I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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The clock on Chris Argent's wall ticked past midnight, each second sounding louder in the stillness of his office. The lamplight cast long, tired shadows across the paperwork scattered over his desk — reports, patrol maps, names of the dead. He hadn't left the chair in hours. His coffee had gone cold hours ago.
The phone buzzed against the wood, breaking the silence. The name glowing on the screen made his stomach clench.
Edward.
He stared at it for a long moment, a pulse of unease crawling up his spine. When he finally answered, his voice was steady, controlled — the calm of a man used to walking on the edge of chaos.
"Edward," he said quietly. "I told you to be patient."
The reply came like a spark against gasoline — sharp, breathless, full of conviction and anger.
"We've got them," Edward said. "The Hale girl and the Lahey boy. We'll get the truth out of them — one way or another."
Chris shot to his feet, the chair scraping hard against the floor. His jaw tightened, fury simmering beneath the surface.
"You went against my orders?" he demanded, every word clipped and cold. "You took my hunters?"
"I took our hunters," Edward snapped back. "Someone had to do what you wouldn't. Those things killed our people, Chris. How long were you planning to wait? How many more graves before you did something?"
Chris's pulse pounded in his ears. "All you've done," he said, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, "is light a fuse you can't control."
Edward's tone turned hard — triumphant, almost. "You'll thank me when we get the proof."
Then the line went dead.
Chris lowered the phone slowly, staring at it as if it might give him a different ending. The silence that followed was heavy — not peaceful, but accusing. The house around him felt colder somehow, filled with the ghosts of every decision he'd made, every order he'd given, every life that had been lost because of them.
He didn't notice the faint creak from upstairs — a whisper of movement, the soft betrayal of a loose floorboard.
At the top of the stairs, Allison froze, heart in her throat. She had only caught pieces of the conversation, muffled through the floorboards — but it was enough.
We've got them.
The Lahey boy.
The Hale girl.
A confession.
Her stomach twisted into knots. Isaac.
Her breath came too fast as she backed away from the banister, retreating into the dim hallway. The weight of what she'd just heard pressed down on her chest like a physical thing. She could still hear her father's voice downstairs — calm, deliberate, trying to keep control — but it didn't matter. Uncle Edward had already gone too far.
She slipped into her room and closed the door softly behind her. The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of gun oil and memory — her bow in the corner, her mother's pendant on the dresser, the legacy of the Argents all around her. For a long moment, she just stood there, shaking.
Her father was fighting to prevent another war.
Edward was already waging one.
And she was caught in the middle.
Allison grabbed her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. This was betrayal — not just of Edward, but of her father, of everything she'd been raised to believe in. Hunters didn't turn on hunters. But the image that came to her mind wasn't of her family — it was of Isaac.
His shy, uncertain smile. The quiet way he listened. The bruises that never quite faded from memory.
Her throat tightened.
She pressed Call.
"Lucas?" she whispered.
The voice on the other end was low, steady, and instantly alert. "Allison?"
She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. "They've got them — Isaac and Malia. Some of the hunters… they captured them. My dad's furious, but they won't tell him where. He doesn't know."
"Allison, slow down—"
But she couldn't. The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "Just find them. Please. Before it's too late."
There was a pause — a sharp inhale, the weight of a thousand questions unasked — but before Lucas could respond, she ended the call.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Allison stared down at the phone in her hands. Her reflection blurred in the tears she hadn't realized were falling. She locked the screen, set it aside, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
"Please," she whispered to the dark, voice trembling, "don't make me regret this."
Outside, the wind rose, moving through the trees like a warning. The scent of rain drifted through the open window — sharp, electric. Somewhere beyond the quiet streets and dark woods, thunder rolled.
And with it came the promise of war.