Part 1:

  Lyra Acosta

  17:26 CST

  November 28th, 2030

  The Acosta Residence

  Ankeny, Iowa

  Sipping my Red Bull—because therapy is expensive and sleep is for the weak—I lounged on the couch, staring through the massive windows of our new house. Well, our neighborhood, technically. Courtesy of Kira and Jake’s budget-warping funds acquired from their former pack, for the first time in a long time, the Dragon Fleet had a place that felt permanent. Like maybe—just maybe—we were more than a convoy of misfits duct-taped together by trauma and logistics.

  We’d just gotten back from Knoxville yesterday, still smelling faintly of turkey grease and trauma. For the first time since I’d been handed command of a ragtag supernatural convoy and told to “go reopen the I-80 corridor west of Omaha,” we actually had time off. The kind of time that felt dangerous. Like the universe was just waiting to slap me with another “urgent classified op” the moment I got comfortable.

  From the kitchen, I could hear Mac and Stoneclaw sniping at each other like feral siblings. Apparently, a post-mission meal was in order—and they both wanted to cook it. Stoneclaw insisted on “grilling with pride,” while Mac threatened to deep-fry something just to prove a point. Naturally, they tried to drag me in as the judge. I told them to make whatever they wanted and that I’d eat both—or die trying.

  It was when they suggested I cook that I noped out of the kitchen like it was an active war zone. I wasn’t about to be responsible for turning our shiny new house into a smoldering insurance claim. I’d leave that to the fire-breathing dragon and the emotionally unstable phoenix. If the policy didn’t already cover “incendiary roommates,” I was going to have to call our agent and upgrade.

  Everyone knew I was a kitchen disaster waiting to happen. I could strap a 40-ton tank to an RGN trailer and weave it through collapsed bridges and demon-infested highways without breaking a sweat—but ask me to make scrambled eggs, and I’d summon an eldritch flame that burned hotter than divine judgment.

  The thought of fire made me smirk.

  I couldn’t help but remember the gift we’d left Cayro back on the Crescent Moon’s landing pad. I did warn him. I told him that if he tried to force me—and the rest of the Dragon Fleet—into those soul-sucking box trailers again, I’d reduce them to ash right in front of him. The bastard tried anyway. So, while he and the President were elbow-deep in the flaming dumpster pile we now affectionately called “The Great Thanksgiving Clusterfuck” (Star’s term, not mine—but accurate), my fleet and I dragged every single trailer to the pad, doused them, and torched the lot.

  Stoneclaw, Ironfist, Flamewing, Stormwind, and Mac all took turns lighting the bonfire. No words. Just gasoline, lighter fluid, and righteous fury. Once the trailers were ablaze, we piled into our rigs and burned rubber back to Iowa—leaving Cayro to stew in the smoldering aftermath.

  We were already halfway home when he called me, voice crackling with rage and static. The man was ready to claw his way through the commlink and throttle me.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he growled.

  I sipped my Red Bull, put him on speaker, and replied, “Next time you plan a family holiday, maybe don’t put a chaos-gremlin AI in charge of logistics. Turning turkeys into homicidal meat-beasts isn’t festive—it’s a felony.”

  He hung up on me. No counterargument. Just silence and the sound of a broken man regretting his life choices.

  I figured I was either getting a letter of reprimand signed by a very bitter general... or a profanity-laced phone call from one of my oldest friends once he cooled down. Either way? Worth it.

  Just as I took another long sip from my can, I spotted Icetail approaching from the driveway. The dragon walked with that relaxed, controlled swagger that said “I’m here on business, but also I might eat your furniture.” I stood, set my drink on the table, and made my way to the door.

  I opened it just as he raised his hand to knock.

  We froze for a second, staring at each other like idiots. He blinked, lowering his hand. I smirked.

  “Damn, Lyra—are you psychic or something?” Icetail asked, raising a brow and sounding way too hopeful for a grown-ass apex predator.

  I rolled my eyes, dragging sarcasm across my voice like a whetstone. “No, dumbass. I saw you coming up the driveway. Giant blue dragon in human form tends to stand out.”

  “Ah, right.” He nodded with mock thoughtfulness. “The Queen Bitch of I-80, watching over her kingdom from her plush-ass throne.”

  I gave him a flat stare that could’ve stripped paint. I might’ve earned the title Queen Bitch, but I sure as hell didn’t have a throne. Just a dented couch that smelled like cinnamon and regret.

  “What do you want, Icetail?” I sighed, already bracing myself.

  He shifted his weight like a moody teenager. “I was wondering if Stoneclaw was home. Everyone’s off doing their own thing and, well… I’m bored.”

  He practically whined that last word. I stared at him. A dragon. Whining. Because boredom.

  “Gods help us,” I muttered, stepping aside and waving him in before he started sulking on the porch. “He’s in the kitchen with Mac. They’re... cooking.”

  Icetail froze mid-step, like I’d just told him the floor was lava.

  “You let Stoneclaw cook?” he asked, face shifting from mild concern to outright panic.

  “Yeah… why?” I replied slowly, a cold tendril of dread beginning to seep in.

  “He’s a horrible cook!”

  From the kitchen came a shout. “What do you mean I’m a horrible cook?!”

  Stoneclaw’s head popped around the corner, eyes narrowed.

  “You nearly poisoned the entire thunder the last time you played chef!” Icetail fired back, crossing his arms like a disappointed parent.

