“So, when you saved Emma from the collapsing bunker, she didn’t portal out because she didn’t want to risk being tracked by a LiaPrism?” Sean pressed, his focus sharpening as he pushed for clarification.
I grunted in response.
“Yes. Now, can we please change the subject? I’m already on edge, and I need to switch into my undeniably charming mode to persuade Petru about our mission.”
Sean let out a snort of disbelief. “Charming mode, huh? You might need more than a subject change to pull it off.”
I gave his arm a slight punch.
“Ouch! See what I mean?” he protested, rubbing the spot where I’d hit him.
I rolled my eyes at my brother in arms.
As we neared Petru’s siege, the scale of the military buildup became impossible to ignore. Slava was armed to the teeth. More so than usual, which meant one thing—theyhadreceived a threat.
If the Radicals had made a move, this was Petru’s answer. And yet, it didn’t sit right. I had expected him to retaliate already, to strike first, to send a message carved in blood. But from the looks of it, he hadn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
The sheer number of soldiers stationed around Slava’s stronghold was staggering, a force so dense it felt suffocating just looking at it. Lines of magi patrolled the grounds with mechanical precision, each movement disciplined, their attention razor-sharp.
Unlike other Collectives, every single magus tied to Slava lived within these walls. No outposts, no secondary locations—one singular keep, reinforced by magic so intricate it made the entire structure a fortress in every sense of the word.
The hierarchy here was rigid, unmistakable. Status wasn’t given; it was earned. Every magus had quarters that reflected their military rank, a visual display of where they stood in the grand scheme of things. The higher the position, the more luxurious the accommodations. There was no pretense of equality.
Petru didn’t believe in it.
He believed in strength, in power, in proving yourself. His people weren’t coddled. They fought, they climbed, they bled to earn their place. And if they failed? There were no second chances.
I didn’t fully agree with his philosophy, but I respected it.
As we neared the entrance, two guards stepped from the shadows, their expressions carved from stone. Their eyes locked onto us, piercing and assessing, unwavering in their scrutiny.
Slava didn’t welcome visitors. It tolerated them.
"Hold it," one of them barked, stepping forward with a commanding presence. "We need to double-check your clearance."
I didn’t even hesitate. With a simple turn of my hand, I snapped his neck, my black haze retreating instantly as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
The other guard’s face drained of color; his stare frozen in terror. And then—heran. The guard fuckingran.
“You’d think a guard would be better prepared to handle a little death,” I muttered, still feeling annoyed with that lying maga I’d left behind at Crown.
“Was this really necessary?” Sean hissed, stepping closer nearing the body. “I thought we were here to ask Petru to stand with us, not to antagonize him.”
I snorted, barely suppressing a grin. “You really think Petru would respect me if I didn’t kill at least one of his men? Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
With a wave of my hand, I translated a bench into existence, motioning for Sean to sit beside me. He ignored it, his brows knit tightly as he paced back and forth in front of me, clearly agitated.
There was a speech coming. I could feel it in my bones.
“Ye know, Caden, just because yecankill people doesn’t mean yehaveto kill?—"
A heavily armed figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard, cutting off what would’ve no doubt been a captivating lecture.
Petru Stoyan.
Tall and imposing, Petru commanded the space without saying a word. His harsh, angular features were framed by gray, neatly combed hair, and his piercing blue orbs radiated authority, like he had seen and survived far more than most. Dressed in a tailored suit accentuating his powerful build, he exuded effortless command and charisma.
