The Return Of War God: Evander Holt

Why are you back?

Aron moved forward, each step deliberate. His boots struck the marble floor with a cold, unhurried rhythm, like a pendulum counting down to someone's death. 

His eyes, two shards of winter, locked on me with the unblinking certainty of a man who had already decided my fate.

He stopped three feet away, head tilting slightly, his gaze drifting over my features like an appraiser measuring a priceless artifact before smashing it. Then he smiled—a thin, humorless curve of the lips that felt more like a knife than a gesture.

"You've got a sharp face," he said evenly. His voice was steady, detached, as if this was just another line in a job description.

A faint shrug followed. "A shame, really… but I'm just doing a job. Everyone needs money."

From behind me, I felt Reynold tense. His weight shifted forward, the telltale signal of a man about to draw steel or throw himself between me and danger.

"Corwin—" I snapped, without turning. My tone cut through the space like a blade. "Don't."

He froze. I could sense the frustration in the air behind me, but he obeyed.

Aron's eyebrow arched. "Loyal dog," he murmured with a low chuckle. "But this is between us."

And then, without warning, he stepped in.

His fist came for my ribs—fast, precise, the kind of strike that came from years of professional fighting. But there was something off. The weight behind it… lacking. The arrogance of a man who didn't think he needed to try.

Big mistake.

Crack.

My hand shot up, palm open.

His knuckles slammed into my grip and stopped dead, as if he'd struck stone. The impact rippled through the room, a sharp sound swallowed instantly by stunned silence.

Aron's calm mask faltered. Confusion flickered in his eyes, then the unmistakable glint of pain.

I leaned in, voice low and cold enough to freeze blood.

"Is this the best you can do?"

Around us, the reaction spread like wildfire. The old woman in the far corner stiffened, her eyes wide. Luther, smug just moments ago, sat frozen, his jaw twitching. Somewhere, someone gasped.

"Did… did he just catch that?"

"No way, he didn't even flinch."

"That's Kieran Raze—how…?"

Aron tried to yank his hand free. I didn't move.

His arm trembled. My grip tightened.

A sharp hiss of breath escaped his teeth.

And then, with nothing more than a shift of my weight, I shoved him back.

He slid several feet, boots screeching against the marble before he stumbled to catch himself.

The murmurs swelled into full-on whispers, a tide of disbelief.

"What the hell is going on?"

"How can someone this young overpower him?"

"Is he even human?"

Aron's pride cracked visibly. Rage seeped into his expression, twisting his features.

"I underestimated you…" His voice was deeper now, laced with threat. "But not again."

This time, he came like a storm.

The air warped with his movement, a violent gust rattling the chandeliers overhead. His fist drove forward with enough force to crush bone.

I didn't retreat.

Our arms met. His eyes went wide.

Boom.

My other fist shot forward, clean and fast, straight into the center of his chest.

The sound that followed was like a hammer striking an anvil. Aron's body left the ground, sailing backward before colliding with the far wall. Marble cracked beneath the impact. His head struck with a sickening snap.

Silence.

He didn't move.

One of the guards rushed over, hands trembling. He knelt, pressed two fingers to the man's throat… then his mouth.

When he looked up, his face was the color of ash.

"He's… he's not breathing."

The room erupted.

Chairs screeched. Women screamed. A glass shattered on the floor with a crystalline wail. The air was thick with panic, the sound of chaos pressing in from all sides—yet all I heard was my own steady breathing.

People drew back from me as if I carried plague in my veins.

"He's dead—Aron Raze is dead!"

"With one punch?"

"What the hell is that boy?"

"This can't be real… he just killed a living weapon!"

The Matriarch did not speak. Her knuckles blanched on the carved armrest of her seat, her grip so tight I wondered if the wood might splinter. She tried to hide the tremor in her fingers, but I saw it.

I stepped over the broken glass and spattered blood, my boots echoing through the tense hush. She sat rigid, chin raised in pride but eyes betraying the faintest glimmer of fear.

I stopped in front of her. Close enough for her to feel my shadow.

"Can we start our conversation now?" My voice was blade-sharp.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

"I'll stop here tonight," I said evenly, "but I'll be back."

I held her gaze until the silence between us felt suffocating.

"The next time I return," I went on, "I expect answers. I want to know what happened to Caleb—who was involved, and why."

I turned away. But before I reached the door, I glanced back.

Near the far wall, Evenly cross crouched over her brother's body, her face streaked with tears. Beside her, Luther stood stiff as iron, his jaw clamped shut.

I let my words fall like poisoned arrows.

"I curse this engagement," I said coldly. "It's built on blood, betrayal, and rot. Let it die the way your conscience already has."

Without waiting for a response, I walked out.

Luther's voice followed me into the night.

"You think you've won, beggar prince. You're just a shadow trying to fight the sun. Be careful before you burn."

I didn't bother to look back.

Outside, Corwin stood by the car, hands twitching with restrained energy. He opened the door with quiet deference. I slid in.

The drive began in silence, only the hum of the engine filling the air. I caught him glancing at me through the rear-view mirror, his eyes darting like a man trying to read my thoughts.

"Whatever you have to say," I told him, locking eyes through the glass, "say it. Don't chew on it."

He exhaled slowly.

"Why did we leave?" His tone was careful. "It's obvious they're hiding something. We had them shaken. We could've pressed harder…"

I smiled faintly. "Because you don't crush a snake by stomping on its tail. You follow it. Let it believe it's safe. And when it thinks you've lost the trail… you strike the head."

Corwin nodded, absorbing the words.

"I don't have enough evidence yet," I continued. "But people guarding secrets always slip when they panic. Tonight, I tore their comfort apart. Now they'll make mistakes."

He was quiet for a moment before murmuring, "Forgive me sir, for my short-sightedness. I should've seen clearer."

"Where to now?" he asked after a pause. "Home? Miss Lucia must know you've returned."

Home.

The word carried a weight that settled heavy in my chest.

Lucia… my wife. Ten years since we'd spoken beyond cold courtesies. Ten years since I'd left for the border—a place where men wrote their wills before their first shift. Ten years since she stopped answering my letters. Even when news spread that I might never return, she didn't come.

And in those years, she'd given birth to our daughter.

My daughter.

Ten years old now, yet I had never once looked into her eyes. I didn't know the sound of her laugh, the shape of her smile, or what dreams filled her nights.

What kind of father doesn't even know the color of his own child's eyes?

"Sir?" Corwin's voice broke the thought.

I swallowed. "Did you get the chocolate I told you to?"

"Yes. I bought it before I came to the airport."

"Good. Take me home."

The drive was quiet, the city lights sliding across the windows in fleeting streaks of gold and white.

When we reached the gates, Corwin parked with care. "Goodnight, Evand."

"Goodnight," I murmured, stepping out with the chocolate box in hand.

I walked to the door. He waited until I was inside before pulling away.

The house smelled faintly of cedar and dust—familiar, yet changed. I set the chocolates on the table and sank into a chair, letting the silence settle around me.

Then my eyes caught the wall.

It was lined with photographs. Lucia in her prime—elegant, poised. And beside her… a girl with dark hair and innocent eyes.

My daughter.

I stood slowly, as if afraid to break the moment, and reached for one of the frames. My fingers brushed the glass—

Click.

The sound was sharp, metallic. A gun being cocked.

I turned. Slowly.