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Nyra looks down. "Possibly." There it is again. Possible. Always possible. Historical: Varethia quiet eleven days. Elarion; Three days. Tiravell. Current:

Varethia quiet longer. Elarion. Then Tiravell faster than expected. Not identical. Not safe.

At nineteen twenty-three, Tiravell's relay activates again. The entire dining hall doesn't hear it. We do.

Response personnel are called downstairs. I know before anyone says. Something happened.

Council chamber. Again. Maps. Again. Silence. Again.

The Tiravell commander sounds different this time.

Less controlled. "My patrol is missing one." No.

Dax steps forward immediately. "Name."

The commander gives it. Fenris Kel. Second-year military scout. Wolf. Twenty-four. Entered the silent district with four others. All five tethered physically by rope. Good. Smart. Didn't matter.

"What happened?" Rhyven asks.

The commander's breathing changes. "They felt the rope pull."

"Direction?"

"Forward."

"Then?"

"Weight disappeared." My stomach turns. "They reeled it back." The commander continues. "Empty harness." Silence. No blood. No body. No scent. No Fenris. Gone. Dax's hands close. One second. Then open. Chief.

"Time?" Nyra asks quietly.

"Twenty minutes ago." She writes. Tiravell. Confirmed. The route is real enough now that nobody argues. Not prophecy. Not schedule. But movement.

Varethia. Elarion. Tiravell. The room stares at Lyssara next. No one says it. We all think it.

My father gives the order. "Full warning to Lyssara."

"Evacuate exposed coastal positions?" A representative asks.

"Recommend it."

"Recommend?"

"Lyssara governs Lyssara." Politics. Even now. Of course.

Another relay begins almost immediately. Elarion.

Not Tiravell. Their representative appears through crystal distortion. "We request senior command support again." No one answers immediately.

"We have implemented your protocols." The voice continues. "Disappearances continue."

"Current count?" Professor Neris asks.

"Seventeen." Seventeen. My stomach drops. "We require experienced leadership." The representative says. "Chief Wings Officers. Senior Riders. Third-year combat specialists." There. Again. More direct this time.

Everyone looks toward the Council. Not the Chiefs.

This isn't their decision. Yet.