“I know it’s far-fetched,” John muttered, voice low and strained. “But it could work. They wouldn’t dare attack you in a place like this.”

  Ziraya’s eyes flicked to the heavy wooden door. The echo of bootsteps—dull and rhythmic—was already fading down the corridor. She bit her lip, tension crackling beneath her calm exterior like static before a storm.

  “The Court wouldn’t take it lightly,” she said, nodding slowly. “But if the Vigil still has any shame left, they won’t escalate here.”

  John hesitated, then took a step closer. “I’m not forcing you,” he said, raising both hands. His jaw clenched. “Hell, if I had a better idea, I’d take it. But this—this puts you too close to them. If anything goes wrong…” His voice trailed off, thick with guilt he wasn’t trying to hide.

  Ziraya didn’t answer. Instead, her tail slithered behind him with deliberate slowness, curling around his waist. She leaned in, and he stiffened as the heat of her body closed the space between them. Under her mask, her lips twisted into a grin—sharp, smug, hungry.

  She could feel it.

  His heartbeat. Wild. Uneven. All for her.

  His concern tasted sweeter than any praise.

  She exhaled through her nose, a low, satisfied hum rising in her throat before she forced herself to pull away. Her tail uncoiled with a soft swish, and she looked off to the side, trying to mask the tremble in her breath.

  “I’ll do it,” she said at last.

  “You’re sure?” John asked quickly. “Maybe we can—”

  Before the thought could finish forming, she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward. Their masks lifted just enough to meet—lips brushing in a fierce, fleeting kiss that made his brain short-circuit.

  “I—” he started, blinking, but the words melted off his tongue.

  She was already moving, already slipping out of the storage room with purpose in her step—and the faintest flush rising just beneath her mask.

  John stood frozen for a beat, dazed and breathless. Then he smiled, just a little, like a man who’d been handed a live grenade and found it oddly charming.

  But the warmth didn’t last.

  His hand dropped to the concealed pistol at his hip. Cold metal met his fingers, and reality slammed back into him.

  Whatever comfort that kiss had brought—it was just a thin veil draped over a very real, very deadly game.

  He crouched beside the door, every muscle tight, every nerve on edge, listening.

  Ziraya’s heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she veered into the corridor, her breath shallow beneath the curve of her mask. She let her shoulders slump ever so slightly, weaving a half-stumble into her gait, like a noblewoman whose wine had outlasted her caution. Her tail dragged lazily behind her, swaying with just enough carelessness to sell the performance. Around the corner, she spotted them—three members of the Ash Vigil, clustered in tight formation like a wounded animal baring its teeth. One of them slumped, unconscious, across the older man’s back, blood still seeping from the ragged socket where an eye had once been.

  Ziraya’s heart twisted—not at the sight of gore, but at the tension in the air, coiled and ready to snap.

  She let out a sharp, exaggerated gasp. Two heads snapped toward her at once. Hands flew to weapons. The woman in front stepped forward, steel glinting under her thumb as she lifted her blade an inch from its sheath. Their eyes burned with anger, and Ziraya felt it—a razor-thin moment where the world decided whether she lived or died.

  Don’t move. Don’t reach. Don’t blink like a fighter. Instead, she drew in a breath and tilted her head in mock horror. “Oh my, is he bleeding?” she cried, her voice pitched high and brittle, like it might splinter into tears at any second. “What happened to him?”

  The elder dragon-blooded narrowed his eyes. His hand didn’t leave the hilt of his weapon.

  “That’s none of your concern, lady,” he growled. “Go back to the party. Forget you saw us.”

  Ziraya blinked, swaying a little as if the sight had unsteadied her more than the drink. “But he’s hurt!” she insisted, voice rising an octave. “He needs help!” She moved toward them—carefully, deliberately, arms raised in a theatrical show of innocence.

  The younger woman stepped into her path with a hiss, tail slapping the stone floor behind her. “Walk. Away,” she snarled, hands trembling with fury.