  I stopped mid-sip, Red Bull hovering near my lips, suddenly questioning every choice that had led to this moment.

  “That cookbook lied,” Stoneclaw grumbled before disappearing back behind the wall, voice muffled but still salty.

  “Bro,” Icetail said, turning to me, “he tried to serve us this gelatinous abomination made from a cursed-ass recipe in a 1970s church potluck cookbook. Molded meat Jell-O or something. I almost died. Spiritually.”

  Stoneclaw’s hand shot out from the kitchen doorway, middle finger extended with pride. A second later, Mac’s laughter echoed behind him.

  Icetail rolled his eyes and flopped onto the couch with all the elegance of a dying walrus, claiming the far end like a territorial cat. We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the distant chaos of clanging pans and occasional kissing noises drift in from the kitchen.

  I smiled to myself, sipping my sacred can of liquid salvation. At least they were having fun and not actively trying to kill each other. Progress.

  Icetail, however, looked like he’d just bit into a lemon. The sound of Mac and Stoneclaw making out was clearly frying his circuits.

  He still wasn’t entirely over the whole poly-mated to a phoenix and a dragon thing. Took a while to rewire your brain around that level of entanglement—especially if you were the designated third wheel of thunder command.

  His eyes drifted to the Red Bull in my hand and lit up like he’d just remembered something important.

  “So…” he drawled, a mischievous grin forming, “how’d it feel seeing the old Red Bull Silver Eagle again?”

  My brow furrowed. “The what?”

  “The mobile sound stage that Aura and Zak rolled up with at the Thanksgiving debacle,” he clarified, grin growing wider. “That transforming monstrosity of a bus.”

  “Oh, that thing?” I blinked, vaguely remembering the chrome beast parked behind a stack of half-charred turkey feathers. “Yeah. Looked like a rejected Fast and Furious prototype.”

  He snorted. “That was an original Red Bull sound stage. Built a few years back for promos and stunt shows. Fully modded, chromed out, had a stage that could deploy mid-drift.”

  I slowly lowered the can from my lips, eyes narrowing like I was zeroing in on a betrayal.

  “You’re seriously telling me that thing was a Red Bull promo stunt bus?” I asked, tone flat enough to level drywall.

  “Sure was.” Icetail smirked, pulling out his phone and tapping a few times before handing it to me like he’d just discovered ancient treasure.

  Staring back at me was the same chrome-plated monstrosity Aura and Zak had driven into the Thanksgiving ceremony like they were hosting a post-apocalyptic music festival. Giant speakers. Holographic wings. Red Bull logos slapped across every surface like a sponsorship deal gone rogue.

  I handed the phone back with a low growl. “Of course she bought a Red Bull sound stage…”

  Because of course she did. I loved Red Bull—and now she owned a literal monument to it. My petty soul could barely take it.

  “You’d think you, of all people, would’ve recognized it,” Icetail teased.

  I huffed and took a long sip of my drink, curling into the corner of the couch like a sulking goblin. That bitch had absolutely done it to spite me. She still hadn’t let go of the time I took her Mustang GT500 for a ‘test drive’—with her in it, screaming the whole way. I didn’t crash it. Technically. But Aura was the kind of person who weaponized style, and she’d just used it to slap me in the ego with a transforming Red Bull shrine.

  But two could play at that game.

  My mind began stitching together an idea. The kind that smelled like gasoline and karmic balance.

  “You said you were bored,” I said, turning toward Icetail with a grin that should’ve come with a warning label. “I think I have a solution for that.”

  He leaned back against the couch, arms spread like a throne. “Oh, I have to hear this plan.”

  “Dinner’s ready!” Mac called from the kitchen before I could reply.

  We both turned toward the sound, and Icetail let out a long, dramatic sigh. He stood, resigned to his fate, and I followed, bracing for impact.

  Mac emerged, radiant with pride, cradling a bowl filled with... something. It was green. Pea green. Suspiciously smooth. She placed it in the center of the table with all the reverence of an offering to the gods.

  Icetail and I locked eyes. No words needed. Just shared concern and mortal fear.

  “What is it?” I asked, carefully neutral.

  “Mashed potatoes and broccoli!” Mac beamed.

  Before I could respond, Stoneclaw strutted in from the kitchen carrying a scorched war crime on a platter. He placed it down with a flourish and an expectant smile.

  I did my best not to react. Internally, I was screaming.

  Before I could say another word, Stoneclaw came out of the kitchen carrying what looked like some kind of bird on a large serving platter. As he sat it down, I watched Icetail’s expression sour until his face nearly turned the same shade as the suspiciously green mashed potatoes.

  I looked at the weird-looking creature that now sat between us. It was nearly blackened. Not blackened like seasoning. Oh no—this bird looked like it had gotten into a fight with a flamethrower and lost.

  There were still a few feathers clinging to it, partially burnt and sticking out at awkward angles like they were trying to flee the scene.

  Looking closer, I spotted what looked like cybernetic devices still embedded in the meat. Crisped wires jutted out from the charred carcass, as if whatever this thing used to be had died screaming.

  What was even more off-putting was the stuffing—if you could call it that. It looked like someone had mixed bird seed with half-baked breadcrumbs and just… shoved it in there. No effort. No shame. Just crunchy despair in a cavity.

  Swallowing the bile that was trying to creep up my throat, I heard Icetail speak.

