Seralyth Ashcroft

The first thing I notice is the silence.

Not the normal quiet of my apartment—the kind I’ve learned to live inside, where the building creaks and the pipes groan and the neighbours music bleeds faintly through the wall at night.

This is a silence with teeth.

It hits me the moment I step into the hallway outside my door, keys still in my hand, grocery bag biting into my fingers. The air feels… wrong. Like it’s been held in someone else’s lungs and exhaled back out colder.

My instincts don’t scream. They don’t even whisper.

They just… stall.

Which is worse.

I stop mid-step, eyes tracking down the corridor. The lights overhead flicker once, steady, flicker again. The old carpet runner—brown and worn thin—still smells like lemon cleaner and damp wool. There’s nothing to see.

But my skin tightens anyway.

This building has always been safe because it’s boring. Because it’s tucked into the edge of a border city where people are too busy surviving their own lives to care about mine. Because I’ve made myself small here on purpose. No scent trails. No drama. No attachments. No patterns.

A life designed to be forgettable.

My brothers hate it.

They’ve tried to buy me better. Bigger. “Safer.” But bigger means eyes. Safer means guards. And guards mean questions. So I’ve kept my little apartment on the third floor above a shop that sells battered cookware and secondhand books, where the owner nods at me like I’m furniture and the street outside is loud enough to drown out most things.

I like loud.

Loud feels like camouflage.

Tonight, it feels like bait.

I shift the grocery bag higher, forcing my breathing steady. My heart is already trying to outrun my ribs.

Don’t panic. Don’t freeze. Don’t be stupid.

The lock on my door is scuffed from the time Tavian insisted on “testing it.” The frame is reinforced—Rhevan’s doing. The wards—minimal, subtle—Caelric’s. They’re not the kind you feel glowing in the air. They’re the kind you don’t notice until someone tries to cross them.

I step closer to my door, keys ready.

The hallway light flickers again.

And the hairs on the back of my neck rise like a warning flare.

I don’t open the door.

I turn—fast—and start walking back the way I came, toward the stairwell.

Because if something’s wrong inside, the last thing I’m doing is cornering myself.

My foot hits the first stair.

A hand comes out of nowhere and clamps over my mouth.

Hard.

The grocery bag drops. Or maybe I drop it. I don’t know. The sound of cans hitting the floor is loud and stupid and echoes down the stairwell like an alarm I can’t take back.

I bite.

My teeth sink into skin. The taste is copper and salt and the hand jerks back with a curse, but another arm snakes around my waist and yanks me off the step like I weigh nothing.

I hit the wall, shoulder first, pain bright and sharp. My instincts try to flare—

Nothing.

My body moves anyway, fueled by pure panic.

I drive my elbow back, aiming for ribs. I connect with something solid. A grunt. But the arm around me tightens, crushing the air out of my lungs.

“Spicy,” a voice mutters near my ear, amused.

I twist, nails scraping at whoever’s holding me. I catch fabric, then skin. My fingers slide. They’re wearing gloves.

Of course they are.

Someone grabs my wrists, jerks them behind my back. A plastic tie bites into my skin as it cinches tight.

My pulse roars. I kick, heel slamming backward. It hits shin. Another grunt. Hands clamp down on my shoulders, forcing me still.

I’m breathing hard through my nose now, mouth uncovered, teeth bared like it matters.

“Careful,” a second voice says, lazy. “She’s got teeth.”

“Foxes always do.”

My stomach drops so fast it feels like falling.

Fox.

They know.

I’m hauled forward, dragged into the stairwell. The door swings shut behind us, cutting off the corridor. The concrete walls amplify every sound—my breath, my struggling, the scrape of boots on stairs.

I fight anyway.

I throw my weight sideways, trying to slam whoever’s holding me into the railing. It works—kind of. We collide with a metallic clang and the man holding me curses under his breath. I seize the second of loosened grip and whip my head back.

