Winging it, p.1
Winging It, page 1
Winging It
Book 1 in the Dominion Authority Agency Mystery Series
The Dominion Authority Agency Mystery Series
Book One
Isadora Brown
H. C. Cardona
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Newsletter Information
Did You Like Winging It?
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Hi, Reader-Friend!
First of all, thank you so much for picking up this book in The Dominion Authority Agency Mystery Series! We’re absolutely thrilled you’re here and about to embark on this wild, twisty, and slightly chaotic journey with Aurora, her friends, and the ever-brooding (and maybe a little infuriating) Thorne.
Winging It is just the beginning—a 24-book adventure filled with one deliciously devious mystery per book, all set against the backdrop of Dominion Authority Agency, where superpowers are the norm but secrets are even more powerful.
If you’re a fan of shows like Bones, Castle, and Moonlight, you’re in the right place! Expect a cozy structure with a paranormal twist, a little banter, a lot of heart, plenty of shenanigans—and yes, a slow-burn romance that will gradually simmer until it turns undeniably steamy starting around Book 12.
While this series leans cozy in tone, be aware that there will occasionally be some salty language and (eventually) some open-door steam, because life—and love—can get messy when you’re sleuthing between classes and saving the day.
Thank you again for trusting us with a piece of your reading time. We can’t wait for you to fall in love with these characters the same way we have. Happy sleuthing, and welcome to the DAA!
With lots of love and a side of snark,
Isadora Brown
H. C. Cardona
Chapter
One
The bonfire outside crackled like it had something to prove.
Music echoed across the quad—bold and bright, thumping with the confidence of cadets who weren’t worried about the biggest evaluation of their lives happening in less than twelve hours. Laughter drifted in behind it, sharp and easy. Someone popped a bottle. Someone else screamed about sparks in their hair. It was all very… carefree.
I flipped the page in my Dominion field log and underlined a sentence in neon orange: Reactive Dominion use without verbal commands indicates either full sync or emotional overload. Evaluate accordingly.
Outside, someone started playing the drums on a trash can. Inside, I stared at my tactical theory notebook like it was going to personally fight me.
I could’ve gone. Zadie had begged me to go, actually. Lyra had suggested I “soak in the good energy.” Briar had just said, “don’t die,” which was her version of encouragement. But I stayed here—on the third floor of Dormitory C, sitting cross-legged in compression pants and a hoodie, surrounded by case files, datapads, highlighters, and a very judgmental cup of lukewarm tea.
Tomorrow was The Dominion Review.
Third-years whispered about it like it was a summoning ritual. You stood in a room with three evaluators you’d never met, and you had exactly one chance to defend your entire Dominion career: ethics, control, missions, results. If you passed, you got matched to a field agent. If you didn’t… you re-enrolled or rerouted. And there was no re-test.
I capped my pen and set it down gently. Then I uncapped it and highlighted another line.
Emotion without control leads to power without purpose.
Professor Rhys Ashford said that back when I was a student at Dominion Point. Harsh, but accurate. Like most of his lectures and at least two-thirds of his personality.
I took a breath. My hands weren’t shaking. That was good.
I’d worked too hard, come too far, bled too much to fall apart now. My Dominion—what was left of it—was steady again. My scores were strong. My theory was airtight. My record spoke for itself, even if the whispers still circled sometimes: She lost her wings. She burned out. She shouldn’t have come back.
I tapped the side of my datapad and whispered, “Let them say it. Let them see me.”
The light on the screen blinked back like it agreed.
I reached for another case file, ready to dive into my notes on field triage strategy, when the door slammed open and Zadie stormed in wearing heels that could kill a man and lip gloss that could start wars.
She posed in the doorway with one hand on her hip, the other holding a bottle of sparkling juice wrapped in gold ribbon, like she’d just emerged from a catwalk and a crime scene. Her hair was curled into waves that looked effortless but probably required three spells and a minor summoning. Her dress shimmered with bronze accents and absolutely no back, which was ironic considering she had the guts to call me reckless for not wearing heels during fire drills.
“You are not studying right now,” she said again, louder, as if sheer volume would change reality. “It’s criminal. It’s tragic. It’s deeply unfashionable.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m defending my entire tactical existence tomorrow.”
“Exactly,” she said, marching over and dropping the bottle onto my datapad like it was a glittery mic drop. “That’s why you need a vibe shift, not a study session. Look good, feel good, deflect with power.”
She plopped onto the edge of my bed and examined her nails—glossy crimson tipped with constellation decals. “Besides, half the field agents are going to judge you by your posture, anyway. Might as well own it.”
“Is this one of your dad’s patented advice gems?” I asked dryly.
