Page 32

H argen

The helicopter blades cut through the dawn sky, their rhythm matching the urgency of my thundering heart. Viktor stands beside me on the Aurora Collective’s helipad, his weathered face grim in the pale light.

“I can’t officially sanction this,” he says, voice muffled by the rotors. “But I won’t stop you, either.”

I adjust the tactical vest they’ve provided, checking the weapons secured at my waist.

“You’ve done what you can,” I respond tersely, then glance sideways as another figure emerges from the shadows.

“I figured you could use some help.” Viktor puts a hand on my shoulder. “She volunteered.”

Nadia Frost approaches, her tall, lean form clad in dark fatigues, black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

“Her tracking abilities might prove useful,” Viktor continues. “I would do more if I could. The Collective protects its own.”

Nadia reaches us, shouldering a lightweight pack. “I know what it’s like to lose family to those bastards.” Her voice carries an edge of personal pain. “Besides, someone needs to keep you from getting yourself killed before you find her.”

Movement catches my eye. Across the rooftop, Ember stands in the shadow of the building, arms crossed, watching our preparations. Her fair hair whips in the helicopter’s downdraft, and even from this distance, I can see the anger radiating from her posture. But she doesn’t interfere.

“Time to go,” the pilot calls out.

Viktor clasps my shoulder. “Bring her home, Hargen.”

The flight to Seattle passes in tense silence.

Nadia stares out the window, occasionally consulting what looks like an ancient compass that spins without regard for magnetic north.

I check and recheck my equipment, running through scenarios in my mind.

Each one ends with either Vanya dead or me failing to reach her in time.

Stop thinking that way. You’ll get there.

The helicopter sets down on Craven Towers’ rooftop landing pad with a bump. As the rotors wind down, I see the welcoming committee waiting: Lila, her silver-streaked dark hair catching the sunlight, flanked by the imposing figures of Caleb and Dorian Craven.

Lila reaches me first, pulling me into a fierce embrace. “It’s good to see you, Hargen. I’ve been worried sick.”

“Thank you for agreeing to step in,” I reply, meaning every word. After all that she suffered under Syndicate control, she still finds ways to help others.

Caleb extends his hand, amber eyes serious. “Lila explained the situation. We have resources that might help.”

I shake it, appreciating the firm grip and direct gaze. The Cravens and I share history—not close friendship, but mutual respect built on centuries of navigating the supernatural world’s politics.

Dorian nods in greeting, his eyes holding the same intensity as his twin’s but tempered with something less rigid; I suspect that there’s a wicked sense of humor lurking there. Although I doubt there’ll be an opportunity to confirm it.

“The others are waiting,” Caleb says, leading us toward the elevator.

The conference room occupies half of the fifty-second floor, its glass walls offering panoramic views of Seattle’s skyline.

Modern tactical displays line one wall while ancient dragon artifacts rest in protective cases along another—a perfect representation of how the Craven clan has adapted to the changing times.

The assembled team turns as we enter. I recognize Lila’s mate, Talon, and her daughter, Elena, but the others are new faces.

A shifter male stands near the tactical display, tall and powerfully built, sandy-blond hair and intelligent chocolate-brown eyes assessing Nadia and me with interest. His posture screams military.

Beside him, a young woman with electric blue hair and bright green eyes looks up from a laptop, multiple tattoos visible on her arms beneath an “I ? Bigfoot” hoodie.

“Mara Jones,” Elena says by way of introduction. “My tech consultant and conspiracy theorist.”

“And best friend,” Mara adds with a wink. “I’m here to get you in there.”

“Civilians shouldn’t be involved in tactical operations,” the man says immediately, earning himself a sharp look from Mara.

“This ‘civilian’ just hacked the Syndicate’s security network while you were flexing, Luke fricken’ Kenan,” Mara shoots back, fingers never stopping their dance across her keyboard. Luke doesn’t respond, but goes back to glowering.

Near the window, another dragon shifter turns from studying the city below. Striking features, unusual copper-gold eyes that seem to catch and hold light.

“Iris Asguard,” she introduces herself, studying me with intense curiosity. “You’re the one who infiltrated Syndicate territory. After escaping it. You’re either brave as hell or out of your mind.”

“Both,” Nadia says dryly, earning a slight smile from Iris.

