Page 2

CHAPTER 2

ORION

T he crisp evening air bites at my face as I stride out of Orion Plaza, the towering glass fortress gleaming under the city lights. My reflection in the polished doors stretches to an absurd length, a deliberate illusion of a man I’m not, but I don’t mind. The limo idles at the curb, my driver standing at attention, ready to open the door. I take one step toward it when the sound of sneakers slapping concrete interrupts the quiet hum of the city.

“Hands up, Weller.” The voice is gruff, muffled by a black ski mask. A gun gleams in the dim light, pointed directly at my head. Behind him, another masked figure steps into view, gripping a second pistol. “Get in the van. Now.”

I glance over my shoulder. A black van’s side door slides open, revealing three more figures, their faces obscured, their postures tense. My lips twitch. Amateur hour. The guns are cheap, the grip on them too tight, the way they shift their weight too uncertain. I could dismantle them in seconds if I wanted to.

But where’s the fun in that?

“I’ll do what you want,” I say, my voice smooth, calm, like I’m ordering coffee. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

The two in front exchange a glance, their confusion palpable even through the masks. One jerks the gun toward the van. “Move.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender and stride toward the van, the kidnappers scrambling to keep up with my long gait. Inside, the three waiting men tense as I duck into the cramped space. One of them fumbles with a pair of handcuffs, the metal clinking as he steps toward me.

“Put these on.”

I extend my wrists, narrowly suppressing a laugh as he freezes, realizing the cuffs won’t even come close to fitting. His eyes flicker up to mine, uncertainty flashing behind the mask. “Uh…”

“Problem?” I ask, leaning back against the van’s wall, my tone light. The van lurches forward, the engine growling as it peels away from the curb.

The man with the cuffs steps back, muttering something under his breath. The others shift uneasily, their eyes darting between me and each other.

“Can we stop at Imo’s Pizza?” I ask, breaking the tense silence. “I’m peckish for a Canadian bacon extra large.”

One of the kidnappers lets out a nervous laugh, quickly stifled by a sharp elbow to the ribs. The others just stare at me, their confusion deepening.

I lean back, crossing my arms, and smile. This might just be the most entertaining thing I’ve done all week.

“Search him,” one of the thugs barks, the mask muffling his voice but not the edge of panic creeping into it. “Get his phone.”

The guy closest to me—skinny, reeking of cheap cologne—steps forward with the confidence of a man who’s watched too many action movies. His hands paw at my pockets, fingers clumsy and damp with sweat. I don’t move. He finds the silver pen—my image inducer—and yanks it out like he’s just uncovered the crown jewels.

“I wouldn’t mess with that if I were you,” I say, my voice low, calm, like I’m commenting on the weather.

He sneers, holding it up like a trophy. “What are you gonna do to stop me?”

His thumb flicks the pen’s button. The hologram flickers, then dissolves, and the van suddenly feels a lot smaller. I see the moment it hits them—their eyes widen, their grip on their weapons tightens, and the air turns thick with terror. Seven feet of red-scaled Vakutan warrior doesn’t exactly fit the aesthetic of their cheap suits and ski masks.

“I warned you,” I say, my voice now a low growl, the kind that vibrates through your bones.

One of them, the one with the shaky hands, pulls the trigger. The bullet hits me square in the face. It stings, but it’s like getting flicked in the forehead by a toddler. I blink, my scales barely registering the impact, and tilt my head. “That’s it?”

The van erupts into chaos. I grab the closest guy by the collar and slam him into the van’s ceiling, the metal denting under the force. Another tries to swing at me with the butt of his gun. I catch his wrist, twist, and hear the satisfying pop of bone before tossing him into the third thug like a bowling ball. The last one scrambles for the sliding door, but I yank him back by his belt, his legs flailing uselessly as I hurl him into the pile.

The driver—smartest of the bunch—takes one look in the rearview mirror and bails. The van swerves, the wheel spinning wildly as he jumps out into the street. I lean forward, my massive frame barely squeezing through the gap, and grab the wheel. The van groans as I guide it to the side of the road, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

Silence settles, broken only by the groans of the thugs crumpled in the back. I glance at the pen, now lying on the floor, and pick it up, flicking it back on. The hologram wraps around me, turning me back into the illusion of Orion Weller. I straighten my tie, step out of the van, and dust myself off.

“Next time I say I want a pizza,” I mutter to the groaning pile of idiots, “then get me a fucking pizza!”

I kick the van for good measure, flipping it onto its side with a metallic groan. The thugs inside groan louder, but I’m already walking away. Let them explain to the police how a seven-foot monster trashed their plan. No one’s going to believe them anyway.

My limo pulls up moments later, the driver giving the overturned van a sideways glance but saying nothing. I slide into the backseat, plucking a bit of debris from my suit. Orion Weller, corporate titan, wouldn’t be caught dead with van shrapnel on his tailored lapels. The image inducer hums softly, restoring the illusion of my human form.

I check my Compad for missed messages. There’s one from Robi. Of course there’s one from Robi. I groan, leaning back against the leather seat. Him and Pyke have been on my case for months about mentoring some human intern. Apparently, this one’s a “prodigy with potential.” Yeah, sure. I’ve heard that line before.

The limo glides to a stop outside my riverboat manor, the Mississippi shimmering under the moonlight. I step out, adjusting my tie, and there he is—Robbie Dalton, standing on the gangplank with his usual cheerful grin. His pudgy human disguise looks especially ridiculous next to the grandeur of the riverboat.

