He turned to his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as he hacked into the Heart’s security mainframe. The security protocols unfolded before him, a complex web of surveillance feeds, access points, and alarm systems. Callum had spent years learning every vulnerability, every backdoor. Now he began the delicate process of creating blind spots without triggering alerts—adding looping synthetic live feeds, reducing guard rotations in key areas, scheduling system maintenance at critical junctures, inserting subtle delays in the feeds from checkpoints.

  Nothing obvious. Nothing that would immediately raise suspicion. But together, these small alterations would create windows of opportunity when the time came.

  The screens before him flickered as the changes took effect, the Heart’s defenses subtly weakening under his touch. Outside his window, the first pale hint of dawn touched the eastern sky.

  The day of reckoning had begun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 5 AM

  LIRA STOOD AT THE window of her apartment, tea cooling between her palms as she watched New Found Haven sleep its final hours of ignorance. The darkness that clung to the city, that had always defined it, would be washed away soon—not by the coming dawn, but by fire and blood and revolution. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass, eyes hollowed by a sleepless night, dark circles like bruises beneath them. She looked like a ghost already, and perhaps that was fitting for what was to come.

  Platinum towers pierced the dawn sky, their surfaces catching the first hint of light. Streets empty and clean, patrolled by the occasional Veyra vehicle, its lights cutting through the lingering dark.

  She sipped her tea, grimacing at its bitterness. She’d forgotten to add honey, too consumed by the weight of the coming day. Her hands had been steady as she brewed it—they were steady now—but her mind raced with a thousand calculations, a thousand ways this could go wrong.

  Seven hours until the Vow ceremony. Seven hours until Greyson and Shadera would be forced to stand before the city as symbols of a unity that had never existed.

  They would go to the consummation chambers after that, while their friends worked above to make sure no other woman had to endure such horrors. Next, they would attend lunch, a formal meal with all the city leaders to welcome them into society, as if they had not just been violated.

  To end the day, at six o’clock, they would be back on the platform, making a united speech about the Heart, asking the rings to conform to its laws so they too could one day enjoy its luxury. What they didn’t know, is that speech would be heard by no one outside of the Heart. Every person in the rings that was not rising to fight today would be underground, sealed away in bomb shelters.

  And beneath all that spectacle, the clockwork of rebellion would be turning, gears sliding into place, blades sharpening as Brooker—

  Brooker.

  Her brother’s face appeared in her mind, not as she’d last seen him in Wolf’s Head, hardened by years in the rings, but as he’d been before. Before the rebellion. Before his assumed death. Before everything had changed. The memory twisted in her chest, grief and relief intertwining until she couldn’t separate them.

  Alive. He had been alive all this time.

  The tea trembled in her cup, betraying the emotion she refused to show on her face. Lira took another sip, forcing the hot liquid down her throat as if it could wash away the sting of betrayal.

  Callum had known. All these years, he had known Brooker lived while she mourned, while she wept in his arms, while their father became more monstrous.

  “They thought they were protecting you,” Callum had explained as they’d driven back from Wolf’s Head. His voice had been gentle, as if kindness could soften the impact of his words. “If you’d known, your father would have seen it in your eyes. He would have known something was wrong.”

  “And you?” she’d asked, unable to look at him. “What was your excuse for lying to me?”

  His silence had been answer enough.

  The memory of Callum’s face, of the guilt in his eyes when she’d left him at her door with nothing more than a cold good night, made her chest ache. She should hate him for his deception. Should rage against his betrayal of her trust, just when they had promised no more secrets.

  But she understood now. Understood the sacrifices made in war, the necessity of compartmentalization. The price of keeping those you love alive.

  She drained her tea and set the cup on the small table beside her. On its surface lay the items she would need today—her comms device, programmed with the rebels’ secure channel. A small pistol, loaded and safety on. A datapad containing the final details of their plan.

  And her mask.

