The Gifted Divide

"Revenge is a poison, Dèmi. Drink it and you can destroy your enemies, but you will die long before you see them take their last breaths." ― Ehigbor Okosun, Forged by Blood

* * * *

"Sorry." Taylor murmured the moment they were clear of Blackpool, her voice cutting through the thick silence that had clung to them since they exited the cold, stone-faced stronghold of the hunters. They hadn't just walked—they'd moved fast, swift as shadows, and without looking back. As if something—someone—might come crawling after them. "I know you said to leave it to you, but I just couldn't stay quiet."

Elijah said nothing at first.

They reached the car parked well beyond the town's borders, hidden just out of sight in a gravel turnout surrounded by rustling underbrush. It wasn't paranoia that dictated its placement.

It was protocol.

A habit ingrained through years of survival, sharpened by the understanding that the hunters did not abide by the same rules as the ESA.

Even still, the moment they reached it, both twins fell into silent, methodical motion—examining the vehicle with the precision of soldiers returning from hostile territory. Taylor's fingers ran beneath the wheel well, brushing away a layer of dust to inspect for any magnetic trackers. Elijah crouched near the undercarriage, pulling out a compact black scanner no civilian should have access to—one Taylor was almost certain he had swiped from the ESA's R&D department.

She arched a brow. "You did steal that."

Elijah didn't look up. "Borrowed."

"You didn't sign it out."

"I said what I said."

Satisfied after a few more passes, Elijah stood, dusting his hands against his jeans. "We're clear."

"Doesn't mean they won't try something next time," Taylor muttered, climbing into the passenger seat. "We're not exactly on their Christmas list."

"No," Elijah agreed, slipping behind the wheel, "but we're also not on theirs the way Jonan and Allen are. That's what makes us useful."

Taylor scoffed. "Useful's a word. I'd say disposable."

The car door shut with a dull thunk, the only punctuation in a silence that stretched like a taut wire between them. They were quiet for a moment longer, both staring at the town now shrinking in the rearview mirror—its buildings and polished facades barely concealing the rot beneath.

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"They're up to something," Elijah said finally, his voice low. Measured. The voice he used when he was thinking five moves ahead on a chessboard only he could see. "The underground's been quiet. Too quiet. Not just the street runners, but the Abyss, too."

Taylor leaned back against the headrest, frowning. "The last time the underground went dark like this was right before the raid in Elvryn. When the hunters tried to wipe out Blade."

"And failed," Elijah added grimly. "But not without losses."

Most people in the ESA knew Elijah as the tactician—the ghost behind dozens of clean operations. But few remembered that he and Taylor were born of the underground, raised in its shadows. Their mother had died when they were young, and their father, if he could even be called that, had vanished into the abyss before they could even speak his name. It was the streets that taught them how to survive.

How to lie. How to listen.

And it was those same streets that had given Elijah an edge the ESA couldn't train into someone—a network of whispered names, backdoor access codes, and old-world favours owed in blood and silence.

"They won't tell me much anymore," Elijah admitted, his tone clipped as he started the engine, the quiet hum of power beneath the hood comforting in its predictability. "I can't blame them. I wear the badge now. That puts a target on my back, as far as they're concerned."

Taylor gave a low, humourless laugh. "Still. Ten bucks says it's something to do with Aegis."

Elijah shot her a dry look. "You're a fool if you think I'm taking that bet."

Taylor grinned, sharp and fleeting, before fading back into seriousness. "They'd be idiots to provoke the underground," she muttered. "Especially the Abyss. You know how they feel about the hunters."

"There's a reason the underground chose a hydra as their symbol." Elijah's voice dropped slightly, almost reflective. "Cut off one head, and two more take its place. Take out a leader, and something worse grows in their shadow." He glanced at Taylor, his eyes darkening. "They think killing Walden ties up loose ends. They don't realise it'll only make things spiral."

"Like Elvryn," Taylor said. "Or Zalfari."

Both cities, once ruled by gangs who had long since vanished, had remained hubs of resistance, festering with unrest and buried allegiances. Blade and Whirlwind might have been names of the past, but their legacies still shaped the present.

Even now, no one dared claim Elvryn, not out of respect, but fear. Blade's territory was haunted, not by ghosts, but by a memory that fought back.

"Blackpool's festering," Taylor added, voice grim. "And Nicolosi… He's not telling us everything. You could feel it."

Elijah's hands tightened around the wheel. "He knew. He had to know what Walden was doing. Probably left him to it."

"Because they were Gifted," Taylor said, disgust curling her lip. "Or the children of Gifted. And that makes it excusable, doesn't it? In their minds?"

"Plausible deniability," Elijah muttered. "They'll say he went rogue. That he was no longer one of them. But I've never heard of a hunter retiring. Never seen one just…walk away."

Taylor stared out the window, fingers tapping restlessly on her thigh. "I'm starting to think joining the ESA was a mistake," she said quietly. "We could've found another way to find out what happened to Chris—"

"We're in too deep now," Elijah cut her off, not unkindly. His voice was firm. "We do this for a reason."

A beat passed. Then Taylor nodded slowly. "I know," she murmured. "I just wonder if that reason is worth it anymore."

Neither spoke for a while.

Elijah cast one last look toward the distant walls of Blackpool, the image of Nicolosi's face—too calm, too measured—lingering in his mind like smoke. And that sound. That low groan from the corner of the room.

A vent, perhaps. Or a listening device. His instincts had screamed at him that they weren't alone in that room.

Elijah made a mental note to contact one of his oldest informants. If anyone had a pulse on what the hunters were hiding, it'd be him.

The car shifted out of park, and they rolled down the cracked country road, the last of Blackpool disappearing behind them in the side mirror. What lay ahead in Zhane City would bring more questions than answers. But at least in Zhane, the monsters wore their masks a little less convincingly.

Several minutes passed after the ESA car vanished from sight.

Then, from behind the broad trunk of a nearby oak tree, a figure emerged—silent as breath, his dark coat rustling faintly in the wind.

Lleucu.

Pale as winter, lean as a blade, with raven-black hair brushing against his cheeks and steel-grey eyes that caught the fading light.

He said nothing at first. Just stood there, staring after the car that had carried the Rosales twins away, and then turned his gaze back toward Blackpool. That accursed place. That den of dogs.

He clenched his fists, knuckles pale and tight with memory.

"Seems like they're up to their old tricks again, huh?" he muttered, barely louder than the wind. "Brother… Wes…"

A long pause.

"I'll avenge you. I swear it."