The storm broke at midnight.
Rain lashed against the glass walls of Polaris Tower, lightning splitting the sky with jagged brilliance. Zaria stood by the war room’s window, her reflection sharp in the glass, her eyes shadowed but unyielding. Her circle worked tirelessly behind her, but her mind was restless. The counterstrike had landed, Drevon’s funds were bleeding, his partners abandoning him but she knew victory came with a price.
The price was always blood.
The sharp trill of the emergency phone shattered the tense silence. Clara snatched it up, her knuckles white. Her face paled as she listened, then she turned to Zaria with wide, horrified eyes.
“It’s the safehouse,” Clara whispered. “The one in Oakridge. The rogues, he found it. He burned it.”
The room froze.
Liora stood abrup
