The deck shifted beneath Tinga’s boots as Herme bled speed.

  “JAX.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tinga nearly jumped. The giant had appeared behind her without a sound.

  “Bridge. Kill the engines, then head to the bow with a white flag. They’ll ask to board—let them. How’s your Prax?”

  “Untouched,” JAX replied. “Fully charged. I can handle a few.”

  “Good. Have them tie off starboard. We’re in Tri uniforms—play it like you’ve regained control.”

  She turned. “Dante. With me.”

  “What about us?” Ellia asked.

  Tinga faced her. “Lie low. Don’t show numbers. If you can remove your ship before it reaches us, do it. I don’t want two problems at once.”

  “Roger.”

  Ellia whistled once.

  The birds melted toward the rear.

  As Tinga and Dante moved forward, her eyes caught on the boy they’d pulled from the Triarchs—standing off to the side, watching everything unfold.

  She stopped.

  “You,” she said, pointing.

  “The name’s Atticus,” he replied.

  “Atticus,” Tinga said, turning to him. “I need you to do something for us. It’s… unconventional. But it may ensure this operation succeeds.”

  The boy’s brows knit together. He didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded.

  “I’ve seen too many strange advancements in this war,” she continued quietly. “Things that turn people into liabilities without them ever knowing it.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”

  Tinga tapped her prax reserve, fingers tightening on his shoulder as she whispered an incantation.

  Atticus never hit the deck. She caught him as his body went slack, easing him down a heartbeat later.

  “Ellia,” Tinga said over comms. “I need you to secure the boy. He’s done nothing wrong, and this isn’t permanent—but I won’t risk him becoming a target for the Triarchs”

  She waited for questions.

  None came.

  “Roger,” Ellia replied.

  As young as she was, Ellia understood command. She made decisions without panic, prioritized her people, and—rarer still—listened. Tinga filed that away. There would be time later to test what kind of leader the Raven truly was.

  “Captain?” Dante’s voice cut in.

  “Present,” Tinga answered.

  She opened the lazarette, exposing the anchor chain compartment beneath the foredeck. Lines were coiled along the door. She grabbed one and let it spill free as Dante moved in, knotting intervals along its length with practiced speed.

  The hum of the prax reactor dipped as JAX shifted Herme into neutral.

  Momentum bled away.

  The line went over the bow, settling against the hull. Dante stripped off his coat. Tinga did the same. The enemy vessel was closing fast—still too dark to count bodies, but close enough to feel.

  It was time.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready, Captain.”

  “One—two—three.”

  They jumped.

  Cold water swallowed them as the line snapped taut, their bodies thudding lightly against the hull. Tinga rolled onto her back, floating inches from the ship’s skin, breathing slow as she stared up at the last fading stars.

  The whine of engines grew louder.

  “TO STARBOARD! TO STARBOARD!” JAX shouted.

  Bow thrusters kicked. A high-beam flared to life, washing over Herme’s deck.

  Two sharp tugs on the line.

  Tinga looked down. Dante mirrored her position, already moving. Hand over hand, they slid along the rope, letting the current pull them back before advancing again.

  Two more tugs.

  End of the line.

  They stopped.

  “WE WERE HIJACKED!” JAX shouted from the bridge. “PERPS SECURED—BUT THEY BUGGED OUR SYSTEMS! NAV, COMMS, ALL DOWN!”

  Static crackled. Then a voice boomed from the approaching vessel.

  “Your crew?”

  “INCAPACITATED!” JAX barked. “WE NEED ASSISTANCE!”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Permission to board?”

  “IS THAT A QUESTION?” JAX snapped. “WE NEED HELP—NOW!”

  The thud of a line hitting deck echoed above them, followed by the aft thrusters flaring to life. The Tri ship slid into position alongside Herme, steel kissing steel.

  Tinga felt the line jerk.

  She and Dante kicked downward together, slipping beneath the surface as the hulls bumped overhead. From below, they watched the shadow of the patrol ship settle into place. Then—silence.

  The engines cut.

  The churn of water died.

  That absence was the signal.

  They released the line and surged toward the stern of the boarding vessel. Tinga broke the surface just behind the ship, waiting long enough to ensure Dante emerged beside her before grabbing the rear ladder—standard issue on any vessel meant to recover sailors lost to the sea.

  Or spies.

  They climbed to a narrow landing just below the main deck. Tinga stopped one rung short, lifting her head carefully to peer over the edge.

  Most of the crew clustered portside, focused on securing lines to Herme’s starboard rail.

  Perfect.

  She nodded once. Dante mirrored it.

  They slipped aboard, boots silent despite soaked clothes. Crates lined the deck on either side, giving them cover as they moved toward the bridge. The ship was smaller than Herme—half the length, no auxiliary weapons. Ellia had been right. A patrol craft. Nothing more.

  At the stairwell, Tinga slowed. She reached the bridge door, placed two fingers against it, then pointed—you first.

  She cracked it open just enough to see inside.

