair. Past the scattered guards and broken glass.

She didn’t look at Desmond’s unconscious body bleeding on the floor.

She only saw him.

The man standing in the center of the ruined ballroom, holding a wine glass, surrounded by destruction.

The crowd gasped and whispered as she descended the stairs.

“That’s Briar Castellan—”

“She’s engaged to Desmond—”

“What is she doing?”

Briar reached the ballroom floor and stopped a few feet from Callum, breathless, her heart pounding.

Tears blurred her vision.

“You’re that man,” she whispered. “I’ve never forgotten you.”

Callum’s hard expression—the cold, merciless mask he’d worn all night, softened slightly.

He set down his wine glass on a nearby table.

Briar stepped closer, searching his face. The same eyes. The same controlled stillness.

“Three years ago,” she said. “The bridge. You saved us.”

“I remember.”

Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him in a fierce embrace.

The ballroom erupted with gasps and shocked murmurs. A champagne glass clattered to the floor.

Evangeline Mercer’s face twisted in fury. “What is she—Briar, get away from him!”

But Briar didn’t let go. She pressed her face against Callum’s shoulder, her hands gripping his jacket.

He stood perfectly still for a moment. Then slowly, his arms rose and returned the embrace, gentle and careful, as if she might break.

Behind them, Mr. and Mrs. Castellan had reached the bottom of the stairs, their faces pale with confusion.

“Briar!” her father called. “What are you doing?”

She pulled back, just enough to look up at Callum’s face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I never got to say it. Thank you for saving us.”

Callum’s voice was soft. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do. You disappeared. I looked for you, asked everyone, but no one knew who you were.”

“It was better that way.”

“Who are you?” She searched his eyes. “Please. Tell me your name.”

He hesitated. The ballroom had gone completely silent, everyone watching.

“You can call me Cal,” he said gently. “Just Cal.”

Briar’s breath caught.

Cal.

A nickname. Short for…

Her mind raced back fourteen years. The Reed family estate. Julian Reed, the composer. His children—Matthias, the older brother. And the younger boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, quiet and serious.

What was his name?

Callum.

Callum Reed.

She stared at him, understanding dawning in her eyes. He saw the recognition, saw her make the connection.

But she didn’t say it aloud.

Instead, she nodded slowly. “Cal.”

She held onto him, her hands still gripping his jacket, and the Mercer elite watched in disbelief.