Page 5

Chapter 5

T alon

The mountain air bites at my skin as I wait, leaning against the hood of my Jeep at the deserted viewpoint. Below, the Syndicate facility nestles in the valley like a tumor. Gleaming architecture and reinforced walls. Pretty packaging for the rot inside.

I check my watch. Zoe’s late. Not like her.

The crunch of tires on gravel jerks my attention to the access road. A nondescript sedan pulls in, parking twenty feet away. Smart—keeping distance in case things go south.

Zoe steps out, her blood-red hair whipping in the wind. Former Syndicate intelligence, now one of Viktor’s most valuable assets. Also, the only person I truly trust in the Aurora Collective.

“Cutting it close,” I mutter as she approaches.

“Unavoidable.” She hands me a small metal case, her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. “Security protocols changed this morning. They’re implementing new biometric systems. Wasn’t easy getting this.”

I flip open the case. Inside lies an access card, a data drive, and what looks like a vial of blood.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Zoe’s lips twist into something that’s not quite a smile. “Creed’s second-in-command got sloppy during his last… recreational activity. He’ll never miss it.”

Dragon blood. Essential for bypassing certain security measures. I don’t ask how she obtained it. With Zoe, it’s better not to know.

“The intel solid?” I ask, pocketing the card.

“As it gets. Your cover’s ironclad. Reeve’s records were wiped during a scouting incident—no one left alive who can contradict your identity.” She leans against the Jeep beside me, her shoulder barely touching mine. “Three assets in the east wing. The Rossewyn witch is in isolation, level four, north quadrant. Highest security.”

“Guards?”

“Rotation of four. Plus her handler. Hargen Cole. He’s been with her the entire time.”

Two decades with the same handler. Unusual. “He compromised?”

“Unknown. He’s… peculiar. Devoted to protocol but shows unusual concern for the witch. Watch him.”

I nod, processing. “Extraction route?”

Zoe pulls out her tablet, swiping to a blueprint of the facility. “Three options. Service tunnel here.” She points. “Emergency exit here. Or the loading dock—less security than you’d expect, given their overconfidence.”

I study the layout, committing it to memory. “These updated today?”

“As of 0600.” She zooms in on a section. “They’ve added motion sensors in the corridors near the witch’s quarters.”

“She have a history of escape attempts?”

“Three in the first year. None since.” Something flickers across Zoe’s face—respect? “Either they broke her, or she’s playing the long game.”

My gut says the latter. You don’t survive with the Syndicate by being broken. You survive by making them think you are.

“What else should I know about her?”

Zoe hesitates, unusual for her. “She’s… not what you’d expect. The file says she volunteered.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s the official record. Walked right into their arms. Practically no resistance.”

That doesn’t track. Rossewyn witches were hunted nearly to extinction for their abilities. None would willingly serve the Syndicate.

“Why?”

“Unknown.” Zoe’s voice hardens. “Classic Syndicate manipulation. Whatever her reasons, I’m sure they twisted them.”

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. Something about this isn’t adding up.

“What does Creed want from her?”

“The usual. Prophecies. Intel on rival factions. But lately, it’s been focused on something specific—energy signatures near Craven territory.”

The Cravens. Oldest remaining dragon bloodline, direct descendants of Kael, the last Dragon King. Powerful and mostly isolationist.

“Connected to those disturbances Viktor mentioned?”

“Possibly.”

“Maybe it’s the Heartstone. God knows everyone’s been looking for it for long enough.”

“Wherever the Cravens are keeping it, they’re holding that card close to their chest.” Zoe hands me an earpiece, so small it’s nearly invisible. “Quantum encrypted. Emergency only. You know the drill.”

I tuck it into my pocket. “Recovery timeline?”

“As soon as safely possible. Primary objective is confirmation of her abilities, then immediate extraction. Viktor was clear; she’s too valuable to leave in Syndicate hands, especially with whatever’s brewing with the Cravens.”

I nod, understanding the urgency. The Aurora Collective needs her insights, and every day in Syndicate custody puts her at risk.

“Any questions?” Zoe asks, already backing toward her car.

“Her name. The witch.”

“Lila Ross. Though she’s confirmed Rossewyn bloodline.” She tosses a small flash drive my way. “Everything else is on there. Memorize, then destroy.”

