Elias Grey had always been a good man. At least, that’s what he believed.\n\nA history professor at a small university, he spent his days lecturing about fallen empires and moral decay. His students admired him, his colleagues respected him, and his quiet life in the city was unremarkable. But deep down, Elias knew he was a man of limitations—an observer of history, never a maker of it.\n\nThe first crack appeared on a cold autumn afternoon.\n\nHis funding had been cut. The university, citing “budget constraints,” had removed his research grant in favor of more “modern” subjects. Elias had spent years building his thesis on moral erosion in historical leaders, and now, it was being

No one knew quite what to expect from Delilah Ray. She’d disappeared two years ago — left behind a bustling career as a New York event designer and dropped off the map after a scandal involving a high-profile client and a six-figure wedding that never happened. But now, here she was. Back. Sort of. The invitation was cryptic. A wax-sealed envelope, hand-delivered: _“You are invited to an unforgettable night under a billion stars. Coordinates enclosed. Bring nothing but your best self. — D”_ Some thought it was a stunt. Others, a cult. But curiosity was powerful — and Delilah knew how to leverage that better than anyone. When they arrived, they found the Mojave desert transformed: a glowing oasis of string lights, Persian rugs laid across the sand, a bar carved from driftwood, music thumping from solar-powered speakers, and fire pits crackling under the endless sky. Delilah stood in the center like a sun around which everyone orbited — wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a smile that said, _“I know something you don’t.”_ “I wanted to remind people that wonder still exists,” she said, raising her glass. “Especially in places we’ve forgotten how to look.” But it wasn’t just a party. Delilah had a plan. And before sunrise, everyone would be part of it.

Mira leaned against her desk, tapping her pen, half-listening to her teacher. “I studied all night,” she muttered under her breath, even though she hadn’t opened a book. A second later, her test filled itself in—perfect answers, flawless handwriting. No one noticed. No one ever did. She had learned how to lie gently: about grades, talents, little things. Until yesterday. “I wish Dad were still here,” she’d whispered in the hallway, heart aching from a photo in her pocket. That night, the front door creaked open. He stood there—same coat, same soft eyes—but something was wrong. He didn’t blink. His voice echoed too long. “Hi, Mira,” he said, smiling like a memory stretched too far. Now, curled beside her was a dragon, real and warm, while her father—not quite her father—stood silently in the hallway, watching. She held her breath. “I’m fine,” she whispered. But the dragon growled low. And her father’s eyes flickered, as if even the lie knew it wasn’t true.