  Lira picked it up, the rose gold gleaming even in the dim light of her apartment. She twirled it between her fingers, feeling its familiar weight, the smooth metal warm from her touch. How many years had she hidden behind it? How many lies had it enabled? How many truths had it concealed?

  Her finger traced the decorative swirls that marked her as a Serel, as daughter to the President, as royalty in a kingdom built on subjugation. The mask that had been secured to her face on her sixth birthday, rendering her faceless, nameless, except for her family’s legacy. The mask that had been both a shield and prison.

  After today, she would never wear it again.

  She would be Lira. Just Lira. Not a Serel, not a diplomat, not a puppet dancing on her father’s strings. She would be free—or she would be dead.

  It was so simple in the end. So clear. The path forward narrow but defined.

  She set the mask down and moved to her desk, pulling open the hidden drawer with a press of her fingertip against the biometric lock. Inside lay the evidence she’d spent years collecting. Hundreds and hundreds of copies. Documents detailing her father’s corruption. Recordings of his threats. Financial records showing the diversion of resources meant for Cardinal and the Boundary. Autopsy reports of those who had mysteriously died after opposing him.

  And at the bottom, sealed in a protective case, the final piece—her secret. Her plan.

  Lira traced the edge of the case, her mouth set in a grim line. No one knew about this—not Callum, not Brooker, not Farrow or Jaeger or Jameson. This was her personal revenge for everything Maximus had taken from her. From all of them.

  She closed the drawer, the lock engaging with a soft click. She would ensure the truth was known, one way or another. Her father would fall. The system would crumble. And if her own destruction was the price, so be it.

  The tablet on the table vibrated, a single pulse that sent her heart racing. She checked the time—5:40 AM. The city would be waking soon, Veyra changing shifts, workers preparing for the day, the wheels of the Heart beginning their relentless turning.

  Lira crossed to the table and lifted the device, pressing it to her ear. “Yes?”

  “They’re ready.” Farrow’s voice was soft. “Are you sure about this?”

  Lira closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath that filled her lungs with resolve. “Yes.”

  She ended the call without another word. There was nothing more to say. No dramatic declarations, no rousing speeches. Just the quiet certainty of what was to come.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 7 AM

  JAMESON WATCHED THE HEAVY metal door of the shelter seal shut with a dull thud that echoed through the underground chamber. The last group of Cardinal residents—mothers clutching children to their chests, old men leaning on makeshift canes, workers still in factory uniforms—disappeared behind four feet of reinforced steel. Their faces had been a mixture of confusion and fear, but they’d gone willingly enough when told bombs might fall today. No one in Cardinal questioned the possibility of Heart violence. They’d lived too long in its shadow.

  “That’s the last of them,” said a voice at his shoulder. One of Farrow’s people, a woman with short black hair, brown eyes, and a balaclava covering the rest of her face. “All sectors report clear.”

  Jameson nodded, checking the time on his comms unit. 7:02 AM. Eleven hours until the real fight began, but their work had started long before dawn. Through the night, his rebels had moved through the Boundary, guiding people to the shelters he’d been reinforcing for years. The operation had gone more smoothly than he’d dared hope.

  The Cardinal had been easier to manage, less people with more of a willingness to listen to authority. Courtesy of the Heart’s labor mandates pushed on them.

  “Any trouble at the eastern quadrant?” he asked, remembering the factory overseer who’d threatened to report them to the Veyra. The man hadn’t lived long enough to make good on his threat, but Jameson needed to be sure no alarm had been raised.

  “None,” she replied. “We’re clear across the board.”

  His mind flashed to the mother in the Boundary, cradling her dead son as she begged Jameson to make them pay. Her face, contorted with grief, had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. Today, he would keep his promise to her. Today, Maximus Serel and his golden mask would fall.

  He straightened his spine, turning to the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “Chandler, sir, but my friends call me Hawk.”

