Page 9 of The Hyena’s Guardian

The humor died as Vale stepped to the front of the room.

“Listen up.”

She activated the wall display behind her, and ancient stone corridors filled the screen beneath the cold glow of the monitors. Collapsed archways leaned at dangerous angles, and religious carvings worn nearly smooth with age stretched across walls that disappeared into descending darkness far below the surface. The deeper sections looked less like ruins and more like something the earth had deliberately tried to bury.

The hyena went unnaturally still.

Vale’s voice lost what little warmth it had carried.

“Welcome to your first assignment, Mr. Reynolds.”

Chapter 3 - Matt

The mission briefing continued for another forty-three minutes, and Matt counted every single one because it kept his attention away from the images still glowing across the screen behind Commander Vale. Ancient corridors carved from stone descended into collapsed catacombs and darkness deep enough to swallow the light around it, while nearly half the operational file remained blacked out even for Valker personnel. Whatever this place truly was, the Council had buried the details hard enough that Matt only needed one look at the redactions to understand the important part. People died in places like this.

Commander Vale remained standing near the display with one hand resting behind her back while rotating mission data cast shifting light across the conference room walls. Ancient floor plans, excavation reports, and satellite imagery cycled silently beside her while she addressed the room with the same controlled calm she seemed to bring to everything. “Three weeks ago,” she said, “a Council archaeological team disappeared beneath an abandoned monastery in northern Romania.”

Baptiste leaned back farther in his chair. “Archaeologists.”

The word carried the exact kind of skepticism soldiers usually reserved for bad lieutenant ideas, though Vale ignored Baptiste completely while ancient maps and excavation reports continued shifting across the display behind her. “The monastery predates most surviving historical records in the region,” she explained calmly. “Human documentation places it sometime in the late twelfth century, but Council archives suggest the structure itself is considerably older.”

Matt tipped his head. “Older how?”

Soren answered this time. “Older enough that we stopped being certain humans built all of it.”

Matt sat with that information for half a second before deciding it was incredibly concerning. He folded his arms across his chest. “You people really know how to sell a work environment.”

Vale continued like nobody had spoken. “The Council excavation team entered the lower catacombs eleven days ago after uncovering sealed passageways beneath the monastery crypts. Contact was lost approximately four hours later.”

“No distress call?”

“None.”

Matt glanced toward the screen again. “And now you’re sending in supernatural Delta Force.”

“Essentially.”

“That is somehow less comforting than if you’d denied it.”

Keene remained perfectly still against the far wall while Matt found himself increasingly convinced the man conserved movement out of personal philosophy. Vale touched the display again, and several new images spread across the screens showing narrow stone corridors, collapsed support beams, and ancient religious murals painted in something dark enough that Matt instantly stopped wanting to know whether it was actually paint. Then another image appeared, and the room seemed to fall subtly quieter around it. Deep claw marks had been gouged through solid stone with enough force to fracture the surrounding rock, and Matt’s instincts reacted before thought could catch up. Predator.

“Three recovery teams have already entered the lower structure,” Vale said calmly. “None remained operational longer than six hours.”

Matt stared at the screen. “Operational is an interesting word choice.”

Vale met his gaze evenly. “Intentional.”

“Meaning?”

Baptiste answered before she could. “Meaning some of them came back wrong.”

Silence settled across the conference room while something instinctive beneath Matt’s skin tightened and sharpened in response to the claw marks on the screen. The feeling was not exactly fear. It felt disturbingly familiar, because predators understood danger long before words ever tried to explain it. “What kind of wrong?” he asked.

Soren folded his hands together on the table. “Disorientation. Memory degradation. Sudden aggression. Two operatives developed severe territorial behavior despite no prior pack instability.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “That sounds magical.”

“It is magical,” Soren replied.