“Home sweet home,” John muttered as he stepped into the safehouse, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. The place reeked of dust and long-forgotten memories—peeling walls, sagging furniture, and the faint buzz of old enchantments struggling to stay alive.

  Ziraya let out a loud, theatrical sigh and dropped herself onto a faded couch. It groaned under her weight, dust puffing into the air like a defeated spirit. She winced. “So this is it? We’re really going to be holed up in this glorified broom closet for a week?”

  John shrugged, his eyes flicking across the small living space. “Guess so. At least you are.”

  Ziraya’s head snapped toward him, her expression darkening. “Don’t you dare leave me alone in here,” she snapped, voice sharper than she intended. Then, just as suddenly, it faltered. “I already have nothing left. I don’t want to…” Her voice drifted off like a dying ember, and she looked away. “Never mind. Do whatever you want.”

  John blinked. For a moment, he saw through her armor—the fierce scales, the cutting tone. Underneath, she looked lost. His lips pressed into a thin line. He reached for a cigarette and flicked it to life, only for Ziraya to blur across the room in an instant. The Authority of Bonding shimmered over her like heat off stone. Before John could blink, the cigarette vanished into dust in her hand.

  “Seriously?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I hate that smell,” she snapped, settling back into her seat with a huff. “If you're going to burn your lungs, do it outside.”

  John clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. He turned toward the door. “I’m heading out. Want anything to eat?”

  Ziraya hesitated. “Are you really leaving?” she asked, trying—and failing—to sound indifferent.

  John paused. The vulnerability in her voice lingered, like a thread she couldn’t quite hide. He gave a crooked smile. “I’ll be quick. Just grabbing a few things to make this dump feel a little less like a prison.”

  “Fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms—but her gaze followed him until the door clicked shut.

  The air outside was crisp and humming with morning light. John sucked in a breath as he emerged from the tunnel beneath the Hot Spot, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke as he spotted the Ship. The elevator-shaped oddity stood like a bruise on the world, invisible to all but him. He stepped inside, greeted by the artificial warmth that pulsed through its walls. A disorienting joy washed over him—false, synthetic, yet addictive. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he murmured, digging through his stash. His eyes landed on the motorcycle parked in the corner like a sleeping beast. A grin spread across his face. “Oh, hell yes.”

  Moments later, the V-Twin engine snarled to life, echoing like thunder in the hollow interior. With a twist of the throttle, he shot out of the Ship and into the city. Glamour cloaked him like a second skin, slipping him between traffic like smoke. Wind howled past his ears as he weaved through lanes and red lights, heart hammering with pure, unfiltered joy. For a few stolen moments, the world fell away—no safehouses, no fugitives, no Authority, no Wolfheart.

  Just the road. Just speed. Just him.

  He laughed, wild and free.

  The parking lot was still empty when he arrived at the store. John paced beside his bike, finishing the last of the cigar he had grabbed for the occasion. He watched the sun rise higher as the shutters rolled open. Inside, he filled his basket with impulse buys—two sleek gaming consoles, stacks of board games, a ridiculous novelty puzzle that made him chuckle under his breath. The cashier didn’t question the cash or the smile. Just handed over the receipt with a nod and dead eyes. Burger place next. He ordered the biggest thing on the menu—Ziraya might be like him and not even need food anymore, but she still acted like she did. He wasn’t about to let her stew in silence and hunger.

  By the time he returned to the Hot Spot, traffic had thickened and the sky had warmed. He slipped back into the Ship with practiced ease, wiping sweat from his brow as he parked the bike and cut his cigar.

  Back into the Bazaar. Back through the shadows. He reached the safehouse door, already reaching for his lighter. “Hey, I’m—” The door swung open, and a blade kissed his throat. “—back,” he whispered, voice tight.

  Ziraya stood there, eyes sharp, weapon gleaming. “Can’t you knock?”

  John raised both hands slowly. “Next time.”

  She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “You smell even worse.”

  “I brought food.” He held up the bag like a peace offering. Her stomach growled, betraying her as the scent of grilled meat filled the air. She snatched the bag with a hiss, her cheeks flushing as she turned away, shielding her burger like it was sacred. “I’m not gonna steal it,” John said with a chuckle.

