Chapter 4: The Hounds of the Accord

Chapter 4: The Hounds of the Accord

The lead Elara had given me was poison, and we both knew it. "Silver and cold iron." It wasn’t a description; it was a riddle wrapped in a threat. It smelled of hunters, of zealots, of the kind of people who didn’t bother with politics and went straight for the pyre. In London’s supernatural ecosystem, those elements were supposed to be extinct, relics of a bloodier, less civilized age.

But it was the only thread I had.

A few discreet inquiries in the digital underworld and a cross-reference of Trent's files led me to a possible source: a defunct silver refinery in the Isle of Dogs, an old industrial graveyard where warehouses rusted in peace. It was the only place in the city that had dealt with that volume of silver and was now abandoned—the perfect black-market workshop for someone crafting specialized tools. The perfect place for a trap.

I went anyway. Walking into a trap you know about is better than waiting for one to find you in your sleep.

Rain was falling again, a miserable, persistent drizzle that turned the deserted streets into black mirrors. I cut the engine on my bike several blocks away, proceeding the rest of the way on foot, a ghost in the industrial decay. The residual ache from my last encounter with Flóga was a low thrum in my bones, a constant reminder of the bill that was coming due for whatever happened next.

<The air is stale,> Flóga whispered, her presence sharpening as we neared the target.

"Elara sent us an invitation," I murmured, my hand resting on the grip of my Glock beneath my jacket. "Would be rude not to RSVP."

The refinery was a skeletal husk of brick and rusted steel. I slipped through a gap in the perimeter fence, my boots making no sound on the gravel. Every sense I had, human and otherwise, was screaming. The place felt… wrong. Not haunted, but sterile. Scrubbed clean of the usual supernatural residue you’d find in a place this old.

I moved through the main floor, a cavernous space filled with the hulking silhouettes of dead machinery. Moonlight filtered through grime-caked skylights, casting long, distorted shadows. It was quiet. Too quiet.

The trap sprung.

It wasn't a sound or a movement. It was a pressure. A heavy, invisible weight slammed down, thick with the tang of ozone and arcane power. Wards. Powerful ones. The crimson overlay of Flóga's tactical vision flickered and distorted like a bad TV signal. My enhanced hearing filled with static.

<They are blinding me!> Flóga’s voice was sharp with fury and a hint of something else—surprise. <Clever. Very clever.>

From the shadows behind the machinery, four figures emerged. They moved with the silent, coordinated grace of a predator pack. They wore dark, featureless tactical gear, their faces obscured by ballistic masks that gave them an insectoid appearance. No scent of wolf or vampire. They smelled only of the rain, their gear, and Elara’s damning clue: silver and cold iron.

One raised a hand, and a shimmering net, woven from threads of pure silver, shot through the air towards me. I threw myself to the side, the net grazing my jacket sleeve. Where it touched, the fabric sizzled and smoked as if doused in acid. A weapon designed for werewolves.

Another attacker lunged, a long, thin blade of cold iron in his hand. Not a Fae-killing sword, but a stiletto, meant for precise, disabling strikes. They weren't just armed; they were specifically equipped to take down a wide variety of supernatural targets.

I brought my pistol up, but as I fired, the third figure made a complex gesture. A shimmering blue sigil flared in the air between me and my target. My silver-jacketed bullet struck the ward and dissolved into a puff of molten metal, its purpose negated.

They weren't just hunters. They were anti-supernatural special forces. And they knew my tricks.

"Who the hell are you?" I grunted, backpedaling as the two with the net and blade advanced on me.

Their only answer was a synchronized attack. I parried the iron stiletto with my own combat knife, the clash of metals ringing loud in the sudden silence. I sidestepped the net, the motion tearing at my already protesting muscles. These guys were good. Disciplined. They fought not with the wild fury of a werewolf or the arrogant grace of a vampire, but with the cold, efficient calculus of trained soldiers.

They were herding me, cutting off my escape routes, forcing me into a corner. My usual advantages—speed, preternatural senses, the element of surprise—were being systematically dismantled. Flóga’s vision was still glitching, offering me flashes of trajectories and threats amidst bursts of static.

The blade-wielder feinted high and stabbed low. I twisted away, but the iron tip scored a deep, burning gash across my ribs. The pain was sharp, unnatural. It wasn’t just a cut; it felt like it was cauterizing my very spirit.