Zadie smirked. “Lieutenant Virell says ‘Command respect.’ I say ‘Make them regret underestimating you with a killer smile and better shoes.’ Both philosophies work.” She leaned closer, eyes gleaming like mischief wrapped in mascara. “And for the record? The bonfire is filled with hopefuls, half-drunk Strategists, and that dreamy guy from Logistics who said your Dominion glow made him believe in miracles. So, y’know. Casual.”
“I am not Dominion-glowing,” I muttered.
“You’re stressed. It’s radiating,” she sing-songed.
Before I could come up with a response involving miracle glows or miracle restraining orders, the door opened again—this time with less flair and more threat.
Briar Nox strode in wearing track pants, a cropped academy tank, and combat boots that looked like they’d walked across enemy lines and punched the terrain into submission. Her brown hair was scraped into a high ponytail, and she had the exhausted, alert energy of someone who could either nap for twelve hours or win a sparring match with one hand tied behind her back. Probably both.
Without saying a word, she reached into her duffel bag and dropped a bag of sour-spiced chips onto my desk like a sacred offering. I blinked at them. Then at her.
“I thought you said snacks were a weakness,” I said.
“They are,” Briar replied. “But so is passing out mid-defense because you forgot how to eat.”
She collapsed into my desk chair backward, legs over one armrest, spine contorted like a tactical pretzel. She nodded at my mess of notes.
“If they ask you about the simulation glitch,” she said, “deny everything. Even the parts that are your fault.”
“I wasn’t going to mention the glitch.”
Briar raised an eyebrow. “Then you’re already doing it wrong.”
The door eased open a third time—no dramatic flair, no combat stomp. Just the gentle sound of someone who knocked even when she was already welcome.
Lyra Ravelle stepped inside, arms full and posture perfect. Her academy blazer was buttoned, her long braid tied off with a ribbon in Dominion Point navy. She moved like someone who knew the rules and still managed to look like she belonged in a museum of war heroes and royal bloodlines at the same time.
Without a word, she crossed the room and set a neatly stapled document on top of my datapad. The pages were color-coded, lightly dog-eared, and marked with the kind of precision only a Ravelle could manage.
“Last year’s Dominion Review Q&A,” she said softly. “I annotated for pattern trends. The green tabs are defense strategies that scored well. The yellow are traps. Avoid those.”
I blinked down at it. “Did you make this for me?”
Lyra gave a faint, almost embarrassed smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Zadie snorted from the bed. “Because you were up thinking about Nate.”
Lyra ignored her with elegant grace.
Then she turned to me fully and said, “You’ll be fine, Aurora. You’ve done more with half your Dominion than most cadets do in full force.”
I swallowed. Nodded. Managed a quiet, “Thanks.”
Lyra’s smile deepened just a touch before she sat on the edge of the bed beside Zadie, folding her hands like serenity incarnate.
The room filled with a familiar kind of chaos—controlled, affectionate, sli ghtly judgmental chaos.
Zadie popped the sparkling juice open with a perfectly manicured twist and handed me a glass like it was a toast to combat. “To tactical excellence and criminally overlooked cheekbones,” she declared.
Briar caught the chip bag I lobbed back at her and tore it open with her teeth. “You know they don’t care about cheekbones in a Dominion Review, right?”
“They care about presence,” Zadie replied, sipping with a smirk. “You wouldn’t understand. You walk like a wolf and dress like a gym locker.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Briar said, mouth full.
Lyra passed around napkins and quietly redirected the conversation before it spiraled into another one of Zadie’s “hot or not: tactical edition” breakdowns. They asked about my notes, quizzed me gently, rerouted my spirals when I overthought a scenario. Briar flagged a phrase in my ethics defense, and Lyra rewrote the sentence with five percent more grace and ten percent more impact.
And through it all, I felt it—that steady, unspoken rhythm between us. They weren’t just distracting me. They were anchoring me. These were the girls who had seen me shatter and stay. Who had stood next to me when I couldn’t fly and never once asked why.
Zadie clapped her hands. “Okay, time for a pre-battle outfit change.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You are not walking into your final evaluation looking like a tired theorist who’s emotionally committed to highlighters. You’re going to wear your sleeveless field blacks, brush your hair, and—if I have anything to say about it—channel your inner wrath angel.”
“She doesn’t have a wrath angel,” Briar muttered.
“She does now.”
“I’m not changing,” I tried.
Zadie raised a single, dangerous eyebrow.
"Fine, I'll wear it," I said. "But not now. Tomorrow. I have to sleep."
"Oh, boo, how can I make sure—"
"We'll go," Lyra murmured, standing up.
"Break a leg," Briar said before they slipped away.
After the others left—Zadie trailing perfume and Briar muttering something about caffeinated tea being a crime—quiet settled back over the room.
