The plane smelled like jet fuel and old coffee, the kind that had been sitting in a thermos since dawn. I sat near the back with the rest of the detail six of us total, counting Mr. Voss up front in the private cabin where the leather seats probably cost more than my mother's house. Luca Reyes was across the aisle from me, knees bouncing like he was trying to drum the tension out of his legs. He caught my eye and gave that half-grin he always used when he was nervous but didn't want to admit it.
"First time crossing the line?" he asked, voice low enough that the engines swallowed most of it.
I nodded once. "First time leaving the country at all."
He whistled softly. "Welcome to the big leagues, Stone. Try not to stare too hard when we land. The mountains look wrong now."
I didn't ask what he meant. I'd seen enough drone footage during training—cratered ridges, black scars where the Aether veins had been ripped open like wounds that refused to close. But footage was one thing. Being there was another.
The flight attendant actually just a guy in a plain gray polo who doubled as cabin security came through with water bottles and earplugs. No smiles, no small talk. Just the quiet efficiency of people who knew exactly how many ways this trip could end badly. I took the water but left the earplugs. I wanted to hear everything.
Voss emerged from the forward cabin about an hour in. He was shorter than I expected, maybe five-ten, but carried himself like he owned the altitude. Salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch that caught the overhead lights and threw them around the cabin like tiny knives. He stopped beside my seat, looked me over the way you'd inspect a new piece of machinery.
"Kane's boy," he said. Not a question. "Heard you took to the Veil training like you were born breathing it."
I met his eyes. "Just doing what they taught me, sir."
He gave a short laugh that didn't reach his face. "Modesty's a luxury we can't afford where we're going. The Valthornians still remember your father's name. Some of them curse it in their sleep."
He didn't elaborate. Just clapped my shoulder harder than necessary and moved on to speak quietly with the team lead, a woman named Mara who looked like she could bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
Luca leaned over. "Don't let him get under your skin. Voss talks like that to everyone. Thinks it makes him seem dangerous."
"Doesn't it?"
Luca shrugged. "Only if you believe the stories. Half of them are probably true."
The rest of the flight passed in fragments: someone playing cards in the back, low laughter that died whenever turbulence hit, the occasional ping of the intercom with updates nobody really needed. I kept my hand on the focus crystal in my pocket. It was warmer than it should have been, pulsing in time with my heartbeat like it was listening.
When we began our descent, the cabin lights dimmed. Through the window the landscape unfolded in shades of bruise-purple and ash. The old border forts were still there, half-collapsed, their walls streaked with something that looked like dried blood from this distance. Further in, the mining rigs squatted like metal spiders, their legs sunk deep into the earth. Searchlights swept slow arcs across the valleys, catching on razor wire and guard posts.
We touched down on a runway that felt too short, tires screaming against cracked tarmac. The plane shuddered to a stop outside a low concrete terminal that had probably been elegant once, before the war turned it into a bunker with windows.
Customs was quick and cold. A Valthornian officer in a too-new uniform checked our papers, eyes flicking over the Apex Veil patches on our sleeves like they burned him. He stamped everything without a word and waved us through. No questions. No small talk. Just the faint click of his pen and the smell of diesel drifting in from outside.
Two black SUVs waited on the apron, engines already running. Voss climbed into the lead vehicle with Mara and two others. Luca, me, and the last man, big guy named Torin who never spoke unless he had to—took the trail car.
The drive into the city was quiet at first. Streetlights flickered like they were on their last breath. Buildings leaned against each other, some still showing scorch marks from artillery that had fallen years ago. People moved on the sidewalks in small groups, heads down, coats pulled tight even though it wasn't that cold. Every so often a child would stop and stare at the convoy until an adult yanked them away.
Luca broke the silence. "You feel that?"
I did. A low hum under my skin, like standing too close to a live wire. The focus crystal in my pocket was almost hot now.
"Aether bleed," Torin said from the front passenger seat. First words he'd spoken all day. "They never properly capped the old shafts after the surrender. Whole city's sitting on a slow leak."
I pressed my palm against the window. The glass was cool, but the vibration traveled up my arm anyway. I felt… hungry.
The hotel was called the Obsidian Crown tall, glass-fronted, probably the nicest building left standing in the capital. Security was thick: metal detectors, wand scans, two layers of guards who looked like they hadn't smiled since childhood. Voss's people had already swept the floor we'd be using. Our rooms were side-by-side, connecting doors left open so we could move fast if needed.
I dropped my bag on the bed and checked the window first, curtains heavy enough to block sniper sightlines, balcony door triple locked. Habit from training. Then I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself.
The face staring back was harder than I remembered. Jaw set, eyes too steady. The body underneath the black tactical shirt was the one Mom used to tease me about "built like your father, but twice the appetite." Now it felt like armor I hadn't asked to wear.
A soft knock. Luca poked his head in. "Dinner briefing in twenty. Voss wants everyone there. Dress nice. Apparently the locals like to pretend this is still a negotiation."
I changed into the dark suit they'd issued us tailored, surprisingly comfortable and clipped the concealed holster to my belt. The pistol felt heavier than it should have. Or maybe that was just the hum still crawling under my skin.
Down in the private dining room the table was already set. Crystal glasses, white linens, waiters who moved like ghosts. Voss sat at the head, laughing at something the Valthornian delegation leader had said. The man across from him tall, thin, silver hair pulled back tight was smiling too widely. His eyes didn't match the expression.
I took my post near the wall with Luca. From here I could see everything: the way the delegation's hands stayed close to their pockets, the faint tremor in the waiter's fingers when he poured wine, the way the chandelier overhead flickered once, twice, like something was brushing against the power lines.
Voss raised his glass. "To new beginnings," he said.
The Valthornians echoed it. Glasses clinked.
I watched the red liquid swirl in the light and felt the focus crystal pulse once sharp, warning.
Something was wrong.
Not the deal. Not the smiles.
The room itself.
The air tasted metallic, like blood just before it hits your tongue. And beneath the clatter of silverware, beneath the polite laughter, I could hear it now faint, almost imagined.
A low, rhythmic tapping.
Like fingernails against stone.
Coming from inside the walls.