  Ziraya faltered. Her mask tilted down, as if she were gathering courage—or hiding the razor-sharp focus in her eyes. “But we’re dragon-blooded,” she said, her voice soft now, almost plaintive. “We’re not supposed to abandon each other. Not here. Not in their palace.”

  The woman’s blade was on the verge of being drawn. But her eyes darted to the man she carried—at the blood soaking through his robes, pooling against her arm.

  “You means well,” Ziraya offered gently. “I can help. I’m not a medic, but I’ve done my share of patching up fights.” She let out a brittle laugh. “Big family. Stupid brothers.”

  The older man studied her in silence, nostrils flaring slightly. Her tail flicked, betraying just a hint of tension.

  “Fine,” he said finally, his voice edged with iron. “But be quick.”

  “Of course.” Ziraya’s smile flickered briefly before she knelt beside the wounded man. Her fingers trembled as she tore a strip from the hem of her gown, letting her mana seep subtly into the air—just enough to hint at capability, just enough to make them wonder who she really was.

  The elder’s eyes sharpened as the energy brushed his senses. Something old stirred in her signature—something familiar.

  “The blood runs strong in you,” he murmured.

  Ziraya pretended not to hear. “This’ll stop the worst of the bleeding,” she said, tightening the cloth gently around the ruined eye. “But he needs proper care. He won’t last long like this.”

  The woman hovered beside her, glancing between the dressing and her leader. “She’s right,” she muttered reluctantly.

  Ziraya straightened slowly, brushing her hands on her dress. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just… I heard rumors tonight. Whispers, really—about a hidden city of dragon-blooded somewhere near here.” Her voice lowered, conspiratorial. “I didn’t believe it, of course. I mean, what kind of idiot would believe that a city like that could exist here, of all places?”

  The younger woman’s mouth twitched. “A city?” she snorted. “Is that what they’re calling it? A few dozen of us? That’s—” She stopped herself mid-sentence as the older man shot her a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “—a wild tale,” she finished. “We’re just travelers. Misfits.”

  “Right. Silly of me.” Ziraya glanced away, weaving just enough embarrassment into her posture. “My grandfather used to tell stories about a relic. A crown that held a drop of true draconic blood. I don’t even know why I’m saying this. Too much wine, I guess.” She laughed nervously. “He always made up nonsense like that.”

  The older dragon-blooded stiffened. Just a twitch. Just enough.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice now low and searching.

  “Azeyra Lumein,” she said smoothly. “Here on behalf of my house, trying to negotiate trade routes.” She flashed a nervous smile. “Clearly in over my head.”

  The name made him pause, roll it around in his mind, as if looking for old associations. “Well, Miss Lumein,” he said after a long beat, “thank you for your… concern. But we must go.”

  Ziraya gave an apologetic nod. “Of course. I’m sorry. Just—if you ever do find that city, let them know there are still dragon-blooded who believe in each other.”

  Neither of them replied. But she caught the way their steps quickened, just slightly, as they turned and disappeared into the corridors, taking their wounded with them.

  As soon as their footsteps faded, Ziraya’s shoulders straightened. Her drunken sway vanished. Her breathing slowed.

  She was back in control.

  She turned on her heel and vanished down a side hall, her steps silent this time. Every movement was deliberate. Measured. Her heart thundered as she slipped back into the shadows, headed for the storage room where John was waiting, tension coiled in every muscle.

  She didn’t let herself smile.

  Not yet.

  “So how did it go?” John asked, voice low, his mask only slightly tilted as she approached. “I couldn’t hear much from over there.”

  Ziraya didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed his collar and shoved him against the cold stone wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him. Her lips crashed into his with a heat that lingered even after she pulled away—eyes glinting like molten amber as she licked her bottom lip.

  Then, she stepped back and crossed her arms, smug and sharp. “Your plan worked,” she said, voice rough with adrenaline. “Impressively so. They fell for the ‘concerned drunk lady’ act like moths to flame.”

  John blinked, heart hammering in his ribs like it was trying to escape. He gave a shaky chuckle and steadied himself, tugging his jacket straight. “Glad to hear it. I know it was risky but—did you get anything useful out of them?”

