The temperature chills, gooseflesh pebbles my skin almost painfully, and the air thickens until my lungs struggle in an effort to breathe. The ground is spongy under my feet, slowing my momentum, and a dense fog creeps along the foliage like poison, looking for its next victim to consume.
I must be close to the edge of the dome.
While the security measures are supposed to keep humans out, I suspect it’s more to keep people from escaping Kyperian. We are the last refuge for supernatural creatures—shifters of all kinds, elves, fairies, trolls, ogres…basically any mythical creature humans haven’t hunted to death.
The ruling council claims the outside world is dangerous, and anyone who ventures beyond the borders of Kyperian is banned from ever returning. Thanks to the magical dome, once we leave, we’re unable to locate the hidden kingdom again.
It’s a safety measure.
As far as I’m concerned, they can keep their privileged world, where only the top predators have any freedom. The rest of us are born to serve and live in the slums. The lore—a combination of alphas, vampire masters, and mages who rule the council—use their powers to keep the citizens docile and under their thumb.
Like we should be grateful for their meager generosity and the dubious honor of obeying their every whim.
It’s all bullshit.
Sure, I could challenge others for a better standing, rise through the hierarchy—I have enough power to join one of the elite squads—but I can’t risk my abilities being discovered.
Not that I have to worry about my secret anymore.
It’s all been for nothing.
I trusted the wrong person. In return for saving their life, they turned me over to the lore for a reward and a chance for a better future.
I almost can’t blame them.
Almost.
Tiny insects swarm the mist, hunting for their next meal, and I pick up my pace when the buzzing around me increases, like they caught my scent. The little fuckers are carnivorous beasts who can pick a person’s bones clean in under an hour.
If they catch my trail before I cross the barrier, I’m dead.
With gritted teeth, I swipe away the sweat dripping off my face and pick up my pace, cursing myself for being a fool. I should’ve left Kyperian a long time ago, but I was hoping to save up more money for the coyotes—real coyotes shifters who smuggle people and goods in and out of Kyperian.
They’re scavengers, natural rebels, and one of the few species that don’t give a shit about the ruling council. I had an appointment with them next week to smuggle me and Gramps out…until I fucked up.
Now, I’m on my own.
My heart aches at the thought of Gramps, and I shake my head, trying to banish my last memory of him. If I allow myself the luxury, I’m afraid I might collapse under the weight of my grief.
My guilt.
Though the chance of escaping is minuscule, I refuse to give up—not when Gramps sacrificed himself to get me out.
Most likely, I’ll be hunted down by the Orion. They’re an elite squad of legendary hunters trained from birth to track down anyone who breaks the laws of Kyperian. That is, if they survive the training. Only ten out of every hundred who apply actually graduate. Most who fail the training are either dead or too injured to ever work again.
So few Orion survive the brutal training that they are expected to work until they die. Even those who are injured in the line of duty are still expected to serve, knowing full well that they won’t survive. I’m baffled why so many people try to join the ranks. Some might think the perks outweigh the risks, but I saw the horrors they faced firsthand from Gramps.
Nothing is worth what he had to endure daily.
Sure, the privileges that come with the job are amazing, but the trick is you have to live to enjoy them—free housing at thecapital, generous pay, and the rare benefit of selecting a mate of your choosing, instead of being assigned one by the council. And that’s only if you’re lucky enough to be selected to breed, since the population is approximately ten males to one female.
Though I have never trained with the Orion directly, I was taught everything they know in secret by Gramps. He was one of the few warriors allowed to retire after being injured in the line of duty, one of the few elders still alive after nearly a century of service to the council.
Although I’m not sure if you’d consider the dubious honor of training the next generation of killers as retirement.
No one dares to protest their assignments, not if they want to live.
Gramps took me in as an orphaned child, training me behind closed doors. He wasn’t a gentle man, but his gruff affection showed in the way he made sure I had the skills to survive. Though we never talked about it out loud—it was too dangerous to even whisper the truth—I suspected Gramps knew I was a kismet.
