STAR POV

The phone vibrated once against the obsidian table.

Star let it.

Beyond the reinforced glass wall, the night burned. The airport lay broken on the horizon, a sprawl of fire and collapsing steel, jet fuel feeding flames that clawed upward like something alive and starving. Smoke rolled low across the land, thick enough to blot out stars, thick enough to make the sky look bruised.

She stood with her hands folded behind her back, posture perfect, chin lifted slightly as if she were judging the fire rather than reacting to it. She wore black, as she always did now—tailored, armored beneath the fabric, every seam intentional. The reflection in the glass did not look like a soldier.

It looked like a ruler.

The phone vibrated again.

She turned, slow and unhurried, and picked it up.

“Yes,” she said.

Wind roared through the speaker. Shouting. Distant gunfire. The voice on the other end fought to remain steady. “Queen, the airport is fully compromised. Resistance is collapsing. Fires have breached the fuel lines. We’ve secured the outer terminals and pushed into baggage and customs. Thermal scans show multiple signatures fleeing south. One cluster matches Jakari’s profile.”

Star closed her eyes.

She could feel the city like a pulse beneath her feet. Fear moved through it in waves. People running. People hiding. People dying quietly, hoping not to be noticed.

“How close?” she asked.

“Close enough to finish this,” the soldier replied. “We can intercept within minutes.”

Star opened her eyes.

“No,” she said.

There was a pause. A dangerous one.

“Repeat, Queen?”

“Pull your men back to overwatch positions only. No pursuit. No engagement. Maintain surveillance and containment. Await further orders.”

Silence stretched thin.

“With respect,” the soldier said carefully, “we may lose him.”

Star’s voice did not rise. “You will not disobey me.”

Another pause. The sound of a man swallowing fear.

“Yes, Queen.”

She ended the call and set the phone down with surgical precision.

The room felt colder immediately, as if the fire outside had recoiled from something deeper inside.

She turned.

Azrathion stood several steps behind her, massive and motionless, his presence distorting the space around him. His armor was fused to his body, blackened plates etched with execution sigils that glowed faintly beneath scorched metal. Flames crawled through the cracks in him like veins. His horns curved back from his skull in jagged arcs, fractured at the tips as though they had been broken and regrown more than once.

The air around him smelled of ash, blood, and old iron.

“They hunt him,” Azrathion said.

His voice was not one voice. It was many, layered together, some whispering, some screaming, all speaking in perfect unison.

“Yes,” Star replied. “And they will wait.”

Azrathion tilted his head slightly. “You delay prey already wounded.”

“I delay chaos,” she said. “There’s a difference.”

A low sound rolled from his chest. Not a laugh. Something closer to amusement remembered rather than felt.

“The Masters will not like this.”

Star picked up a thin black coat from the chair and slid it on. “The Masters rarely like anything that reminds them of what they used to be.”

She walked toward the door.

“Come,” she said. “They’re waiting.”

⸻

The town hall had once been a symbol.

Now it was a warning.

The streets leading to it were lined with concrete barriers and armored emplacements. Watchtowers rose where trees had been cut down, their silhouettes bristling with sensors and mounted weapons. Soldiers stood in disciplined rows, armor dark, visors reflective, rifles held at rest but never truly lowered.

As Star approached, heads turned. Fists struck breastplates in salute. No one spoke.

Azrathion followed three paces behind her.

The effect was immediate.

A man near the front line stiffened so hard his rifle clattered to the ground. Another whispered a prayer in a language he didn’t know he remembered. One soldier dropped to a knee without realizing he had moved, his body responding faster than his mind.

The massive doors of the hall opened before Star reached them.

Inside, the chamber was vast and dim, lit by torches burning with unnatural flames—blue, violet, and sickly green. The air was heavy with incense and old magic, layered wards humming faintly through the stone.

At the far end, seven figures sat upon a raised dais.

The Seven Masters.

They did not rise.

They did not need to.

Each was wrapped in layered armor and ceremonial robes, their forms rigid, their presence oppressive. These were not men who ruled through volume or spectacle. They ruled through inevitability.

Kurohane, the Black Feather, sat at the center, his helm shaped like a crow’s skull, eyes hidden behind shadowed slits. He had once commanded a thousand assassins and buried entire dynasties without ever drawing a blade in public.

To his right sat Onryū, the Pale Wrath, whose armor was etched with the names of cities erased from maps. His gaze alone had broken armies.

Takemori, the Iron Vow, sat unmoving, hands resting on a blade older than most nations. He had never retreated from a battlefield. Not once.

Shingen, the War Scholar, leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp with calculation. He had written the doctrines Star herself had studied.

Raizen, Stormbearer, crackled faintly with contained energy, scars glowing beneath his armor like lightning trapped under skin.

Kagetsu, the Moon Reaper, seemed half there, half elsewhere, his form blurred at the edges as if reality struggled to agree on his location.

