Hours blend together in detention. The only markers are meals delivered and the change in shift of guards. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. The suppression field has become an ever-present pressure that makes breathing difficult. My dragon has retreated deep inside, where the cuffs can barely reach him. He’s still there, coiled and waiting, but dormant under the weight of suppression magic.
The evidence against me is insubstantial. Gauges in the walls. Scorched tiles. Scales that could have come from any dragon in Aurora. No witnesses. No direct proof that I was in that corridor.
But circumstantial evidence has condemned people before.
I replay the facts obsessively. Samien Khalef found dead between 0200 and 0400 hours. I was in my quarters. Alone. No alibi. No way to prove I didn’t leave, didn’t kill him, didn’t commit the exact crime the physical evidence suggests.
Aurora should investigate properly. Should examine alternative explanations. Should consider that dragon evidence could be planted by someone with access and motive.
They won’t dig that deep.
Because I’m Syndicate. Because they barely know me. Because enough people here resent my presence that execution becomes the easier path than a thorough investigation that might exonerate me.
Maybe execution would be justice for my past, even if not for this specific crime.
Not for Samien’s death—I didn’t kill him. But for crimes in Syndicate service. For orders given that destroyed lives. For the decisions that prioritized mission success over the people who suffered because of it.
For Chance.
Nadia’s mate. The wolf I ordered killed because it suited the Syndicate.
I didn’t pull the trigger. Didn’t watch him die. Just gave the order and moved on to the next problem without looking back.
That’s how it worked. Clean decisions. No hesitation. No guilt allowed to interfere with duty.
Until her.
Until she made me see the real cost of orders I gave without thought. Until one night made me understand what mate bonds mean and what I destroyed in her. Until she walked away, and I realized some damage can never be repaired.
If Aurora executes me, perhaps that balances the scales slightly. At least I gave them the intelligence on Vex’s facility. Twenty-three prisoners still trapped there, who might survive if Aurora uses what I provided. That’s one small act of redemption against centuries of violence.
Not enough. But something.
The door opens.
Two guards enter. Armed. Professional. Not Viktor. Not Council members coming to deliver a verdict.
Just guards with neutral expressions and weapons at the ready.
“On your feet,” the lead guard says. There’s an edge to his voice that makes my teeth grind.
I stand. The cuffs make the movement awkward. My balance is off without dragon senses to compensate for the weight.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he releases me from the wall.
No answer. Just the guard gesturing toward the door with his weapon.
They flank me. One ahead, one behind. Standard prisoner transport protocol for dangerous detainees. We move into the corridor. Detention level three is mostly empty. A few occupied cells, but no one I recognize. No one watching our progression with interest or sympathy.
The guard ahead leads us toward the stairs. Not up toward meeting rooms or Council chambers. Down.
Lower levels. I don’t know what’s down there. More secure holding? Execution chambers? Interrogation rooms?
I prepare myself mentally. If this is execution, I’ll face it with whatever dignity I can maintain under suppression. If it’s a trial, I’ll defend myself as best I can. If it’s something else, I’ll adapt.
We reach the stairs and start descending. The guards remain silent. Professional. Giving me nothing to work with.
I could fight. My dragon is suppressed but not entirely gone. I could shift partially, break the cuffs through sheer force, overpower two guards, and run.