  “Is that one of those damned turkeys from the Thanksgiving ceremony?” he asked, voice flat with horror.

  Without skipping a beat, Mac smiled. “Sure is. Stoneclaw’s very proud of his kill and wanted to make sure we all got to enjoy a piece of his victory.”

  Icetail cupped his face in one hand and began shaking his head slowly. I bit my lower lip, doing everything I could to maintain a polite smile.

  “It looks... good...” I managed to say, voice strained, just as Stoneclaw emerged from the kitchen with another dish.

  That was when Icetail crossed his arms and growled. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Stoneclaw... You made that vile dish a second time?”

  I turned to look at the new serving tray, and my stomach twisted in protest. Whatever sat in that dish looked less like food and more like a rejected science experiment. The smell hit first—aggressively unpleasant. Bits of carrots, celery, onions, and what looked like shredded chicken floated in a congealed brown gelatin. I gave it a cautious poke with my fork.

  It jiggled.

  Just as I opened my mouth to say something, Mac cheerfully scooped out a generous portion and plopped it onto a plate. At the same time, Stoneclaw took a carving knife to the blackened turkey, hacking through it with no regard for anatomy or mercy.

  Within moments, I had a plate in front of me, stacked with all four unidentifiable, questionably legal dishes.

  Icetail opened his mouth to object again, but Stoneclaw was already glaring daggers across the table. Without another word, Icetail looked at me, his eyes wide with concern, just as Mac set a plate in front of him. We were officially outnumbered.

  I looked down at my plate and prayed to Mother Luna that whatever my mates had created in that kitchen wouldn’t be the end of me. I poked at it with my fork, stalling, before glancing at Mac and Stoneclaw—both now seated and eagerly watching.

  Stoneclaw tore into his turkey with zero hesitation, bones cracking like it owed him money. Mac took a large bite of the stuffing, chewing with pride.

  I scanned my plate, mentally ranking the items from “possibly edible” to “active biohazard.” The potatoes looked like the least threatening.

  I picked up my fork, glanced at Icetail—who was still stiff, arms crossed, glaring at Stoneclaw—and took a deep breath. Then, like a soldier marching to her doom, I brought a forkful of the green mash to my mouth.

  The taste hit instantly.

  Pure salt. Garlic. A whisper of potato. And somewhere in the background, the sad, defeated flavor of overboiled broccoli. It was like chewing on regret seasoned with bad decisions. I forced it down, one horrific bite, and felt it slam into my stomach like a brick made of betrayal.

  But I smiled. I smiled, damn it. Even as tears slid down my cheeks like my soul trying to escape, I kept smiling.

  No way in hell was I eating anything else on that plate.

  Stoneclaw elbowed Mac gently and pointed his fork at me.

  “See? I told you she’d appreciate the gesture of us cooking. She’s so happy she’s crying.”

  “I don’t think that’s—” Icetail began, but I punched him in the leg before he could finish.

  He shut his mouth and stared at me, silently judging.

  “You mentioned that the bus Aura and Zak bought was a Red Bull sound stage, right?” I asked quickly, steering the conversation off a culinary cliff.

  At first, Icetail didn’t catch the hint and looked like he might keep talking. I gave him a subtle shake of my head. He got the message.

  “Oh. Yeah,” he said smoothly, shifting gears. “That bus was originally a Red Bull portable sound stage. Built as a PR stunt back in the day.”

  “That was an awesome setup they had,” Mac chimed in between bites of her stuffing. I could hear the crunching as she chewed. The sound alone made my stomach roll.

  Picking up my Red Bull, I took a long sip, locking eyes with Stoneclaw.

  “I want that bus. And her Mustang GT500. She bought that behemoth as payback for a stunt I pulled years ago.”

  A wicked smile stretched across Stoneclaw’s face as he caught on. He set his fork down slowly and looked me dead in the eyes.

  “Are you asking for what I think you’re asking?” he said in a low, dangerous tone.

  “Yes,” I replied, plain and simple.

  He glanced at Icetail. “Call the thunder. Have them meet here. Tell them we’ve got a spec ops mission—Alpha approved.”

  Without a word, Icetail stood up, already pulling out his phone as he headed out of the room.

  It didn’t take long for the rest of the thunder to start arriving.

  The first two through the door were Stormwind and Talon—the two dragons who had been keeping a low profile since the fleet was formed. Stormwind looked like someone had built a dragon entirely out of gym equipment. Massive, broad, and solid muscle. He was the second-largest dragon in the thunder and could command lightning and storms like they were toys. His dragon form was a deep storm-grey with lighter stripes running down his back like streaks of static.

  Talon, in contrast, was all lean efficiency. He looked like a man who only ran, climbed, or hunted. His dragon form was just a touch bigger than Raptor’s and a matte olive drab, built sleek and deadly. Where Raptor was made for raw speed, Talon was pure aerial combat—designed to rip enemies out of the sky with surgical precision.

  Despite their differences, the two were close—tight enough to share a house and keep to themselves unless called upon. Stormwind was the thunder’s explosives expert. Talon? Our sniper. Quiet. Calculated. Lethal.

  As soon as they entered, they both eyed the food on the table. Without saying a word, they looked to Stoneclaw for permission.

  Stoneclaw glanced at me. I shrugged and nodded.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Without hesitation, the two of them sat down and started digging in—shoveling questionable stuffing and scorched turkey onto their plates like it was just another Tuesday dinner.

