Hope's POV.
Everything I thought I knew was a lie.
My father… the man I idolized, trusted, loved beyond words — he was a hunter. A killer. A man who trained to destroy the very people I now call family.
And I was supposed to be one too.
The thought still feels foreign, unnatural. Like someone’s stitched it into the fabric of my life and tried to convince me it was always there. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. Not in the life I remember — the bedtime stories, the gentle laugh, the way he used to lift me onto his shoulders and call me his "brave little lioness." That man... he wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a zealot. He wasn’t this cold, brutal person the letters make him out to be.
Was he?
I wrap my arms around myself as I lie in bed, the covers drawn up to my chin, listening to Mal
