Greyson’s POV
I detest disorder.
For three hundred years, my existence had been defined by absolute, unyielding control—over the vast wealth of the Hawthorne empire, the narrative fed to the human world above us, and, most importantly, the ancient, rotting cage buried beneath the foundation of Grimstone Hall.
But as I stood in the center of the ruined bunker, staring at the crystalline ice melting against the scorched concrete, I had to admit a bitter truth: I was no longer in control.
The air in the subterranean room was thick with the metallic stench of ozone, the foul sulfur of the Abyss, and the sharp, coppery tang of my brother’s blood.
Around us, the blast doors were warped and the observation console sat as a sparking ruin, while the physical wards carved into the floorboards g