  She nodded. “The Ash Vigil is smaller than I expected. Only a few dozen. Less than I feared, but still... more than ideal.”

  “That’s still a lot.” John’s brow furrowed beneath the curve of his mask.

  Ziraya looked away for a heartbeat, then frowned deeply. “There was something else back in the storeroom… about the wards.” Her voice dropped, thoughtful now. “They mentioned a Ritual of Renewal earlier. I didn’t think anything of it at the time—we were too focused on eavesdropping. But now... I think it matters.”

  “How so?” John asked, leaning in.

  “They said they needed to expose the Crown to ambient mana,” she said, sharp and quick now. “But powerful wards distort ambient flows. So—”

  “Wait, explain like I’m an idiot.”

  Ziraya gave him a snort and a look. “What do you think I’m doing?” She continued. “If the ambient mana is disrupted by heavy shielding wards, the ritual probably wouldn’t work. So they must’ve taken them down—or weakened them.”

  John’s posture shifted, tense and thoughtful. “So we could just walk in?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Alarm wards are different. They don’t cost much mana and don’t interfere with flow. Those will still be up. But the heavy-duty protection spells? Likely gone or at least thinned out.”

  John let out a low breath. His mask couldn’t hide the weight settling into his expression. “So we’ve got an opening.”

  “And limited time.” Ziraya’s gaze sharpened. “We should hit them before they bring the defenses back up. The ones from the meeting—especially the leader—they’re not weak.”

  “But we can’t do this now.” John glanced sideways. “Our gear’s still back at the Bazaar.”

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  There was a pause. A long one.

  Then Ziraya grimaced, clearly thinking the same unthinkable thought he was. “That… thing,” she said slowly. “Could it do a round trip?”

  John’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer at first, but his gaze flicked inward. He could already feel the weight of what he was about to do as the digits scrolled into focus.

  “It could,” he said, hesitant. The words tasted bitter. Two hundred points, gone in a flash. He looked up. “Are you sure there’s nothing else we can get from this place?”

  Ziraya’s face tightened. “I don’t think so. We have their numbers. We know the ritual weakens their defenses. Any longer and we risk missing our chance.”

  John’s jaw flexed. “Doesn’t mean there won’t be resistance. Even with their wards down, a few dozen’s still a lot. Are we ready for that?”

  For a moment, her confidence faltered. She stared at him, lips parting slightly. “I—” Her voice cracked just a little. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?”

  “I guess we don’t.” John sighed. “Or do we?” he muttered under his breath.

  But the question had no answer.

  Ziraya turned and cracked open the door to the storage room. Her sixth sense spread outward like a fog, brushing over the corridor. “No one nearby,” she murmured.

  John nodded, and together they slipped out into the hall.

  As soon as they returned to the main chamber of the Dance, they were swallowed by the noise. Fae music drifted through the air like smoke—discordant, hypnotic. Lights shimmered in unnatural colors, throwing long shadows that danced with the rhythm. John’s breath caught as they pushed into the crowd. Feathered gowns shimmered with impossible hues, and strange masks clicked softly with every movement. Laughter bubbled all around them—drunken, euphoric, barely tethered to sanity. A woman with glittering eyes whispered into the ear of a fae wrapped in golden robes, while a group of fishmen laughed loudly.

  “Exit’s over there.” John nodded toward a far corridor. They waded through the sea of revelers, weaving between a flailing mage and a stumbling pair of fae locked in some kind of slow-motion argument.

  “Wait.” Ziraya held up a hand, eyes narrowing.

  A flare of mana crackled ahead—wild, jittering. A servant stepped out of a nearby room, rubbing his nose, expression dazed. Ziraya clicked her tongue, motioned sharply, and John fell in behind her, hand hovering near his concealed handgun. As they passed a previously unseen curtain-draped alcove, both of them flushed bright red and averted their eyes at the sights within. Whatever was happening behind that velvet did not belong in polite company—or perhaps exactly did, by fae standards.

