The scenery blurred past the window, fields and road signs dissolving into streaks of color Shane barely registered. The vehicle hummed steadily beneath him, tires devouring distance with mechanical indifference. Two days of travel. Two days of dead ends and secondhand lies.
Shane rested his forehead against the glass, watching his reflection drift in and out of focus. He looked thinner than he remembered. Sharper. Like a man who had stopped sleeping deeply and started waking already angry.
The woman from the nightclub had promised certainty.
A broker, she'd said. Reputable. Someone who dealt in truths that didn't survive daylight. Shane had paid her accordingly—money scraped together through favors and bloodshed alike. Now, with three locations behind them and nothing to show for it, that certainty felt like a joke told at his expense.
"I think we were ripped off," Shane said at last, his voice flat with restraint. "Three out of four locations, Matthew. Nothing. No sign of him. No witnesses that matter."
The man driving did not look at him right away.
Matthew kept his hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward, posture relaxed in a way that came only from long habit. His hair had gone mostly gray years ago, but his movements remained economical, unhurried. He had learned long ago that urgency was not the same as speed.
"I wouldn't call it that yet," Matthew said. "We haven't checked the last location."
Shane scoffed. "That whore noticed we were from Zao. That's all this is. You know how they are here."
Matthew exhaled quietly.
"They're human too," he said. "And Kalindor has been under threat from the Empire for longer than you've been alive. Their resentment isn't personal."
"I don't care," Shane snapped. "If they can't help, they're useless. Let them rot."
Matthew glanced at him then, brief but deliberate. There was no anger in his eyes—only something heavier. Recognition, perhaps. Or grief.
Shane looked away.
He didn't need pity. He needed Erin.
Finding his brother was the only thing that mattered. Kalindor. Zao. Republic. Empire. They were abstractions compared to the singular certainty that Erin was out there—and had chosen this path.
"This is our exit," Matthew said, signaling as he eased the vehicle off the highway. "Depot's just ahead."
Shane's jaw tightened. "This better be something."
The depot sprawled across several acres, a maze of concrete and steel designed for movement rather than comfort. Semi-trucks filled the yard in uneven rows, engines idling, trailers yawning open as crews loaded and unloaded cargo Shane had no interest in cataloging.
The place felt hollow. Functional. Temporary.
"Don't bring your sword," Matthew said as they parked.
Shane turned sharply. "Why?"
"Because last time," Matthew replied evenly. "I don't want to explain a magical artifact to local authorities. Again."
Shane hesitated, then shoved the sword back into the trunk with more force than necessary.
He hated how empty his hands felt afterward. The sword was his only remaining connection to his past—to his family, to Erin. It had defined everything that followed.
And it fed on his anger. When he held it, the rage sharpened, clarified. Without it, everything felt duller. Less certain.
Matthew led them toward the entrance, a featureless façade of reinforced concrete broken only by heavy doors and a small artificial foyer beyond them. Two dragonkin women sat behind a curved desk, fake plants and plastic chairs arranged to soften the severity of the space.
Both had long black hair tied back. Their faces were surprisingly human, even though dark, ashen scales covered their necks and arms. Their eyes were human as well—not twisted or alien the way Shane had seen elsewhere.
He cataloged everything automatically. No visible guards. Cameras at the corners. Two hallways branching left and right. Offices above.
"Hi," Matthew said pleasantly. "We're here to see Beckett. Delivering the next package—needs to go directly to her."
One of the women nodded. The scales along her cheek creaked faintly as she moved. Shane caught the tightening of her expression. Suspicion. Or contempt.
"I'll call her," she said. Her voice was soft, an odd contrast to her size.
As they moved toward the waiting area, Shane leaned closer. "She won't help us. They never do."
"Relax," Matthew murmured. "Anger clouds judgment. You're rushing again."
"I don't want another lecture."
Matthew let it go.
The call came quickly.
"Bay fifty-nine," the woman said. "Left side."
The warehouse swallowed them whole.
Shelving rose five stories high, forklifts weaving between aisles, alarms chirping in constant overlap. No one spared them a glance. Work consumed everything here—machines answering orders without complaint.
At bay fifty-nine, a tall woman directed a crew with sharp gestures and sharper words. She towered over the humans, dark skin shot through with stone-like facets that caught the light.
Golem.
Shane had never seen one up close.
"You two," she said, pointing. "Zao bastards. Come with me."
Shane stiffened. Matthew only smiled.
"Progress," Matthew said mildly.
Beckett led them into a cramped office cluttered with papers and outdated equipment. When she sat, the chair creaked beneath her weight. Up close, the stone in her skin was unmistakable—hard angles, mineral sheen. Her eyes were solid black, uncomfortably perceptive.
Her face was broad and flat, almost blunt, her nose long and pink in stark contrast to her earth-dark skin. Muscle shifted beneath pebbled flesh as she moved, stone rippling in the harsh office light. Shane had studied golems at the academy. Those images had been caricatures. A real golem was a boulder that moved and spoke.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Information," Matthew said, sitting. Shane remained standing. "We're looking for a man. Same age. Same build. Same face."
Beckett studied Shane openly.
"Yes," she said after a moment. "I remember him. Came through with the Church of Saints."
The words landed like a blade between Shane's ribs—not piercing, but lodged deep enough to twist.
"Where did he go?" Shane demanded.
Beckett's eyes hardened. "Adjust your tone."
Matthew slid the check across the desk.
Beckett verified it carefully before continuing.
"They bought weapons. Enough to make a statement. Your brother guarded their leader. Talked to himself. Gave me chills."
Shane's fists clenched.
"They told me to watch the news," Beckett added. "Port Landa."
Port Landa.
The name carried weight. A city Zao had wanted for generations—key to breaking Kalindor open at the Fang.
Shane turned for the door.
"Thank you," Matthew said. "You've been helpful."
Outside, Shane walked fast.
Port Landa. Madia had wanted to see it once. An ancient city, she'd said, reading from a guidebook bought from a traveling merchant. He could still hear the excitement in her voice.
They left the facility, Shane leading with length in his stride. His hate had a solid direction. It led him onwards to the source that ruined his life. He would end what had been started.
"If only you could have seen it," Shane said quietly as he climbed into the vehicle. "I'll end what was started. For you."
Matthew started the engine. "It finally begins," he agreed quietly.
As the highway rose again beneath them, the road narrowed, not in distance, but in direction.
Every mile now led the same way.