And Jinsoku, the Silent Law, watched without expression, the oldest among them, his presence heavy with judgment.

“Star,” Kurohane said at last. His voice was quiet. It carried anyway. “You were ordered to pursue Jakari.”

“You were ordered to finish him,” Onryū added. “Not attend councils.”

Star stopped at the center of the chamber.

“I bring an end,” she said. “Not a gamble.”

“You bring delay,” Takemori snapped. “And delay breeds failure.”

Before Star could answer, the stone floor behind her cracked.

A sound like reality tearing open echoed through the hall.

Fire erupted upward in a spiraling column, black and red twisting together as a portal forced itself into existence. The torches guttered violently. Wards screamed. Soldiers at the edges of the chamber cried out and stumbled back.

From within the fire came screams.

Not human.

Not living.

Souls clawed at the edge of the portal, shrieking as something massive pulled itself through them. A burning hand slammed against stone. Another followed. Azrathion dragged himself into the hall, fire cascading from his body, his presence crashing into the room like a physical force.

Men fell to their knees.

Some screamed.

One soldier began laughing hysterically before collapsing, eyes bleeding.

The Seven Masters stood as one.

“Impossible,” Kagetsu breathed.

Chains erupted from Raizen’s hands—ethereal, blazing with binding runes older than kingdoms—and lashed across the chamber toward Azrathion.

He caught them.

Bare-handed.

The chains screamed as they went taut, runes flickering, failing.

Azrathion lifted his head and looked at the dais.

“Master Kurohane,” he said, inclining his head a fraction. “Still hiding behind feathers.”

“Kurohane’s voice hardened. “Executioner.”

Azrathion’s burning gaze shifted.

“Onryū. Takemori. Shingen. Raizen. Kagetsu. Jinsoku.” He smiled, teeth glowing faintly. “You sit higher now. Interesting.”

Weapons slid free. Power gathered. The chamber vibrated with imminent violence.

“Why,” Raizen demanded, turning on Star, “did you bring this abomination here?”

Star did not flinch.

“I made a deal.”

The word struck the chamber like a blade.

“With him?” Takemori snarled.

Azrathion stepped forward. The chains fell from his grip like dead things. “Careful, Master. I remember the screams of your enemies. I delivered most of them.”

“Enough,” Shingen said sharply. “Explain. Now.”

Star met their gazes, one by one.

“He can bring Jakari to you alive.”

Silence fell.

Cold. Heavy.

“And if he betrays us?” Jinsoku asked quietly.

“He won’t,” Azrathion said.

Takemori scoffed. “You expect us to trust the one who butchered realms for sport?”

Azrathion’s flames dimmed. His voice dropped, deeper, heavier. “I butchered realms because you ordered it.”

Star stepped forward.

“You want Jakari contained,” she said. “Alive. None of your forces can approach him without consequences. He is… protected.”

“You think this creature controllable?” Onryū asked.

“No,” Star said evenly. “I think he’s necessary.”

Azrathion laughed, low and terrible. “Honesty. A rare currency.”

Raizen’s eyes narrowed. “And what does he demand?”

Azrathion spread his arms slightly. “My throne in Hell. Restored. And a seat among you.”

The chamber erupted in fury.

“You dare—”

“You were stripped—”

“You were cast down—”

Azrathion roared.

The sound shattered stone. Windows exploded outward. Soldiers were thrown from their feet.

“I was your executioner,” he thundered. “Your sin made flesh. And now you hunt prey you fear to face.”

Star stepped between them.

“He can do this,” she said. “And if he succeeds, you gain Jakari—and leverage beyond this nation.”

Silence followed.

Long.

Heavy.

Finally, Kurohane spoke.

“If he betrays us—”

“I will kill him myself,” Star said.

Azrathion smiled.

“Fair.”

Shingen nodded once.

“So be it.”

They did not speak as they exited the hall.

The massive doors closed behind them with a sound like a tomb sealing shut, cutting off the weight of the Masters’ gazes. Even outside, Star could feel them—seven ancient wills pressing outward, watching, calculating, waiting for betrayal.

Azrathion inhaled deeply.

The air hissed as it entered his lungs, flames brightening beneath his armor. “They fear me more than they admit.”

“They should,” Star replied.

They descended the stone steps together. Soldiers parted instinctively, creating a wide corridor of space as Azrathion passed. No one met his eyes. No one breathed too loudly.

At the base of the steps, Star stopped.

She turned to face him fully now.

“You have two missions,” she said.

Azrathion’s head tilted. “I listen.”

She reached into her coat and removed a slim black device. With a flick of her thumb, a holographic map bloomed between them—endless dark blue broken by a single pulsing red point far from any coastline.

“First,” Star said, “you go here.”

Azrathion studied the projection. “Open ocean.”

“Yes. International waters. Outside any law that matters.”

“The fleet,” he said.

