Page 1 of Breaking Ophelia
Prologue: Caius
Wesitinarow, a gallery of future kings and executioners. Rhett’s smile is thin and dangerous. He’s bored of the constant fucking meetings, but he has no choice.
None of us do.
We are the chosen, and as the chosen, we must abide by the rules set in place before our time.
Julian sprawls like he owns the world, which is almost true—he's been bred for it, the same way Dobermans are bred for bite. Bam looks bored enough to put a fist through the table, tattoos writhing up his forearm as his fingers drum on his knee.Colton is a wraith, half-shadow, gaze sliding across the room, calculating.
Not that we can escape even if we wanted to.
Which we don’t.
Life is made for us.
The Board made us come early, so now we simmer in silence under the cathedral ceilings of the Academy’s oldest chamber. I count the seconds between each torch’s gutter, each drip of wax.
It’s theatrical. Meant to intimidate, but after countless times in here, the charm has all but worn off. The stone walls sweat cold; the portraits along them look as if they’re watching, because they are. Every founder, every previous Master of the Hunt, all immortalized in oil and shadow.
I fix my eyes on the entrance, counting how many footsteps it’ll take for them to cross the marble. The Board never rushes. Power isn’t about haste; it’s about making people wait. I learned that lesson in the cradle.
Bam cracks his neck. Rhett shoots him a glance. “Nervous?” he scoffs.
Bam shrugs. “Hungry.” His gaze flicks to the velvet cushions along the far wall. Ceremonial daggers, each one unique, each one with a kill count.
Rhett makes a show of yawning. “Tradition. Nothing more entertaining than ancient men talking about their glory days.”
Julian’s laugh is a sigh. “You’d be surprised what some of them did. There’s a founder up there who beat a president to death with a paperweight. Not even kidding.”
Colton picks his nail with a butterfly knife before rolling his eyes. “No one’s joking.”
I tune them out as the doors open.
Twelve Board members enter in pairs, black and midnight blue robes trailing like water. Each robe bears a different crest—hawks, wolves, lions, the usual boring shit. Their faces are masks: a spectrum of paleness and thinness and ancient rage, only the occasional glint of gold tooth or signet ring to tell you they’re even alive.
They take their seats at the far end. We rise, because that’s how the world works. Show respect to the ones who could end your bloodline with a phone call.
The elder, Dr. Abelard, waits for the silence to collapse. His voice is a drag of gravel and ash, heavy with the certainty that nothing in the world could ever defy him. “Sons of Westpoint. You are not here because you are worthy. You are here because you are necessary. Your worth will come to fruition should you abide by the rules of the Night Hunt and fulfill your duties. Your matches have already been chosen.” His eyes sweep the line, stoppingat each of us just long enough to imply he knows the sins we haven’t even committed yet. “Sit.”
We sit.
Abelard sets a heavy book on the table. Leather, older than any living person. The kind of thing you only touch with gloves, unless you own it.
“For centuries, we have cultivated the minds that rule this nation. Presidents. Judges. Generals. All shaped by these halls.” His fingers tap the book, slow and deliberate. “And with every cycle, we test the strength of our legacy.”
One of the women on the Board—silver hair, mouth like a slit in a corpse—leans forward. “The Hunt is not a game. The Hunt is survival. Of bloodlines, of ideas, of the Will.”
Julian smirks. I hope it’s a joke, but with him you never know. “And what if the wrong side survives?”
The woman smiles. “The Hunt decides. It always has. Should you fail, your match will perish, and you will have one more chance to redeem yourselves.”
I study their hands. Some hold glasses, some rest on the table, but all are ready to strike.
Ceremony is everything here, but they want us to remember: tradition is just the elegant skin on top of violence.
Colt catches my eye, then looks away, but I follow the drift of his gaze—stained glass windows overhead, lit from behind so the colors burn even in the dark. Each panel shows the Hunt in some form: runners in white, hunters in black, the aftermath always soaked in red. Every window ends with a tableau of conquest—one side triumphant, the other erased.
If we win, as we will, our matches bloodline is erased and she becomes ours.
