Page 2

Chapter 2

L ila… Present day

Blood and prophecy. Twenty years, and it always comes down to blood and prophecy.

I stare at the ceiling of my prison. Recessed lighting designed to look warm but feel cold. Like everything the Syndicate touches. Beauty masking cruelty.

One thousand, thirty-nine origami dragons line my bookshelf. One for each week of my captivity. The paper is thin and cheap—scraps from medical reports and equipment manuals Hargen smuggles to me—but the dragons are perfect. Precise. When you have nothing but time, you learn precision.

The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Hargen enters, medical case in hand. His face is a careful blank, but I catch the tightness around his dark eyes. Bad news, then.

“Morning session today?” I ask, though I already know the answer. They never come for me this early unless something’s changed.

“Creed wants fresh readings,” Hargen says, setting the case on my small dining table, unlatching it with familiar movements. “Something about fluctuations in the energy signatures they’re tracking.”

I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “And he needs my blood to confirm it.”

“Just one vial today,” Hargen says, the slight emphasis on “one” our private code. He’ll take less than they’ve ordered. A concession to me.

I cross to the table, extending my arm without being asked. The inside of my elbow is a map of tiny scars—a history of violation written in my flesh.

As Hargen prepares the needle, I study him. Despite decades of this routine, his face remains eerily unlined, his dark hair showing no hint of gray. Like me, he doesn’t show his age, though the silver streak at my hairline betrays the stress I’ve endured. I’ve always wondered about him, about the magic I sense beneath his clinical exterior.

“Busy week ahead?” I ask as the needle slides into my vein. I don’t flinch. I stopped flinching somewhere around year five.

“Three scheduled extractions.” The tube fills with my blood, darker than normal blood, almost black with magic. “Creed’s obsessing over some new energy signature they detected in the field.”

“Must be important if they’re risking three in one week.” I watch the vial fill, keeping my voice neutral despite the dread pooling in my stomach. Three sessions means weakness, means vulnerability. Means pain.

“That’s what I said.” Hargen withdraws the needle, pressing gauze to the puncture with gentle fingers. “Creed doesn’t care about the toll it takes.”

Of course he doesn’t. Dragons measure time in centuries. My suffering is a blip to them, insignificant against their endless power struggles.

“What happened to the last witch they burned through?” I ask, though I know the answer. Hargen never says it, but I’ve felt the absences, the empty spaces where other magical prisoners once existed.

Hargen’s mouth tightens. “Transferred.”

Transferred. Syndicate code for eliminated. Used up. Discarded.

“How long will they keep pushing?” The question slips out before I can stop it. A rare moment of vulnerability. After all this time, I still haven’t learned to lock everything away.

Hargen’s eyes meet mine, and I glimpse something there—regret, perhaps. Or guilt. “Until they get what they want.”

He caps the vial of my blood, placing it carefully in the case’s cooling compartment. His hands are steady, but I see the tension in his shoulders.

“Something else,” I prompt.

He hesitates, then sighs. “Creed’s pushing for a deep extraction next month.”

My stomach clenches. Deep extraction. Their term for a procedure that takes me to the edge of death to access the furthest reaches of prophecy. I’ve survived two. Barely.

“Why now?” I keep my voice steady, refusing to let him see my fear.

“They’re getting impatient. They still don’t have what they want.”

The Heartstone. Another thing they want me to see. The crystal heart of dragonkind, capable of binding dragons to a single will. The weapon that could end their endless factional wars. Or start a worse one.

“I need time to prepare,” I say, pressing my fingers to the gauze on my arm. “At least two weeks.”

“I’ll try.” We both know it’s out of his hands. Hargen may be my handler, but he’s as much a prisoner of the Syndicate as I am. Just with better quarters and the illusion of freedom.

He packs up his case, movements efficient from years of practice. When he looks up, his expression softens fractionally.

“I’ll bring you something for the pain after the session.”

This small kindness—one of many over the years—is why I haven’t completely lost myself to hatred or despair. Hargen remembers I’m human, even when the rest of them treat me like a magical battery to be drained.

“Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have to offer.

After he leaves, I move to the small window that offers my only glimpse of the outside world. It’s reinforced with magic and technology—unbreakable, like everything about my cage. The mountains shimmer in the morning light, crags reaching toward a freedom I can barely remember.

A freedom that grows completely unattainable when I’m taken from my quarters later. It’s time for the extraction procedure. The process they’ve designed to draw the visions from me. Visions that once came naturally are now pulled out on demand. A “medical” procedure. And like any medical procedure, it’s conducted in a specialized space. A space I’ve learned to despise.

Extraction chambers are designed to intimidate. White walls. Steel tables. Equipment that looks more suitable for torture than medicine.

They’ve strapped me to the chair. Routine protocol, they claim, but we all know it’s about control. The restraints bite into my wrists, but I keep my face blank. Never let them see weakness. Rule number one of surviving the Syndicate.

Hargen works quietly beside me, attaching electrodes to my temples, checking the IV line in my arm. His fingers brush my skin in silent apology.

“Comfortable, Ms. Rossewyn?” Creed stands at the edge of the room, his tailored suit against the clinical environment.

“Absolutely blissful,” I reply, my tone desert-dry. “You should try it sometime.”

His lip curls. After years of doing this, he still hasn’t developed a sense of humor. Pity. It would make our sessions less tedious.

“Let’s not waste time.” He checks his watch—platinum, ostentatious. “We have questions about some energy readings near the coast we’ve picked up.”

I say nothing. They always have questions. I rarely have answers they like.

Creed nods to Hargen. “Begin the extraction.”

The first wave of magic hits like a physical blow. They use my own blood against me—amplified, corrupted, turned into a conduit for the information I tap into. Beneath it all, I feel Hargen’s power—reluctant but present—twining with the darker energies to force their way through my veins, hunting for visions, for prophecy.

I grit my teeth against the pain. God… it never gets easier.

“Focus on the coastal regions,” Creed instructs. “The fluctuations began three days ago.”

The magic twists, burning through me like acid. Images begin to form—fragmented, disjointed. The ocean. Rocks. A cave entrance half-submerged in tidewater.

“What do you see?” Creed demands, leaning forward.

“Water,” I manage through clenched teeth. “Caves. Something… hidden.”

“More specific,” he presses. “What’s causing the fluctuations?”

I try to focus, to see beyond the fragments, but the more I reach, the more the pain intensifies. White-hot needles behind my eyes. My blood turning to fire in my veins.

“There’s something… sealed away,” I gasp. “Old magic. Older than…” The words choke off as a particularly violent surge of power tears through me.

“Her vitals are spiking,” Hargen warns, eyes on the monitors. “We should ease back.”

“Not yet,” Creed dismisses. “Push deeper.”

The magic intensifies, and I can’t hold back the grunt of pain that escapes me. My fingers dig into the armrests, knuckles white.

More images flood my mind. A symbol carved into stone. Water turning to steam. A box—no, a container of some kind—hidden within the rocks.

“A reliquary,” I force out, the word tasting of copper and salt. “Dragon relics sealed away during the First War.”

Creed exchanges a look with one of his subordinates. “Whose relics?”

I shake my head, paying for the movement with a spike of nausea. “Can’t… can’t see.”

“Try harder,” Creed insists.

An involuntary sound escapes me—half gasp, half growl. I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his demands, but I need what little control I have. Instead, I cling to the fragments, trying to assemble them into something coherent.

“Sealed by warding magic,” I manage. “Old wards. Witch wards.”

That gets his attention. “Your ancestors hid dragon relics?”

“Not… not mine.” The distinction is important. “An older branch. Before the split.”

The monitors begin to wail as my pulse races dangerously. My vision blurs, darkness creeping in at the edges.

“That’s enough,” Hargen says firmly, already moving to disconnect the equipment. “Her system can’t take any more.”

For once, Creed doesn’t argue. He’s got what he wanted—a lead, a direction. I’ve bought myself a reprieve, at least for today.

