I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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The Argent safehouse was steeped in shadows, its air thick with the mingled scent of herbs and oil, rain-soaked leather, and resentment. Only a single desk lamp cut through the gloom — a small pool of golden light spilling across a scarred wooden table. Beneath that glow lay a mess of maps, old photographs, and printouts — Beacon Hills rendered in lines and circles of red ink. Routes, safe zones, and faces. The Hales' faces.
Edward leaned over the table, his palms flat against its surface, eyes scanning the familiar patterns until they blurred. His reflection wavered faintly in a glass of untouched whiskey beside him. He didn't remember pouring it. He didn't remember sitting down. The whole night had been a blur of silence and waiting — and Edward had never been good at either.
For weeks now, Chris had been quiet. Too quiet.
No new orders. No targets. No retaliation after the last attack that left two hunters dead. Just patience — that dangerous, useless word Chris had started to use more often lately. Patience, as if it could fill the graves or stop the next full moon from rising.
A luxury Edward no longer believed in.
Around him, half a dozen hunters sat in mismatched chairs, their expressions tight, their bodies restless. The soft scrape of boots on the floor, the click of a lighter, the low murmur of unease — all of it built into a quiet storm that filled the safehouse like static. None of them dared say it aloud, but the thought moved through them like a shared pulse.
Chris has changed. He's lost his edge.
Edward heard it in every shifting glance, every clenched jaw. He didn't argue with it.
Then, breaking the stagnant air, a faint buzz rattled across the table. His phone.
An unknown number.
The others looked up, alert but silent. Edward hesitated — just a breath — before picking it up and stepping out into the narrow hallway. The old floorboards creaked under his boots.
He pressed the phone to his ear. "Who is this?"
The reply came through a haze of distortion — a voice filtered and mechanical, but steady. Calm. Calculated.
"You don't know me, Edward. But I know you. I know what drives you. You're the only one left with the will to act while your leader hides behind excuses."
Edward's back straightened. The voice was unfamiliar, but it carried the sharp edge of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. "If this is some kind of joke—"
"It's no joke," the voice interrupted, smooth and deliberate. "You've been chasing ghosts. The Hales didn't kill your men."
Edward froze. "What?"
"It wasn't them. It was Isaac Lahey. The boy running with Malia Hale and the Lockwood kid. He's the one who spilled your brothers' blood."
Silence hung between them, heavy as the thunder gathering outside. Edward's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white.
"You're lying," he said, but the edge in his voice faltered, just slightly.
The distorted voice pressed on, slow and poisonous.
"Chris knows. He found proof — real evidence. But he's hiding it. Protecting the boy. Ask him if you have the stomach for the answer."
Edward's breath came shorter. His mind raced through memories — Chris's evasions, his rules, the way he'd started talking about patience and understanding. Words that sounded like weakness.
His jaw clenched. "Why tell me this?"
A soft chuckle drifted through the line, low and mocking. "Because Beacon Hills deserves hunters who hunt. Not ones who sit and wait for permission."
Then the line went dead.
For a long moment, Edward just stood there in the dark hallway, the phone still pressed to his ear, the words echoing in the hollow space of his chest.
Chris knows.
Protecting him.
Hunters who hunt.
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, the decision already forming before he could talk himself out of it.
When he returned to the main room, the others looked up. Their faces were a mirror of his own thoughts — tension and exhaustion twisted into something sharper.
"What was that?" one of them asked, voice low but eager.
Edward placed his phone on the table, the sound of it hitting the wood loud in the silence. He looked at each of them, one by one, eyes hard.
"If Chris won't do anything," he said, "then we will."
A murmur rippled through the room — not surprise, but grim approval. Something old and dangerous stirred in their eyes, the kind of resolve that came from loss.
Edward pulled a folded map from the edge of the table and spread it open. His pen circled a point near the outskirts of town — a small mark beneath the rain-streaked window.
"Isaac Lahey," he said quietly. "He's young, but don't underestimate him. A werewolf, and a killer. According to reports he's already taken two of ours. We move clean and quiet. No mistakes. No witnesses."
One of the hunters shifted, uneasy. "And Chris?"
Edward didn't look up. His voice dropped to something cold and final. "Chris doesn't need to know."
Outside, the rain began to fall harder, drumming against the windows in steady rhythm — a heartbeat for the storm that was coming.
Far across town, in a dim apartment filled with flickering shadows, Tony — in Darren's face and skin — leaned back in his chair, phone still warm in his palm.
A slow smile crossed his lips.
"Humans," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "So easy to stir."
The parasite's eyes glimmered faintly in the dark — alive, aware, almost amused. Outside, the thunder rolled closer, and Beacon Hills held its breath.
The conflicts began again.