My skull hits his nose.

Pain blooms in my scalp. He hisses.

“Okay,” he snaps, voice losing some amusement. “Okay, that’s enough.”

A third man steps in front of me, blocking the stairs down. He’s taller, broad shoulders, face half hidden under a dark hood. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel him looking at me like I’m inventory.

He reaches into a pouch at his hip.

Metal glints.

My blood goes cold.

“No,” I spit, even though my voice shakes. “No—”

He doesn’t answer. He just takes my left wrist in one gloved hand and slides something around it.

A cuff.

Dark metal. Smooth. Too clean to be cheap.

It clicks shut with a soft, final sound.

At first, nothing happens. Just the cold weight against my skin.

Then it starts.

A sensation like someone opening a drain inside my veins.

My limbs go heavy in a single breath. The world tilts. My vision narrows at the edges, like I’m looking down a tunnel.

I gasp, shocked by how fast it hits.

“Brinks,” someone says behind me, almost conversational. “Standard issue.”

I try to jerk away, but my body doesn’t respond the way it should. My muscles lag. My fingers tingle. My heartbeat stutters.

The man takes my right wrist.

“No—stop—” My voice cracks, anger and fear colliding.

The second brink snaps closed.

Cold floods both arms and then spreads, sinking into my shoulders, my chest, my ribs. It’s not pain. It’s worse—like my body is being turned down, dimmed. Like someone’s pressing their palm over the mouth of my instincts and telling them to shut up.

My knees buckle.

The men holding me tighten their grip, keeping me upright like I’m a doll they don’t want to drop.

“Oh, look,” the first one says, mock sympathy thick in his tone. “There she goes.”

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I try to pull in a breath big enough to fuel a shift, to call anything—anything—

Nothing answers.

My fox is there. I can feel the ghost of her, a tight coil under my skin. But it’s muffled. Locked behind a door I can’t open.

My hatred spikes so sharp it makes my eyes burn.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say, voice rough. “You have no idea what you just—”

The tall man in front of me tilts his head slightly. “We have every idea.”

His voice is calm. Smooth. Almost polite.

That makes it worse.

He steps closer, just enough that I can smell him—clean linen, antiseptic, no sweat. Like he’s been scrubbed of humanity.

He looks at the brinks on my wrists like he’s confirming a checkmark on a list.

“Asset secured,” he says quietly.

Asset.

Not person.

Not girl.

Not even fox.

Asset.

My rage flares again, but my body betrays me. My arms tremble. My breathing turns shallow. I hate the weakness. I hate that my own bloodline is being smothered by metal and bureaucracy.

One of the men behind me gives my shoulder a shove, rough and unnecessary, knocking me forward. I stumble, catching myself against the stairwell wall with my cuffed hands.

The concrete is cold. The brinks are colder.

“Easy,” he says, laughing. “Wouldn’t want you to bruise before delivery.”

Delivery.

I whip my head around as much as I can. “Who sent you?”

The first man leans in like we’re sharing a joke. “Does it matter? You’re important. Didn’t you know?”

I lunge at him. Or I try to. My legs move like they’re underwater. My balance is off. My body won’t obey the speed my mind demands.

He catches my shoulder, spins me, and slams me lightly—lightly—against the wall again, like he’s handling a stubborn animal.

Not enough to injure.

Enough to humiliate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs near my ear. “That’s the spirit. Keep that.”

My skin crawls.

I twist away, but he keeps a hand on my upper arm, firm. The brinks pulse, siphoning my strength in slow, steady sips.

I think of Rhevan’s face the last time he visited. The way he studied my apartment like he wanted to punch the walls for being too thin. The way Caelric checked the windows and murmured about “protocol drift.” The way Tavian hugged me too tight and whispered, “I hate leaving you here.”

And I think of them.

The four men my father trusted.

The four men who have stayed away long enough to make my longing ache like a bruise.

