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H argen

The dream starts gentle… Vanya lies beside me in soft morning light, her hair like pale spun silk catching the light.

Younger. More alive. Her blue eyes hold warmth instead of winter, and when she smiles, it’s the private expression she saves only for me—vulnerable and real and completely unguarded.

“Stay,” she whispers, her fingers trailing the binding sigil across my shoulders. “Just a little longer.”

I should resist. Know I should. The Syndicate doesn’t allow handlers personal attachments, and loving an Arrowvane bloodline heir is treason beyond redemption.

But her touch burns away every logical protest, every learned response.

In this stolen moment, nothing exists except her skin against mine and the way she breathes my name.

“Always,” I murmur against her throat, tasting salt and loving woman. “Whatever comes, I’ll always—”

The door explodes inward.

Syndicate security floods our sanctuary, their weapons reflecting light off polished steel.

Creed leads them, his scaled features twisted with satisfaction as he surveys our entangled bare limbs.

Behind him, figures in ceremonial robes carry the tools of ritual purification—chains, binding symbols, the chemical accelerants that burn hotter than ordinary fire.

“Vanya Arrowvane.” His voice rings with formal judgment. “You stand accused of bloodline corruption. Of willful defilement of ancient purity.”

She doesn’t struggle as they drag her from our bed. Doesn’t scream or plead or look to me for rescue. Her chin lifts with that familiar aristocratic pride, ice returning to her gaze as she transforms back into what she was born to be—nobility accepting the consequences of rebellion.

But her eyes find mine. Hold them. And in that final moment of connection, I see everything she’s sacrificing laid bare.

I love you, her expression says. Remember that. When this is over, remember that I chose you.

I fight then. Rage against the hands holding me down, roar her name until my throat bleeds. But the bonds are too strong, the magic too absolute. They force me to watch as they chain her to the ceremonial stake. Force me to witness as they pour liquid flame around her bare feet.

“Hargen.” She speaks my name once, soft as silk. Then the fires rise.

She burns.

Burns while I watch, helpless and screaming. Her perfect skin blisters and chars. Her hair ignites like a torch. But her eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—never leave mine. Even as the flames consume her completely, she watches me with love and forgiveness and something that might be relief.

The smell reaches me last. Burned flesh and chemical smoke and the copper tang of my own blood where I’ve bitten through my tongue.

She’s gone.

Twenty-one years of gone, and I—

“Cole. Wake up. Now.”

The voice cuts through flame and memory, dragging me back to concrete reality. My body jerks upright on the narrow cot, heart thundering a frantic rhythm. Sweat plasters my hair to my skull. My hands shake as I grip the thin mattress, grounding myself in its scratchy texture.

A dream. Just a dream.

Except it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because most of it happened.

Creed stands in my cell doorway, his reptilian features arranged in that sickening smirk that makes my skin crawl. Behind him, two guards wait with the patient stillness of professional muscle.

“Bad dream?” His tone almost makes me wonder if he knows what I was seeing. “Guilty conscience, perhaps?”

I force my breathing to steady. Piece together the careful mask of control I’ve perfected over decades of service. “What’s the situation, sir?”

“Your situation just got very interesting.” He steps fully into the cell, invading my space with deliberate intimidation. “The Shadowhand wants you transferred to her private facility.”

The name makes heat flood my veins despite the sweat still cooling on my skin. The Shadowhand. Vanya. The woman whose dream-death still burns behind my eyelids, now orchestrating our reunion from the highest levels of Syndicate hierarchy.

“Special treatment,” I observe, keeping my voice level. “Should I be flattered?”

Creed laughs coldly. “You should be terrified. The Shadowhand doesn’t typically waste time on small fish unless she’s planning something particularly creative.”

If only you knew.

But I let confusion show in my expression instead. A man facing transfer to the Syndicate’s most feared interrogator should look worried. Should show the appropriate fear of someone about to face a fate worse than death.

Should not feel his heart racing with anticipation.

Should not be remembering the sensation of silken skin beneath his fingertips.

“Well,” I say, standing slowly. “I suppose I’ll find out what she wants.”

“Oh, you will.” He moves closer, his smile turning predatory. “I wonder what makes you so unique, Cole. What makes the Shadowhand request a private session with a disgraced handler?” His voice drops. “Maybe she has something particularly interesting planned for you.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I say, noncommittal. I’m not going to play this little game with him. “When am I seeing her?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Now.” He gestures to the guards, but his eyes never leave my face. “Get dressed. And Cole? Whatever secret you’re hiding, she’ll find it. The Shadowhand always does.”

I pull on the standard prisoner uniform—gray cotton that feels rough against skin still sensitized by nightmares.

“Get a move on, man,” Creed snaps, glancing down at his watch. “I’ve got better things to do than stand around waiting for you to get your act together.”

“Just collecting my thoughts,” I respond.

“Collect them faster.” He grins. “Not that it’ll make any difference. You’re screwed either way.”

I don’t answer, just take a jolting step forward as someone shoves me from behind.

The guards move to flank me as we leave the cell, the door clanging shut behind us.

The corridors give way to transport elevators, then progressively more secure zones as we descend deeper into the building’s foundation.

Each checkpoint requires additional authorization.

Each level carries more weight of magical wards designed to contain things that shouldn’t exist.

The air grows colder as we approach the Shadowhand’s domain. Traces of ancient power thicken around us—magic old enough to predate the current Syndicate hierarchy. Old enough to remember when the bloodline wars were fought with fire and fang instead of politics and purification protocols.

I recognize the energy immediately. The same power that surrounded Vanya during our most intimate moments, when her dragon heritage would surface and her eyes would shift from blue to molten gold. When she would whisper my name in languages that existed before recorded history.

The final checkpoint stands before massive steel doors marked with symbols I recognize from my handler training. Containment sigils. Wards designed to prevent magical escape or communication with the outside world.

Perfect privacy for the conversation that will hopefully answer decades of questions.

Creed pauses at the threshold, turning back with smug satisfaction. “Last chance to confess whatever you’re hiding, Cole. The Shadowhand doesn’t offer mercy.”

I meet his gaze steadily. Let just a hint of fear show—enough to satisfy his expectations without undermining my cover. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

“We’ll see.” He gestures to the guards. “Transfer is complete. The Shadowhand will take custody from here.”

The massive doors swing open, revealing corridors lined with interrogation chambers and private offices. Each door bears numbers and status indicators. Most show green—available. One shows red—occupied.

“Chamber Seven,” the lead guard announces, steering me toward the active indicator.

My mouth goes dry as we approach. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body remembering what my mind refuses to acknowledge: that I’m about to face the woman I’ve mourned for two decades.

My heartbeat drums against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady.

Can’t let Creed see how much this affects me.

But for reasons he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

The guard stops beside the marked door. “The Shadowhand is waiting.”

I nod, squaring my shoulders one final time.

The nightmare’s flames still dance behind my eyelids—memory and symbol and warning all twisted together.

But beneath the fear and anticipation, something stirs to life.

Something I’d thought had been suffocated by grief and sealed away behind years of careful indifference.

Curiosity.

The need to understand what could drive a woman to fake her death, to hide our child, to orchestrate this moment after so many years of silence. What shaped the Vanya I loved into the Shadowhand who rules with fear. And whether anything of us remains worth salvaging.

The door handle turns cold beneath my palm.

Time to discover which future waits on the other side.