My bandaged knee throbbed in protest, but I set my jaw and marched across the gravel toward the cluster of tents.
Collins, Leila, and Jace stood in a semi-circle around a wide table covered in maps and glowing tablets.
The moment my boots crunched near the edge of their gathering, the laughter died.
Collins pulled his hands out of his pockets, while Jace’s eyes dropped to a handheld scanner like it had suddenly become the most important object on the ridge.
Dylan didn’t shift his stance, but his eyes tracked me the whole way.
“You called?” I asked, stopping three feet short of the table and folding my arms over my chest.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.” Dylan didn’t look up from the slate.
“I am out of bed because I am done staring at walls and listening to idle gossipers,” I replied, planting my feet into the mud.
“And I am not going to sit around acting like a decorative mascot while everyone else is chewing through ration bars like it’s a competitive sport.” Leila pressed her lips together, her shoulders shifting slightly as she looked toward the ridge.
“You should be resting that leg.” Leila’s eyes flicked toward the ridge, not at me — like she already knew how this would go.
“My leg is fine,” I said, pointing a finger toward the dead forest beyond the perimeter wire.
“What isn’t fine is being kept in the dark.
We found the monster.
Dylan killed the monster.
My bag died for the cause.
Why are we still here and for once, don’t dismiss my curiosity?” Dylan didn’t answer.
He picked up a transparent data slate from the table, his thumb dragging across the glass screen.
“Collins,” Dylan said softly.
Collins straightened his back, his hand flying to the back of his neck.
“Sir?” “Brief her.” “Me, sir?” Collins asked, his voice pitching up a fraction.
“Right now?” “She won’t stop asking until someone does,” Dylan said, not looking up from the screen.
“Make it quick.” Collins swallowed hard, clearing his throat before turning to face me.
He motioned toward an empty folding chair near the tactical map, but I remained standing.
“Okay,” Collins began, running a hand over his trimmed hair.
“Where do we start?” “At the beginning,” I said.
“Start with why my family acts like they own the world, and why your boss acts like he owns the sky.” Collins let out a nervous puff of air, his eyes darting toward Dylan for a split second before settling back on me.
“You already know about Peacemakers,” Collins said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Raven City.
“Your family line.
The Knoxes.” “Unfortunately,” I grumbled.
“Right,” Collins continued.
“Peacemakers are natural stabilizers.
You calm energy flares, suppress runaway manifestations, balance anomalies.
When a power goes out of control, a Peacemaker brings the field back to zero.” Behind him, someone dropped a crate of gear with a clatter, and Jace flinched like it had been a gunshot.
No one else reacted.
“I know that part,” I said, tapping my boot against the dirt.
“My stepmother brings it up at every single breakfast.
Kristen is their prodigy.
I am the defective model.” “You’re not defective, ma’am,” Collins offered quickly, though his voice lacked conviction.
“You just didn’t inherit the active gene.” “Same thing.
Move on,” I said.
“Hunters are the opposite,” Collins explained, pointing a thumb toward Dylan and the rest of the armed guards stationed around the wire.
“The Burke lineage.
They don’t just stabilize anomalies.
They track them, neutralize them, and take them down.
Physical adaptation, threat perception, hyper sensory awareness, combat instincts.” “I figured out the combat part when he stabbed a demon in the throat,” I said dryly.
“Right,” Collins said.
“But here’s the thing you might not know.
Your family passes the Peacemaker trait down through every single generation.
Everyone gets a piece of it, main line or side branch.” “I didn’t,” I reminded him.
“You’re an exception,” Collins admitted, rubbing his chin.
“But with the Burkes, the Apex Hunter gene doesn’t work like that.
It skips two full generations.” I stopped tapping my foot.
I looked over at Dylan, who was still silently reading through the operational logs, completely ignoring the conversation.
“It skips?” I asked.
“Two generations,” Collins nodded.
“Dylan’s parents are baseline observers.
They don’t have field powers.
His grandparents didn’t have them either.
The Apex trait hits one specific bloodline member every two cycles.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the firstborn or the youngest.
Dylan inherited the entire concentrated weight of the Burke gift.” All my life, my stepmother had drilled it into my head that birth order and blood purity dictated everything.
Kristen was special because she was the younger daughter who manifested the Knox gift, while I was the older daughter who got nothing.
I had assumed Dylan was the leader of the Burke family simply because he was the eldest son.
“So Holland doesn’t have it?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could check myself.
Collins shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Holland has basic tracking aptitude, but no Apex combat genetics.