  “How am I supposed to eat this?” Ziraya poked the burger like it was a volatile artifact, her sharp amber eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  John paused and arched a brow. “Don’t tell me… you’ve never had a burger before?”

  Ziraya scowled at him, but her cheeks tinged pink.

  “Wow,” he said with a grin. “Talk about a sheltered life.” He leaned back with a smirk. “You use your hands—see? Just grab it and take a bite.”

  Ziraya lifted the burger like it might bite her first. “How barbarous,” she muttered under her breath, glancing sideways as if someone might be watching.

  Then—chomp.

  She blinked.

  Her pupils dilated. John instinctively took a step back as the burger vanished in her hands in a blur of movement and rustling paper. In seconds, nothing was left but an empty wrapper, sauce-smeared fingers, and the faint sound of chewing. Ziraya froze. “Y-You’ve seen nothing!” she barked, cheeks flaring crimson. “I-I was simply… hungry! That’s all!”

  John laughed—really laughed—as he reached forward. “You’ve got, uh…” He hesitated, then wiped a streak of barbecue sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

  They both froze. Her eyes widened. His hand lingered a second too long. Then they each flinched away, faces flushed, pretending to look anywhere else but at each other.

  “R-Right!” John coughed, rummaging hastily through his backpack. “I, uh, brought some entertainment. You know—so we don’t kill each other from boredom.”

  Ziraya tilted her head as he handed her a sleek gaming console. She turned it over in her hands like a relic from another world. “Is this some kind of Terminal?” she asked, suspicious. “It’s… small.”

  John chuckled. “Not everything needs to be complicated. It’s for fun. You’ll get it. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Thirty minutes later—

  “You’re cheating!” Ziraya screeched, pointing at the screen with the righteous fury of a wronged goddess. “There’s no way I lost that fight—I blocked!”

  “You blocked the air,” John said with a laugh, arms folded behind his head, lounging on the couch like a smug champion. “I even took it easy on you! You still got destroyed.”

  Ziraya’s lower lip jutted out in a fierce pout. “Be careful, mercenar—” She stopped herself, then corrected, softer, “John. I demand a rematch.”

  He blinked at the shift in tone, then grinned. “As the lady wishes.”

  He pulled out a colorful deck of cards next, spreading them out between them on the old coffee table. “Alright, the goal here is to get rid of all your cards first. There’s rules about color, numbers, skips, reverse—”

  “I don’t need a full lecture,” Ziraya said confidently as she drew her cards. “Just try not to cry when I win.”

  “Come on!” John groaned after ten long minutes of constant loss, tossing a fat stack of cards onto the table. “You have to be cheating. There’s no way you drew the perfect card again.”

  Ziraya smirked over her fanned-out hand like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “Perhaps the cards simply like me more. Strategy, John. You should try it sometime.”

  “You used three reverse cards in a row!”

  “They were all completely legal,” she replied with mock innocence, flipping her hair back like a haughty noblewoman.

  “I’m calling you Ziraya the Cheater from now on,” he grumbled, narrowing his eyes.

  She stuck out her tongue. “And I shall call you John the Sulky.”

  He grabbed a card and whipped it at her forehead.

  “Are you serious?” she gasped, catching it between two fingers like a blade. Her eyes gleamed, mischievous. “You dare challenge me?”

  He grinned. “It’s on.”

  A full card war erupted—flimsy rectangles flying through the air, bouncing off walls, furniture, and laughter. At one point, John ducked behind the couch, ambushed by a flurry of Uno cards. Ziraya chased him around the room, barefoot, grinning wildly as she hurled insults and reverse cards like throwing knives. By the time they collapsed onto the floor, breathless and red-faced, the safehouse felt different. Less like a cage.

  More like… a secret hideaway.

  They lay side by side, staring up at the cracked ceiling, shoulders barely touching. Ziraya didn't speak, but her fingers brushed the back of his hand. Not enough to hold—just enough to be there.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  John didn’t pull away.

  For a brief, fragile moment, the war, the bloodlines, the Authority, all of it—melted away.

  It was just them.

  Back in the Scalebound compound. The air stank of scorched stone and shattered trust. Chunks of granite lay strewn across the once-elegant room, now reduced to rubble and ash. The scent of charred silk and burned incense still lingered—ghosts of a life suddenly torn away. Vaeryn paced across the wreckage like a caged predator, each step slow, deliberate, as if the floor itself might offend him. His cloak billowed with every turn, shoulders taut beneath black and crimson armor that shimmered with residual mana. He stopped in front of the jagged outline seared into the far wall—an explosion of melted stone forming a perfect hole, like something had clawed reality open from the inside.

