Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
CADEN
Unfuckingbelievable.
How in the name of all the hells, did she think she could go on a mission with us while hiding something that critical? She’d jeopardized everything—and everyone—because she couldn’t bring herself to trust us with the truth.
I stormed down the stairs, while my frustration burned hotter with every step. Letting her join the team had been an epic mistake—one I was now paying for in spades. What the hell had possessed me to ever think this was a good idea?
I cursed myself the entire way to the portal, where Sean stood waiting. The look on his face was a cocktail of concern and confusion—he could clearly tell I was seconds from detonation.
“Ye okay there, man?” he asked, cautiously.
“Emma’s translation is traceable inside the Metasphere,” I snapped, the words clipped and bitter. “And she never fucking told us.”
Sean’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “What? How the fuck is that possible?”
I shrugged, sharp and impatient. “Don’t know, don’t care. We need to deal with Petru first.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I jumped through the portal to Slava, hoping the change of scenery would somehow help me leave my anger behind. But even as I emerged on the other side, the bitterness from my fight with Emma clung to me like a second skin.
With my jaw still tight, I took in the rugged landscape of Romania, the human territory encircling Slava. The whole Collective lived within a single fortress that seemed to claw its way out of the cliffs of Ciucaru Mic.
Towering above even the surrounding mountains, the structure loomed like a monument to dominance—its spires jagged and unnatural, rising high into the pale daylight like the bones of some ancient beast. It wasn’t built for elegance. It was built to last.
The Danube roared far below, carving its way through the steep valley like a warning.
The burg was impossibly high, carved into the uppermost reaches of the rock, its foundation fused with the mountain itself.
From here, no one could approach unseen.
Not across the cliffside. Not by river. Not through the forest, where gnarled trees twisted toward the sky like scorched fingers and underbrush thickened into a natural barrier.
Only a single, winding path cut toward the outer watchtower—narrow, steep, and exposed at every angle.
No one entered Slava by accident. And no one entered it alone.
Every time I visited this place, the sight of it sent a chill through me. The raw beauty of the land clashed with the undercurrent of something darker, something embedded in its very soil.
Every weathered stone, every twisted tree felt as though it pulsed with the energy of the fallen—magi who had bled, fought, and died to keep this place standing.
As we neared the border between the Human World and Slava, we manifested our Nexuses, the flickering drops confirming our clearance through the Layers of Protection.
The moment I stepped into the Metasphere, my energy stirred, a slow, familiar surge humming beneath my skin. My haze came alive, swirling around us, instinctively reacting, sensing. It coiled, ready, as if it knew better than to trust the silence.
And then, we approached Petru’s home.
And just like the last time I stood before it, I felt the same unshakable truth settle in.
This was not a place for the weak.
“So, when you saved Emma from the collapsing bunker, she didn’t portal out because she didn’t want to risk being tracked by a LiaPrism?” Sean pressed, his focus sharpening as he pushed for clarification.
I grunted in response.
“Yes. Now, can we please change the subject? I’m already on edge, and I need to switch into my undeniably charming mode to persuade Petru about our mission.”
Sean let out a snort of disbelief. “Charming mode, huh? You might need more than a subject change to pull it off.”
I gave his arm a slight punch.
“Ouch! See what I mean?” he protested, rubbing the spot where I’d hit him.
I rolled my eyes at my brother in arms.
As we neared Petru’s siege, the scale of the military buildup became impossible to ignore. Slava was armed to the teeth. More so than usual, which meant one thing—they had received a threat.
If the Radicals had made a move, this was Petru’s answer. And yet, it didn’t sit right. I had expected him to retaliate already, to strike first, to send a message carved in blood. But from the looks of it, he hadn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
The sheer number of soldiers stationed around Slava’s stronghold was staggering, a force so dense it felt suffocating just looking at it. Lines of magi patrolled the grounds with mechanical precision, each movement disciplined, their attention razor-sharp.
Unlike other Collectives, every single magus tied to Slava lived within these walls. No outposts, no secondary locations—one singular keep, reinforced by magic so intricate it made the entire structure a fortress in every sense of the word.
