Page 70 of Taken

Something unclenches in my chest. Elena’s alive. Protected by the Cravens. Better them than Malakai or the Syndicate.

“Fall back,” I order. “Regroup at—”

“All units withdraw immediately.” Creed’s voice cuts across the channel, rage vibrating through each syllable. “I repeat, full withdrawal. The operation is compromised.”

The comms explode with overlapping acknowledgments as teams begin their retreat. Above the tower, Syndicate dragons disengage, wheeling away toward extraction points, leaving confusion and revelation in their wake.

“Reeve,” Creed snaps. “Get that command vehicle back to base. Now.”

“Sir, we should attempt to—”

“That’s a direct order. The witch is lost to us. For now.”

“Affirmative,” I respond. Then I start the engine, watching smoke rise from Craven Tower as humanity’s understanding of their world changes forever.

Chapter 19

Lila

My body feels hollowed out, scraped raw. The aftermath of the Shard extraction lingers in the trembling of my hands and the metallic taste coating my tongue. Blood magic always leaves its mark. It never gets easier.

I press my palms against closed eyelids, seeing firework bursts of color behind them. My room is silent. For once, it feels like a sanctuary; the silence blanketing me feels blissful after the battering of the past few days. They’ve left me alone for now. Small mercies.

My daughter is out there. Alive. That knowledge pulses like a second heartbeat beneath my exhaustion.

Elena.

The thought of her should wrack my heart again, but for some reason, it doesn’t. Instead of the searing terror I’ve felt since I learned she was taken, I’m at peace. It’s a completely unfamiliar sensation, and I feel my lips curling up.

I’m smiling. I’m freaking smiling!

I’m still smiling when the images come to me. The vision starts differently this time. Not as pain or invasion but as warmth spreading through my chest. It flows outward along my limbs, gentle yet more powerful than anything I’ve felt since my capture.

I relax into it, surrendering to the current of images that wash over me.

Elena stands in a circular chamber, surrounded by amber light that pulses like a living heartbeat. The Heartstone—not the fragment I’ve touched but the whole, crimson fire imprisoned in crystal—hovers before her. Her hands cradle it, power trickling from her palms onto its facets. Her face shows equal parts fear and wonder as power flows between them, witch and artifact recognizing each other across centuries of separation.

Behind her stands Caleb Craven, scales rippling across his skin, gleaming beneath the moonlight. His stance is protective, dragon instincts recognizing the mate bond forming between them, though he struggles to comprehend it. Rossewyn witch, dragon protector. History repeating itself in ways neither of them understands.

The vision shifts, showing a woman I don’t recognize rising from ash and flame. Not consumed, but transformed. Reborn. Her emergence sends ripples through the magical world, awakening things long dormant.

Then Allard. But not Allard, not the security chief I’ve come to know. The man beneath the mask, his true purpose crystallizing in my mind. He stands among others, people I don’t recognize, in a place I’ve never seen. They speak of infiltration, of extraction, of resistance against the Syndicate.

He’s here to help me. To free me. My instincts about him were right.

The vision expands outward, showing change sweeping around the world. Not specific events, but the sensation of foundations shifting, of old orders crumbling and new ones taking their place. Great transformation coming, inevitable as the tide.

I open my eyes, breathing deeply as reality reasserts itself. This vision didn’t come through extraction equipment or the Shard. It came from within. From some well of power I’d forgotten existed. Raw, unfiltered, and more immediate than anything I’ve experienced since my capture.

My power is returning.

The realization sends a jolt of hope through me, wild and dangerous. I test it cautiously, reaching for that spark inside that the Syndicate has spent years smothering. It responds. Weak but present, an ember where there was once a bonfire.

The change I’ve felt coming… It’s here. It’s touching me.

The door slides open. I sit up and compose my features into the blank mask I’ve perfected, hiding triumph behind exhaustion.

Creed enters, Emerson close behind. His face is thunder, scales visible beneath his skin, control slipping after whatever happened since I last saw him.