  A corner of his lip twitched up at the name. “Well, Hawk, if I don’t get time to tell you this later, thank you. We would not have been able to secure the Cardinal on time without you.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. My honor.” He could see the smile in her eyes as he turned away from her.

  “Signal the teams,” he said, already moving toward the maintenance access panel at the far end of the corridor. “We move in five.”

  Hawk melted back into the shadows of the tunnels, leaving Jameson alone with his thoughts. He crouched beside the panel, fingers working the encrypted lock Callum had reprogrammed days ago. The metal cover slid away with barely a whisper, revealing the dark tunnel beyond.

  Shadera’s face slipped into his head, and the thought of what would happen to her today sent a surge of rage through his body so intense that his vision blurred at the edges. He’d heard enough at their last meeting of the Vow ceremony, and he could barely stomach it.

  He forced the image away. Rage made men careless. Rage got men killed. And he couldn’t afford to die, not today. Not when she needed him.

  His comms unit vibrated against his wrist. “Ghost,” Callum’s voice came through, low and distorted, “surveillance loop is active. Heart security is blind to the Cardinal sectors. You’re clear to proceed.”

  “Copy that,” Jameson replied, adjusting the earpiece that would keep him connected to the rebel network throughout the day. “Moving to position alpha. What’s your status?”

  “In place at the club. You have two hours to make it to the Heart before patrols start.”

  “Understood,” Jameson answered as the line fell silent.

  He straightened, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had settled there. Behind him, shadows had coalesced into people—his team assembling silently, their faces grim. One hundred men and women drawn from the most skilled soldiers from the Boundary and Cardinal, each armed with Veyra weapons provided by Mikel, smuggled piece by piece through Callum’s networks.

  Each ready to die for the cause if necessary.

  He could see the determination in their eyes, the readiness. Some bore fresh wounds from the Veyra clash days ago. Others carried older scars—the visible marks of Heart oppression etched into flesh and bone. All of them had lost something to Maximus’s regime. All of them had reason to fight.

  Hawk snaked through the crowd until she was standing in front of Jameson, her mask pulled down now. A large scar cut from ear to ear on the bottom half of her face, a permanent smile he knew could have only been gifted to her by the Veyra.

  It was their signature for women who’d refused to kneel to them, that refused to smile for them. If they would not do it on their own, the Veyra would do it for them.

  “Farrow’s unit is in position,” she said, slipping onto his right side. “Says they’ve secured the access points to the power grid. They’ll cut it when the signal comes.”

  Jameson nodded. “And Jaeger’s teams?”

  “Already inside the Heart. Moved in during the night shift change.”

  A small victory, but significant. If the Daggermouths were already in place, their chances improved considerably. The assassins would target key security points with snipers, eliminating resistance before it could organize against the main rebel force.

  “Let’s move,” Jameson said, gesturing toward the tunnel. “Single file until we hit the first checkpoint.”

  He climbed down the ladder first, cracking a glow light and hooking it to his belt, the rebels behind him mirrored his actions and they began their final trek toward the Heart.

  His thoughts turned to Shadera again, as they always did in quiet moments. He missed her in a way that made it hard to breathe. Of course he missed the intimacy of her in his arms, of the feel of her skin against his, but that was the least of it. He missed his best friend.

  She was his person before he’d ever truly fallen for her.

  The simplicity of it made it even more honest. She was just his person, and he missed her.

  For now, he would keep his unit safe. Stay focused on making sure they all made it into the Heart alive. But tonight, his only goal was to make sure Shadera made it out with her life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 9 AM

  GREYSON’S HEAD TILTED UP as the sound of boots filtered through the air. Slowly, one by one, Veyra came into view and lined the wall on the other side of the cell as Mikel followed them into the room. Greyson knew it was him just by the way he stood. He hesitated at the entrance for only a second before falling in line with his men.