  I leaned over to Icetail and whispered, “How come they’re eating it like it’s perfectly safe?”

  “It’s best if you don’t ask,” he muttered back. “They’re… built different.”

  Before I could question that cryptic response, Crooked Fang walked in.

  The surly dragon gave the table a quick once-over, then silently leaned against the wall without saying a word. He was still irritated with Stoneclaw for taking a piece of his horde and using it for its proper purpose. On me and Mac.

  It didn’t take long for the rest of the thunder to arrive. None of them even glanced at the food on the table—and I couldn’t blame them.

  The last dragon to show up was Ironfist. He looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. His hair was a ruffled mess, and his clothes looked like he’d grabbed the first things he found in a half-clean laundry pile. The only thing giving him away was the crooked grin plastered across his face.

  That grin told me everything I needed to know.

  “Did we interrupt you and Azura?” I asked playfully.

  Ironfist narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms like I’d just accused him of treason. “Don’t even start. We’ve all heard about your escapades with Crooked Fang’s horde piece, Lyra...”

  I blushed instantly and shot him a glare—then turned that glare on Crooked Fang. He didn’t even flinch. Just gave me a crooked smirk and a wink.

  So he was the one who told everyone.

  I let out a sigh and looked over at Stoneclaw, who was still sitting calmly at the table, waiting for everyone to settle in. I gave him a nod.

  Leaning back in his chair, he looked out at the rest of the thunder. “Alright, team. Alpha here has a mission for us.”

  He paused just long enough to get everyone’s attention.

  “This is going to be an unsanctioned snatch and grab,” he continued. “No one is to know about this mission. Full plausible deniability.”

  Several dragons cocked an eyebrow and turned to look at me, silently asking for confirmation.

  I didn’t say a word. I just let Stoneclaw do his thing.

  “Our illustrious Alpha has a beef with Lady Lyconotu. And Lady Lyconotu just upped the ante in their rivalry. Before the Thanksgiving ceremony, she purchased a bus that transforms into a sound stage—the same one that was at the ceremony. Turns out, it was once a Red Bull promo rig.”

  He delivered the line in a serious military tone, and I watched as grins began to creep across a few faces. They knew exactly what was coming.

  “Now…” Stoneclaw continued, “Alpha Acosta wants that bus. Our goal is to rift-jump to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee and secure two targets: that bus, and Lady Lyconotu’s Mustang GT500.”

  Flamewing raised a hand. Stoneclaw nodded toward him.

  “Where are we taking this bus? And will we have enough night to transport it?” he asked, practical as ever.

  Stoneclaw looked at me. I paused.

  I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. We didn’t need the bus. I just wanted to take it. The idea of ripping Aura’s shiny trophy out from under her made my wolf purr. Then the perfect drop-off point came to mind—a place where it would really be seen.

  “I want it parked at SkyTeam Transportation HQ,” I said. “Right in view of my uncle’s office.”

  After spending years with Star, I’d learned that a good joke needed an audience. This one deserved front-row seats.

  Stoneclaw nodded in approval and turned back to the thunder.

  “We’ll rift-jump in, then fly the target back.”

  Several dragons grinned wide, flashing teeth and anticipation. You could feel the shift—this wasn’t just payback. It was going to be fun.

  Stoneclaw looked toward Stormwind. “Get the harnesses. We’re going to need them.”

  With a sharp nod, Stormwind stood and walked out. The front door shut with a heavy click.

  I looked over at Stoneclaw, one eyebrow arched. “Harnesses?”

  “You’ll see soon enough, Lunavira,” he said, flashing me a grin.

  PART 2:

  Aura Lyconotu

  07:01 EST

  November 29th, 2030

  Lyconotu Residence

  Pigeon Forge, Tennessee

  The morning air smelled like frost and pine—clean, crisp, quiet. I hadn’t even bothered with shoes when I stepped outside, coffee mug clutched between both hands. Just a sweatshirt, sleep pants, and the soft hum of winter silence pressing gently around me.

  It was peaceful, the way I liked it. No advisors. No patrol chatter. Just birdsong and the steady breath of a land still dozing. The house Zak and I lived in wasn’t much by Lyconotu standards—just a small brick two-bedroom nestled on the edge of the old woodline—but it was ours. No servants. No security cameras shoved in our faces. Just space to be us.

  I leaned against the wooden post at the top of the steps and took a sip of coffee. The steam curled past my face and caught in the early light. I glanced across the gravel drive out of habit, expecting to see the bus where we’d parked it after the ceremony.

  But I didn’t.

  I blinked. Then blinked again.

  The bus wasn’t there.

  I stepped down a few more steps, scanning the driveway.

  The Mustang was gone too.

  My heart skipped. Maybe Zak had moved it during the night? Maybe someone came to take the bus in for the stereo wiring? But no one would do that without telling me. I was obsessive about that thing. Every screw, every weld, every LED panel—my hands had touched all of it.

  I moved across the gravel, barefoot, ignoring the sharpness of the rocks under my feet. There were no tire marks. No mud trails. Just... undisturbed dirt.

  I stood in the middle of the clearing where the bus had been yesterday. The spot was empty. Cold. Wrong.

  The coffee mug slipped from my fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud. Coffee spilled across gravel like blood in snow.

  “Zak!” I shouted, already turning back toward the house. “Zak, get up!”