  “Why aren’t there any guards?” John whispered. “Wouldn’t the Court want eyes everywhere?”

  Ziraya gave a sly smile. “They do. Just not the way you think. Important guests are shadowed everywhere they go. Their every word is recorded and sent to the Court. Us? We’re beneath notice. That’s our advantage.”

  They reached the exit door at last. It stood slightly ajar, almost a deliberate invitation. John’s shoulders tensed as the wind hit him, the edge of the floating island drawing his gaze downward to the vertigo-inducing sprawl of the city below.

  Ziraya stepped closer. “Don’t,” she said, gently.

  “I’m fine.” John gave a faint smile, though his eyes lingered on the drop. Something in the wind felt like it was whispering to him, calling him to leap and trust. He clenched his fists and turned away—

  —and there it was.

  The Ship.

  Its existence wasn’t an event—it was a negation of local probability, a violation of the natural order. And no one noticed. Not a single servant or guest could see its beige form.

  John reached out with his Authority.

  Ziraya gasped.

  The connection tethered her soul like a hook. A tendril of impossible thought brushed her consciousness—and the Ship noticed her.

  Its awareness was suffocating.

  She staggered as pressure slammed into her chest. Not physical pressure—something deeper. Ancient. Unknowable. It pried at her mind, testing for fractures. Emotions not her own surged into her: cold curiosity, faint disdain, and something like reluctant amusement. As though a god were humoring a beetle.

  Her knees nearly buckled. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe.

  Then—suddenly—it was gone. The gaze lifted.

  Ziraya leaned against the wall, trembling, heart thundering. She growled. “That thing—whatever it is—it doesn’t like me.”

  John didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.

  The moment he spoke, that insidious wave of synthetic joy slammed into him again. It hit like warm honey flooding his veins—too sweet, too heavy—dulling his reflexes just enough to make his hand hesitate. He clenched his jaw and shook it off.

  Beside him, Ziraya stood frozen at the threshold, her pupils shrinking. The Ship’s interior seemed to breathe around them, low and pulsing, as if alive and watching. Its walls shimmered faintly, a dark opalescence rippling across surfaces like oil in moonlight. Ziraya’s throat bobbed as she gulped down the rising nausea. The emotions she’d been trying to suppress surged with renewed force—anxious dread, twisted euphoria, and that ever-present whisper curling around her thoughts like tendrils. Her tail stiffened as her limbs locked up.

  She launched herself onto John’s lap like a breaking dam, her arms circling his neck. It wasn’t affection—it was anchor. John didn’t speak. He keyed in the landing sequence, forcing himself to ignore the rising hum of the Ship’s awareness curling closer.

  A soft ding echoed around them like a bell rung underwater.

  The number throbbed in the corner of his eyes.

  Ziraya practically sprang from his lap, eyes locked on the exit. With every step she took, the corridor seemed to stretch, elongating like a cruel trick of the eye. The door yawned at the far end like a receding dream, never quite closer. Her breath caught. She nearly snarled.

  Then—the doors finally parted.

  A blast of air hit her like a balm. She stumbled out into the buzzing heat of the Hot Spot, her boots crunching against familiar asphalt. She ripped her mask off and inhaled—air that tasted of oil, heat, and life. Earth. Real, imperfect, solid Earth. Ziraya’s shoulders sagged. Her spine uncoiled. Her senses, no longer dragged through velvet static, returned to sharp clarity. When John cut the Bond, the tether between them dissolved like a frayed rope—along with the Ship’s eerie hum that had lingered in her chest like a second heartbeat. Her lips curled into a slow, almost feral grin. Without warning, her tail coiled possessively around John’s waist and squeezed. Hard.

  “Easy!” John wheezed, trying not to double over.

  Ziraya just smirked and leaned into him for a moment—subtle, but there. Reanchored.

  “Back here again,” John said, glancing toward the weathered restaurant facade ahead. He took in the shimmer of Glamour around the passing crowds like heat distortion—something that used to catch his eye. Now, it barely registered. “Ready?”

