I haven’t forgotten about that prick in Valchek last month. Zephyr’s been doing some digging while investigating the missing demis held on Silk Street, and while there’s no information on the victims, she picked up a trail. We’re here to see where it leads.

My wings rustle as I roll my shoulders, loosening up my limbs. Ready for anything. I’m with Elias and Arcadia on a roof opposite a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of Hellevig—a possible source for the operation in Valchek. My magic spreads over us, twisting the light to make us invisible.

What’s the situation from your end, Zephyr? I ask into the mind-link Alexios is keeping open between my team.

Zephyr walks the perimeter down at street level, her black wings melting her into the shadows. Nothing moving inside that I can see. Zephyr’s mental voice is cool and composed, as always. Not much in the way of visible security. Either they’re cocky, or this is a trap.

I scan the building again. It’s thick stonework with a flat roof and a couple of small windows dotted across the facade. The side has faded paint that reads, J. Smith & Co. Medicinal Supplies. The door on the east wall looks promising for entry.

Any specific intel on who owns this shithole? I ask her.

No. My contacts flagged some unusual shipping patterns from here over the past few months. Someone was trying to obscure cargo manifests and cover tracks, but I followed a financial trail to Valchek. It wasn’t easy.

“Fuckers,” Arcadia mutters.

“They always slip up, eventually.” Elias taps his finger impatiently against his thigh. “I haven’t seen dust demand this high since right before the Devouring. Fleshtraders are getting bold again.”

Dust. Human slang for the remains of our dead. Wings are worth the most—a higher concentration of magic—then come the bones and organs, desiccated and ground up for easy consumption.

Alexios cuts in, his presence flooding the mind-link from his throne in Asteria. Get this done fast and clean, he says. Take prisoners for interrogation. Pull out any survivors. Then, to Zephyr alone: No risks, Whisper.

Sometimes, I wonder if he even realizes how his voice changes when he speaks to her. If anything ever happened to his spymaster, Alexios would tear the realms apart twice over.

Hold the perimeter, I tell Zephyr. Signal if you spot trouble.

I jump off the roof with Arcadia and Elias right behind me. We touch down in the alley, and I kick the door in, wood splintering around my boot. A chemical stink hits me, sharp enough to make my eyes water. Beneath that is the heavy thrum of magic. Fresh magic.

Shelves line the walls, filled with various herbs and medicines. To my left is a large wooden icebox to control the room’s temperature—typical of chop shops. Rows of ceramic, tin, and glass containers fill the rest of the space.

Elias examines the cases, making a slow circuit. “Old apothecary cold storage is an ideal front for a chop shop when you think about it. Formaldehyde and surgical spirits mask a lot.”

Arcadia cracks open a lid and gags. “Like putting a slaughterhouse in a perfumery.”

I take stock of entries and exits for any potential hiding places. If these fleshtraders are consuming god parts, that means they have enough power at their disposal to put them on par with a demi. They could harm or even kill my team if we’re not careful.

“Spread out,” I say. “Clear the building room by room. Watch for traps.”

Elias and Arcadia go right while I cover the left. The whole place groans and settles around us. Other than that, it’s quiet. My magic buzzes under my skin, ready to let loose.

Arcadia’s voice sounds in my head. Wait. Do you hear that?

Yeah, I do—a rhythmic noise filtering through the walls.

Tick-tick-tick.

Tick-tick-tick.

Detonators clicking down.

And under the ticking, buried beneath the stink of chemicals—

“Get out!” I snarl. “I smell powdered Turpori steel!”

I spin, running to the others and grabbing Arcadia, practically throwing her at the busted door. Elias ducks under my arm and clears the threshold in seconds.

Wolf! Zephyr’s shout. Get your ass out of there!

I’m already mentally mapping out the blast radius. A structure like this will have all the load-bearing supports rigged with enough charges to reduce it to rubble. Even trace amounts of powdered Turpori steel will sear a demi’s lungs, but the concentration I smell lacing the ordnance? It’ll punch right through our healing and might actually slaughter my team if they don’t get far enough from the explosion.

But for an Eternal, it will only hurt like a bitch.

I’m going to shield the blast, I say. I’ll see if there are any survivors.

I pound down the stairs. The lower level opens into a corridor, and I make a sharp left, winding my way deeper until I hit a reinforced steel door pocked with rust. I kick it open with my boot.

The stench slams into me. I’m suddenly thrown back to the war, to my last raid, all the memories overlapping with the present.

Uneven stone walls rise on all sides. Viscera clots the gaps between the flagstones, gone nearly black. Manacles dangle overhead, the chains thick with rust and bits of flesh, and spattered across every surface is blood. Liters of it. A table dominates the floor, crosshatched with deep gouges—a dissection slab. And splayed on that platform…

Carnage. Mangled limbs and organs. And the feathers—jet, red, purple, gold—ripped out and heaped in piles.

But this isn’t centuries ago. It’s now, and it’s happening again.

You never really leave the war behind, my brother once told me. No matter how much time or distance you put between yourself and the killing fields.

None of us ever climbed out of those trenches. The war keeps following us, sinking in its teeth and claws and dragging us down again.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Three dead, I relay to the others, grabbing a fistful of blood-matted feathers and tucking them into my armor to bring back for identification. No survivors or signs of any fleshtraders. They must have caught wind of us and bailed. Stay away while I deal with the blast.

I don’t wait for a response. My power is already building. I cast out my senses, mapping every charge as I sink to my knees. My wings flare wide as fire roars through me, searing paths of heat beneath my skin as I shape the energy into a shield.

Everything goes white.

The detonations rip through the warehouse. Stone pulverizes to dust, support beams shatter, and wood sprays like shrapnel. Blood trickles down my face—the Turpori steel burning my skin as I hold the shield.

I take the destruction and give it focus, shaping the explosion with my will and super-heating the rubble until the stone glows red and there’s nothing left of the butchered demis. Sublevels collapse in a controlled implosion, directing the devastation down, down, down…

Until all that’s left is settling debris and smoke, the crackle of embers, and the groan of a building gutted to its bones. The neighboring buildings remain intact without so much as a cracked window. But in the epicenter? There’s only a crater with smoldering detritus.

I let the shield fall away and rise from the wreckage. My shirt hangs in bloody tatters, wounds weeping as flesh knits back together. I’ll be sore for hours, but I’ve survived worse.

I sweep my gaze over the rubble a final time. A flash of something under a half-burnt chunk of wood snags my attention—a little book, somehow still in one piece, even with everything blasted to shit around it. I yank it out and shove it into my jacket, launching skyward.

The others are waiting in the alley when I drop down.