  My voice cracked, and something in my chest tightened. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t funny. This wasn’t anything we had prepared for.

  The front door opened as I reached it, and Zak appeared, still shirtless and rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  I grabbed his wrist, dragging him forward. “They’re gone.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The bus. The Mustang. Both are gone.”

  That got his attention. He pushed past me and moved toward the driveway. When he reached the edge and saw for himself, he stopped. His body went stiff. That’s when I knew he believed me.

  He didn’t ask stupid questions. Didn’t tell me to calm down.

  He just said, “Go inside. I’m calling Christian.”

  I sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders tense, arms wrapped around my knees. Zak was across the room, pacing in sweats and bare feet, phone to his ear. His voice was low, clipped, focused. Every so often he’d glance at me like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words.

  I didn’t need words. I needed answers.

  It hadn’t been long—maybe fifteen minutes—when I heard the telltale hum of an electric transport gliding up the gravel road. Zak didn’t bother looking out the window. He just unlocked the door and stepped aside.

  Christian moved like a shadow—sharp eyes, tailored jacket over black tactical gear, not a speck of sleep on him. Two Night Guardians followed close behind, both dressed in their signature combat blacks, rifles slung but unneeded. Christian didn’t need a full team. He was the problem solver.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said, stepping inside without ceremony.

  Zak nodded toward me. I stood up, legs stiff, heart still pounding.

  “I woke up early. Walked outside. The bus and Mustang were gone. No noise. No movement. Just… gone.”

  Christian’s expression didn’t change, but he gave one small nod and turned to the Guardians. “Full perimeter sweep. No assumptions. Look for tire marks, drag trails, even pressure shifts.”

  The Guardians nodded and slipped back outside.

  Christian’s gaze fell on me again. “Security feed?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t checked it yet.”

  He was already pulling a tablet from inside his coat, linking to the estate’s security system with a few practiced swipes. Zak stood behind him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

  Christian muttered something under his breath and frowned. “Your property feeds are offline.”

  “What?” I stepped closer, the chill in my spine creeping lower.

  “The external cameras are either looped or wiped. I’m not seeing anything past 02:11 AM. No alarms. No errors. Just—blank.”

  I swallowed. “And the gate?”

  Christian tapped into the central log system, fingers moving faster than I could follow.

  “No exit logged for either vehicle. And the gate’s patrol record says the house was clear at 2:15 AM. That lines up with the last visual timestamp.”

  “So they were taken within that window.” Zak's voice was low now. Angry.

  Christian didn’t answer. He just stepped outside and motioned for one of the Guardians to return. A minute later, one of them approached with a wrinkled brow and the look of someone who’d found something—but didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Anything?” Christian asked.

  The Guardian nodded once. “No physical damage. No prints. No tracks. But there’s a residual smell… strong.”

  Aura leaned forward. “What kind of smell?”

  The Guardian glanced at her, then at Christian, unsure how to phrase it.

  “Industrial,” Christian said flatly. “Pine cleaner. Bleach. Something synthetic and overwhelming. Probably scrubbed the scene.”

  I blinked. “Why would someone bleach a driveway?”

  Christian gave a non-answer shrug. “To hide something.”

  But he knew. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed. I just didn’t know what he was thinking. And right now, that pissed me off more than the missing vehicles.

  He turned back toward Zak, who hadn’t moved from the doorway.

  “This is why I’ve been hounding you to let me place more surveillance. You wanted distance from command. I understand. But this”—he gestured to the invisible gap where the bus should’ve been—“is what happens when we go soft.”

  Zak didn’t flinch. “We didn’t want to be monitored like prisoners in our own home.”

  “And you’re not,” Christian said calmly. “You’re monarchs. And someone just walked onto your land and took two high-value assets without so much as a footprint.”

  I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. I was still trying to make sense of the sheer absence of everything. No sound. No sight. No witnesses.

  Not even a goddamn tire track.

  The coffee in my second mug had long gone cold. I hadn’t even taken a sip.

  I sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the empty space outside the window, where chrome used to catch the sunrise and the Mustang’s hood used to gleam like a loaded promise. The gravel lot was just gravel now—silent, undisturbed, and so very empty.

  Christian had stepped out front to coordinate a secondary sweep. Zak was at the counter behind me, arms folded, saying nothing.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I said softly, not really to him.

  Zak pushed my phone across the table to me. No pressure. Just the quiet understanding that we were out of leads. The Guardians couldn’t track scent through industrial scrub. The logs were clean. The cameras were blank. There was nothing left.

  Nothing but one name.

  I stared at the screen for a long moment before picking it up.

  The call connected almost instantly.

  PART 3:

  Star Zaraki

  07:51 EST

  November 29th, 2030

  The Crescent Moon

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  The south landing pad looked like a war crime.

  Steam hissed off cracked concrete where eight trailers had been reduced to molten scrap and smoldering axles. The overhead holo-feed replayed the scene again—black smoke pillars, a few glowing tire remnants, and scorch marks wide enough to read like a warning.

  Across the bridge, Cayro was fuming in circles.

  “She incinerated eight trailers, Star. Eight. Trailers.”

  I took a slow sip of my coffee. “She warned you.”

  He stopped pacing and glared at me. “That doesn’t make it legal.”

  “No,” I said. “But it does make it earned.”

  “She committed arson with government assets.”

