Third Person's POV When Parker was about to charge into the burning hall, Everett's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Stop him." Several guards of the Williams Family moved instantly, forming a wall in front of Parker. Their stances were steady—too steady for a man desperate to reach the flames. "Move," Parker growled, his wolf simmering under his skin, claws threatening to break through. But the guards didn't budge. Everett stepped forward, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. His fingers rolled the obsidian prayer beads he always carried, each bead worn down from years of guilt and penance. "I'm doing this because I don't want anything to happen to you," Everett said, voice heavy, almost solemn. "If something happens to you, the old matriarch will break again. You know her health—she cannot take another blow." Parker let out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. "So as long as I'm safe, that's all that matters to you? My life is worth protecting, but my sister's isn't? Freya's survival means nothing to you?" Everett didn't answer. His gaze lowered to the beads again, silence speaking louder than words. Because everyone knew the truth. For Everett Williams, the only people who truly existed in his world were his mother and the sister he lost. Everything he did, every breath he took, was a quiet, endless attempt at redemption. Parker's voice trembled—but not with fear. With fury. "But Freya is my sister. And no force in this world will stop me from going in there for her." "You dare—" Everett started. But Parker didn't wait. He moved like a wolf freed from chains. One strike—two—three—his fists cut through the guards' defense, sending them stumbling. His intent was unmistakable; he would fight every last one of them if he had to. He glared at Everett."You have a sister too. If she were the one trapped in the flames right now, would you really stand here doing nothing?" Everett's expression cracked—just a fraction. A shadow flickered across his face, a wound reopening. The memory of the sister he lost, the one he failed to protect, carved into his soul. The guards stepped forward again, but Everett lifted a hand. "Stand down." They froze instantly. Parker didn't waste a heartbeat. Without looking back, he sprinted straight into the burning hall, vanishing into the smoke. Everett watched his silhouette disappear. The fire reflected in his eyes like molten regret. His jaw tightened as he lowered his gaze to the beads again—beads representing every year he lived with the question: Why did I let go? Why didn't I hold her hand tighter? If it were his sister trapped in there… He would burn the world itself to save her. Yet his sister had vanished years ago. Never found. Never returned. The regret clung to him like a shackle, threatening to follow him into the grave. Inside the rest lounge, Freya realized something was terribly wrong the moment she smelled smoke seeping under the door. She rushed toward the exit—only to find the handle unmoving. Locked. Someone had locked her in. She kicked the door with strength fueled by her wolf. It took several attempts, but the weakened hinges finally gave way. Smoke burst into the room immediately, thick and suffocating, swallowing everything in its path. Freya tore the bottom half of her gown away, turning the elegant dress into something functional. Her movements were swift, efficient—Stormveil instincts sharpening under pressure. She grabbed a water bottle from the table, soaked the fabric, and pressed it over her mouth and nose. Get out. Fast. Before the smoke destroys your lungs. She took two steps toward the exit— Then a muffled voice rose through the haze. "Freya. Did you really think you could get out?" Freya spun around. Jenny stood at the hall entrance, wearing a smoke-proof mask. And in her hand— A gun. The muzzle pointed directly at Freya's chest. Freya narrowed her eyes. She and Jenny had history, yes, but never to the point of murder. Unless… someone else was pulling the strings. "You caused this fire?" Freya asked, gaze scanning the area, mapping distances, obstacles, the angle of Jenny's stance. Jenny smiled—a trembling, hysterical smile. "Yes. I did. And today, you die here. So be a good girl and stay where you are, unless you want me to pull the trigger." Behind Freya, the flames crackled, growing louder, hungrier. In minutes, this section of the hall would be an inferno. And Jenny stood planted right where the smoke-choked corridor led to safety. Whoever orchestrated this wasn't just trying to kill her—they were ensuring she had no path to escape. "This is a Whitmor event," Freya said, voice steady. "The Ironclad Coalition's security is too tight for a fire this large to go unnoticed. Fire crews will be here any minute." "No," Jenny said with chilling certainty. "No one is coming here." Freya's eyes narrowed further. The certainty in Jenny's voice was wrong—too absolute. Jenny was just a member of a collateral branch of the Williams Family. She shouldn't have had the power to disable the hall's safety systems, much less block emergency response. Which meant someone much higher was involved.If Jenny was only the hand… Who was the mastermind? "And what," Freya said, "if I refuse to stay put?" Jenny blinked. "What?" To her horror, Freya began walking toward her. Not running—walking. Deliberate. Controlled. Terrifyingly calm. "You—stop! Stop right there! If you come any closer, I'll shoot!" Jenny shrieked. Freya didn't stop. Her steps quickened. Jenny panicked. The gun fired. Bang! Freya dropped low in an instant, the bullet slicing past her ear. The moment Jenny pulled the trigger, her own stance wavered. She staggered backward, the recoil and thick smoke making her misstep. Behind her— A staircase. Jenny's heel slipped. Her scream tore through the smoke— And she fell. Her body tumbled down the stairs, disappearing into the thick, choking haze below.