The Gifted Divide

"Vengeance is a monster of appetite, forever bloodthirsty and never filled." - Richelle E. Goodrich (The Tarishe Curse)

* * * *

Surprisingly, Lucas and Leonid weren't able to depart for Zalfari immediately, despite their growing urgency.

A high-priority murder case remained unresolved, a case steeped in political landmines. The victim was no ordinary citizen. He was a former hunter.

And that alone was enough to make the situation volatile.

Which is why, instead of Lucas or Leonid, it was Elijah and Taylor Rosales who found themselves standing beneath the cold, unwelcoming arches of the hunters' headquarters in Blackpool.

Both were expressionless as they waited to be summoned into the lion's den, though inwardly, their hands itched toward the concealed weapons at their sides. Their posture was calm and composed, but coiled like drawn wire.

Elijah's jaw ticked the moment Albert Nicolosi entered the room.

As long as you lived in Eldario, the name Albert Nicolosi rang louder than a war drum.

The man had officially taken the helm of the hunters nearly a decade ago, though whispers within the underground hinted that his control extended far longer—quiet, careful, and precise.

Theories spoke of the previous head as nothing more than a puppet, a shell, long manipulated by Nicolosi's hand. Some even believed Albert had killed him, silencing a once-useful mouthpiece the moment he ceased to serve purpose. None of it ever confirmed. None of it ever disproven.

And Elijah, with a memory that served as both weapon and shield, recalled the words from a woman he'd once known—an ally hidden deep within the underground.

Don't trust Nicolosi. Don't even let him see your back.

Elijah had taken her advice to heart. Even now, standing before the infamous head of the hunters, he would have sooner trusted a starving lion with raw meat than turned his back on this man.

Taylor stood beside him, her posture as rigid as stone, but her left index finger twitched against her thigh—small, but telling. Elijah stepped lightly on her foot, a silent reminder. Her sharp gaze cut toward him. He met her eyes and gave a small shake of his head.

I'll handle this.

When Nicolosi finally approached, Elijah took in the man who, by reputation, held the fate of countless lives in his claws.

For someone supposedly in his sixties, Nicolosi carried himself with a vitality that belied his years. He was thin, wiry even, with a head full of white hair cropped short at the sides, his golden eyes gleaming like burnished coins beneath deep-set brows. A jagged scar ran down the right side of his cheek—earned, no doubt, through betrayal rather than bravery. His crimson vest was too pristine, too carefully pressed. Like a man who scrubbed himself clean after every kill.

Stolen novel; please report.

At a glance, he might have seemed almost comical—like an aging bureaucrat clinging to legacy. But Elijah had seen that look before—in soldiers who enjoyed the sound of screaming.

Not for the first time, Elijah cursed Lucas for sending them in. But he also understood. Of all Team Alpha, only he and Taylor had the discipline to stand in that office and not strike first.

They were the most controlled. The most surgical. And more importantly, the only two who weren't actually registered as Gifted. Only the director as well as their teammates knew they were Gifted.

Lucas wouldn't dare risk sending a known Gifted into the hunters' lair. Even with the ESA's badge, a Gifted was still a target here. And while Allen and Jonan might have volunteered, they would've started a war before the conversation even began.

Taylor handed over the manila folder without ceremony, her expression unreadable. Nicolosi opened it, and Elijah took quiet satisfaction in the slight tightening of the older man's jaw. His eyes scanned the autopsy photos, the investigation summaries, and even the catalog of horrors left behind by Walden.

A child's shoe soaked in dried blood. A sketch of one of the body bags—too small to contain anything but the remains of a child. The report of recovered skin grafts. The DNA matches. The basement lined with hooks.

A twitch of the eye. A muscle pulling beneath Nicolosi's cheekbone.

"I am unsure if I should take this as an insult," Nicolosi said slowly, the folder trembling slightly in his hands, "or as a declaration of war."

His voice dropped to a growl, and the temperature in the room shifted. Several hunters stationed nearby stiffened, their hands drifting toward their holsters. Taylor's shoulders tensed, though her face remained stone.

"Do you expect me to believe that a hunter of Walden's calibre committed such atrocities?"

"Autopsies don't lie," Elijah replied evenly. His tone was clipped and precise. There was no anger, no accusation. Just facts, sharpened to a fine edge. "And the evidence speaks louder than your disbelief."

Taylor stepped in, her voice like frost. "The families of those children will see their day in court. This case has already been filed with the office of the Chief Justice. It can't be dismissed."

The silence that followed was jagged and brittle. Even Nicolosi, for all his ego, seemed to falter.

The law, corrupt and twisted as it was, had this one unshakable pillar: any case brought before the Chief Justice must be investigated. No matter the name. No matter the politics. And the Chief Justice himself, a former ESA department head and Tiara's one-time mentor, had made his sympathies known. Quietly, but unmistakably.

Nicolosi's face twitched again. Rage simmered beneath his skin. "Is that a threat?" he asked, the words almost a whisper, the kind that precedes violence.

Elijah smiled. It was a cold, disarming expression. "As the Goddess is my witness, not a single threat has passed our lips, sir. We're simply here to inform you as a form of courtesy, nothing more."

Nicolosi slammed the folder shut. "No hunter would do what you're claiming," he spat. "Even we have rules."

Taylor arched a brow, her lips thinning. "I've seen what you call rules." Her voice was razor-sharp now, no longer bothering with pretence. "I've walked through the ruins of families torn apart by you. I've seen children gutted, Gifted left to rot in cells, their bodies used for experiments, and their Gifts harvested like meat. We both have."

A low groan, barely audible, echoed from the air vent in the corner. Elijah's gaze flickered upward.

He said nothing. But he knew.

There's someone being held here.

Taylor was about to speak again, but Elijah reached out, his fingers curling around her wrist with a quiet but firm warning. "We're just the messengers," he said smoothly. "But take this advice, Mr. Nicolosi: the world turns quickly. And no matter how high you stand, all it takes is one shift to send you toppling."

With nothing more to say, Elijah turned, pulling Taylor with him as they left the room. Not once did either of them glance back.

Silence lingered in their wake, thick and suffocating.

And then, Nicolosi exploded.

He seized the nearest wine bottle, flinging it with a scream against the stone wall. The glass shattered in a violent spray, red liquid staining the tiles like blood. The impact echoed, long and sharp, through the walls.

"Bastards!" Nicolosi snarled, his golden eyes wide and manic. "The ESA dares question me? That imbecile Walden, he got himself killed like a dog!"

"Sir, if it indeed is Sera Kroix, even Walden can't—" A hunter tried.

"Silence!"

The hunter flinched. Nicolosi's face was a storm of hatred and something darker—a shadow creeping beneath the surface of sanity. His hands twitched. His breath came in hitches.

"They think they've won. But we'll remind them." Nicolosi's voice dropped to a whisper now, almost reverent, his eyes wild. "We'll remind them all what it means to fear the hunters." He turned toward the vent in the corner—his gaze lingering. "Begin preparations. Move the timeline up."

A glint flickered in his eyes—no longer the shrewd gleam of a man in control, but the cracked shimmer of one who had stared too long into the abyss and found it beautiful.