Vincent’s POV
The kids’ laughter cuts through the festival like a claw through my heart.
I stand at the edge of the square, the pack’s celebration swirling around me—cheers for some dumb game, the clatter of cheap prizes, music pounding like a war drum. But all I hear is them.
“Pops!” the younger one squeals, clinging to Mathias’s neck. The older boy grins, proud, as Mathias ruffles his hair and says, “You two ran circles around them today.”
My nails sink into my palms, sharp enough to draw blood. I taste it, metallic and bitter, because my jaw’s locked so tight it aches.
“Pops”?. Was he their dad?
The word burns. He’s not one of us. His elf blood stinks—sharp, wrong, like a cracked note in a sacred song. Hybrids are weak, split down the middle, a disgrace. That’s what I was raised
