Pain lanced through Bryony's numb toes as she shifted her weight. Her runeblade stiletto pressed against her ribs, its enchanted metal warmer than the biting cold that turned her breath to mist. Silence blanketed the night as she watched the building below.

  The church's stone sentinels loomed through veils of snow, their faces weathered by time. Moonlight pierced the clouds, striking stained glass and painting the drifts in crimson and sapphire, too much like blood through bandages.

  "Perfect night for gargoyle-spotting," Ash whispered beside her. Snow clung to his shoulders and streaked his hair, transforming him into a figure as unyielding as the stone guardians below. Her fingers itched to brush the snow from his hair, but she kept still. She'd only earn one of his trademark smirks, and they couldn't risk distractions.

  Bryony crouched lower, conscious of her outline against the night sky. The city's distant noise had died at the hilltop, leaving an unnatural silence that made her skin crawl. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

  The church sentinels watched her, faces frozen in eternal snarls. Their shadows seemed to track her movements while the spire's dark silhouette stretched across the roof like an accusing finger.

  Her hand found the runeblade beneath her coat, its warmth doing little to quiet her instincts. After a century of supernatural encounters, she knew when something lurked in wait.

  A flicker caught her eye. Magic stirred in her chest, a quiet warmth ever present within her. She tapped into it, letting its power rise and settle behind her eyes. The church's facade became a ghostly blueprint of golden lines and flaws. Hairline cracks spiderwebbed across the vestry wall while the bell tower's foundation crumbled invisibly. Near the side entrance, decades of neglect had warped the wood beneath peeling paint. Her attention shifted to the cellar entrance, where fresh gouges scarred the ancient stone. Someone had forced their way in recently.

  "Three entry points," she whispered through snowflakes. "And the cellar's seen traffic." Snow spiralled down as Ash shifted, flakes falling from his shoulders like stardust. The lilting tone in his voice was as predictable as sunrise.

  "You know what this reminds me of? That awful horror film Emil made us watch." He gestured toward the church. "All we need is fog and zombie priests."

  Bryony focused on the stonework, though she couldn't suppress a slight smile. Even after ten years, his dark humour still pierced her concentration. His presence was a steadying warmth she'd never admit to needing.

  "Though I have to say," Ash added, rubbing his hands together and dislodging snow, "at least those zombies got to hunt somewhere warm. Norway gets colder every time we come here."

  She glanced his way. His familiar grin warmed the night air, unchanged after ten years. Her earpiece crackled as Mara's voice drifted through the static like smoke, her dreamy tone sending a chill down Bryony's spine—the sound of someone lost in psychic currents.

  "Status check," Mara whispered, her voice hollow as if from deep underground.

  "In position." Bryony pressed into the shadows, scanning the grounds. "Looks like the front door is as good as any." Her skin prickled as she watched the thinning darkness, instincts sharp.

  "Something's..." Mara's voice drifted away. Through the comm came soft scraping - the psychic adjusting her gear. "The energy's wrong. Nothing like we expected."

  "Oh, let me up there!" Emil's voice burst through, making Bryony wince. "My detection potions could pinpoint exactly-"

  "And freeze solid like your coffee," Bryony cut in, gentle but firm. She recognised that rising pitch, the prelude to an alchemical lecture. His huffed breath told her the rebuke had landed.

  "Fine. At least I've got heating," Emil muttered. But that slight tremor in his voice made her shoulders tense - she'd heard it before disasters. The comm picked up the thud of him dropping into his seat, followed by restless tapping on equipment.

  "Just... watch yourselves in there." Emil's drumming quickened. "Mara's cycling through expressions, and these readings..." Static crackled around his sharp intake of breath. "... they're not right. Not right at all."

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  Bryony opened herself to the magical flows, feeling the Wyrdstream's familiar warmth envelope her. Crimson light flashed behind her eyes, each pulse matching her racing heart. Power surged through her veins, muscles tightening as the magic clawed at her thoughts, howling to break free.

  She growled through gritted teeth, nails biting into her palms. Even after a century, the force still fought like a feral thing. The less you wanted it, the worse it became. The constant tug-of-war between control and chaos - the true curse of being a mage. Slowly, the magic yielded, settling like storm clouds heavy with lightning. She drew a shaky breath and lifted her gaze to the looming church.

  Snow crunched softly nearby. Ash fidgeted at her side, his fingers drumming against his thigh in the charged air.