  His golden eyes narrowed. “Any news?” he growled, the words heavy with barely-contained violence.

  A dragon-blooded knelt behind him, clad in tight, shadowed armor that clung to his trembling form. Even kneeling, he could feel it—the pressure. Like gravity itself had thickened in Vaeryn’s presence. “S-Sir!” the man stammered, bowing so low his forehead scraped the ground. “Our teams are scouring the compound and the outlying sectors. We’ve found no signs—”

  “No signs?” Vaeryn’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. He turned slowly, mana flaring across his skin in visible arcs, warping the air around him. “Then search harder.” The words struck like a commandment. Before the soldier could rise, an unseen force slammed into him. He cried out as his body skidded across the broken floor, crashing into the far wall with a sickening thud.

  Vaeryn didn’t even blink. “We can’t keep this hidden forever,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Delegations are arriving by the hour. The ceremony was supposed to mark her elevation, our unity, our strength.” He took a breath that sounded more like a growl. “And now she’s gone.”

  The soldier groaned as he pulled himself upright, limbs trembling, mana crackling at the edges of his armor. “We—we’re pursuing every angle. Anyone capable of infiltrating this deep must—”

  “I know that!” Vaeryn roared, his fury peaking in a wave of heat that sent dust and embers swirling into the air. His tail lashed out violently, gouging a crater into the stone floor with a deafening crack. “If you bring me another empty report,” he snarled, fangs bared, “I’ll tear your tongue out myself. Now go.”

  The dragon-blooded limped out with his head bowed so low it nearly dragged along the floor. Silence returned—uneasy, electric. Vaeryn turned again toward the blackened hole in the chamber wall, hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white. He stared into the void as if it might return his daughter to him. “Where are you, Ziraya?” His voice softened, but only slightly. “The family needs you.” He stepped closer to the hole, eyes scanning the burn marks, the arcane residue that still shimmered faintly like dust caught in sunlight. His breath fogged in the cold tension that followed his rising suspicion.

  “The wards didn’t trigger,” he whispered. “They would have annihilated any outsider.” He paused. His lips pressed into a thin, white line. “…Which means it was someone from the inside.”

  The word traitor entered his mind like a shard of ice. It burrowed deep. Cold. Unrelenting. His thoughts raced through the guest list. Ambassadors. Old rivals in silk. Allied clans. Smiling dignitaries with hidden fangs. Everyone had access. Everyone had eyes on Ziraya. Everyone knew where she’d be that night. His mana flared again, tendrils of violet and gold coiling around his limbs like living fire. “Someone who bypassed our runes. Someone who knew how to make it clean.” He clenched his fists. Sparks erupted between his fingers. “Someone who was here.”

  He drew his blade in a single, fluid motion, the steel whispering from its sheath with the familiarity of an old friend. Light flickered off the nicks and notches that mapped decades of battle—wounds the weapon had earned in service to a clan, to a legacy. “Her maid?” he murmured aloud, eyes narrowing. “No. She lacks the power, the skill. She couldn’t even crack a window, let alone obliterate reinforced wards.” His grip on the hilt tightened. “But someone could.”

  The blade hummed with latent energy, almost eager. He stood perfectly still for a moment, the building creaking around him as if it too feared what he might do next. “I swear to you, old friend,” he whispered to the sword, his voice low, heavy with something almost like sorrow. “We will find her. Even if I have to burn every oath and cleave every liar’s tongue from their mouth to do it.” Then his voice fell to a rasp. “And when I find the one who betrayed us…” The sword lit with a flare of raw mana, as if responding to his rage. “…there won’t be enough left of them for the wind to carry away.”

  The soft rustle of paper echoed as Alice Wolfheart flipped through the final report in a tall stack. She exhaled, sharp and impatient. "Are we certain about this?" Her manicured finger tapped the header like a metronome. "That’s a lot of warm bodies to deploy—for one missing girl."