“Mine,” Star corrected. “Four operatives. Veterans. Killers. Strategists. They don’t answer to nations. They answer to me.”

Azrathion’s lips curled slightly. “And I lead them.”

“You command them,” Star said. “They’ll test you. Break that instinct quickly.”

He nodded once. “They will fall in line.”

“They will help you locate Jakari,” she continued. “You bring him back alive. Anyone with him—friends, allies, ghosts—dies.”

Azrathion’s voice dropped. “Alive.”

“Yes.”

“And the second mission?”

Star closed the projection and slid the device back into her coat.

“Three mercenaries,” she said. “High-ranking. Expensive. They’ve refused my offers and interfered with my supply routes.”

Azrathion smiled slowly. “Names.”

“You’ll find them,” Star replied. “I want their heads delivered to me. Publicly.”

“To prove loyalty,” Azrathion said.

“To remind the world,” Star corrected, “that loyalty is survival.”

He considered her for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Accepted.”

Star handed him a small metallic disk. Coordinates flashed across its surface.

“That will lead you to the fleet,” she said. “After you hunt the mercenaries. Do not reverse the order.”

Azrathion closed his massive fingers around the disk.

“As you wish, Queen.”

He stepped back, bent his knees—

And launched himself upward.

The air cracked as his body disintegrated mid-ascent, dissolving into a storm of black ash that scattered into the night sky and vanished.

Star did not watch him go.

She turned away before the last embers faded.

⸻

The ride back to headquarters was silent.

Star sat in the rear of the armored truck, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the world passing by beyond the reinforced window. Lakeside no longer resembled the town it had once been.

Prisoners moved in chained columns under armed guard, their faces hollow, their eyes dulled by exhaustion and fear. Former neighborhoods had been stripped down to foundations, rebuilt into fortified outposts and logistics hubs. Towers rose where churches once stood. Drone traffic filled the air above, humming softly like mechanical insects.

Military convoys rolled through the streets—high-grade armored trucks, mobile artillery platforms, supply carriers marked with her insignia.

Order.

Efficiency.

Control.

This was not occupation.

This was conversion.

They passed the school last.

Lakeside High.

Its old mascot had been burned from the facade. Reinforced plating covered the windows. Watchtowers flanked the building, their sensors sweeping constantly. What had once been classrooms were now war rooms, intelligence centers, armories.

Star stepped out as the truck stopped.

Soldiers snapped to attention.

She entered without breaking stride.

Inside, the building hummed with controlled activity. Maps glowed along the walls. Operators murmured into headsets. Couriers moved with purpose, never running, never hesitating.

She made the first call as she walked.

“Status,” she said.

The airport commander responded immediately. “We have visual tracking only. Jakari’s group is moving through secondary routes. No engagement as ordered.”

“Good,” Star said. “Maintain distance. I want him tired, not dead.”

“Yes, Queen.”

She ended the call as she reached her office.

The door closed behind her with a soft hiss.

Moments later, her assistant entered, carrying a tablet and a cup of coffee.

“Your reports,” the woman said quietly. “And your schedule.”

“Thank you,” Star replied, accepting both.

The assistant hesitated. “The Masters—”

“Will watch,” Star said. “They always do.”

The assistant nodded and left.

Star sat at her desk.

She took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness, then activated her secure line.

The call connected after two rings.

“Fleet command,” a man’s voice answered.

“Captain,” Star said. “I’m sending you a guest.”

There was a pause. “I wasn’t informed.”

“You are now,” Star replied. “He’ll take four operatives. The ones I requested.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“And the objective?”

“Locate Jakari,” Star said. “Bring him to me alive.”

The voice hardened. “You’re certain he’s been found.”

“He will be,” Star said calmly.

A breath on the other end.

“Make sure,” the man said slowly, “that my son dies alone.”

Star’s lips curved upward.

“He will,” she said. “Slowly.”

A beat.

“And Russia?” she asked.

“Two days,” the man replied. “The shipment arrives as promised. Four point five billion.”

“Good,” Star said. “I’ll expect confirmation.”

She ended the call.

Dakota never said goodbye.

Star leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused.

Jakari.

Everyone was moving toward him now. Soldiers. Demons. Masters. Fleets.

He was the center of the storm whether he understood it or not.

She stood and crossed to the window.

From here, she could see nearly all of Lakeside—her city. Smoke still drifted from the airport in the distance. The glow of reconstruction lights illuminated the streets. Her banners hung from buildings like declarations.

This was only the beginning.

The Seven Masters believed they ruled through law.

She would rule through inevitability.

Star turned back to her desk and opened the final file of the night.

Across the screen, projections mapped outward—states, borders, alliances, fractures.

The United States was not a nation anymore.

It was a system.

And systems could be owned.

She closed the file and smiled.

Outside, somewhere far beyond the horizon, Azrathion descended toward the sea.

And the hunt began.