As she turns to leave, I call after her. “Zoe. The odds?”

She pauses, hand on the car door. “Of success? Low. Of survival?” She shrugs. “Lower.”

“Good thing I like a challenge.”

Her laugh is sharp and brief. “That’s why Viktor picked you. You’re too stubborn to die.”

After she’s gone, I stand alone at the viewpoint, staring down at the facility that will be my prison for the foreseeable future. The sun catches on the glass and steel, making it gleam in a way that seems sinister.

I’ve infiltrated Syndicate operations before. Recovery missions. Intelligence gathering. Occasionally, elimination of specific threats. But never something this deep, this sustained.

Never as Allard Reeve.

Becoming someone else isn’t just about memorizing details. It’s about inhabiting them. Breathing them. Shaping yourself into a vessel that can contain a different kind of fire.

Allard Reeve. Elite dragon forces specialist. Expert in magical containment. Ruthless and efficient. A true believer in the Syndicate cause.

Everything I despise. Everything I used to be.

The memories surface as I drive toward the facility checkpoint. London, sixty years ago. The purge of neutrals—dragons who refused to choose sides in the escalating conflict between the Syndicate and the Circle of Fire.

I’d been rising through the ranks of the dragon forces then, a true believer in the Syndicate’s vision of order. Of control. My commanding officer had given me the order personally: eliminate the neutral enclave in East London. Dragons who refused to ally with Syndicate forces had to be eradicated.

For the greater good. For the survival of our kind.

I’d almost done it. Had stood in the warehouse where they’d gathered, my scales already breaking through my skin, fire building in my lungs as I prepared to unleash hell.

Then I’d seen her. Becca. My mate of thirty years. The woman I’d thought was visiting family in Edinburgh.

Standing among the neutrals. Her eyes meeting mine across the room. The betrayal in them cutting deeper than any blade.

I didn’t complete the mission. Couldn’t. But I was too late to stop what I’d set in motion. The backup team had already been deployed. All I could do was watch as dragon fire consumed the warehouse. As Becca burned alongside the others, her eyes never leaving mine.

The Syndicate thinks I died in the blaze with them. Just ashes among ashes.

Only Viktor knows the truth. That I survived, torn between worlds. Neither Syndicate nor Circle. A dragon without a clan. Without purpose.

Until Viktor found me in a dive bar in Prague, haunted by memories no amount of alcohol could dull—dragon metabolism ensures we keep our demons intact, no matter how much we drink. Until he showed me there was a third path. A way to atone.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as I approach the checkpoint, shoving the memories down. Allard Reeve wouldn’t have such weakness. Wouldn’t carry such guilt.

Allard Reeve is a loyal Syndicate operative who believes in the cause. Who sees witches as assets to be used, not people to be saved.

The guard at the gate steps forward, hand raised. I lower the window, offering my credentials with practiced boredom.

“Allard Reeve. Expected.”

He scans the badge, eyes moving between it and my face. “Purpose of visit?”

“Not a visit. Transfer. Security detail.” My tone conveys irritation at having to explain what should be obvious. “I’m your new team leader, you idiot.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Sir. Yes, sir. You’re, uh, expected in Administration.”

The gate rises with a mechanical whine. As I drive through, I let Talon sink deeper beneath Allard’s skin. Let the cold, calculated ruthlessness rise to the surface.

For the next weeks or months, I must become what I hunt, or I won’t survive. Neither will the witch.

The facility is larger than it appeared from the viewpoint. Three visible levels above ground, but I know from the blueprints there are at least four below. The real work happens underground, away from prying eyes and satellite surveillance.

A young woman in a Syndicate uniform meets me at the entrance. “Mr. Reeve? I’m Daniels. Mr. Creed’s assistant. If you’ll follow me?”

I give her a curt nod, falling into step behind her. My senses catalog everything automatically. Twenty-three visible cameras in the lobby alone. Armed guards at each access point. The subtle magical hum of containment wards woven into the building’s structure.

A fortress designed to keep threats out and assets in.

Daniels leads me through a maze of corridors, each requiring biometric authentication. Finally, we reach a sleek conference room where Alastair Creed waits.

I’ve never met him personally, but his reputation precedes him. One of the Syndicate’s most ruthless operators. Responsible for at least three massacres I know of. A true believer in dragon superiority.