  The scrawny werewolf beside her flinched at the tone. His wiry frame looked even smaller under her shadow, and he twisted his fingers in nervous loops. "Yes, ma’am," he nodded quickly. "They’re recruiting mercenaries now. Recon specialists. They're mobilizing everything they’ve got."

  Alice's lips curled into a cold smile. "So they're bleeding themselves thin." Her tone was almost amused. "Spreading their elite forces across the map, desperate to find their little princess."

  "Exactly. No reinforcements left to guard the compound if we—"

  "Stand down." Alice waved him off. "They're still in the panic phase. Let them run in circles a little longer. How are our whisper campaigns going?"

  The werewolf straightened a little, eager to give better news. "Our agents have hit all the main watering holes around the Bazaar. Bars. Clubs. Anywhere information festers. A division also infiltrated the HiddenNet forums—"

  "A whole division?" Alice's eyes flicked to him, sharp as daggers. "We had so many HiddenNet operatives?"

  He cleared his throat, sheepish. "Chase’s idea. A year back. He insisted on forming a division trained in digital narrative shaping. Turns out, he was right. They're extremely efficient."

  Alice snorted. "Perhaps the boy’s finally learned to use his brain." Her gaze returned to the report. "And we’re still running with the 'eloped with a no-name mage' angle?"

  "Yes, ma’am. It's sticking surprisingly well."

  "Good. Enough truth to avoid suspicion, enough scandal to cause damage." She allowed herself a slow, mirthless laugh. "Keep pushing. The moment it reaches Vaeryn’s ears, it’ll fester in his mind like poison. The rumors will do what war never could."

  The werewolf stepped forward, placing a thick binder on the table. Photographs spilled out like a deck of cards—young mages, most of them already locked in embraces or tangled relationships with dragon-blooded women. "Your other project, ma’am. The… candidates."

  Alice raised an eyebrow as she skimmed the profiles. "There are so many? Tch." She flipped another page. "What do they even see in dragon-blooded women? Claws and scales?"

  "We’ve briefed them. They know the lines to say. They’ll wear the clothing. Appearances are everything."

  "And in the right places," Alice added, a gleam of pleasure in her eye. "The market squares, the public platforms, the busy streets. Let the people wonder if she really eloped. If she really did betray her family."

  "Best estimate for the rumors to hit Vaeryn?"

  "With their current desperation? Two, maybe three days tops."

  "Excellent." She leaned back, her grin growing sharper, more predatory. "I can already hear the vein bursting in his forehead."

  But then her expression darkened. "And what about him?" Her voice dropped, like a dagger unsheathed in a quiet room.

  The werewolf tensed. "The mercenary? He’s a ghost. No past. No affiliations. Nothing before the ambush incident Chase mentioned. It's like he just… manifested."

  Alice’s eyes narrowed, unreadable. "A ghost doesn’t crawl out of nowhere and end up whispering into the ear of my son." She folded her arms. "You asked Chase?"

  "He’s stonewalling us. Says the man saved his life during the Ninth Street ambush and earned his trust."

  "Of course he did." Alice exhaled sharply. "Honor-bound to protect him."

  "We did manage to trace the cleanup team from the other incident. Carter’s crew handled the aftermath."

  Alice froze. "...Carter?" She brought a hand to her temple, massaging as if the name physically pained her. "So first Chase. Then Ziraya. Now Carter." Her gaze flicked up, dangerous. "The same mercenary embedded with all three."

  The werewolf swallowed. "It... does appear to be a pattern."

  Alice's tone sharpened, laced with suspicion. "A mercenary with surgical precision, elite evasion skills, and a knack for getting close to power. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s auditioning for something."

  "And he’s already charmed half the next generation of leadership."

  Alice stood, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she paced to the far window. Her reflection in the darkened glass stared back like a second self—calculating, poised, cold. "He’s not just some stray looking for coin," she murmured. "If he’s the one who broke Ziraya out… then we’re not dealing with a mercenary." Her fingers tapped against the glass. "We’re dealing with a weapon. One powerful enough to tear through Scalebound defenses. That’s archmage territory."

  "He looked young. Chase’s age."

  "People in power pay fortunes to look young." Alice tilted her head. "The only archmages I know of are accounted for. Myself. Vaeryn. Stonecrusher. And the Stonecrusher patriarch is our staunchest ally."

