Page 5

KAIA

I don’t sleep.

I pretend to, lying flat on my back, arms crossed over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like it’ll blink first. But my mind won’t shut up. It hasn’t since Jersey.

The buzz inside me hasn’t stopped. It’s not adrenaline or nerves.

It’s deeper. Like my bones are vibrating, humming some song I don’t know the words to but can’t stop listening to.

Ever since the raid, my dreams have been weirder, too.

Not nightmares exactly—but... ancient. Like stories told through firelight.

Creatures with wings made of ash. Trees that bleed.

Eyes, always eyes, staring from shadows.

And a voice I can’t place, calling my name in a language I don’t understand.

Kaia. Wake up.

Yeah. No thanks.

I sit up with a groan and drag myself to the ancient terminal in the corner of my quarters. The Order doesn’t exactly encourage unsupervised browsing, but perks of being the golden girl? I’ve got access to more encrypted shit than I should.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Veil fluctuations.

Mythic bleed.

Unknown magical phenomena.

I punch in the keywords and lean back, rubbing at the gritty exhaustion clinging to my eyes.

The results aren’t what I expect.

Half of it’s redacted.

The rest is buried under ancient scanned documents and pieced-together translations from languages I didn’t even know existed—Sumerian, Old Fae, something written in blood I’m hoping is metaphorical. One entry catches my eye. Dated nearly a thousand years ago, it describes a tree.

Heartwood.

Bastardized by time, of course, but the description matches a sketch I saw in a dream last week. Twisted roots, pulsing veins, something living in its trunk that’s not quite alive. The translation calls it the Veil’s anchor. The thing that holds our world and theirs apart.

And now it’s dying.

I swipe through pages faster. One reference talks about a “Bridgeborn.” A child of opposites. Blood of two warring species. Someone who could either destroy the Veil or heal it. Balance, rupture, death. You know, casual stuff.

My heart kicks in my chest.

That man. From the alley.

He felt like that.

I don’t know how I know, I just do. The second our eyes met, something in me recoiled—and then reached . Like he was made of gravity. Like part of me already belonged to him and just forgot until now.

It’s insane. I know that.

I’m not some weak-kneed girl in a romance novel. I was trained to kill monsters, not get butterflies when they look at me like they can see every secret I’ve buried under armor and attitude.

I slam the laptop shut, harder than necessary.

And then I make the mistake of thinking about my father.

Shit.

If he knew I was even looking into this stuff, he’d lose his damn mind.

General Jareth Draven doesn’t do questions. He does orders. Pun fully intended.

My earliest memory of him isn’t a lullaby or a bedtime story—it’s him teaching me how to disassemble a sidearm blindfolded. I was six. My reward was a nod and a “Good. Now again.”

I thought that was love.

Still not sure it wasn’t.

He’s a tactical genius, revered by every field agent like a war god in a well-pressed suit. To the world, he’s a savior. To the Order, he’s gospel. To me... he’s Dad .

Cold. Unyielding. And once upon a time, he held me like I was the only reason he hadn’t burned the world down.

But he changed.

It happened slowly, like rust creeping across iron. My uncle—his brother—was killed by a rogue vamp on recon. And just like that, the father who used to bring me sweets after drills stopped smiling. Started preaching. Started talking about purity. Order. Cleansing.

He hasn’t touched sugar since.

And Mom?

Mira was quieter about it. She never joined in on his crusade songs, but she never stopped him either. She’s softer—more hands than fists—but just as deadly in her own way. Espionage. Intel. I grew up with lullabies whispered in code.

She’s the one who taught me how to lie with a smile.

She kisses my cheek every morning like she doesn’t know how many people I’ve killed. But she does know. She tracks my kills better than I do.

That’s what the Order does. It makes everything black and white.

You’re human, or you’re a threat.

No gray. No questions.

And for twenty-four years, I believed them.

Until now.

Until the Jersey raid. Until him .

Now everything feels... wrong .

There’s too much red tape in the files. Too many gaps in the archives. Too many questions answered with warnings. And I can feel it—like my skin's become a radar for lies. Something is being hidden, not just from the public—but from me .

Which means either my parents don’t know... or they do.

And that thought is what makes me want to punch holes in concrete.

Because if they’ve been lying to me about what I am, about what we’re really fighting—I’ve been on the wrong side of this war my whole damn life. And that means I have no idea who the hell I really am.

I’ve never questioned them, but this is too much. There’s too much missing. I went looking to confirm I was delusional, that there were answers, reason, but now that my own eyes broke the seals and looked where I’m not supposed to, all I have is more questions.

I shove off the bed, tug on my boots, and grab my jacket.

I need air.

I need space.

And I need answers before the buzzing inside me turns into something worse.