“Evening, Oriyn,” he chirps, his voice high-pitched but annoyingly chipper. “How was the kidnapping?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know about that?”

He taps his Compad with a flourish. “Veritas monitors everything. You really should’ve called it in.”

“And ruin the fun? No thanks.” I stride past him onto the boat, the polished wood creaking under my weight. “What do you want, Robi?”

He scurries after me, his short legs struggling to keep up. “It’s about the apprentice.”

“No.”

“Oriyn—”

“No.”

“You haven’t even met her.”

“Don’t need to.” I stop at the grand staircase, turning to face him. “Humans are fragile, erratic, and easily distracted. I’m not babysitting another one.”

Robbie’s smile doesn’t waver. “She’s not like the others. Cora’s sharp, resourceful, and?—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “She’s got a ‘keen mind for business’ and a ‘bright future’ ahead of her. Heard it all before.”

He sighs, pulling up a holo-profile on his Compad. “Just look at her file. Pyke’s already approved her.”

“Of course he has,” I mutter, snatching the Compad. The hologram shows a young woman—late twenties, glasses, messy hair. She looks like she’d faint if I so much as growled at her.

“Great,” I say, handing the Compad back. “She’s perfect for Pyke. Let him train her.”

“Oriyn, we need fresh blood. The Grolgath are getting bolder.”

“So train her yourself.”

“I’m not a warrior.”

“Neither am I,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to make him flinch. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t respond, just stands there with that infuriating, hopeful look on his face. I turn away, heading up the stairs. “Good night, Robi.”

“Oriyn—”

“Don’t make me throw you in the river.”

He sighs but doesn’t follow. I can feel his eyes on my back as I disappear into the boat’s opulent interior.

The sharp rap on my door makes my claws twitch.

"Oriyn, I know you can still hear me." Robbie's annoying squeak of a voice spills through the wood. "Look, Captain Pyke told me to tell you this is an order. You don't get a choice. She'll be in your office at seven AM sharp tomorrow."

I'm at the door before he finishes breathing, yanking it open so hard the hinges groan. "And what exactly am I supposed to teach her?" My voice drops to a growl even through the disguise. "I can't even mention Veritas, or grolgath, or my real face without proper vetting."

Robbie adjusts his cheap polyester tie. "Yeah, well..." He shrugs, the motion making his human disguise's jowls wobble. "It's up to you how much you reveal and when. But Pyke thinks?—"

"I know what Pyke thinks." My fingers dent the doorframe. "He thinks this will be good for me. That I'm isolating myself."

"You are." Robbie says it without flinching for once. The little furball's got Vakutan stubbornness in him today. "It's been decades since Brakkus. Not every student turns traitor, you stubborn?—"

I slam my palm against the wall, the impact cracking plaster. "Shut your mouth before I drop you. Make Pyke very unhappy."

Robbie swallows but holds his ground. "So you'll do it?"

“Fine,” I growl, my voice low enough to make the air vibrate. “Tell Pyke I’ll do my duty for Veritas and the sacred human timeline. But if she quits, it’s on him, not me.”

Robbie’s face lights up like a neon sign, his human disguise’s jowls jiggling as he grins. “Great! You won’t regret this, Oriyn. Cora’s sharp, I’m telling you. She’s?—”

“Leave,” I cut him off, my tone sharp enough to slice steel. He falters, then scurries off the gangplank, his short legs moving comically fast. I wait until he’s out of sight before shutting the door with a slam that rattles the riverboat’s frame.

Inside, I stride to my study, the room a fortress of dark wood and leather. My favorite chair groans as I sink into it, the weight of the last few decades pressing down harder than usual. Mentoring. The word tastes bitter, like burnt coffee. I haven’t trained anyone since Brakkus, and the last time I did, it ended in betrayal—a student turned traitor, siding with the Ataxian Coalition. I swore I’d never make that mistake again.

But here we are. Pyke’s orders. Veritas needs fresh blood, and apparently, I’m the one who’s got to bleed it out of this Cora Daniels.

I lean back, steepling my fingers. If she’s going to be my problem, I’ll do it my way. No coddling, no hand-holding. I’ll throw her into the deep end and see if she sinks or swims. Maybe if she sinks, Pyke will leave me alone.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I start plotting. First, I’ll test her nerve. See if she panics under pressure. Then, her adaptability—how quickly she can pivot when the plan goes sideways. And if she survives that, I’ll throw her into something so far out of her depth, she’ll either quit or prove she’s got what it takes.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, the only sound in the room. Seven AM sharp, Robbie said. She’ll be in my office at Orion Plaza, probably nervous, trying to make a good impression. Let’s see how long that lasts.

I grab my Compad and pull up her file again. Cora Daniels. Five-foot-three, brown hair, green eyes. Business degree with a perfect GPA. Likes dry wine and jazz. Couldn’t be more ordinary if she tried. But Veritas doesn’t recruit ordinary, which means there’s something Pyke and Robbie see that I don’t. Yet.

I’ll find out soon enough. For now, I’ll let her think this is a normal internship. Let her believe Orion Weller is just a corporate tycoon with eccentric habits. She’ll learn the truth soon enough—if she lasts that long.

“Cora Daniels,” I mutter, my voice echoing in the empty study. “Welcome to Veritas. Hope you’re ready.”