  The captain stood on the far side of the bridge, back turned, barking orders to his crew through the open doorway. He never saw Dante move.

  Like a wraith, Dante crossed the space, seized the man’s legs, and heaved.

  The captain vanished over the railing.

  A thud. A shout. A splash.

  Tinga cut all external communications.

  Silence hung for a single breath.

  Then the deck erupted.

  She turned to Dante. He gave one sharp thumbs-up.

  A shot cracked past him, close enough to whistle. Dante dove back into cover.

  “You wanna play king of the anthill?” he called.

  Tinga smirked.

  She stepped into the doorway, prax surging as she enhanced her hearing—boots pounding, bodies rushing the stairs. Too many. Too fast.

  “Defend the hill,” she muttered.

  Before another shot could ring out, she redirected the flow.

  Lightning Lance.

  Static raced through her arms, the charge amplifying as water still clung to her clothes. She brought her hands together as if cradling an invisible sphere. The air between her palms hissed, crackled—like embers dragged across steel.

  Energy coiled outward, lashing the metal enclosure before snapping back.

  The bridge flared blue.

  The lightning condensed, strands folding in on themselves until a pulsing orb of liquid fire hovered between her hands, thunder snarling inside it.

  Tinga exhaled slowly and cut the prax feed.

  The sphere held.

  Waiting.

  Steadying her breath, Tinga glanced at Dante.

  Unlike her, he was crouched low, palms pressed to the deck, breath fogging in short, controlled bursts. His forearms glistened as pale blue light pulsed beneath the skin. With a slow, practiced exhale, the condensed water peeled away from his body and flowed across the floor, spilling out of the bridge and cascading down the stairs.

  Frost bloomed along the walls.

  Then came the music of their operation.

  A shout—only a few steps from the landing—followed by a heavy reverberation and the clatter of metal. Another impact. Then another. And another.

  “THEY’RE MANI!” someone screamed.

  That was Tinga’s cue.

  She burst from the command tower, rogue bolts of electricity snapping along her fingers as she grounded herself. Palms out. Feet planted.

  Blue static flooded the whites of the first Tri’s eyes as he staggered into view, managing one last prayer to the universe.

  “Oh—mama.”

  Lightning punched through his chest, fabric igniting on contact before the charge tore out through his back. The lance didn’t stop. It leapt—chain to chain—ripping through every body behind him in a single, screaming arc.

  As the energy bled from her hands, Tinga glanced right.

  Dante was watching her.

  Waiting.

  He nodded.

  With the last spark she had left, she hurled the charge sideways. Blue zigzags tore through the air and slammed into the frozen water Dante had laid across the deck.

  ZZZZZT.

  The scream came as one.

  Like flies on an electric swatter, the remaining troops convulsed and went still.

  The static finally drained from Tinga’s body. The fine hairs along her arms settled.

  Dante exhaled—not in boredom, but something closer to remorse. Even enemies deserved better than dying to the same force that kept the world alive.

  “Let’s take them home,” he said, stepping out onto the deck, pistol raised.

  Gunfire cracked in the distance.

  Tinga turned sharply toward the port gate.

  Flashes of muzzle fire stitched the darkness, bullets raking the air above a small vessel—then an explosion tore through it. She flicked her eyes to her status readout.

  Paradox Reserve: 339 / 1190.

  Just enough.

  She enhanced her vision and locked on.

  The guns below tracked something unseen, sweeping from bow to stern. At first, there was nothing—then a shimmer, a distortion in the air itself. Whatever it was drank in the light instead of reflecting it.

  The darkness rippled.

  The shape dropped.

  Not like a drone.

  It plummeted, then—

  Two wing-like blades snapped open.

  The thing cut through the ship in a single, brutal pass.

  When it cleared, there was nothing left.

  Tinga scanned the wreckage. No movement. No survivors.

  Zooming out, she searched the sky again, heart hammering.

  There.

  The shape climbed, wings beating against the night—vast, black, unmistakable.

  A bird.

  A massive one.

  These little birds had a real bird.

  A raven.

  And then—

  BANG.

  Tinga dropped to one knee, her arms falling slack against her thigh as her vision snapped back to the here and now.

  A man lay at the base of the staircase, gun still smoking.

  His arm twitched.

  BANG.

  Tinga looked down at herself, breath caught, unsure where the second shot had landed. Then she glanced back toward the stairs.

  The man was motionless.

  Blood pooled beneath his skull as JAX rounded the corner, rifle already raised. He didn’t hesitate—put another round into a Triarch trooper still twitching beneath the pile, then lowered the weapon and moved fast.

  “Great work, Captain,” he said. “Let’s get that patched up.”

  Tinga didn’t answer.

  Her gaze stayed fixed on the night sky beyond the deck—where something vast and black had vanished into the dark.

  “The little birds?” she asked quietly.

  JAX let out a low chortle as he slung the rifle and stepped closer.

  “The little birds,” he said, “ain’t so little.”