  "Then maybe he’s from outside the board." The werewolf’s voice turned uncertain. "A player we haven’t seen before. The mage Houses are still black boxes, even before Fallwater."

  Alice’s expression hardened. "Then I want that box pried open. I don’t care what it costs. Strip it layer by layer."

  She turned back to the room, eyes glinting with cold ambition. "Find out who he is. Who trained him. Who owns him." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because if he isn’t owned yet—" A slow, dangerous smile crept across her lips. "—then I just might make a bid myself." Alice then tapped a manicured nail against the dark wood of her desk, her blue eyes narrowed at the reports before her. "I've never heard of someone that powerful slumming it as a mercenary," she murmured, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. Her lips curled into a thin, skeptical smile. "But maybe our mystery man was smitten by the Scalebound girl."

  The werewolf standing across from her—short, wiry, and visibly uncomfortable—shifted on his feet. He scratched nervously at his neck, avoiding her eyes. "Mages do seem to like them," he said with a sheepish shrug.

  Alice gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Mages will jump on anything with a pulse. But—” She leaned forward, eyes glinting like coins in the dark. “If we assume this mercenary is truly an archmage in disguise, we’re no longer dealing with some lovesick sword-for-hire. We’re staring down a chessmaster… and we’re playing catch-up.”

  The werewolf’s ears twitched. “Then we’ll adapt. Adjust our strategy. I’ll send more feelers out. It won’t be easy—people who run in those circles are discreet, and the middlemen who know them don’t come cheap.”

  “They never do,” Alice replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But if this mercenary is as dangerous as he seems, and if he's already ingratiating himself with two of my children…” Her voice dropped into a purr. “Then we buy those middlemen. I want names. Rumors. Anything.”

  “Understood. I’ll authorize the spending,” the werewolf nodded, pulling a folder from his jacket. “Now, there’s another issue… The Stonecrusher auction house was hit last night.”

  Alice’s head tilted slightly. “Hit? The Stonecrusher vaults are sealed tighter than a dragon’s hoard.”

  “That’s what makes this troubling,” he said, placing a black binder onto her desk. “The intruder got in. And out. The guards swear they landed a hit—said they struck something real—but it disappeared. Vanished into thin air.”

  Alice flipped the binder open, eyebrows lifting as she scanned the initial forensics. “What’s this? A severed red hand… black talons near the fingertips?” Her brow furrowed. “Fae?”

  “Unlikely. Forensics ran a match through every known database. Came back with nothing. No race, no precedent. It’s like this thing doesn’t exist.”

  “That makes two of them,” Alice muttered. “First a ghost-mercenary with archmage-level skill, now a phantom thief. What did they take?”

  The werewolf turned the page for her. “This.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. The photo showed a massive chain—coal black, each link the size of a man’s torso. It lay coiled like a serpent inside a display vault, dull and lifeless… and unmistakably ancient.

  She leaned in. “That chain’s taller than I am. How the hell did anyone move it without setting off the alarms?”

  “That’s the thing,” the werewolf said, voice tight. “We don’t think they moved it. We think they vanished it.”

  Alice leaned back in her chair, gaze distant. “No magical residue?”

  “None. It’s made of an unknown alloy—completely inert. No mana signature. No known use. Just… old. Heavy. Black.”

  “A perfect artifact to hide something dangerous in plain sight,” Alice murmured. “And now it’s gone. Wonderful.”

  The werewolf hesitated. “What do you want us to do?”

  “The Stonecrushers are still our strongest allies. We help them. Openly. Loudly. Make it clear we’re standing with them.” She stood, crossing to the wide window that overlooked the backyard below. Her reflection looked back at her—sharp eyes, colder thoughts. “And in the meantime… find out where that chain came from. Who bid on it. Who lost.”

  “I’ll get on it right away.” The werewolf bowed slightly. “Any other orders?”

  “Double our security. Discreetly. I want my family under watch, but don’t let them know. And if you hear even a whisper about that chain resurfacing—drop everything.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He turned and left, boots clicking against the stone floor. The door shut behind him with a soft thud.

  Alice remained at the window, fingers steepled under her chin. “An archmage playing the fool,” she murmured. “A girl breaking out of Scalebound. A relic vanishing in the night.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “The game is moving fast. And I don’t like playing second.”

  Her gaze dropped to her desk full of paper, where shadows danced between the pages.