It was the quiet breath before a throat-slitting.

  The leader stared down at the burning dagger buried in his chest, and the moment his brain caught up with his eyes, the blood drained from his face. Dramatic. I figured he had to be a red-core, maybe high yellow at worst—strong enough to take a dagger through the heart and walk it off with some gritted teeth and a bit of luck.

  What I didn’t expect was for him to scream like a gutted hog, heels slamming against the stone as he turned tail and ran.

  Then came the headache—sharp, gnawing, and dragging me under like lead in my skull. That damned statue. The skeletal figure, humming, its eerie resonance twisting in my gut. A shadow tendril shot up from its grotesquely open maw, and pain ripped through my skull. Not just me—the cultists too, convulsing as the effect hit.

  Except for the boy.

  The sacrificial lamb, still slippery with fear, had somehow bolted past the altar—good instincts, shit sense of direction. He was running, clutching his head from the pain, but straight into an elf-infested corridor.

  Fantastic.

  I wasn’t far from the ground floor. My thoughts clawed through the pain, grasping at the shreds of a plan. Maybe. Just maybe.

  Lightning flickered through his nervous system, synapses flaring in my vision. I yanked the reins of his brainstem, forced his head to turn, and—fuck, fuck, the backlash sent molten spikes through my skull, the spell shattering immediately.

  But it was enough. His gaze snapped toward me as I waved like a madwoman. Hopefully, he saw me. Bonus points if he recognized this body.

  Then—snap. The statue's tendril lashed out, slicing through the air, chasing the fleeing leader. His screams turned raw, desperate, but the tendril didn’t give a single shit. It plunged into his back like a lance.

  A strangled shriek. The runes along the tendril flared.

  I half-expected his heart to vanish, same as every other poor sod dumped into the surrounding moat. What I didn’t expect was the statue’s hum slamming into my mind, heavy, undeniable—

  Disapproval.

  It didn’t like this sacrifice.

  And just like that—boom.

  And then he exploded. The leader—gone. Reduced to a fine mist of gore and entrails. No careful siphoning. No methodical draining. Just raw, visceral rejection. Apparently, he hadn’t been “processed” like the rest, and the statue wasn’t one to accept sloppy seconds.

  Whatever.

  The eerie hum slithered back into silence. The cultists were recovering. And they were screaming.

  There’s a particular breed of chaotic havoc that erupts when you watch your almighty leader pop like an overripe melon, showering you in viscera. The crowd reached a frenzied crescendo, a maelstrom of blind panic—except for the few sharp enough to notice the Faerin boy bolting toward me. Somehow, through the gore-streaked confusion, they had just enough clarity to chase him. Priorities, even in panic: murder the child.

  Annoying. Like gnats at a banquet.

  Lightning flickered through their neurons, nerves lighting up like a festival as I wrenched my hand in a violent twist and their legs forgot how to leg. All four cultists in pursuit? Down they went. Screaming, convulsing, clawing at their legs—some sort of cramp, maybe. Didn’t care. Not my circus. Not my clowns.

  A second spell matrix was already laced through my fingers.

  [Hex Hand].

  My dark magic repertoire was thin—mostly utility, barely any offense—but that’s exactly what I needed. The moment the boy crossed the activation radius, a massive runic circle unfurled beneath him. Shadow mana coiled into a shadowy claw, and I clenched.

  He flinched, wide-eyed and panicked, but then—acceptance. No struggle. Just compliance.

  Good.

  Pulling him up took seconds. He was light, flailing, but manageable. The cultists were still screaming as I hauled him to me. Below, the cultists writhed. Above, my patience frayed. Time to scram.

  Fuck. I did tell myself I wouldn’t interfere. Whatever twisted ritual they were cooking up wasn’t my business. But something in me refused to let this innocent boy get turned into minced meat for whatever thing they considered god.

  No time for explanations. I grabbed his wrist, ignoring his startled shudder.

  “We need to run.”

  But first—one last thing.

  I let go, crouching over the elf whose skull was currently mush, courtesy of my feet. Ahh, what a satisfying crunch that had been. With a sharp tug, I ripped his robes from his corpse, shaking off the excess gore before shoving them at the boy.

  “Wear them.”

  He was practically naked, runic inscriptions winding over his skin in eerie, arcane spirals. He knew he needed them. He wiped his tears, shivered, his face drained pale from horror—and honestly? Me, standing over a crushed elf, bloodstained and utterly unfazed, probably didn’t help either.

  Tough shit. He’d just have to deal with it.

  He soon fell behind, his steps sluggish, pathetically slow compared to my pace. Annoying.