The hierarchy here was rigid, unmistakable.
Status wasn’t given; it was earned. Every magus had quarters that reflected their military rank, a visual display of where they stood in the grand scheme of things.
The higher the position, the more luxurious the accommodations. There was no pretense of equality.
Petru didn’t believe in it.
He believed in strength, in power, in proving yourself. His people weren’t coddled. They fought, they climbed, they bled to earn their place. And if they failed? There were no second chances.
I didn’t fully agree with his philosophy, but I respected it.
As we neared the entrance, two guards stepped from the shadows, their expressions carved from stone. Their eyes locked onto us, piercing and assessing, unwavering in their scrutiny.
Slava didn’t welcome visitors. It tolerated them.
"Hold it," one of them barked, stepping forward with a commanding presence. "We need to double-check your clearance."
I didn’t even hesitate. With a simple turn of my hand, I snapped his neck, my black haze retreating instantly as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
The other guard’s face drained of color; his stare frozen in terror. And then—he ran. The guard fucking ran.
“You’d think a guard would be better prepared to handle a little death,” I muttered, still feeling annoyed with that lying maga I’d left behind at Crown.
“Was this really necessary?” Sean hissed, stepping closer nearing the body. “I thought we were here to ask Petru to stand with us, not to antagonize him.”
I snorted, barely suppressing a grin. “You really think Petru would respect me if I didn’t kill at least one of his men? Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
With a wave of my hand, I translated a bench into existence, motioning for Sean to sit beside me. He ignored it, his brows knit tightly as he paced back and forth in front of me, clearly agitated.
There was a speech coming. I could feel it in my bones.
“Ye know, Caden, just because ye can kill people doesn’t mean ye have to kill—"
A heavily armed figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard, cutting off what would’ve no doubt been a captivating lecture.
Petru Stoyan.
Tall and imposing, Petru commanded the space without saying a word.
His harsh, angular features were framed by gray, neatly combed hair, and his piercing blue orbs radiated authority, like he had seen and survived far more than most. Dressed in a tailored suit accentuating his powerful build, he exuded effortless command and charisma.
“Caden Colt, and his ever-loyal sidekick Sean McGrath.” Petru’s raspy voice sounded smooth and authoritative.
His eyes flicked to the dead body beside us, one brow arching ever so slightly. “I see you’ve made yourself quite at home.”
I lifted my own in response. “If death feels like home to you, I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, lifting for a split second before he nodded toward his fallen guard. “Why did you kill him?”
I tilted my head, barely suppressing a snort at the stupidity of the question. “You know why.”
A beat of silence passed between us, thick with unspoken history.
“You remember,” Petru said quietly, more of a statement than a question.
“I do,” I replied, my tone flat.
Petru sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Which means you need something from me.”
“Not me—my Collective.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he grunted, rolling his shoulders. “Come on in.”
As he guided us through his rather cold home, the walls seemed to press in, amplifying the sense of isolation and importance. Narrow windows allowed only a trace of light to filter through, casting long shadows that stretched along the cold floors.
Petru’s footsteps echoed softly as we crossed a vast hall with columns rising high above us, each one carved with intricate runes and symbols.
Without another word, we were escorted to our quarters for the night, and I couldn’t help but be surprised by the comfort of the room.
It was furnished with plush chairs and soft bedding, though my mind was far too alert to settle into the luxury.
The unease from earlier still lingered in the back of my head.
“What the hell was that about?” Sean asked once we were finally alone, his voice low but urgent.
I sat my ass down, leaning back in one of the chairs.
“I did a mission with him once. Ten years ago. Area 4. We had to wait out a target for hours and, well, we started talking. He told me how he likes to play with his enemies before killing them off. Said he makes them guard the gate to his palace—right before beheading them—so the last thing they ever do is protect the place that seals their fate.”
Sean swallowed hard, his face paling slightly. “That’s… messed up.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, glancing out the window into the dark night, remembering the cold amusement in his eyes when he’d said it.
Dinner was served in the room, but neither of us had much of an appetite. The night dragged on, the hours creeping by as we were left to our own devices.