Not silence. Just quiet. Like the kind that lived right before something important happened.
I gathered my things and padded down the hall toward the restroom, passing two first-years locked in a heated debate about Dominion resonance decay—loud enough to sound confident, wrong enough to make me wince. Overhead, the lights flickered with that soft, persistent buzz unique to institutional ceilings, the kind that gets under your skin if you think about it too long.
The air inside the restroom was warm and damp, steam still clinging to the mirrors from whoever showered before me. I set my towel on the counter, stripped out of my hoodie and leggings, and stepped beneath the spray. Hot water hit my shoulders—sharp at first, then melting everything tight inside me. The world narrowed to warmth, breath, heartbeat.
When I finally shut the water off, the room was thick with steam. I wrapped the towel around myself and stepped out, crossing to the mirror. The fogged glass blurred my outline until I wiped a clear streak across it.
And then—I froze.
My reflection stared back in full now. Hair dripping, cheeks flushed, posture straightening without permission. There was strength there. Not the loud, explosive kind. Not the kind that made people flinch. No—this was quieter. Steady. Earned.
The shift of my body, the stretch of fabric over my back.
That was when the light caught the scars.
Faint, barely visible beneath the shoulder blades—feather-shaped burns in delicate curves. The ghost of wings once made of light, torn from me in a moment I never saw coming. They weren’t angry marks. They didn’t scream. But they lingered. Like memory. Like warning.
My wings had saved me.
Now they reminded me.
I exhaled and touched the edge of the sink. The metal was cool beneath my fingers. Grounding.
Then, softly, “You earned this.”
I lingered in the mirror for a second longer.
Not out of vanity. Just… acknowledgment.
I wasn't sure I'd ever be in this position. Not after everything that had happened. But I was here.
I pulled on my pajamas, tied up my hair with my towel. Then I turned off the light and padded barefoot back to my dorm. The hallway was quieter now—just the hum of spell-cooled vents and the occasional thud of someone laughing too hard down the hall.
My room welcomed me with soft fairy lights, half-organized study piles, and the lingering scent of Zadie’s body mist and slightly burnt kettle corn.
I set my alarm. Triple-checked that my datapad was charging.
Then I climbed into bed.
I didn’t rehearse my answers again. Didn’t open another case file.
Just pulled the blanket up, stared at the ceiling for one long breath, and let the stillness settle.
I was ready.
Chapter
Two
My alarm buzzed at 5:45 a.m., soft and persistent, like it knew better than to try to startle me.
I was already awake.
The pre-dawn light slid through the edge of my curtains in a hazy blur of lavender and silver, brushing across my ceiling like the world itself was holding its breath. I lay still for a second, just breathing, just being.
No fear. No panic.
This was the morning I’d been preparing for since my first day at Dominion Authority Academy.
I rolled out of bed with quiet precision, like if I moved too loudly the nerves might wake up. My uniform was already laid out—regulation blacks, pressed and spotless. I’d polished the boots last night until I could see my own doubt reflected in them, and then I’d kept polishing until it was gone.
The DAA pin sat on my desk beside my ID band, catching a shard of morning light. Silver. Clean. Unflinching.
I dressed without ceremony, fastening every piece with practiced fingers. Then I sat at the edge of my desk chair, flipped open my compact mirror, and started braiding my hair—tight, efficient, no frills. Not for the look. For the focus. I needed every stray strand locked down, every part of me aligned.
When I was done, I looked at myself in the mirror.
Not a girl.
Not a survivor.
Just a cadet.
Ready.
Today isn’t about being liked.
It’s about being placed.
The mess hall was unusually quiet for a review morning.
No music, no chaos, just the clink of spoons against ceramic and the low murmur of nerves disguised as conversation. Everything smelled like burnt toast and overstressed coffee—classic DAA ambiance.
I slipped in through the side entrance, tray in hand, head down. A few people looked up as I passed. Most didn’t. I wasn’t here to make small talk or fake-smile my way through it. I was here to breathe, eat something, and get out.
I saw my friend already claiming our usual table in the corner like it was a war tent.
Zadie spotted me first. Her heels were off, tucked under the bench, but her lip gloss was freshly applied, and her espresso shot was held high like a tiny trophy.
“For our girl,” she said, sliding the glass across the table with a wink sharp enough to draw blood. “Try not to screw it up, sunshine.”
“Thank you for the unrelenting faith,” I deadpanned, sitting down.
Briar didn’t look up from her datapad, but she handed me a napkin folded into a precise square. I opened it and snorted.
On it, in sharp, blocky handwriting: “pivot. contain. evaluate. breathe.”
“I wrote ‘breathe’ last,” Briar said, still not making eye contact. “Figured you’d forget that part.”
“You’re very caring in a completely alarming way.”
