Viktor's POV
The reports spread across Viktor's desk told a story of catastrophic failure.
Renard turned. The Mauvais Dentes dead. Two Senior Reapers eliminated. Dozens of Verrat operatives killed in operations that should have been simple. The political attack deflected by lawyers and influence he hadn't anticipated.
Every resource he'd brought to Portland—every advantage, every weapon, every carefully cultivated asset—had been neutralized by one Grimm and his collection of mongrels.
Viktor poured himself whiskey instead of brandy. The good stock had run out three days ago, and he hadn't bothered replacing it. The small luxuries that had made exile bearable now seemed pointless.
His private phone buzzed. The Vienna number he'd been dreading.
"Cousin." The voice was cold, cultured, carrying the weight of Royal displeasure. "We've received your latest reports. The family is... concerned."
"The situation is more complex than anticipated—"
"The situation is that you've spent considerable family resources achieving nothing." The voice hardened. "Two months. Dozens of operatives. Multiple specialized assets. And the Grimm remains not only alive but apparently thriving."
"He has unexpected capabilities—"
"He has capabilities you failed to anticipate. That's a failure of intelligence, Viktor. A failure of planning. A failure of competence." The pause was deliberate. "We're reconsidering your position."
Viktor's grip tightened on the phone. "Reconsidering how?"
"There are those who believe your Portland assignment should be terminated. Your resources redirected to more capable hands." Another pause. "I've argued that you deserve one final opportunity. Don't make me regret it."
The call ended.
Viktor stared at the phone, processing what he'd just heard. His position in the family hierarchy—carefully cultivated over decades—was crumbling. If he returned to Vienna without victory, his future would be measured in months, not years.
The Grimm had taken everything from him.
It was time to take something back.
The mercenary contacts took three hours to arrange. Viktor had maintained relationships with certain specialists for exactly this kind of situation—professionals who worked for money rather than loyalty, who asked no questions and left no witnesses.
"Thirty operatives." The voice on the other end of the encrypted line was businesslike. "Combat-rated, experienced with Wesen targets. Two hundred thousand, half up front."
"Done."
"Timeline?"
"Three days. I'll provide coordinates and tactical briefings."
"Understood. Any special requirements?"
Viktor considered. The mercenaries were a blunt instrument—useful for overwhelming force but lacking subtlety. He needed something more if he was going to face a Grimm directly.
"One additional asset." He pulled a file from his desk. "Eastern European transfer. Female, young, combat-conditioned. She'll need to be... activated."
The silence on the line stretched. "That's expensive."
"Price isn't a concern."
"Then we can accommodate."
The call ended. Viktor moved to his window, watching Portland's lights spread below him like a game board he was finally ready to flip.
Trubel arrived the following evening.
They brought her in chains—unnecessary, given her conditioning, but the mercenaries didn't understand what they were transporting. To them, she was a weapon. A tool. Something to be pointed and released.
Viktor knew better.
The young woman standing before him was a Grimm. Awakened early, captured before she understood what she'd become, subjected to years of conditioning that had turned her into something neither fully human nor fully hunter. Her silver eyes were empty, waiting for commands.
"Do you know what you are?" Viktor asked.
"I am a Grimm." Her voice was flat, mechanical. "I am a weapon of the Royal families. I exist to serve."
"And you understand your target?"
"The rogue Grimm. Damian Cross. Kill him or die trying."
Viktor smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"There's another Grimm in Portland. His name is Nick Burkhardt. Avoid him if possible—he's not your primary objective. But the other one, Cross..." Viktor leaned forward. "He's built something that threatens Royal authority. A coalition of Wesen who follow a Grimm instead of fearing him. That ends here."
Trubel nodded once. The motion was precise, practiced, completely devoid of independent thought.
"And if his Pack interferes?"
"Kill as many as necessary. The goal is chaos, fear, destruction of everything he's built." Viktor stood. "You're not expected to survive, you understand. You're expected to damage."
"I understand."
"Good." Viktor gestured to his remaining Verrat. "Prepare her for combat. We move in two days."
The challenge went out the following morning.
Viktor composed it carefully—formal language, open channels, maximum exposure. Every Wesen faction in Portland would hear. Every power player would know what was coming.
"To the one who calls himself the Portland Grimm: We have danced in shadows long enough. Your coalition, your 'Pack,' your pretension of building something new—all of it ends now. Meet me at the Portland docks in three days. All forces. Winner claims the city. No more assassins, no more politics. Let's settle this like men."
The message spread through Mellifer networks, through Wesen communities, through every channel that mattered. By evening, the entire underground was buzzing.
Viktor's final gambit was public, absolute, and irrevocable.
He stood at his window that night, watching the sun set over Portland for what might be the last time. The city had resisted him for two months—longer than any assignment he'd undertaken, more costly than any failure he'd experienced.
Death or triumph. Those were the only options now.
If he returned to Vienna empty-handed, his life was measured in months. The family didn't tolerate failure, didn't accept excuses, didn't forgive weakness. Better to die here, in combat against a worthy enemy, than to face the slow degradation of Royal disfavor.
The Grimm who had taken everything from him would at least know the name of his destroyer.
Viktor raised his glass to the setting sun.
"To the end, Mr. Cross. Whatever form it takes."
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