As the magic recedes, I slump in the chair, trembling with exhaustion. Sweat soaks my clothes, and blood trickles from my nose—a common side effect of fighting the extraction process.

Hargen moves briskly, wiping the blood away, checking my pupils, injecting something into my IV that immediately dulls the worst of the pain.

“Get her back to her quarters,” Creed orders, already turning to leave. “I want a full report in an hour.”

After he’s gone, Hargen gently removes the restraints. “Can you stand?”

I nod, though I’m not entirely sure. My legs feel like water, my head like it’s stuffed with broken glass.

“I held back as much as I could,” he murmurs, helping me to my feet.

“I know,” I whisper, leaning heavily against him. Another of our small rebellions. He dampens the worst of the magic, and I give Creed just enough to keep him satisfied without revealing everything I see.

It’s not much, but it’s how I survive.

***

Lila

I wake in my quarters, the taste of copper filling my mouth. Post-extraction hangover—familiar, predictable, miserable.

“Water?” Hargen sits beside my bed, offering a glass with a straw.

I try to nod, but pain lances through my skull. “How long?” My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling glass.

“Four hours.” He helps me take a few sips. “You did well today.”

“Creed got what he wanted,” I close my eyes against the light that feels like needles. “That’s all that matters.”

“Not to me,” Hargen says quietly.

I study him through half-closed eyes. In all these years, I’ve never been able to fully decipher him. Is he truly an ally? A particularly convincing jailer? Or simply a man caught in the same web that holds me, doing what he must to survive?

“What did I give him?” I ask. The extractions sometimes leave gaps in my memory, hazy patches where the visions overshadow reality.

“Coordinates to a cave system near the Olympic Peninsula. Something about witch wards and dragon relics.” He sets the glass down. “He’s already dispatched a team.”

I close my eyes, sifting through the fragmented memories of the vision. “They won’t get in.”

“Why not?”

“The wards are blood-locked. Old magic. They’d need a witch of the same bloodline to break them.”

A flicker of something—respect?—crosses Hargen’s face. “I’ll leave that detail out of my report.”

Another act of defiance. Another secret kept.

Screw them!

As my vision clears, I notice the small white paper bag on my nightstand. “What’s that?”

“Better pain management.” Hargen’s expression softens. “I modified the usual dosage.”

I eye the bag with suspicion. “Creed authorized this?”

“What Creed doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The faintest of smiles.

Risky. If Creed discovered Hargen tampering with my medications… “Be careful,” I warn.

“Always am.” He stands, straightening his lab coat. “Rest. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s session.”

The thought of doing this again tomorrow makes my stomach clench, but I keep my face neutral. “Same time?”

“Two hours later. Creed has meetings in the morning.”

Another small mercy. “Hargen.” I catch his attention before he leaves. “Thank you.”

He nods once, a shared understanding passing between us, before leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny imperfections in the paint to ground myself. Five thousand, eight hundred and seventeen. I’ve counted them all, multiple times. Another way to maintain sanity in a place designed to strip it away.

When the pain subsides enough, I roll onto my side and reach between the mattress and wall, feeling for the loose panel I discovered in year three. Inside the small space, I keep my most precious possessions—a collection of my origami dragons, each folded with a paper containing a fragment of prophecy the Syndicate never saw. My secrets. Tiny reminders of my silent sabotage.

I add another today; a tiny dragon folded from the corner of a medical report, containing the true coordinates of the cave system I saw. Not the altered ones I gave Creed.

Knowledge is power. And in this place, it’s the only power I have left.

Decades of imprisonment, and I’m still fighting. Still resisting in the only ways I can. Still protecting the secrets that matter most.

My little girl, grown now. Still safe, thanks to the tiny half-truths I’ve woven into the information I’ve given them. While they’re out there on wild goose chases, I keep them far away from her.

I replace the panel and close my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me under. Tomorrow will bring more pain, more battles of will.

But tonight, in this small moment of stolen peace, I’ve won.

Dragon blood and Rossewyn prophecy. It always comes down to this.

The game continues.

And I refuse to lose.