I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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The Next Day.
The morning inside the Argent household carried with it a stillness that seemed almost deliberate, as though the air itself had chosen to hold its breath. The house was quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies the smallest of sounds until they feel sharp against the ears. Outside, birds chattered briskly from the branches, their song weaving against shafts of sunlight that pierced through the blinds in clean, narrow bars of gold. Dust motes floated lazily within those beams, drifting in and out of the light like suspended fragments of time.
Chris Argent padded across the polished wooden floor, his robe pulled tight against the early chill. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The world outside was deceptively calm—dew clung to the grass, the neighborhood still lay in half-slumber, and somewhere a dog barked distantly in lazy protest. Chris bent down, picked up the freshly delivered paper, still smelling faintly of ink, folded neatly as always. He tucked it under his arm and went back inside.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted him—dark, rich, familiar. His wife was already seated at the kitchen table, one leg tucked beneath her, cradling her mug in both hands. She gave him a small smile, the kind exchanged between people who've shared decades together, and returned her gaze to the morning light filtering through the window.
Chris took his seat across from her, unfolded the front page, and began scanning across columns of headlines with the practiced indifference of a man who rarely expected the truth to be found in printed words. Politics, economics, accidents, scandals—the details passed over his eyes without settling in his mind.
Then something caught his attention—not in the headlines, but in the feel of the paper itself.
His fingers paused, sensing a subtle irregularity, something foreign tucked between the familiar pages. It was a stiffness in the fold, a slight resistance, as though the paper were guarding a secret. He reached in carefully, extracting a single, smooth sheet that had been slipped between the pages with deliberate precision. There were no markings on the outside—no name, no sender, nothing to suggest origin or intent. Just a blank surface that somehow felt loaded with meaning.
He unfolded it carefully. His eyes fixed on the words, short and knife-like in their bluntness:
Isaac Lahey and Lucas Lockwood are werewolves.
They work with the Hales.
They killed Andrew.
Three short sentences. No preamble. No signature. Just a blunt statement of accusation—clear, direct, and devastating.
It hit him like a blade, cold and sharp, slicing through the calm of the morning in a single stroke.
Across the table, his wife looked up, her brow furrowing at the sudden shift in his expression. "What is it?" she asked, voice still soft, but edged with concern.
Chris didn't answer right away. He simply handed the note across the table, watching her face as she read it once, then again. He saw the change—the slow tightening of her features, the way her fingers gripped the paper a little too tightly.
She looked up at him, troubled. "Could it be true?"
Chris leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared out the window, mind already sifting through weeks of half-truths, strange encounters, and all the things that never added up neatly. He had known something was off about Isaac Lahey for a while now—heard the unusual rumours, seen the unease he stirred in others. Lucas Lockwood was newer, quieter, harder to pin down, but the company he kept had always raised questions.
"It's possible," Chris said finally, voice low. "Those two boys—they're always around Malia Hale at school. Practically attached to her. And Isaac… there's been talk. Unverified, sure, but persistent. There's something there."
His wife's eyes were distant, thinking. "Allison's mentioned this Isaac before," she said after a moment. "I think she likes him. If what this note says is true…" She trailed off, the unspoken implications weighing heavily in the pause. "I don't know how she'd take it."
Chris exhaled slowly, folding the paper back along its original crease as if that act alone might offer clarity. But it didn't. If anything, the room felt colder now, heavier. The once-routine morning had curdled into something darker—something uncertain.
At last, he exhaled. "This feels like bait. Deliberate. Someone wants us looking in that direction. But bait or not, we can't dismiss it. Andrew's death hangs over us still like unfinished business. And if Isaac and Lucas are truly involved…" He tightened his jaw. "We'll have to uncover the truth ourselves."
His wife lowered her gaze, nodding, though something reluctant lingered in her expression. The kitchen, once softened by warmth and light and the promise of breakfast, replaced by a creeping chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Outside, the birds still sang, oblivious. But inside the house, something had shifted. A question had been asked—and neither of them could ignore it now.
And on the table, the folded paper sat like a spark waiting for kindling.