TSA agents were behind me, and I can assure you—it froze me to death.

  The sound of boots thundered through the cargo bay. My pulse quickened, each heartbeat a hammer striking against my ribs. I pressed myself tighter into the shadows, praying they hadn’t noticed me.

  But then, everything shifted.

  The agents near the armory suddenly turned their attention toward the windows. A wave of shouts, clipped and urgent, cut through the roar of the engines.

  “Sir!” one of them barked.

  Rocke emerged from the cockpit, his sharp suit catching the dim cabin light. His eyes swept the chaos like a hawk. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got military planes on our tail!” the watchman cried, panic cracking his voice.

  For a heartbeat, Rocke’s expression faltered. Then it hardened. “Take shots at them with your wands!” he thundered. “Move, all of you—man your stations!”

  The order ignited the cabin.

  Men and women stormed in, pulling wands from shoulder holsters. Someone yanked the lower cargo hatch open, and a blast of freezing air slammed into the compartment. I staggered back, teeth clenching against the sudden rush of wind. My cover barely held.

  Bolts of light crackled into the night sky, bright streaks ripping from the wands of Rocke’s soldiers. I crouched low, watching with grim fascination as red and violet spells collided against sleek, dark silhouettes—military fighter jets.

  The air lit up in staccato flashes. Explosions rumbled through the fuselage.

  The first window burst, shards spraying across the cargo hold. I dropped flat, glass raining across my back and skittering across the steel floor. My hands instinctively flew to shield my head. My chest heaved, every instinct screaming to stay down, stay small, don’t move.

  The fighters pressed harder. I felt the plane lurch, a shudder that rattled my teeth. Somewhere above, men shouted as they tried to repel the assault.

  Then—impact.

  A well-aimed bolt slammed into one of the jets. The night sky erupted in flame, the aircraft spiraling down in a trail of smoke. I peeked up just in time to see its wing tear free before it vanished into the dark below.

  But more jets surged into position, unleashing their own wrath. Bullets and enchanted blasts rained on the cargo plane, shaking it violently. Metal screeched. My throat burned from the acrid sting of smoke.

  It should have paralyzed me. It should have left me clinging to the floor like a coward. But amid the fear, realization struck like lightning.

  The Armonk.

  This chaos—the firefight, the explosions—it was my chance.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I pushed myself to my feet, sprinting toward the armored crate strapped near the bay wall. My lungs burned as I whispered, “One… eighteen…” The numbers felt like lead on my tongue. My hands trembled on the keypad.

  The code. The cursed code. Too many digits, too much pressure. I couldn’t focus.

  Forget the keypad. Forget finesse. Just grab it.

  The radio at my belt crackled to life. I snatched it up. “What happened?!”

  A voice, ragged with panic, shouted back, “Come on! You need to get in! Just bring the container with you!”

  He was thinking the same thing as me.

  “Sure—I’ll be there in a moment,” I hissed into the receiver.

  But before I could move, a hand clamped onto my collar and yanked me back.

  I twisted, teeth bared. Three TSA agents blocked my path, wands drawn, eyes sharp.

  I tore free, stumbling but staying upright. My wand snapped into my hand.

  They rushed me.

  The first slash of light I parried, sparks crackling across the bay wall. I countered, blasting one agent backward into a stack of cases. The second ducked, flanking wide. The third lunged straight for me.

  I spun, blocking wand against wand, the crack reverberating up my arm. His face was inches from mine, sweat beading across his brow. With a sharp twist, I shoved him off and swung. My strike caught his jaw—bone meeting bone with a sickening thud.

  He reeled, but the next agent was already on me.

  We collided in a blur of fists and sparks. His movements were sharp, trained—military precision. Every swing of his wand came with lethal intent, each one a near miss that forced me into frantic dodges.

  I caught him in the gut with the butt of my wand. He staggered, but spun fluidly, delivering a roundhouse kick that exploded against my face.

  I hit the floor hard, stars bursting across my vision.

  Get up. Don’t quit.

  I rolled aside as his next strike cracked into the steel floor where my head had been. My counter swing missed. Another. Missed again.

  Desperation fueled me. I kicked low, catching his thigh, throwing him off balance. I surged forward, seized his wrist, and dragged him down with me. He hit the deck, gasping.

  I rose first. My wand hovered above him, ready to strike. His eyes, bleary and unfocused, betrayed exhaustion, maybe even a hangover.

  I didn’t hesitate. I struck.

  Another pair barreled into me, knocking me sprawling. I hit the ground with a grunt.

  But this time, it wasn’t a nameless agent standing over me.

  It was Rocke.

  “Hello, little buddy,” he said with a smirk, his voice dripping venom. “You look a little… disoriented.”

  I scrambled upright, fury boiling over. I charged. He sidestepped with insulting ease, letting me tumble past.

  “You try so hard to play spy mage,” he mused, shaking his head, “but you’re not good at it. Truly baffling that someone like you has a perk. One would think your lineage might’ve produced… better.”

  Anger burned hotter than pain. I roared and lunged again, swinging wildly. He laughed, dancing aside, every dodge a dagger in my pride.

  “Stop embarrassing yourself,” Rocke chuckled. “You’re entertaining, I’ll give you that.”

  I swung again. He caught my wrist, twisted, and smacked the wand from my grip. It clattered across the bay, vanishing behind stacked crates.

  He smiled coldly. “Look who’s wandless now. Welcome to the club.”

  I lashed out with my fists. He dodged effortlessly. I tried again. Nothing.

  Finally, I connected—kicks to his leg, stomach, chest. He staggered, but refused to fall. My lungs burned. My arms ached.

  Rocke pressed in close, elbow striking hard across my back. I stumbled, gasping. He grinned.

  “Tell me, how does it feel, little buddy?”

  I swung at him, reckless. He caught me, lifted, and hurled me to the deck. Pain detonated across my spine.

  I lay there, broken, tears pricking hot at my eyes. I forced myself up—only for his boot to crash against my face. Blood trickled warm down my cheek.

  “Wake up, boy!” Rocke snarled. “It’s pathetic—having a perk and fighting like you were just born!”

  He kicked again. My ribs screamed.

  “You’ll lose,” he said simply. “Nothing can bring me down.”

  I spat blood onto the floor. My hands curled into fists. Even broken, even beaten—I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  And then—salvation roared in from above.

  The engines of the plane exploded.

  The world became fire.