I kicked out, sending him stumbling back, but the net-wielder was there, casting his trap again. I had nowhere left to run.

<They are dissecting you, Kaelen,> Flóga stated, her voice losing its frustration and taking on a chilling new tone. It was a tone of professional appreciation. <They are better than the rabble you usually slaughter. This… this is a worthy challenge. Stop holding back. Stop fighting like a man and fight like the monster you are bound to. Unleash me.>

My breath hitched. Giving her more control was a dangerous bargain. The power came at a higher price, the backlash more severe, the loss of self more profound. But the alternative was being filleted on the floor of a forgotten factory.

"Fine," I snarled through gritted teeth. "Take the wheel."

The world exploded in crimson.

The static in my vision vanished, replaced by a flawless, high-definition overlay of glorious violence. Every variable, every possibility, every weakness was laid bare before me in burning lines of light. The pain in my side vanished, submerged beneath a euphoric tide of raw power. My body stopped feeling like my own. It was her instrument now.

<YES,> she sang in my soul, a chorus of pure, unadulterated bloodlust.

I didn't move. I flowed.

The silver net flew towards me. Instead of dodging, I dropped, my hand scooping up a loose piece of scrap metal from the floor. In one fluid motion, I hurled it into the path of the net. The net entangled the useless junk, and I was already moving, a blur of motion that the human eye couldn't follow.

I was on the net-wielder before he could even register his failure. My runed knife, now glowing with a faint crimson energy, slid under his mask and into his throat. There was no hesitation, no mercy. Just the cold, perfect execution of a kill.

TARGET ELIMINATED.

The one with the iron blade lunged, trying to catch me in the back. Flóga laughed. I spun on my heel, my body moving at an impossible angle, and caught his wrist. Bone crunched under the pressure of my grip. I twisted, using his momentum against him, and drove his own iron stiletto into the weak spot under his arm and into his heart.

TARGET ELIMINATED.

The two magic-users at the back finally reacted, their disciplined calm breaking. One began chanting, weaving a more complex spell, his hands a blur of motion. The other threw a handful of gleaming black powder at me.

<Obsidian dust laced with silver nitrate,> Flóga identified instantly.

I charged through the glittering cloud, my eyes shielded by her power. The spellcaster faltered, his incantation stumbling as a monster wreathed in red energy bore down on him. My hand shot out and clamped around his face, lifting him off his feet.

<Let me hear him break,> she commanded.

And I squeezed. The crunch of his mask and the bone beneath was sickeningly loud.

TARGET ELIMINATED.

The last one stood alone, his face, finally visible as his mask slipped, was pale with shock and terror. He had been a hunter. Now he was prey. He turned to run.

Flóga wouldn't allow it. My Glock was in my hand, the crimson sigil flaring over the sights. I didn't aim for the head or chest. I aimed for his knee. The shot echoed in the vast space, and he went down, screaming.

The crimson tide receded, leaving me gasping, leaning on a rusted machine, the gun feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. The blinding agony was already returning, ten times worse than before. My side was on fire.

I stumbled over to the last survivor. He was clutching his shattered leg, his eyes wide with terror.

"Who sent you?" I rasped, my voice barely my own.

He just spat a wad of blood in my direction. "For the Accord," he choked out. "For order! Abominations like you… you taint everything…"

Before I could ask more, his eyes rolled back, and a faint tremor ran through his body. A small trickle of black fluid ran from the corner of his mouth. Poison. A suicide measure.

I sagged against the wall, my strength failing. They were disciplined to the last. I searched their bodies. No phones, no wallets, no identification. Just their strange, specialized gear. But as I rolled one of them over, I saw it. Tattooed on the inside of his wrist, where it would be hidden by his gear, was a small, stark symbol: a balanced scale, impaled upon a silver sword.

These weren't Trent’s rivals or Thorne's thugs. They weren't criminals or monsters. They were something else. An army. A hidden order dedicated to policing the supernatural world with brutal, lethal force. And they had a name for themselves.

The Hounds of the Accord.

And I had just slaughtered four of them. I hadn't just stepped on a spider's web; I had kicked down the door to a kennel of wolves, and they knew my scent.