Dylan is the only active Apex Hunter in this entire region.” “Fascinating,” I murmured, crossing my arms tighter.
“So he’s a biological anomaly.” “He prefers the term high-asset operator,” Collins said with a faint, tight smile that vanished the moment Dylan shifted his foot.
“Anyway, then there’s the rest of the population.
The Manifested.” “Ordinary people,” I said.
“Exactly,” Collins said, leaning against the edge of the table.
“People who aren’t born into the ancient lines.
Their abilities emerge spontaneously, or sometimes through artificial induction.
Most of them live completely normal lives.
We classify them in tiers to keep track of the risks.” “Tiers?” “Class 1 is the standard baseline,” Collins explained, counting off on his fingers.
“Mild telekinesis, basic heat generation, minor physical enhancements.
Low threat level.
Safe.” “And Class 2?” I asked, thinking back to the ID bracelet resting on the nightstand in the cabin.
“Class 2 is Unstable,” Collins said, his voice dropping an octave.
“High risk of energy leaks and uncontrolled flare-ups.
Your husband’s already told you who Markus was — he worked containment.
When a Class-2 destabilizes, they need a Peacemaker or a containment squad on them fast, before they turn.” “Turn into what?” “Class 3.” Collins didn’t dress it up.
“Feral.
At Class 3, human consciousness vanishes entirely.
The host body breaks down, the energy turns toxic, and they act purely on predatory instinct.
They become monsters.” “And the thing in the ravine?” I asked, my throat feeling dry despite the damp mountain air.
“The one with the ossified bone spikes and the milky eyes?” Somewhere behind us, the wind picked up, rattling a loose tent flap against its pole.
Collins’s eyes dropped to the map.
“That wasn’t a Class 3.” I frowned.
“It wasn’t?” “No,” Collins replied.
“That was Class 4.” “You didn’t list a Class 4,” I pointed out.
“Because it doesn’t have an official name,” Collins said, his fingers pulling at the edge of his tactical belt.
“It’s just called Class 4 because it’s worse than anything the Alliance calculated.
It doesn’t happen naturally.” “What do you mean it doesn’t happen naturally?” “Class 3 is a natural deterioration,” Collins explained.
“Class 4 is induced.
It’s bio-engineered horror.
Someone takes an Unstable Class-2, subjects them to concentrated external energy spores or rogue pathogen pods, and forces their body to mutate violently.
It creates static aura fields, bone armor, total organ restructuring, and catastrophic mortality rates.” I pulled the thin gold wedding ring out of my pocket, feeling the scratched edge between my thumbs.
“Markus didn’t just lose control,” I said, looking up at Collins.
“Someone turned him into that thing.” “Yes,” Collins said softly.
“Who?” “We don’t know,” Collins admitted.
“That’s why we’re here.” I turned my head toward Dylan.
He had finally closed the glass slate, sliding it into a leather pouch at his belt.
“If the creature is dead, why aren’t we going back to Raven City?” I demanded, holding his stare.
“If someone is out here engineering monsters, shouldn’t we be reporting this to the High Council instead of camping in the mud?” Dylan stepped closer to the table, his shadow falling over the map.
“Class 4 signatures don’t manifest out of thin air, Knox,” Dylan said, his voice low and raspy.
“So?” “So standard protocol requires a minimum seven-day observation sweep,” Dylan said, resting his gloved hands on the edge of the table.
“When a Class 4 drops, it leaves behind secondary spores.
Hidden pods.
Containment leaks.
If we leave today, whatever corrupted Markus will spread to the lower valleys.” “Seven days,” I repeated, my voice flat.
“At least,” Dylan corrected.
“We are not rushing home to satisfy your sudden desire for high-society tea parties.
And we are certainly not slacking on perimeter security because your boots got dirty.” I stared at him, my jaw tightening as a sharp retort formed on the tip of my tongue.
“I don’t care about tea parties,” I snapped.
“I care about not sleeping in a hazard zone while someone plays mad scientist with human beings!” Dylan didn’t flinch.
“Then stay in the cabin and keep out of the way.” “I am not a child!” “Then stop acting like one,” Dylan replied smoothly, turning his back on me to look at Collins.
“Update the grid sweep.
I want teams four and five on the north ridge by dusk.” “Yes, sir,” Collins said, snapping to attention.
I stood there in my oversized blue overalls, clutching Markus’s wedding ring in my fist, watching Dylan issue orders like the forest around us wasn’t actively trying to swallow us whole.
So, if you come across something, I’d like to burden you a little to bring it to my attention.
Thank you!
May your pillows stay warm!
—UC.