Vaelor’s storm stillness. Soryn’s watchful silence. Bramrik’s immovable warmth. Elowen’s cold precision.

My throat tightens with something that isn’t fear.

Hope.

Not sweet. Not gentle.

Sharp as a blade.

Because even if my instincts are muffled, I know one thing in my bones:

They will feel this.

Maybe not the details.

But the moment I was taken. The moment my world went wrong.

They will know.

The tall man gestures toward the stairs down. “Move.”

The hand on my arm yanks. I stumble, feet catching on the edge of the next step. My legs feel rubbery. My wrists are numb where the brinks bite my skin.

They herd me down the stairs like cattle.

I fight every step anyway, even if it’s pathetic. I drag my feet. I lean my weight wrong. I twist and shove back when they grab me. It earns me another rough shove, a sharp grip, a muttered insult.

“Stubborn little thing,” someone says, breathless with irritation.

“Fox,” another corrects. Like that explains everything.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the door to the outside opens.

Cold night air hits my face.

The street is quieter here, behind the building, where the alley smells like wet trash and old rain. A van waits with its side door open, interior dark.

Of course it’s a van.

Plain. Unmarked. Forgettable.

My stomach clenches.

They pull me toward it. I dig my heels in, brinks or not. My shoes scrape against asphalt, useless.

“Come on,” the first man says, voice turning sharp. “Stop making this difficult.”

“I will make it worse,” I snarl.

He laughs again, as if I’m adorable. “Sure you will.”

He grabs my upper arms and lifts—literally lifts me off the ground—and shoves me into the van. My back hits the metal floor. Pain shoots up my spine.

I scramble, trying to sit up.

A boot lands on the floor beside my hip, blocking me. A gloved hand grabs my ankle and yanks me deeper inside.

I kick, heel connecting with something soft. A curse.

“Watch it!”

“Hold her,” the tall man says calmly, stepping into the van after me.

Two men climb in and take positions on either side. One clamps a hand on my shoulder, forcing me back against the wall. The other tightens the plastic tie around my wrists as if punishing me for breathing.

The brinks hum faintly against my skin, dulling the edges of my fight but not my mind.

The tall man crouches in front of me, close enough that I can see the lower half of his face under the hood. Clean-shaven. Lips pressed into a line of mild irritation.

He studies me like he’s memorizing a form.

“You can keep fighting,” he says softly. “It won’t change anything.”

I spit at him.

It lands on his glove.

The van goes silent for a beat.

Then the first man laughs, delighted. “Oh, I like her.”

The tall man wipes his glove with a cloth like it’s nothing. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice.

He just looks at me, pale and steady.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that fire. You’ll need it.”

My heartbeat thuds hard. “Who are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He stands and steps out of the van. The door slides shut with a final metallic slam, plunging the interior into dim, humming darkness.

The engine turns over.

The van starts moving.

The city lights outside blur through a narrow slit in the paneling. My stomach lurches with every turn. My wrists throb under the brinks and the plastic tie. My arms feel heavy, useless. My legs tremble with exhaustion I didn’t earn.

One of the men beside me shifts, settling his weight like he’s getting comfortable for a long ride.

I close my eyes for half a second and inhale through my nose.

I force my mind to stay sharp.

Mark details.

The smell: antiseptic and clean fabric, like a hospital. The sound: the van’s engine steady, no rattles, meaning it’s maintained. The feel: brinks draining in measured pulses, not random, not crude.

This isn’t some back-alley grab.

This is sanctioned.

And that means someone with power wanted me.

My throat tightens again, but I swallow it down.

Hope is dangerous.

But it’s also the only thing I have left.

I press my numb wrists together, feeling the cold metal cuffs, and I let the anger settle into something steadier.

A vow.

They can drag me through alleys and shove me into vans and call me an asset all they want.

They can drain me until my body feels like it belongs to someone else.

But they can’t erase the fact that I exist.