The Portland docks erupted at midnight.
Viktor had chosen his ground carefully—industrial infrastructure, multiple defensive positions, chokepoints that would funnel attacking forces into kill zones. Under normal circumstances, it would have been nearly impossible to assault.
We weren't operating under normal circumstances.
"First wave, go." Monroe's voice came through the communication network we'd established. "Blutbaden engaging southern perimeter."
The sounds of combat reached me across the docks—snarls, gunfire, the wet impacts of close-quarters violence. Monroe led from the front, his reformed nature channeling decades of suppressed fury into controlled destruction.
Angelina was at his side. The two Blutbaden had fought together before, during the Verrat assault on the safe houses. Now they moved as a coordinated pair, each covering the other's weaknesses.
"Mercenary line is breaking." Monroe's update came between sounds of struggle. "They didn't expect us to hit this hard, this fast."
"Maintain pressure. Force them toward the central platform."
The plan was working. Viktor's mercenaries were professionals, but they'd been hired to face Wesen—creatures they'd been told were dangerous but fundamentally inferior. They hadn't been prepared for a coordinated military operation.
[BATTLE STATUS: PHASE 1 - IN PROGRESS]
[SOUTHERN PERIMETER: BREACHED]
[MERCENARY CASUALTIES: SIGNIFICANT]
[PACK CASUALTIES: MINIMAL]
Ariel's fire lit the night.
The Dämonfeuer had positioned herself on an elevated platform, her enhanced vision tracking threats across the entire battlefield. When mercenary reinforcements attempted to flank Monroe's assault, streams of flame cut them down before they could reach their positions.
"Eastern approach is clear." Her voice was calm despite the violence. "Advancing to secondary position."
"Watch for counterattack. Viktor's Verrat are still unaccounted for."
The Pack moved through the docks like a coordinated organism—each element supporting the others, each member knowing their role. It was everything I'd built toward, everything I'd hoped the coalition could become.
Kelly moved independently, a ghost slipping through the chaos.
The elder Grimm's skills were terrifying to witness. Decades of experience made every motion efficient, every strike lethal. Mercenaries who engaged her died without understanding what had killed them.
She was heading for Trubel.
The conditioned Grimm stood at Viktor's side on the central platform, waiting for her moment. Her silver eyes tracked the battle with mechanical precision, analyzing threats, calculating responses.
Kelly reached the platform's base within fifteen minutes.
"Trubel." The name carried across the combat noise. "Look at me."
The young Grimm turned. For a moment, something flickered in her empty eyes—recognition, perhaps, or the ghost of independent thought.
"You're not my target." Trubel's voice was flat. "Stand aside."
"I'm not asking for a fight. I'm asking you to remember." Kelly held her position, weapons lowered. "Before they took you. Before the conditioning. You had a life. A name. People who cared about you."
"I have no memory of that."
"Because they took it from you. Erased it. Replaced it with programming that makes you their weapon." Kelly moved closer. "You're not a tool, Trubel. You're a Grimm. Our blood goes back centuries, carries obligations they can't erase no matter how hard they try."
Trubel's hand moved to her weapon. The motion was automatic, programmed response to perceived threat. But she hesitated—the first independent decision I'd seen her make.
"I have orders."
"Orders from people who don't own you. Who never owned you." Kelly's voice softened. "You can walk away. Right now. Choose something other than what they made you."
The hesitation stretched. Around them, combat continued—Pack forces pushing deeper into Viktor's positions, mercenaries falling back toward the central platform. The battle's outcome was becoming clear.
Trubel's conditioning won.
She attacked with the speed and precision of someone who'd trained their entire conscious existence for exactly this kind of violence. Her blade moved in patterns that would have overwhelmed most fighters.
Kelly met her evenly.
Two Grimms fighting on the docks of Portland—silver eyes locked, weapons singing, decades of experience against years of brutal conditioning. It was beautiful and terrible, the clash of hunting blood that had never been meant to face itself.
I couldn't watch the whole encounter. I had my own destination.
The path to Viktor's platform led through a corridor of bodies—mercenaries who'd tried to stop me, Verrat who'd underestimated what Iron Flesh and extracted abilities could accomplish.
The new telekinesis helped. Limited compared to what Renard had possessed, but enough to deflect bullets, to clear obstacles, to create openings that my sword could exploit.
[COMBAT EFFICIENCY: 87%]
[IRON FLESH: ABSORBING SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE]
[REGENERATION: ACTIVE - WOUNDS CLOSING]
[TELEKINESIS: FUNCTIONING WITHIN LIMITS]
Viktor waited on the platform's highest level, overlooking the carnage below. He wore formal fighting clothes—the kind European aristocrats had favored for centuries—and held a sword that gleamed with the quality of true craftsmanship.
