Page 21 of Lost in Fire

“Understood, Elder.”

I sink into my chair, closing my eyes, feeling the weight of decades of careful deception pressing down like a mountain. Within hours, I’ll be face-to-face with the man who fathered my child. The man I’ve watched from a distance, feeling his pain through our bond, knowing I’d caused it.

The man who walked willingly into hell because he believes our daughter needs saving.

And she does.

Vex’s witch hunt will find her, eventually. Will classify her as an abomination requiring elimination. Unless I can find a way to save us all without destroying the careful balance that’s kept us alive this long.

I open my eyes and reach for my tablet, pulling up the specifications for the interrogation chambers. Private. Soundproofed. Magically warded against surveillance.

Perfect for the conversation that will determine whether we live or die. A conversation I may not be ready for.

Because after two decades of separation, we’re finally going to be in the same room again.

Chapter 8

Hargen

The Syndicate stronghold rises from the mountainside—concrete fangs and steel claws wrapped in enough firepower to flatten a city block. Guard towers pierce the sky at calculated intervals. Razor wire glints in the afternoon sun. Familiar, and yet not. I spent decades operating inside this facility, but never as a target.

Never as bait, walking willingly into a trap.

The transport convoy winds through three security checkpoints, each bristling with detection equipment and armed personnel who look like they’d shoot their own mothers if the order came down. By the time we reach the main entrance, I’ve counted a dozen different ways they could kill me before I took a second breath.

Professional habit. Occupational hazard of spending years in this business.

At the main entrance, a tall woman in Syndicate black waits with a clipboard and the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes. Security Chief Morrison—I remember her from briefings years ago. Still projecting the same ruthless efficiency.

“Hargen Cole.” She doesn’t extend a hand. “Welcome back to the fold. Assuming you’re actually back.”

“That’s what we’re here to determine, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” She gestures to the guards flanking me. “Gentlemen, escort Mr. Cole to Processing Bay Three. Full spectrum analysis.”

They lead me through sterile corridors I once walked freely, past security checkpoints that now feel like prison gates. Processing Bay Three sits in the facility’s medical wing—a place I’d visited for routine health assessments, now repurposed for something far more invasive.

The processing feels like getting dissected by machines that happen to have human operators. Strip search conducted with clinical efficiency that strips away dignity along with clothing. Medical examination that maps every scar, every old break, every reminder of violence survived. Blood drawn for analysis that will tell them more about my magical signatures than I might want them to know.

Through it all, I maintain the story Viktor and I constructed—former asset handler, recently freed from magical manipulation, desperate to redeem myself through service. Let them see exhaustion. Let them see frustration. Let them see exactly what they expect from someone who’s spent time under hostile magical influence.

After two hours of physical examination and sample collection, they escort me to the medical analysis wing. Dr. Emerson waits in her sterile laboratory, surrounded by instruments that hum with both technology and magic.

“Handler Cole,” she says, eyeing me curiously. “I never expected to have you under my scrutiny.”

“I’m sure we’ll be putting all of this behind us soon,” I say, feigning confidence.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, turning to examine my test results. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, her hatchet face reflecting pale light from her screen. She’s always looked at test subjects like specimens in a jar. She still does.

“The magical residue patterns are unmistakable. Rossewyn bloodline manipulation, sophisticated and extensive.”

I inject just the right note of shame into my voice. “How extensive?”

“Long-term conditioning. Weeks, possibly months of gradual influence building to complete psychological override.” She taps notes into her tablet. “The neural pathway disruption shows classic signs of magical coercion. It’s remarkable you retained enough independent thought to break free.”

Because there was nothing to break free from.

The “residue” her instruments detect is carefully constructed magical sleight of hand, applied by Aurora specialists to create exactly the signature she’s describing. But Emerson doesn’t need to know that her instruments are reading an elaborate forgery.

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