We rode the dragonfly, whooshing through the sky, slicing the air. Just the three of us.

  I stole a glance at Faye. She noticed and quickly looked away. The cabin felt strangely different this time—silent, heavy, nerve-racking. I’d never been on a mission quite like this.

  Faye reached into her pocket and pulled out a small cigarette pack. She took one, lit it, and inhaled deeply. I stared. She caught me again and, without a word, held the pack out. I accepted one. She lit it for me.

  I took a drag and exhaled slowly. It had been years since my last cigarette. The smoke didn’t dissolve the knot in my stomach.

  “You smoke?” Gina asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Quit a long time ago. But one doesn’t hurt, right? Just to calm the nerves.”

  Gina turned to Faye. “Can I have one too?”

  Faye gave a small, tired smile and passed the pack. Gina took a stick, lit it with her own lighter, and inhaled cautiously.

  “So you smoke too,” I said.

  “No,” she replied, coughing lightly on the first pull. “But if it really calms the nerves, I’ll risk it.”

  We laughed then—a short, brittle sound. The kind of laugh you share when you know it might be your last.

  Jerry’s voice crackled over comms. “Alright, uh… men… ladies… and gentleman. One hundred miles from Sector 1 coastline. Once you cross that line, comms go dark. You’re on your own. Remember the plan: get in, track, retrieve, get out. No side hustles. No sightseeing. You’ve got two hours.”

  We watched the tactical panel. The coastline of Sector 1 bristled with defensive turrets every hundred meters—each one loaded and ready to shred any unauthorized aircraft into confetti. But as we crossed the line… nothing. No screaming rockets. No fire.

  Harvey had spoofed the dragonfly’s registration. To the Empire’s sky scanners and ground radars, we were one of theirs. We flew in plain sight—not cloaked, not silent—accepted without question.

  Below us stretched what had once been the United States of America, one of the three superpowers that once dominated the world. World War III had gutted it. Now it's just a vast, glowing graveyard of black Christanium—the Empire’s most precious resource. Red light pulsed from the crystals across endless fields. Mining machines crawled over the land like mechanical insects, harvesting it for the incoming war.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Then we saw it: the Sapphire Palace.

  It rose alone in the center of the black fields, massive and arrogant. Walls as tall as twenty-story buildings. Anti-aircraft turrets studded every corner, ledge, and rooftop. In the middle stood the central spire—so tall that looking up from its base would make you dizzy and fall backward.

  We began our descent. Our forged Imperial credentials still held. Time for the masks.

  We landed smoothly on the pad. With a tap on our wristwatches, the Impostor's Mask now activated. I glanced at Gina and Faye—their faces were completely unrecognizable. I caught my own reflection in a panel: thick mustache, unfamiliar jawline. Even I wouldn’t know myself.

  We stepped out, adjusted our crisp blue Imperial uniforms, and walked. The remaining guards snapped crisp salutes. We returned lazy nods. They saw only what we wanted them to see: one of there officers.

  We moved quickly but calmly toward the central doors. Every guard we passed saluted. The plan was working flawlessly.

  Inside the palace at last. Now, down to the basement.

  As a former Imperial officer, I knew these halls like the back of my hand. Every turn, every shortcut—I had memorized them years ago. Reaching the lower levels was almost routine.

  In the basement, another tap on the wristwatch. The tracker hummed to life, emitting faint beeps. We followed the sound in tense silence, barely glancing at each other. Minutes later, the beeping intensified.

  There it was: the suitcase. The supercomputer. Core Data Number 5—the final piece of the puzzle.

  Gina snatched it up, cuffed it to her wrist. We exchanged quick nods. Time to leave.

  Then I realized.

  “Where’s Faye?”

  “Shit.”

  We hurried back up to the first floor, moving fast but trying to look natural. Down one corridor, then another. Then—a shout. A struggle. Coming from one of the side rooms.

  We ran toward the sound.

  Inside: Arthur Jr.—eldest son, heir apparent to the Imperial throne—had Faye pinned against the wall. Her mask was torn half off. He was tearing at her uniform, forcing his mouth on hers.

  I launched myself at him, locked his arms behind his back. Gina swung the cuffed suitcase like a club—crack—right into his face. Blood sprayed from his nose.

  He thrashed, but I held tight. Then—

  A sharp crack. Pak!

  Faye had pulled a tiny one-shot pistol from under her skirt. The bullet entered his temple. Arthur Jr. went limp. I released him. He crumpled to the floor, eyes wide open, a neat hole leaking red.

  Faye dropped to her knees, shaking, tears streaming. Gina knelt beside her, wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  I stared at Faye. Something cold settled in my gut.

  She planned this.

  But then… it was never part of the plan.

  No alarm. The palace was too busy preparing for war. We dragged the body into the nearest broom closet and shut the door.

  Gina quickly repaired Faye’s mask. One tap—it flickered back to life. Still functional. Faye straightened her uniform. I checked the time.

  Two hours almost gone. Only thirty minutes left.

  We moved—fast but controlled—through the corridors, ignoring the salutes, straight to the landing pad.

  Aboard the dragonfly. Engines roared. We lifted off.

  From the panels we watched the Sapphire Palace shrink behind us, then the glowing black fields, then the coastline, until we were over open sea.

  I looked at Faye.

  She lit another cigarette, took a long drag, stared out the window, and gave a single, satisfied nod.

  Yes. She had planned it.

  Revenge.

  But for what?