I settle in to wait, monitoring patrol patterns. Two guards at the main entrance, rotating every thirty minutes. A surveillance drone sweeps the eastern perimeter at regular intervals. The loading bay has a single guard, smoking a cigarette, looking utterly bored.
As minutes drag by, I notice a shift change. The bored guard at the loading bay stamps out his cigarette and heads inside. For three minutes, the post stands empty.
My opening.
I dart from the treeline, heart pounding against my ribs as I breach the outskirts, convinced I’m going to run into a patrol at any moment. The masking spell distorts the air around me; not invisibility, but enough to blur my form against the landscape. Twenty yards of exposed ground feels like twenty miles.
After navigating silently through the deserted compound, I reach a side entrance: maintenance access, steel door with an electronic lock. I press my palm against the scanner, holding my breath.
Nothing happens.
I try again, focusing what little magic I’ve regained, thinking of the blood that connects me to the dragons who built this place.
For three agonizing seconds, nothing.
Then the lock clicks. Green light, access granted.
Yes!
My Rossewyn blood recognized? Or something else helping me? Luke said something helped him escape; maybe it’s helping me too. I don’t have time to question it. I slip inside just as voices approach from down the corridor.
The facility’s interior is colder than the mountain air; sterile and impersonal. Industrial lighting casts harsh shadows along empty corridors with concrete floors and exposed rock walls. I move silently, placing each foot with deliberate care, listening for any sign of the guards.
I pass a row of holding cells, including the one they kept me in. The memory of being trapped here sends ice through my veins. The cold examination table, the clinical detachment of the interrogators, the feeling of my power being suppressed. I shudder and force myself to keep moving.
You could find your power when you were here. Remember that.
I exhale the words of the masking spell beneath my breath, strengthening it.
Following the sound of distant voices, I navigate deeper into the complex, using service corridors when possible. Twice, I have to duck into alcoves as personnel pass by—scientists in lab coats, security in fatigues. Each time, my heart threatens to beat straight out of my chest.
The voices lead me toward what must be a command center. I don’t dare peek around the corner, but I press myself against the wall just outside, straining to hear fragments of conversation.
“—artifact positioned at the primary seal—” says a deep voice with military crispness.
A woman responds, “The energy readouts are unprecedented. If we can successfully channel it during the resonance window—”
“How confident are we in the seventy-two-hour timeline?” A third voice, older and carrying more authority.
“The celestial alignment is exact, sir. 0300 hours, three days from now.”
“And the hybrid protocols? The Ivory League is expecting full implementation.”
“Purge authorized across all territories. Teams are on standby.”
“Excellent. They’ve been waiting for this opportunity. With the Sleeping King’s power, we’ll finally cleanse the bloodlines. No more half-breeds. No more abominations.”
Cold sweat breaks out along my spine. They’re talking about genocide. About wiping out people like me.
I shift position, needing to see inside the room. Through a narrow gap in the doorframe, I glimpse a wall-mounted display: a detailed map with the tomb entrance marked by a pulsing red triangle. Around it, concentric circles indicate power readings or signal strength. And spread across the continent are smaller markers, hundreds of them, labeled with alphanumeric codes.
Target sites.
“Sir, we have another anomaly in the power grid,” a technician announces. “Third one today.”
“More interference from the tomb?”
“No, sir. Different signature. Almost like… Well, like something is deliberately disrupting our systems.”