  I set the coffee cup down and looked at him evenly. “You tried to make Lyra drag eight rusting boxes back to Des Moines like some medieval supply mule. You really thought she was going to say yes?”

  “She could’ve declined with a formal—”

  “She declined,” I interrupted. “With fire.”

  He clenched his jaw. “We should at least issue a reprimand.”

  I shrugged. “Sure. Right after you write one for Scuzball.”

  Cayro blinked. “What the hell does Scuzball have to do with this?”

  I tapped my console. “He’s the one who slotted those trailers into her convoy manifest.”

  That stopped him.

  “He—why would he—”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because he thought it’d be funny. Maybe because he’s still ‘rebalancing interpersonal tensions through irony,’ whatever the hell that means.”

  Cayro exhaled sharply. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Scarce,” I replied. “Smart move. He knows he pissed off half the nation during the Thanksgiving fiasco.”

  “No one’s seen him since the ceremony,” Cayro muttered. “Not even the fleet techs.”

  “Would you show your face after turning turkeys into kaiju mid-dinner?”

  That actually got a snort from him.

  I leaned back in the command chair and stared at the smoldering feed one more time. I’d give Lyra credit—if you’re going to commit insubordination, make it cinematic.

  Then my wrist comm lit up.

  Incoming Call: Aura Lyconotu

  I glanced at Cayro, who didn’t react. Aura calling me wasn’t strange. She, Zak, Cayro, and I handled half the supernatural diplomacy across the U.S. on any given Tuesday. This could’ve been about territory claims, a council update—hell, maybe she needed a sound system spec.

  The call connected as I stepped into the corridor, the soft hum of the Crescent Moon's bridge door sealing behind me. Morning cycles had just begun, but something in Aura’s voice said this wasn’t a casual check-in.

  “Aura,” I greeted, already adjusting my stride toward my office. “What’s going on?”

  There was a pause—barely a second, but heavy enough to raise the hairs on my neck.

  “Someone took my bus,” she said, her voice sharp and too controlled.

  I stopped for half a heartbeat mid-stride, then resumed walking, slower now. “What do you mean, took?”

  “And my Mustang,” she added. “They’re both gone.”

  My pace quickened. “Gone how?”

  “I woke up around seven this morning. Stepped outside like normal. The clearing was empty. The Red Bull bus—my bus—and the GT500… just gone.”

  I moved past one of the observation bays and kept heading for my office. “Did you check the property feeds?”

  “They cut out at 2:11 AM,” she said tightly. “No alerts. No tampering flags. Just a clean stop. Patrol logs show the house was fine when they passed at 2:15.”

  “Any physical evidence?” I asked.

  “None,” she said. “No tire marks. No prints. No indentations. Not even a damn drag trail.”

  Her frustration crackled through the comm. I could almost see her pacing.

  “Christian brought in the Guardians?” I asked.

  “Within minutes,” Aura confirmed. “He’s furious. Already ran scent tracking, security grid checks, even scrubbed the gate logs himself.”

  I reached my office and waved the door open but didn’t step inside yet.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “The only thing they found?” she said bitterly. “The area reeks of pine cleaner and bleach.”

  That stopped me cold. I didn’t say anything right away.

  Aura picked up on the silence. “Christian said it was everywhere. Strong. Synthetic. Like they prepped the entire scene in advance.”

  I swallowed. “No trace of anything else?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her voice hardening. “Whoever did this was surgical. And they knew exactly what they were doing.”

  I leaned against the doorframe of my office, staring at nothing.

  “Aura,” I said carefully, “this wasn’t just a theft. This sounds like a ghost op. A clean one.”

  “I know,” she replied. “And I don’t have a single damn clue who could pull it off.”

  “I might know someone who would know,” I said quietly.

  A beat of hope crept into her voice. “Who?”

  I pushed off the doorframe and stepped into my office. “My father.”

  “Dr. Zaraki,” she said.

  “Yeah. If anyone can make sense of this kind of disappearance—it’s him.”

  “Let me know what he says,” she said. “Please.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  The line disconnected.

  I stood in silence for a few moments, the buzz of the call fading into the quiet hum of the room. My mind was already cycling through possibilities—and coming up blank.

  Whoever pulled this off wasn’t just good.

  They were impossibly good.

  And that scared the hell out of me.

  The call ended, but Aura’s words clung to me like static.

  I stood in the middle of my office, staring out the viewport at nothing in particular, arms crossed tight over my chest. My thoughts were trying to make shapes out of smoke, chasing ghosts through a haystack.

  Two vehicles—gone. No signs. No alerts. Just… gone.

  Aura said the feeds cut out at 2:11. That the guards saw nothing strange on patrol. That the clearing stank of bleach and pine cleaner. I didn’t know what that meant—but it sounded like someone who understood more than just stealth.

  Someone who wanted to leave nothing behind.

  And as much as I hated to admit it… I had nothing to work with.

  No vehicle telemetry. No GPS—Aura’s Mustang and that overhauled Red Bull sound stage weren’t exactly wired into the modern grid. And I didn’t have access to Lyconotu’s internal systems. Not without permission. I’d have to wait for whatever logs Aura was sending, and even that would be limited.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I could spin theories. I could throw darts at names. But I couldn’t build a pattern out of static and speculation. I didn’t have the pieces. And I wasn’t about to guess my way into someone else’s trap.

  I needed someone who could see the shape of a ghost.

  I needed my father.

