The God of war They Burned Is Back

You Should Have Stayed Buried

Guards lay scattered across the ballroom—groaning, bleeding, broken. The champagne fountain leaked onto cracked marble. Shattered crystal glittered like stars across the floor.

Lady Cordelia had retreated to Warren’s side, clutching his arm with white-knuckled fingers. Blood still dripped from her split lip. Her evening gown was torn at the hem.

Desmond whimpered on the floor where Callum had left him, one hand cradling his shattered knee, the other pressed against his crushed ribs. His face was gray with pain and shock.

Then Silas Grave descended the stairs.

Desmond’s eyes found him. Hope flickered through the agony.

“Silas,” he gasped. “Thank God. He’s—he’s insane. Kill him. Kill him now.”

Silas reached the bottom of the staircase. His eyes swept the carnage with professional detachment.

Desmond tried to sit up, failed, settled for propping himself on one elbow. A smile twisted his bloodied face—cruel, triumphant.

“You’re finished now,” he sneered at Callum. “Silas doesn’t lose. He’s never lost. You’re about to—”

Callum moved.

One step forward. His hand gripped the back of Desmond’s head like a vice.

“Wait—”

Callum drove Desmond’s face into the marble floor with devastating force.

The impact echoed like a gunshot. Desmond’s skull met stone with a wet crack that made Warren flinch and Cordelia cover her mouth.

Blood spread instantly—a dark pool widening beneath Desmond’s head. His body went completely limp.

The ballroom erupted in screams.

Guests who’d stayed to watch now fled in panic. Cordelia buried her face in Warren’s shoulder, sobbing. The remaining guards backed away, hands raised, wanting no part of this.

Callum straightened. Dusted off his sleeve with casual precision. Then turned to face Silas with eyes like winter ice.

Warren’s knees trembled visibly. The confident businessman who’d stood at the observation balcony minutes ago had vanished. In his place—a terrified man confronted with violence beyond his comprehension.

“You—” Warren’s voice cracked. “You can’t—Desmond is—”

“Alive,” Callum said. “For now.”

He stepped over Desmond’s unconscious body and walked toward where Silas and Warren stood.

Warren stumbled backward. “Stay away from me! I’ve called for backup! Every security team in the city is coming! The police! You can’t—”

“Can’t I?”

Warren’s back hit a marble column. He pressed against it as if trying to melt into the stone.

Callum stopped a few feet away. “Are you the one who gave me orders earlier? Who told me to stop?”

“That—that was Silas—I didn’t—”

“You insisted nobody can challenge the Mercers.” Callum’s voice was soft, conversational. “Do you still believe that?”

Warren looked at the guards scattered across the floor. At Desmond’s blood pooling on marble. At the shattered champagne fountain and broken furniture.

His lips moved but no sound came out.

Silas stepped forward, placing himself between Warren and Callum. His expression remained neutral, but something had shifted in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” Silas said. “I won’t deny it.”

“How kind of you.”

“But this stops now. Surrender, come peacefully. Mrs. Mercer will want to speak with you.”

“Will she?”

“Whatever grievances you have—real or imagined, can be discussed civilly. Violence solves nothing.”

Callum’s laugh was cold and humorless. “Violence already solved everything. Fourteen years ago. When your violence burned my family alive.”

Silas’s jaw tightened fractionally. “You’re making accusations you can’t prove.”

“Can’t I?” Callum gestured at the ballroom. “I just destroyed thirty armed guards and your employer’s son with my bare hands. Do you think proof matters?”

“The law—”

“The law works for whoever pays the most. Octavia owns the law in this city. We both know it.”

Silence hung between them. Warren had gone completely still, barely breathing.

Silas studied Callum with calculating eyes. “You killed my men at the symphony hall.”

“They defaced my father’s memorial. Put up a portrait of a thief where a genius’s work should hang.”

“They were following orders.”

“So were the men who gassed the concert hall.” Callum’s voice dropped. “Were you following orders too, Silas? Or did you enjoy it?”

Silas’s composure cracked, just slightly. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Kneel,” he said quietly. “Beg for forgiveness for what you’ve done here tonight. Mrs. Mercer is merciful to those who show proper contrition.”

Callum stared at him. Then smiled—a terrible, empty expression.

“No.”

“This is your last chance.”

“My last chance died fourteen years ago. When you stood in the shadows and watched my father and brother burn alive.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Silas’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I don’t know what lies you’ve been told—”

“You set the gas line,” Callum interrupted, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “You sabotaged the concert hall’s infrastructure days before the premiere. You made sure the explosion would look like an accident. And you stood there—” another step, “—and watched them burn.”

Silas’s hands curled into fists.

“You watched my father try to save his life’s work. Watched my brother try to protect the score. And you did nothing.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand.” Callum was inches from Silas now, close enough to see the older man’s pupils dilate. “Explain to me why they deserved to die. Why Julian Reed’s crime was creating something beautiful. Why my brother’s sin was being nineteen years old and talented.”

Warren pressed harder against the column, trying to disappear.

Silas’s calm facade finally fractured. His voice came out rough, angry.

“You want answers? You want justice?” He cracked his knuckles—a deliberate, threatening gesture. “You should have stayed buried with them, boy.”

Then he lunged.

His fist came at Callum’s face with professional speed and killing intent.

Silas Grave charged forward, growling, “You should have stayed buried with them.”