Mara looks up from her laptop, pride evident in her voice. “They’re holding her at the Syndicate Stronghold. Maximum security.” She clicks a few keys, and a detailed schematic appears on the main display. “Guard rotations, security checkpoints, the whole nine yards.”

Luke moves closer to examine the intel, grudging respect creeping into his voice. “How reliable is this?”

“Buddy, I may run conspiracy theory TikToks, but my hacking skills are solid,” Mara replies defensively.

The tension between them is tangible, but they work together with surprising efficiency. Luke points out defensive chokepoints while Mara highlights potential digital vulnerabilities.

“The chains they use aren’t just physical restraints,” Lila says quietly, her gray eyes distant with memory. “Syndicate binding magic suppresses not just power but connection. Complete magical isolation.”

I nod in response. “We suspected as much. I lost contact with her shortly after I received her last message.”

Iris steps forward. “I was held there briefly two years ago. I know the guard rotation patterns.”

“You were held by the Syndicate? How did you escape?” Nadia asks.

Iris’s expression darkens. “I didn’t. They released me as a warning to others.” Her voice drops. “Not everyone is so fortunate.”

The unspoken grief in her tone suggests personal loss. Another story, another tragedy caused by Syndicate brutality.

Caleb moves to the tactical display. “We can provide distraction at the northern perimeter. Draw their attention away from your insertion point.”

Talon nods. “I studied these schematics extensively when we extracted Lila. Their security protocols have blind spots, but they’re narrow windows.”

“I can follow magical traces even through suppression fields,” Nadia adds.

“Really?” Luke turns to her. “And just how do you do that? You’re wolf, right?”

Nadia nods. “And more,” she says in a tone that suggests she’s not planning to elaborate.

Iris points to the schematic. “The maintenance tunnels have lighter security but are heavily warded. It’s a trade-off.”

“I can loop their surveillance systems for exactly seven minutes,” Mara interrupts, then adds with typical confidence, “Maybe eight if I’m feeling generous.”

“Seven minutes isn’t enough time,” Caleb objects, studying the facility layout with a tactical mindset.

I step closer to the display, analyzing entry points and escape routes. The Stronghold is a fortress, designed to keep people in and rescue attempts out. But every fortress has weaknesses.

“Small team, focused objective,” I decide. “In and out before they realize what’s happening.” I meet each person’s gaze in turn. “Core infiltration team: myself, Nadia, and Iris. Everyone else provides diversion and technical support.”

The next hour passes in intense preparation. Luke and Mara argue over communications equipment, although their banter reveals a grudging professional respect beneath the surface tension.

Lila finds me checking my weapons for the third time. “She must be extraordinary,” she says quietly.

“She is,” I say it firmly.

“The woman who made you risk everything twice.” Her smile holds understanding and sympathy. “First, going back to the Syndicate, now this.”

“She’s worth it,” I say without hesitation.

Nearby, Nadia and Iris compare notes on Syndicate defenses, their conversation revealing growing mutual respect.

Dorian approaches with specialized equipment. “This should temporarily neutralize the binding chains. One-use device, so make it count.”

I nod grimly as we head down to our waiting vehicles.

As night falls over Seattle, our convoy splits into three unmarked cars—tactical redundancy in case we’re tracked.

We wind through the city’s rainy streets, lights reflecting off wet pavement as we navigate around the surveillance dead zones Mara mapped for us.

The Syndicate’s urban watchers are everywhere; twice, we detour to avoid suspiciously positioned “utility workers” at major intersections.

The urban sprawl gives way to dense forest as we climb into the Cascade foothills.

Dorian takes point in the lead vehicle, following old logging roads that don’t appear on modern maps.

The moonlight filtering through ancient cedars casts everything in silver and shadow, perfect cover for our approach.

Our comms remain silent except for essential updates—”Checkpoint clear” and “Maintain distance” the only phrases breaking the tense quiet.

Three miles from the facility, we abandon the vehicles under camouflage netting.

The rest is on foot—a grueling hike through terrain deliberately left wild to discourage approach.

Iris moves like a ghost through the underbrush, occasionally becoming literal shadow as she scouts ahead.

Nadia’s enhanced senses detect the first layers of magical alarm systems—whisper-thin strands of energy suspended between trees like spectral spider webs.

“Syndicate perimeter ward,” she murmurs, pointing to what appears to be nothing but mist. “Designed to trigger if anything larger than a small deer passes through.”