I return the blade to its hidden sheath and whisper to the air, to the stars, to the man I still hope listens:
“I won’t rest until I have my child back.”
The hallway lights dim for the night cycle.
Frederick doesn’t know what’s coming.
But he will.
CHAPTER 21
KALLUS
The stars blur past, and Earth looms like a marble soaked in blood.
My starfighter—Fracture—is barely holding together. Welded hull patches hum with stress. Shields flicker like dying embers. Every system is duct-taped with fury and old tech salvaged from Tyrannus’s bones. But I don’t need perfection.
I need vengeance.
I hover just beyond geosync, cloaked in stolen Reaper tech and bitter resolve. The estate glows below, nestled in lush woodland, serene, proud, and so fucking ignorant.
“There,” I growl, tapping the viewport. “There’s the gilded prison.”
Scans ripple across the screen, bouncing off defensive shielding, pinging pulse turrets along the walls, drone nests disguised as ivy towers. Fancy for humans. Laughable to me.
“They dared cage my mate.”
My voice cracks through the silence like thunder. My lips pull back over my fangs, heat building in my core. The ship hums in tune with my rage.
I dive.
Cloaked, silent, a phantom tearing through the upper stratosphere. The moment I breach the cloudline, the world ignites.
Alarms. Beacons. Laser scopes searching skyward.
Too late.
I drop like death incarnate. A massive gun turret mounted on the western edge of the estate locks on—too slow. I cut thrusters, spin midair, and slam full-force into the turret with the belly of theFracture. The impact crunches like bones beneath my boots. The turret explodes in a blossom of fire and twisted alloy.
The cloak fails.
Good.
Let them see me coming.
The ship tears across the lawn, slicing through sensor towers like scythes through wheat. Plasma bolts rip the air around me—red, blue, too slow. I roll through a maneuver so tight I nearly black out, then right the ship and howl.
A Reaper war cry.
High, guttural, ancient. A sound no human has ever heard and stayed sane.
Below me, panic erupts.
Guards scramble, tripping over one another. A few brave idiots raise pulse rifles. A few smarter ones turn and run.
I skim low, dragging the ship’s underbelly across a decorative fountain that explodes like a geyser. Then I bank and eject.
The ship screams away toward the hills—programmed for a fake crash.