  Ziraya nodded once and took the lead without hesitation, dragging him along by the waist. The tunnels buzzed with life, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with supernaturals of every shape and scent. She didn’t let go. Not even when a pair of werewolves almost bowled past them, nor when some cloaked fishman hissed something.

  They pushed through the crowds toward the portal.

  “Is there something going on?” John asked, glancing around as they stepped through the thin veil of reality.

  The Bazaar was crowded. Not normal crowded—oppressively full. Every inch of space seemed claimed by some alien merchant, glittering stall, or creature jostling for room. John tensed as a group of fishmen passed by. Their gills pulsed with wet clicks, and the sound snapped open something in his mind—an echo of cold water and darkness, of blood rising in saltwater silence.

  His hand twitched toward a weapon that wasn’t there.

  His mouth was dry.

  Ziraya noticed the stiffness in his gait but said nothing. Instead, she walked closer, tightening her tail as they turned down a quieter alley. Minutes later, the old door of the Wolfheart safehouse groaned open like a sigh of relief.

  “Home sweet home,” John muttered. The words felt hollow, but the moment he stepped inside and tossed his mask onto the table, a little tension eased in his chest. “I’ll get changed,” he said quickly, giving Ziraya a brief nod.

  She lingered for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, but let him go. Her tail withdrew, coiling around her own leg.

  John entered the back room and paused.

  There they were.

  His armor. His weapons. His old clothes had been left behind in a tangle, but someone—Ziraya—had folded them with deliberate care. Beside them leaned his guns.

  He unbuckled his belt and removed his shirt, hands working on muscle memory as he got rid of the Capsule, the stiletto and the Glock. The armor went on piece by piece, then the Spell Glove, the bandolier, and then—finally—the holsters. He slid each gun into its place like returning them home. He tested the draw, made micro-adjustments.

  Only when he flexed his gloved hand did he breathe out fully.

  The weight comforted him. He wasn’t exposed anymore. He was ready. He was himself again.

  A part of him whispered that he might not survive another death—not like the last. And even if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d come back whole.

  He tucked that thought away.

  “Much better,” he whispered, flicking a cigarette between his lips and stepping back into the main room.

  Ziraya’s eyes immediately locked onto the cigarette.

  John froze. “I’m not lighting it in here, chill.”

  She squinted, stepped forward—and with a casual flick of her hand, the cigarette vanished into nothingness before she entered the back room.

  He sighed. “It doesn’t even smell that—”

  “Shut up,” came her voice from behind the door. Then the sound of armor shifting. Belts being cinched.

  A few moments later, she emerged. Her black combat outfit clung like a second skin, reinforced with flexible plating. The brown cloak hung over her shoulder with regal confidence, and her sword gleamed at her hip. Her amber eyes locked onto his—challenging, unreadable.

  John blinked.

  She blurred forward and before he could react, her tail snapped around his waist and pulled him close. Her mouth crashed into his, her forked tongue aggressive, unrelenting. It was less a kiss and more a claim.

  He gasped for breath when she finally pulled back, cheeks burning.

  “You—” he started.

  Ziraya blinked once, then looked away as color flushed up her neck. “Let’s go.” She muttered.

  John blinked, still dazed. “Right. Ready.”

  They stepped back into the streets of the Bazaar, the chaos pressing in once again.

  “So many people,” John muttered. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Probably a promotion in some big store,” Ziraya replied, nonchalant now. “Happens sometimes.”

  They pushed through, found the portal again, and stepped back onto Earth’s surface. John’s expression hardened the second he saw the Ship in the distance—standing here like some ancient leviathan sleeping with one eye open.

  Ziraya closed her eyes and inhaled. When she exhaled, her tail curled tightly around John once more.

  He didn’t flinch this time.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered. Her fists clenched. She took a step forward—and the Authority of Bonding flared inside her like a silent fire, sinking into her bones. It was small. But undeniable.

