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I thrash against the bonds. “I won’t help you.”

He gives a shrug. “Eventually, everyone does.”

The other man approaches, producing metal cuffs that glow strangely. The moment they snap around my wrists, my magic dampens to embers.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Panic spikes through me. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I miscalculated—badly.

“You should have kept running,” the second man says, gripping my arm.

My thoughts race to Elena. Alone in the apartment. No one coming for her. Mrs. Patel might not notice for days.

What have I done?

“Wait!” I manage, desperate. “I need to—”

“You need to come with us, that’s what you need to do,” the woman cuts in.

“Please,” I try again. “There’s something—”

The taller man covers my mouth with a cloth that reeks of magic. My consciousness immediately begins to blur.

“Prepare for transport,” the woman instructs as my legs buckle.

Through fading vision, I watch rain begin to fall—fat droplets hitting the pavement with quiet percussion.

I think of Elena waking to find me gone. The note on the refrigerator, insufficient and cryptic. The frozen dinner that might last a day. The locket that will keep her hidden but won’t feed her or comfort her.

My child, alone for who knows how long before anyone notices.

I attempt one last spell—a distress signal to Mrs. Patel’s dreams—but the cuffs absorb the effort.

The car door closes with a soft thud. Darkness engulfs me.

Please,I think, as consciousness slips away.Please let someone find her.

The vision of Elena burning fades, replaced by a new horror—Elena abandoned, frightened, wondering why her mother never came home.

Generations of Rossewyn blood means I know the price of our gift.

Today, Elena pays it too.

Chapter 2

Lila…Presentday

Blood and prophecy. Twenty years, and it always comes down to blood and prophecy.

I stare at the ceiling of my prison. Recessed lighting designed to look warm but feel cold. Like everything the Syndicate touches. Beauty masking cruelty.

One thousand, thirty-nine origami dragons line my bookshelf. One for each week of my captivity. The paper is thin and cheap—scraps from medical reports and equipment manuals Hargen smuggles to me—but the dragons are perfect. Precise. When you have nothing but time, you learn precision.

The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Hargen enters, medical case in hand. His face is a careful blank, but I catch the tightness around his dark eyes. Bad news, then.

“Morning session today?” I ask, though I already know the answer. They never come for me this early unless something’s changed.

“Creed wants fresh readings,” Hargen says, setting the case on my small dining table, unlatching it with familiar movements. “Something about fluctuations in the energy signatures they’re tracking.”

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