“Reeve.” He doesn’t stand, doesn’t offer a hand. Just assesses me with cold eyes. “Your record is impressive.”

“I get results.” I remain standing, matching his stare. Showing deference would ring false for someone with Allard Reeve’s background.

“So I’ve heard.” He gestures to a chair. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

For the next hour, he outlines the facility’s purpose with clinical detachment. Magical asset management. Intelligence gathering. Prophecy extraction. The terms so sterile they almost mask the torture they describe.

I ask the right questions. Make the right observations. Play the part of the professional brought in to tighten security around valuable tools.

“Your primary concern will be the Level Four asset,” Creed finally says, sliding a file across the table. “Lila Ross. Our most valuable resource.”

I open the file and study the photograph clipped inside. The same woman from Viktor’s intel, but more recent. Gaunt face. Silver streak more pronounced in her dark hair. Eyes that seem to look through the camera rather than at it.

“Rossewyn witch,” I say with appropriate recognition. “Thought they were extinct.”

“Nearly. She’s the last full-blooded specimen we’ve confirmed.” Creed’s lip curls slightly. “Powerful, but contained. Her handler, Hargen, maintains a strict regimen.”

“Extraction results?”

“Variable. More so recently.” Irritation flickers across his face. “She’s the longest-surviving seer in our program. But lately, her cooperation has… fluctuated.”

Translation: she’s finding ways to resist. Good for her. Bad for my mission.

“Security concerns?”

“Early escape attempts. Nothing in recent years. But,” he taps the file, “we don’t take chances with assets of her caliber. Especially now.”

“Something changed?” I keep my tone professionally curious.

Creed studies me for a moment, deciding how much to share. “Unexplained energy readings near Craven territory. Unprecedented. Potentially game-changing.” He leans forward. “We need to know what’s causing them. What they mean. The witch has provided… fragments. We need more.”

I nod, understanding the subtext. They’re pushing her harder. Risking permanent damage for answers.

“I’d like to observe an extraction. Understand the protocols.”

“Scheduled for fourteen hundred hours. You’ll attend.” He stands, indicating our meeting is over. “Simpson will show you to your quarters and provide facility access while you’re shown around. I expect a full security assessment by the end of the week.”

As we exit the conference room, I notice a wall of monitors—surveillance feeds from throughout the facility. My eyes automatically scan for Level Four, North Quadrant.

There. A woman sitting by a window, staring out at mountains she can’t reach. Even on the grainy feed, there’s something about her that demands attention. A stillness that speaks of patience rather than defeat. The set of her shoulders suggesting readiness rather than resignation.

“The witch?” I ask Simpson, nodding toward the screen.

“Yes, sir. All Level Four assets are under constant surveillance.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, uncomfortable discussing the facility’s prisoners. I’m sure that Creed pays top dollar to employ human staff, but what goes on in here probably shakes even the most callous of them.

I step closer to the monitor, studying the feed. The room is surprisingly comfortable—more like an upscale apartment than a cell. Deliberate, of course. Gilded cages are still cages.

As I watch, the witch—Lila—turns suddenly toward the camera. It’s as if she senses my observation… impossible as that should be with the facility’s dampening fields.

Even through the poor resolution, her features captivate me—high cheekbones framing a face too thin from years of hardship, full lips set in a determined line, straight dark hair that falls past her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that hold me—intense, silvery-gray, and carrying an intelligence that transcends the digital barrier.

For a split second, our gazes lock through the surveillance feed.

Fuck.

Something electric shoots through my blood. Recognition without reason. Awareness without understanding. My dragon stirs beneath my skin, scales shifting with unexpected response.

Dangerous.

I force myself to look away, to follow Simpson down the corridor.

But the impression remains—those eyes, seeing too much. A woman who’s survived hell without breaking. Slender body tense with coiled strength rather than defeat. A Rossewyn witch whose power persists despite everything designed to contain it.

If anyone knows what’s coming—what the energy fluctuations mean, what’s happening with the Cravens, what plans the Syndicate has for it all—it’s her.

My mission just got more focused. And more essential.

Because those eyes didn’t belong to a broken woman. They belonged to someone biding her time.

Someone waiting for precisely what I represent.

A way out.