  With a frustrated growl, I doubled back and scooped him up in a princess carry. Light as a feather. He didn’t resist. Good.

  Air Sense wouldn’t do much for finding an exit beyond mapping the tunnels and flagging nearby presences. Last time I’d chased the promise of fresh air, I’d landed squarely in a cultist’s nest. Lesson learned.

  I’d just run and hope to crash into something resembling an exit.

  Breathing signatures—two up ahead, one to the left.

  I took left.

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  An elf. Pompous little shit locked eyes with me, fury twisting his dainty features. Then—like a dumbass—he charged.

  “Stop right there—”

  Well, that didn’t last long. Lightning jolted through his legs, and I took a moment to borrow control. My finger spun in a lazy gesture—didn’t even finish his sentence before his worthless legs betrayed him. He went down, face-first into the sludge like the piece of shit he was. Pathetic.

  The last thing those beady little eyes saw? A filth-streaked foot slamming into his skull. Once. Twice. THRICE.

  Crunch. Wet. Deep. Final.

  Felt good.

  The brat in my arms shivered. He’d live. He’d deal. But if he vomited on me, I’d drop him.

  Seriously, what the actual fuck was this pointy-eared moron thinking? Charging me—me—like he stood a chance? I was a blood-drenched fiend stomping through the muck, and he ran at me like some righteous hero? Delusional.

  Tch.

  The bastards had warned the entrance might be riddled with traps. Of course there’d be traps. The fate loved a punchline, and I was its favourite jester.

  I exhaled slow, nostrils flaring, bare feet sloshing through filth. Needed to stay sharp.

  Because of course—of course—nothing in this wretched world ever came easy for me.

  ***

  Zofia drifted down the snow-laden streets of Shadow’s Warren, her lexicon clutched tight against the cold. The so-called "lexicon" was little more than a stack of battered papers hastily bound together, but it was hers all the same. The chill bit deeper this morning, a frosty souvenir from last night’s snowfall, which had blanketed the world in inches of white.

  Yet the streets buzzed with life. Kids scurried about their daily tasks, boots crunching through the snow as if the cold were nothing more than a playful rival.

  Zofia had overheard talk of new job openings surfacing soon—once this Monster Wave finally ebbed. She clung to the hope of securing something, anything. She trusted in herself. Sure, folks like her—scraping by at the bottom rung—had little chance of scraping together the coin to learn a Pathway or cultivate their cores and step into the ranks of adventurers. But Zofia didn’t dwell on the impossibilities.

  Opportunities always surfaced, and she’d learned to be satisfied with what she could find.

  Her grip tightened around the lexicon as she turned into a narrow alleyway. Before long, she stood before a small, crooked building wedged awkwardly between two towering structures. Its cracked plaster and weathered stone blended perfectly with the neighborhood’s general state of disrepair. Above the door hung a modest sign, its letters slightly faded but legible: Lily’s Charms and Curios.

  Zofia hesitated, nerves prickling her skin despite the cold. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The smell of caffeine hit her instantly, warm and inviting. From the little attached kitchen, Lady Lysska’s figure loomed in motion, hands deftly flipping a piece of toast on a sizzling pan, eggs hissing and popping to the side.

  Zofia’s stomach growled traitorously, a rather sharp reminder of how long it had been since she’d last eaten. Two days? Maybe more. She’d gone longer before, though, and she wasn’t about to let her hunger ruin her composure now. Not in front of Lady Lysska. Schooling her expression, she held her chin high, as though her stomach hadn’t just declared war on her dignity.

  Without even turning, Lady Lysska’s voice floated over the sounds of the kitchen. “Welcome, Zofia.”

  “Three minutes late,” she said, her voice calm but laced with the faintest hint of dismissal. “Shall I presume the snowflakes conspired against you?”

  Zofia closed the door behind her with a soft jingle of the bell overhead punctuating her entrance. She bit back a frown. What did Lady Lysska think she was—some helpless street rat? “Pathways iced over,” she replied, her tone even. It wasn’t entirely a lie, though the real reason was her mother’s illness. She’d spent the morning handling housework before coming here, but Lady Lysska didn’t need to know that. “It won’t happen again.”

  Lysska finally turned, her sharp amber eyes sweeping over Zofia with unnerving precision, her long ears twitching faintly as if catching unspoken truths. “Good. See that it doesn’t. Second chances expire faster than milk in summer." A finger tapped the table. "Progress?"

  "Yes," Zofia blurted, a little too quickly. Her fingers brushed over the small, budding horns on her head before she caught herself and dropped them.