  His father stepped through the doorway next and Greyson stared at him, refusing to lower his gaze. A fresh wave of hate threatened to choke him.

  “Good morning.” Maximus’s voice was pleasant, almost cheerful. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on our conversation.”

  Greyson said nothing. His silence was all he had left—the only defiance he could muster while bound to the chair.

  Maximus punched a code into the cell door and it slid open with a hiss. Goosebumps spread over Greyson’s skin at the sudden stream of warm air and relief crashed over his body. The door was open. One step closer to getting out of this fucking cell.

  “Today is a joyous day.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Your ceremony begins in three hours. Captain Mikel will be escorting you and your intended back to your quarters to prepare for this magnificent union.”

  Greyson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

  “Remember our agreement,” Maximus continued, stepping closer to Greyson’s chair. Close enough that he could smell the expensive cologne that clung to his suit, a scent that had haunted his nightmares since childhood. “You will participate fully. You will speak the words as written. You will smile.” He leaned down, his golden mask inches from Greyson’s face. “And you will consummate the Vow, as tradition demands.”

  Bile rose in Greyson’s throat. The consummation—the final, degrading requirement of the Vow ceremony.

  Still, Greyson stayed silent.

  “I only came to wish my son luck on the most important day of his life,” Maximus said, turning back toward the door. “Remember, your cooperation today decides the fates of many.”

  He didn’t say another word as he strode from the cell, passing Mikel. Mikel’s faceplate followed the President until he disappeared through the outer door, then his head turn back to Greyson.

  “Remove his restraints,” Mikel ordered the officers. “Then bring out the Daggermouth.”

  One officer stepped forward, a knife appearing in his hand. He began to slice through the cords binding Greyson to the chair, starting with those around his chest. Each severed rope eased the pressure, but as blood rushed back into his compressed muscles, pain flared like fire beneath his skin.

  Greyson bit back a groan as the last cord fell away. His limbs felt foreign, leaden, refusing to respond properly as he tried to stand. The officer gripped his arm, not roughly but firmly, supporting him as his legs threatened to buckle.

  “Slowly,” Mikel advised, watching him with an intensity that made Greyson uncomfortable. “You’ve been bound for nearly forty-eight hours.”

  The information registered dimly through the haze of pain. Two days. Two days of thirst and hunger and Shadera’s muffled cries from the next cell.

  Shadera.

  His head turned toward the wall that separated their cells, straining to hear any sound from her. Nothing. The silence from her side was more terrifying than any cry could have been.

  “Get her out,” he croaked, taking a stumbling step toward the door. The officer’s hand tightened on his arm, holding him back. “Now.”

  Mikel nodded to the remaining officers, who disappeared from view, heading toward Shadera’s cell. Greyson heard the beep of the access code, the hiss of the door. Then silence again.

  When they reappeared, two officers supporting a figure between them, Greyson’s world contracted to a single point of horror.

  Shadera hung between the officers, barely conscious, her feet dragging on the concrete floor. Her face—her beautiful, defiant face—was swollen beyond recognition, one eye completely closed, the other a slit in the purple black mess of bruising. Blood had dried in her hair, matting it to her scalp in dark clumps. Her lip was split in multiple places, chin crusted with blood both fresh and old.

  But it was her body that made Greyson’s knees nearly give out. Her shirt was torn, revealing glimpses of skin that was no longer skin—just a map of bruises, blacks and greens and blues and sickly yellows at the edges. She held herself as if her ribs were broken, each breath a shallow, pained affair. Her hands were a ruin, fingers swollen, knuckles split, nails torn and bloody.

  Greyson’s vision blurred. The rage that exploded in his chest was unlike anything he’d felt before—hotter, sharper, more all-consuming than any fury he’d experienced in his violent life. It filled his lungs like acid, burned behind his eyes like molten metal. This was what they had done to her while he sat in his cell, nursing his anger, refusing to speak to her. This was what she’d endured while he wallowed in his own pain.