Chapter 26 26. Chapter
Aurora
After the exchange of the Sovereign’s seal, Marcus moved with machine-like efficiency. The weight of the ancient emblem was enough to wipe away every trace of suspicion, mockery, and bravado from his face. Profit replaced all else.
Elijah stood against the wall, stripped of the final symbol of his authority, his expression no longer colored by pride but by cold, ruthless calculation. He was no longer a Sovereign—only a fugitive, vicious and cornered.
“Alright, Rory. As we agreed,” Marcus said, gesturing toward the weapons. “For the seal, you can take anything that fits into two backpacks. Start with the ammunition.”
I turned away from Elijah and fixed my gaze on the shelves.
This was my moment.
My freedom.
My identity reclaimed.
The Hunter’s Equipment
The first thing I grabbed was a new hunter uniform. In the Clan, our attire had always been functional—dark, durable, meant for stealth and survival. The old, torn clothes I’d worn these past days felt like shackles. I chose a black, heavy, wind-resistant set, practical and familiar.
Next came the ammunition. Standard rifle cartridges, then the witch-forged alloy bullets Marcus had mentioned earlier. Silver rounds—useful for fanatics and the weaker bloodlines. And finally, a dozen daggers. Not ceremonial or ornate—balanced, sharpened steel designed for silent kills.
Marcus handed me a fitted leather holster harness for the knives, crafted quickly but skillfully.
As I searched through the shelves, something caught my eye. A relic of the Clan’s earliest traditions—before we’d grown to despise vampires. Once, during combat rites, we had left sections of the body uncovered, allowing energy to “flow freely.” The practice had long been abandoned, but Marcus, a black-market dealer, clearly still traded such artifacts.
Hanging on the wall was a leather strap harness. Not clothing—an intricate configuration of thick straps designed to secure blades across the chest, shoulders, and hips. Practical, efficient… and revealing. It left the softer parts of the body exposed, unrestricted.
My eyes drifted toward Elijah.
He still stood against the wall, unmoving. The sight sparked an echo of memory—our clashes in the car, the suffocating intimacy of the motel room, Marcus’s gloating remark about “romance.”
He thinks he owns me.
He thinks my blood controls him—and therefore, controls me.
Fine. Let him think so.
I turned to Marcus.
“I want that harness.”
Marcus grinned. “Rare piece, Rory. Old combat model. Holds daggers beautifully.”
“I know.”
I packed the weapons and added the harness. It wasn’t vanity—it was a statement. If my blood pushed Elijah toward madness… what would happen when I deliberately tested his control?
Elijah’s Choice
Finally, I approached Elijah and handed him a backpack. My tone was flat, stripped of respect.
“Your turn.”
Elijah pushed off the wall and walked toward the weapon racks with measured steps. There was no eagerness in him. For him, weapons weren’t freedom—they were necessity.
I watched as his fingers skimmed over rows of blades. He selected only two large daggers—ones he could hide beneath his clothes. A vampire carrying too much metal risked slowing himself.
Then he stopped at the large weapons. Sovereigns didn’t use guns. Their strength, fire, and speed were their arsenal. His gaze fell on a twin-blade set mounted high on the wall—twin swords designed for combat between vampires.
He lifted them easily. Their weight meant nothing to him. He strapped the harness across his back. The black sheaths contrasted sharply with the tailored combat attire beneath. These were not human weapons—they were extensions of his body. Deadly, precise, intimate.
“This is enough,” Elijah said, adjusting the twin blades.
“That’s it?” I asked, incredulous. “You need ammo, too!”
“Human weapons slow me down,” he replied. “Daggers and blades—the extensions of my own nature—are more than enough. I rely on instinct, not on fragile human machinery.”
The arrogance stung.
Even while fleeing for his life, he clung to his superiority.
“You rely on my blood,” I shot back, my voice low and cold. “I rely on weapons because I can’t survive the night by letting you disguise your bites as healing.”
Elijah went still for a heartbeat. I expected fury, a threat, maybe even a hand on my throat—but instead, he looked away. Toward Marcus. Toward anything but me.
“Marcus,” Elijah said sharply, “how fast can you forge new papers? The watch is payment enough.”
Marcus—already half drunk on profit—brightened. “Fake passport, new identity, burner documents. Two hours and you’re ghosts. And Rory—your prisoner here is very generous.”
Elijah and I both knew this wasn’t generosity.
This was calculus—survival by sacrifice.
The swords on his back, the harness in my bag… both were warnings. Not just for the enemies outside, but for the enemy standing beside me.
Elijah’s voice cut through the heavy silence.
“We need the papers. Then we leave.”
Marcus nodded eagerly. “For the seal, you can have enough weapons to outfit a small war.”
A small war.
That was exactly what lay ahead.
Not only against the Clan.
Not only against the treacherous High Council.
But between the two of us—
tethered by hunger, violence, and a desire far more dangerous than either blade we carried.