"Finally." His voice carried the calm of someone who'd accepted his fate. "The King of Monsters himself. I was beginning to think you'd let your pets do all the work."
"They're not pets. They're family."
"Family." Viktor laughed—the sound bitter. "Is that what you call it? A Grimm with a pack of Wesen, pretending to be something other than hunter and prey?"
"I call it evolution." I climbed the final stairs to his level. "The old ways are dying, Viktor. Grimms hunting alone, Royals controlling from shadows, Wesen living in fear. All of it's ending."
"And you're the one ending it?"
"I'm the one proving it can end."
Viktor raised his sword. The motion was smooth, practiced—the form of someone who'd trained with masters, who understood combat even if he'd rarely needed to practice it personally.
"Then let's see what endings look like."
He attacked.
The Royal's combat training was genuine—blade work that would have challenged most fighters, speed that suggested Zauberbiest enhancement, technique refined through decades of practice. He was better than I'd expected.
Not good enough.
I'd extracted abilities from creatures that had spent centuries developing their combat capabilities. Reaper instincts guided my parries; Siegbarste durability absorbed hits that would have crippled me before Iron Flesh. When Viktor's blade found my arm, the cut was shallow, healing even as blood welled.
"Interesting." Viktor adjusted his stance. "The abilities you've stolen. They've made you something other than human."
"I was never human." I pressed the attack. "Not since I became a Grimm. Neither were you."
Our blades met again, again, the rhythm of combat drowning out the battle below. Viktor was desperate, fighting for survival, for pride, for everything he'd lost over the past months. That desperation made him dangerous—willing to take risks, commit to attacks that a more cautious fighter would avoid.
But desperation also made mistakes.
His lunge overextended, reaching for a killing blow that would have ended everything if it had connected. My parry redirected his blade, and my counter opened a cut across his side that made him stagger.
"You're losing." I advanced while he retreated. "Your mercenaries are dead or dying. Your Verrat are scattered. Your conditioned Grimm is fighting Kelly Burkhardt. There's nothing left."
"There's always something left." Viktor's Zauberbiest woge surfaced—red eyes, enhanced features, power gathering in his off hand. "The question is whether it's enough."
Telekinesis slammed into me.
The force threw me backward, cracking the platform's railing, nearly sending me over the edge. Viktor's magic was stronger than Renard's had been—less refined, more brutal, the desperate power of someone with nothing to lose.
I caught myself on the broken railing, Iron Flesh absorbing impact that would have shattered normal bones. My own telekinesis pushed back, creating space, buying seconds to recover.
"You're full of surprises." Viktor advanced, magical energy crackling around his hands. "But surprises only work once. And I've learned what you can do."
"Not everything."
I triggered the Ziegevolk pheromones.
The ability was useless in combat—designed for manipulation, for influence, for making people trust you when they shouldn't. But Viktor wasn't immune to biological influence. The pheromones hit his system, creating momentary confusion, hesitation, the split-second break in concentration that magic required.
His telekinesis faltered.
I was on him before it could recover.
My sword found his arm, his leg, his shoulder—wounds that weren't lethal but accumulated, draining his strength, destroying his ability to fight. Viktor's Zauberbiest power flickered, failed, couldn't maintain itself against the damage.
He fell to his knees, blood pooling around him.
"Do it." His voice was steady despite the wounds. "I won't beg. I won't run. Finish this."
I raised my sword.
And stopped.
Below us, the battle was ending. Pack forces had overwhelmed the remaining mercenaries. Kelly had Trubel contained—not dead, not even badly hurt, just held in place by the elder Grimm's superior technique and the first cracks appearing in her conditioning.
Viktor watched my hesitation with something like curiosity.
"Problems with the killing blow? That's unlike you. From everything I've heard, you're quite efficient at ending lives."
"You're more useful alive." The words came slowly, the decision forming as I spoke. "Dead, you're a martyr. Vienna sends someone else to avenge you. The cycle continues."
"And alive?"
"Alive, you're a lesson. A Royal who came to Portland with everything—resources, soldiers, assassins, even a conditioned Grimm—and lost it all." I lowered my sword. "You go back to Vienna. You tell them what happened. You explain that Portland is defended by something they can't destroy through traditional methods."
Viktor's laugh was harsh. "You think they'll let me live after this failure?"
"That's not my problem." I gestured for Pack members to secure him. "But if you survive, if you find yourself with influence again someday, remember this moment. Remember that I could have killed you and chose not to."
"Mercy?" Viktor's voice held contempt. "That's your weakness, Cross. That's how someone will eventually destroy everything you've built."
"Maybe." I turned away. "But not today. And not you."
The docks fell silent as dawn approached. The battle was over. Viktor was captured. His forces were eliminated or scattered.
Portland belonged to the Pack.
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