  "Ash." Her whisper held a warning. "Stay in my shadow. No shifting inside unless you have to." She met his gaze. "Old places like this react poorly to sudden magic."

  His fingers stilled. The playful grin vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped focus, eyes sharp and alert. Snow fell thicker now, veiling the distant trees as they emerged from cover.

  "Right then." Bryony steadied herself, drawing one of the runeblades as she set off, "Time to earn that ridiculous fee."

  She descended with practised silence, each step calculated against the snow-covered slope. Ash's breathing fell into the familiar stealth pattern she'd taught him, his footfalls soft behind her as she tested each foothold.

  ****

  Bryony squinted against the wind as she descended the hill, her auburn hair stinging her cheeks. Pine scent cut through the crystalline air, anchoring her senses. Her boots probed for stable footing until she felt a subtle shift beneath the powder.

  Finding firmer ground, she spotted Ash approaching, thrusting her palm in warning. "Mind that drift." She traced the snowbank's edge. "They're deceptive—hollow underneath." Her gaze lifted to the derelict church above.

  The spire pierced the steely sky like a broken fang, fresh snow draping the ancient stonework in false innocence. Bryony slipped between shadows with practised precision, testing each step to avoid echoing across the approaching graveyard. Ash's boot struck black ice with a sharp scrape. He caught himself against a tree, scanning the shadows as his breath clouded in the ankle-deep mist.

  At the gate, Bryony brushed snow from the pitted iron. She studied the shifting shadows through the snowfall, her gaze lingering on the darker patches beyond moonlight's reach. Two figures in long coats materialised near the church doors. Their boots marked a steady rhythm as they approached, coats billowing like wings as they stamped warmth into their feet.

  Bryony's gaze locked with Ash's as he drew level with her, hidden across the main path, and brought him to a halt. From behind the yews, she signalled with two fingers - left and right - then nodded left. She would take that side. Ash's expression hardened into focus. Frost dusted his lashes as he met Bryony's gaze, offering a slight nod through the swirling snow. She felt his magic's familiar warmth as he prepared. Beyond their cover, the guards' footsteps crunched closer, their breath ghosting past Victorian headstones.

  Frost crunched as Ash stalked between headstones, each step calculated. Bryony felt the magic surge through his veins as his form rippled and changed. In place of his slight frame, a burly dock worker now crouched behind the marble angel, muscles tensed.

  Bryony saw Ash's guard spin at his breathing, recognition flashing too late. Ash's fingers found pressure points along the neck; his forearm pressed against the windpipe with practised control. After a brief scuffle on the icy ground, silence fell.

  Bryony moved purposefully, her boots whispering against the frost as she slipped between the graves. Ahead, the remaining guard stamped and cursed, tugging at his collar against the biting wind. The gusts howled through the cemetery, masking the sound of his comrade's fall and leaving him oblivious to the danger creeping closer. Her fingers began their precise dance, drawing shimmering threads of power from within her that tingled across her skin. Between her fingers, an ethereal web grew, delicate yet vibrating with contained energy.

  A gust betrayed her movement. The guard tensed, turning, his boot scraping stone, but Bryony had already reached him. Her palm pressed between his shoulders as she whispered a word that rippled power through the air.

  He crumpled, consciousness fading, but she caught him with practised grace. His head settled against her shoulder, each breath misting the December night air.

  She eased him against the church wall, arranging him like a guard who'd drifted off during his watch - chin down, arms crossed. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders, completing her staged scene.

  Ash adjusted his collar with one hand as he strode over to her, holding his guard under his other arm. He nodded at the unconscious guard as he dropped his next to Bryony's, arranging the two in an embrace.

  "Quite proud of yourself, aren't you?" Bryony whispered, fighting a smile as she motioned him forward.

  "Next time, somewhere warmer," Ash said, taking the lead, "Bali has lovely temples."

  Their boots crunched through fresh snow, masked by the guards' steady snoring. Frost-dusted headstones cast long shadows across their path. Bryony's fingers brushed her concealed runeblade with each whisper of movement in the dark.

  The ancient church doors stood before them, their carved saints and crosses traced with delicate frost.

  "Care for some ghost hunting?" Ash whispered, shaking crystalline flakes from his sleeve. Bryony's mouth twitched, her eyes scanning the shadows between graves.

  "Let's hope the threats in there bleed." Static crackled in her earpiece as she tested the iron handle with a safecracker's precision. "The living tend to be less creative about inflicting pain."