Chapter 37. Strike First

The road out of the canyon bled into miles of silence. The Crownless rode like ghosts, engines coughing, chrome dulled by soot. No one spoke. No one laughed. Even Kenzie, wild grin still plastered on her face, rode quiet, her chain swinging loose at her side.

By the time Axel turned them toward the outskirts of Crestwood, the sun was climbing, pale and sharp. Riven’s arms trembled from the strain, her scraped palms raw against the grips. She could feel every bone in her body—but she kept her eyes fixed on Axel.

He never slowed. Even bleeding, even swaying in the saddle, he carried the line like he couldn’t afford to break.

The junkyard gates groaned when they pushed through.

It wasn’t much—just rusted husks piled like walls, oil drums standing like sentries, weeds splitting the gravel. But the fences were high, the sheds sturdy, and most importantly, no one outside the Wolves and their enemies remembered this place existed.

The Crownless filed in, bikes