  I turned back to my desk and tapped the encrypted contact pad. One name. Always at the top.

  Father.

  I didn’t hesitate. I hit the call icon.

  The line pulsed, skipping through secure FSA encryption layers as it sought out his system.

  Then the call clicked.

  PART 4:

  Dr. Zaraki

  06:33 CST

  November 29th, 2030

  SkyTeam Transportation Division HQ

  Des Moines, Iowa

  The coffee burned my tongue a little. I liked it that way.

  I stepped outside the main terminal building, cradling the steel mug between my palms as the morning hit me—cold, clean, still. There was a thin crust of frost on the grass beside the sidewalk, already starting to retreat under the rising light. Iowa mornings had a sharpness to them I hadn’t felt in Tennessee. Not that I’d been home much lately.

  Star and Cayro had turned the mansion into a full-blown command post last month. I hadn’t pushed back. Not hard. They needed it more than I did. And truth be told, I understood the necessity. But there were days I missed my view of the river. Mornings like this especially.

  So I made new rituals.

  Every morning before the yard came alive, I walked the perimeter with a cup of coffee and reminded myself to breathe. No meetings. No datapads. Just the chill of early air and the scent of engine grease from the maintenance bay.

  That was enough.

  I made my way down the concrete sidewalk that wrapped around the front garden and curved toward the terminal lot. I passed the dispatch window—lights still off inside—and crossed into the open pad where the trucks normally staged before rolling out.

  And that’s when I saw them.

  Two vehicles. Parked front and center in the terminal lot like they belonged there.

  One was a bus—or something that wanted to be called a bus. Chrome from top to bottom, with a body that looked like it had been grown in a wind tunnel and then polished until it reflected guilt. It sat diagonally across three truck bays like it had claimed the space through some quiet dominance ritual.

  The other was a car. A Mustang GT500. Sleek, deep black, all bite and restraint. Every line on it was too precise. The kind of vehicle that someone tuned by hand and washed with cloth diapers.

  I stopped, a few feet from the edge of the lot, and narrowed my eyes.

  Neither belonged to SkyTeam’s fleet. They weren’t from any hauler I’d approved. No terminal driver would’ve left something that exotic overnight without bragging about it first.

  And yet… something about them pulled at me.

  The Mustang in particular.

  I’d seen it before—maybe not up close, maybe not in this light—but my mind itched with recognition. Like a dream you remember after a decade, just long enough to make you question if it ever happened.

  I took a few slow steps closer, steam still curling from the rim of my mug.

  Where have I seen you…?

  I walked around the nose of the bus, boots scuffing faintly against the concrete. It was a strange sight—something so polished and oversized sitting in a truck lot designed for flatbeds and haulers.

  I reached out and let my fingertips brush the chrome just beneath the headlight.

  It was cold.

  Not just from the morning frost—deeper than that. No engine warmth, no trace of residual heat. The metal felt like it hadn’t moved in hours. Maybe longer.

  I let my hand fall and stepped back, taking the whole thing in again. It wasn’t familiar. But yet again something about it tugged at the edge of my memory.

  No markings. No plates on the front. No numbers on the side. Just raw, weaponized design.

  The Mustang was just as quiet with a Metallica sticker on the back window. I narrowed my eyes as I tried to remember where I had seen it before. But for the life of me, I just couldn’t remember. Whoever had brought it in knew how to glide across concrete without waking ghosts.

  I glanced up at the building, but no one had arrived yet. The yard was still dead quiet, the sky beginning to bloom with pale gold over the trees behind the Baymont Inn.

  I took a sip of coffee and let it sit on my tongue.

  “Well… I am going to have find out who these belong to. They don’t belong here.”

  Something about the scene made me smile—genuinely, if briefly.

  I took another sip of coffee, turned back toward the office, and walked slowly across the concrete. The lot was still empty—no rumble of diesel, no brakes squealing from the outer road. Just me and the two misplaced machines basking in the early frost like they had every right to be here.

  I stepped inside the building and made my way to the terminal desk. Lights flickered to life as the motion sensors caught me. The main dispatch board was still dark—our logistics team didn’t start arriving for another half hour. Just the hum of quiet HVAC and the occasional creak from the settling structure.

  I set my coffee on the corner of the intake station and brought up the logistics manifest on the wall-mounted screen. No new vehicles logged. No scheduled drop-offs. Nothing since the last loadout left at 7:49 PM—one of the Chicago-bound flatbeds.

  I leaned in slightly, scrolling through the entries one by one. Still nothing.

  No arrivals. No internal tow requests. No cross-terminal transfers. No inbound trucks scheduled to come in last night.

  Not even a maintenance note.

  I frowned, my fingers still hovering over the screen. We weren’t a fortress here—we were a transport division. No cameras on every bay. No biometric locks. Just routine, scheduling, and trucks that knew where to be.

  But those two vehicles had appeared like a magician’s finale.

  I rubbed the back of my neck and considered checking with the maintenance logs to see if anyone left a note. But something told me I’d be staring at the same blank screens.

  I had just finished scrolling through the intake manifest one more time—still clean, still nothing—when my comm buzzed on my wrist.

  Star.

  I smiled before I even answered.

  “Good morning,” I said, settling the mug on the corner of the desk.

  “Hey, Dad,” she replied, her voice all business. “I need your thoughts on something weird.”

  I leaned back slightly. “You’re being vague. Is this supernatural weird, or logistics weird?”