  Together, they walked back toward the waiting beige box. The Ship waited in silence, squatting at the edge of the veil like a blight on reality. As the doors opened with a hiss of unnatural pressure equalizing, the air around it seemed to ripple—not from heat, but something far older, far wronger. A colorless distortion hung around the threshold like a mirage, and from within the beige hull, a presence stirred.

  Ziraya’s breath hitched. Her gaze locked on the opening. The presence inside was watching. Not with eyes, but with a weight—an ancient intelligence that tilted the world around it. Her knees nearly buckled as the thing turned its awareness toward John. The Bond between them flared, and something cold and formless slithered across it, uninvited. Even that faint spill of alien power was enough to make her gasp and bare her teeth in reflex, her fingers scraping the wall beside her for balance as she stepped through.

  John walked ahead without pause, seemingly oblivious. A false warmth bloomed in his chest—artificial happiness, thick and molasses-slow. He barely noticed it as he dropped into the pilot’s chair, fingers already dancing across the console. “If I remember what was in the file,” he muttered, eyes scanning the flickering screen, “then the Ash Vigil should be—huh.”

  A smear of static bloomed across the center of the map. It wasn’t random—it was surgical.

  “Smart,” Ziraya muttered behind him, still catching her breath. “Low-level wards around the base. They’re masking their location and scrambling arcane scans at the same time. Dangerous, especially for unauthorized Catapults.”

  “We’ll have to land right at the edge of the interference zone,” John said. “Could be twenty miles away—or right on top of them.” He jerked his chin toward the motorcycle near the exit. “How subtle do we need to be?”

  “If they’re serious,” Ziraya said, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, “the wards are probably rigged to sound the alarm the moment anything crosses them.”

  “So subtlety’s pointless.” John’s grin was brief and grim. “Fine. That ridge up ahead looks flat enough—we’ll land there.” His fingers danced again. A soft chime rang out.

  “Still under halfway,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Two mistakes left. Then everything breaks.”

  Ziraya stood, but John reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Wait.”

  She turned, brow furrowed—until she saw what he was doing. Her eyes narrowed. But he was already straddling the bike. With a flick of his wrist, the V-Twin engine rumbled to life, unleashing a growl so deep it shook the floor. Dust trembled in the air. Ziraya blinked against the sudden thunder that rolled through the Ship’s hollow belly.

  “Come on!” he shouted, patting the seat behind him with manic energy.

  “You’re serious?” she yelled, but climbed on anyway, gripping his waist tightly as her tail looped instinctively around him. “What’s the plan, exactly?!”

  “That is the plan!” he roared back, his wild grin gleaming before he twisted the throttle. The rear wheel shrieked, spitting smoke—and then they were moving, tearing toward the opening doors.

  Ziraya shrieked as wind punched her in the face. For a moment, the world was a blur of motion and cold light. Then the doors yawned open, and they launched into Faerie’s sky. The Bond between them snapped like a pulled string, and her senses reeled. But there was no time to think—John was already weaving between jutting rocks, the bike growling with every shift of terrain. They shot across a highland valley painted in dark blue grasses that bowed in waves as they passed. The wind was hot, dissonant against the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Nothing made sense, and John didn’t seem to care.

  Eventually, he skidded to a stop atop a sloping hill. The world stilled around them—except for her thoughts, which were racing faster than the engine ever had.

  “Tell me where to go next,” John said, scanning the valley like a predator.

  Ziraya didn’t answer. Her eyes were on him. Things didn’t add up. The way he shifted his weight, the way he leaned into the machine’s momentum—it was instinctual, learned. Human.

  Her gaze narrowed.

  No mage, no matter how obsessed with human tech, would know how to ride like that. She opened her mouth to say something, suspicion curling into realization—and then the sky cracked apart. A distant boom rolled over the mountain, deep and seismic. Both their heads snapped to the east as a dark bloom of smoke rose between two jagged peaks, black as ink and growing wider by the second.

  John’s expression turned sharp. “What the hell was that?”

  Ziraya didn’t answer.

  She’d forgotten what she was about to say. The suspicion, the questions—it all slid out of reach like sand through her fingers.

  She could only stare at the growing pillar of smoke, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.