  "Your annotations... I've been cross-referencing the runic syntax." The symbols sprawled in her mind like a drunk spider's diary - all cryptic loops and maddening implications. But she had been practicing. Diligently, even. After all, Lysska had offered to help find her sister without demanding a single coin. That kind of generosity didn’t come without strings.

  It was the scripting language of the continent—every enchanter knew it, breathed it, etched it into the world itself. Learning to read and write it was non-negotiable if she ever wanted a respectable job in enchanting.

  What she still didn’t understand was why this was the price for Lysska’s help.

  Lysska arched an elegant eyebrow, her hands moving with practiced grace as she plated the sizzling breakfast without so much as a glance. Her faint smile sent a shiver down Zofia’s spine. Lysska had a knack for being unnervingly composed. “Trying isn’t doing, Zofia. I’m expecting better results this time.”

  Zofia’s lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to say she was confident, but it was hard to feel that way under Lady Lysska’s gaze. There was a weight to her presence that made boasting seem foolish. “I’m doing the best I can,” she said, her voice quieter now. But there was something she needed to ask. “I just… need to know you’re still looking for her.”

  Lysska’s expression didn’t change. She seated herself with effortless elegance and gestured for Zofia to sit beside her. Zofia complied, though her movements felt clumsy in comparison. “I told you, Zofia. I’ll find her. That hasn’t changed.” Lysska pointed at the lexicon with the spoon she was using to stir her coffee. “But you need to hold up your end. That’s the deal.”

  Zofia nodded, fully aware of the bargain. Even if it seemed like Lysska was doing all the heavy lifting, she couldn’t afford to falter. “I won’t let you down,” she said firmly.

  “Good.” Lysska leaned back, letting the single word linger for a moment before continuing. “And, as you probably suspect, your sister isn’t the only one missing. My people are working on pinpointing where they all went. I might have some leads.” Her tail flicked toward a pinned map behind the counter, its districts spiderwebbed with crimson thread. “Sorry it’s taking a while, but I’d rather not rush and botch things with whoever’s behind this.”

  “Whoever?” The word tumbled out of Zofia before she could stop herself.

  “Yes, abductors,” Lysska clarified, her tone matter-of-fact. “Did you think children just vanish into thin air on their own?”

  Zofia had no answer for that. She didn’t know. She only knew that her sister was gone—out playing one day, and then...nothing. It had been a week since then, a week of gnawing uncertainty and fragile hope that her sister was somehow, somewhere, safe.

  Her fingers instinctively clutched the pendant around her neck, the movement catching Lysska’s sharp eyes.

  “You’ve never mentioned that pendant before,” Lysska remarked, taking a sip of her coffee. Her gaze flicked to the plate of bread and eggs sitting suspiciously closer to Zofia than to her. “A keepsake from your mother, maybe?”

  Zofia shook her head, even as her stomach growled softly. “It’s…we both had identical ones,” she said, hesitating only slightly before slipping it off. She held it out. The pendant gleamed, metallic and intricate—a hiltless sword encircled by two spiraling, ribbon-like waves. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Never taken it off. It represents our ancestors, the Scaled ones. She has one too and always prays to it before bed. Mother said these were blessed. Protective.”

  “Protection requires understanding what one guards against.” Lysska’s finger hovered above the pendant without touching it. The air hummed. “This isn’t Vendic steel. Nor dwarven alloys.” She leaned closer, pupils slitting. “Interesting,” Lysska murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

  She seemed on the verge of saying more, but her focus wavered, her expression tightening into a frown. Her eyes narrowed as they darted to the window, her posture subtly tensing.

  “Well,” she said after a moment, her tone brisk, “finish your breakfast. While I’d love to test how far you’ve come in your practice, I need to close up. Something’s come up.”

  Zofia blinked, startled. “My breakfast?” she echoed, as if the concept of finishing food was suddenly foreign.

  Lysska’s amber eyes pinned her in place. “Do you need me to repeat myself? Eat. Quickly.”

  That tone was enough to spur Zofia into action. She dove into the plate, hunger battling her attempt at maintaining some shred of dignity.

  Between bites, she asked, “Is it something urgent? You seem…in a hurry.”

  Lysska didn’t look up as she disappeared briefly into the back room, emerging moments later in another robe. “Urgency is the Warren's native tongue,” she said, cinching the robe’s sash with practiced ease. “But this time…” She glanced at Zofia, her expression softening just enough to let a playful gleam slip through. “I might have some good news about your sister.”

  Zofia’s heart skipped, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could press for details, Lysska was already moving toward the door. With a quick scrub of her hands on her clothes, Zofia scrambled after her, only catching up as they stepped outside.

  Lysska winked. “Let’s go.”

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