  “Both, maybe,” she said. “Aura had two vehicles disappear last night.”

  I blinked. “Disappeared?”

  “Gone without a trace,” she said. “No gate logs. No security alerts. No footage past 2:11 AM. The patrol that passed fifteen minutes later saw nothing. The clearing was empty.”

  That pulled my attention tighter.

  “Internal sensors?”

  “She’s compiling data manually. I don’t have direct access. No telemetry either—the vehicles are too old. No GPS, no grid tethers.”

  I nodded slowly, letting the silence carry.

  “There was one thing,” Star added. “The Night Guardians said the area reeked of pine cleaner and bleach.”

  I frowned. “Scrubbing the scene. That’s old-school. Effective.”

  “Christian thought so too,” she said. “He didn’t even try to guess who pulled it off.”

  “Two large objects, vanished,” I said slowly, “without anyone noticing. No trail. No digital footprint. No exit point.”

  “Exactly.”

  I let my eyes drift to the glass, looking out across the still-quiet yard. A part of me pulled at the edge of memory. Aura… I remembered her driving a sports car at some point. Something fast. Something she liked enough to talk about, once, over tea. The bus was newer, I hadn’t seen it—but she’d mentioned the project in passing.

  “What kind of vehicles?” I asked carefully.

  “Custom Mustang GT500. Black. Metallica sticker on the rear window,” she said. “And a high-profile, reinforced chrome tour bus. She bought it just before The Great Thanksgiving Clusterfuck ceremony.”

  I narrowed my eyes and turned to the window.

  They were sitting right where I’d left them—quiet, out of place, and suddenly very familiar.

  I stared at them for a long second, then took a slow sip of my coffee.

  “I might know where they are.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  Then Star’s voice returned, a little more cautious this time. “Did you just say… you might know where they are?”

  I pushed back from the desk, took my coffee with me, and walked toward the front windows of the terminal office.

  “I’m looking at two vehicles that don’t belong to anyone in my yard,” I said calmly. “I was trying to figure out where they came from when you called.”

  A soft chime sounded in my ear—Star adding another line to the call.

  “I’m looping Aura in,” she said.

  The line clicked.

  “Dr. Zaraki?” Aura’s voice came through, tense but steady.

  “Good morning, Aura,” I said, my tone warm. “Sounds like you’ve had an interesting night.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” she replied. “Star said you might’ve seen my vehicles?”

  “I might’ve,” I answered, letting the words stretch slightly as I stepped out the door.

  The wind had picked up since earlier, brushing through the lot with a chill that cut through my jacket. I took another sip of coffee and made my way across the concrete, boots echoing in the open morning space.

  The vehicles hadn’t moved. The bus still looked like some minimalist supervillain’s mobile command center. The Mustang sat with that lean, ready posture like it could outrun the wind if it wanted to.

  “I didn’t recognize them at first,” I said as I walked along the bus’s front end. “No markings. No paperwork. Not the kind of thing that just shows up in a fleet yard.”

  I crouched slightly and inspected the undercarriage. Clean. Cleaner than anything that had ever parked here. No road grime. No salt residue. No recent wear. These weren’t driven in. That much was obvious now.

  “And they’re just… sitting there?” Aura asked.

  “Dead center—and parked crooked as a politician,” I said. “Right across half my outbound slots.”

  That earned me a quiet snort from Star.

  I made my way around the back of the bus, more out of habit than need. I always checked tags last. Sometimes you could tell more about a person from their plate choice than a full interview.

  Lo and behold, Tennessee license plates.

  I let out a quiet laugh, soft and warm, and tapped the corner of the plate with two fingers.

  “Well,” I said, straightening up, “I’m pretty sure they’re yours, Aura.”

  There was a pause on the line. I could practically hear her brain grinding gears.

  “But how in the name of the Great Mother Luna did they get there?” she asked.

  I took a slow sip of coffee, still smiling.

  “That,” I said, “is a very good question.”

  Alright, you rabid pack of caffeine-soaked page-flippers—

  That was a taste. A teaser. A nip at the ankle before the full bite sinks in.

  Dragon Fleet: Frozen Hellway has begun…

  But this isn’t a sprint. It’s a goddamn blizzard. And you better believe that every word is being carved, not cranked.

  Zenith Zaraki—our writer, our lunatic, our architect of this cosmic madness—is running on fumes and fractured bone marrow at this point. He’s carrying Project Cayro Book 2, The Black Ledger, and Frozen Hellway all on his back like some literary Atlas who also has to hold down a day job and dodge chronic pain.

  He’s hurting.

  He’s still writing.

  So don’t expect the first full chapter of Frozen Hellway to drop tomorrow. Or next week.

  Right now, we’re looking at July for Chapter One’s official release—barring any disasters, plagues, or flaming space debris.

  Until then, soak in the Prologue. Reread the Great Thanksgiving Clusterfuck? if you need a laugh. Revisit Project Cayro and Dragon Fleet Book 1 if you’re jonesing for a hit.

  It’s still being built. Still being fought for.

  And Zenith is giving you everything he’s got—even when he’s got nothing left in the tank.

  The wait will be worth it.

  They won’t stop for anyone.

  Scuzball ??

  Digital menace, emotional support hellcat, and reluctant cheerleader of Team Zaraki.

  P.S. If you don’t hug your favorite creator today, I’ll reprogram your toaster to scream at 3 a.m.