“Lyra will oversee your work and report directly to me.” Viktor rolls up his scrolls. “I have preparations to complete before the full moon ritual. You have until sunset to examine the first group of prisoners.”
After he leaves, Lyra approaches cautiously. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“None of us do anymore.” I begin organizing the equipment, mind racing through possibilities. I need to find a way to warn Kael about the ritual details without alerting Viktor.
Lyra helps me set up the portable genetic analyzer, her movements betraying medical training. “I studied your research papers,” she admits quietly. “The ones about genetic diversity strengthening bloodlines. They make sense.”
I glance at her, surprised. “Viktor doesn’t agree.”
“Viktor sees only what confirms his beliefs.” She checks over her shoulder before continuing. “Many younger Eagles question his interpretation of the prophecies, especially since you presented your evidence at the trial.”
Hope flickers—a dangerous emotion in captivity. “How many?”
“Enough to matter. Not enough to challenge him openly.” Lyra adjusts the calibration on the scanner. “Not while he controls the Dire Wolf alliance.”
We work in silence for several minutes, preparing the lab equipment. My mind catalogs everything I know about the ritual from the ancient texts Kael and I translated. Viktor’s version requires a storm-touched healer—me—to identify genetically “pure” victims for sacrifice. The combined magical energy released by their deaths would theoretically grant him control over all storm magic.
But the texts had also revealed a counter-ritual—one that Kael and I might perform if we could complete our mate bond. A ritual of creation rather than destruction, joining rather than separating. The exact opposite of Viktor’s plan.
“The first prisoners are coming,” Lyra warns as guards approach with five bound captives—all wearing Haven’s Heart civilian clothing.
I straighten my shoulders and prepare to begin the most delicate deception of my life. Each examination must appear legitimate while secretly gathering information that could help stop Viktor’s plans.
For hours, I examine prisoners—taking blood samples, scanning genetic markers, and creating detailed medical profiles. To Viktor’s guards, I’m identifying impure bloodlines for the ritual. In reality, I’m embedding coded messages inmy medical notations—information about camp defenses, ritual timing, and Viktor’s magical vulnerabilities.
“This one has the markers,” I state clinically about a middle-aged woman, knowing Viktor will read my reports. Then I add annotations that appear to be technical data but contain hidden messages when decoded properly: “Nucleotide sequence A-T-G-C shows unusual binding properties consistent with eastern quadrant adaptation patterns.”
To anyone familiar with my research methods—like Kael—the message reveals: “Eastern quadrant minimally guarded. Ritual preparations are unstable.”
By midday, I’ve examined twenty prisoners, carefully marking most as “unsuitable” for the ritual with fabricated genetic incompatibilities. The fewer impure sacrifices I identify, the weaker Viktor’s ritual will be—assuming he doesn’t realize my deception.
A commotion outside interrupts our work. Shouts and the sound of beating wings announce a new arrival. Lyra tenses beside me.
“They’ve captured more Storm Eagles,” she whispers. “Kael’s loyalists, trying to infiltrate the camp.”
My heart stumbles. Kael is building a coalition—I’ve heard the guards discussing it. Storm Eagles, wild clans, even Haven’s Heart forces joining against Viktor’s threat. But if his scouts are being captured…
The tent flap opens, and Viktor strides in, flanked by his personal guard. Behind them, two Storm Eagles with bound wings are forced to their knees—young warriors with defiance in their eyes.
“Traitors to their own kind,” Viktor announces, grabbing one by the hair. “Scouting our defenses for your mate.”
I keep my expression neutral despite the surge of hope. Kael is coming. He’s preparing to fight.
“I have no use for their examination,” Viktor continues. “Their treachery has already determined their fate. But I thought you should see what happens to those who follow Kael Stormwright.”
He draws a ceremonial dagger from his belt, the blade glowing with unnatural light. “This is merely a preview of what awaits your mate when I capture him.”
I lunge forward instinctively, but guards restrain me before I can reach him. “Don’t! They’re just scouts—they were following orders!”
“Exactly.” Viktor plunges the dagger into the first prisoner’s chest. The blade doesn’t just kill—it absorbs, drawing glowing energy from the dying Eagle into the weapon itself. The young warrior doesn’t scream, doesn’t beg. His eyes lock with mine in his final moments, conveying a message I understand immediately: Die well. Die with purpose.
When it’s done, Viktor holds the dagger aloft, now pulsing with stolen life force. “Each sacrifice strengthens the ritual blade. By the full moon, it will be ready to claim the final sacrifice—you.”
The second prisoner is dragged away, presumably for the same fate elsewhere. I struggle to control my breathing, to push down the rage and grief threatening to overwhelm me. Emotion is a luxury I cannot afford.
“Continue your work,” Viktor orders. “Every prisoner you examine brings us closer to the new world order. A world where Storm Eagles rule as they were always meant to.”
After he leaves, I collapse onto a stool, hands shaking. Lyra cautiously approaches with a cup of water.
