It happened so fast I barely even registered it.
One second the guard to my right was standing tall, his hood casting shadows over a face that probably hadn't smiled since birth.
The next, Freya exploded from behind a shelf like some furious jack-in-the-box, her hand flashing with the jagged shard of glass she'd been clutching all this time.
She buried it deep into his neck with such casual force that the sound—wet, tearing, hideous—made my stomach lurch.
The guard's eyes went wide. He gurgled. Not a dramatic scream, not a curse to the gods. Just a sad, bubbling sound like someone had dropped a wineskin and stepped on it.
Blood sprayed across Freya's arms, hot and bright in the dim lantern glow, and then the man toppled sideways into a nearby shelf with the grace of a sack of rotten potatoes. Bottles clattered down around him, one smashing into his face as he hit the floor.
The other two reacted immediately, but not immediately enough. From the hidden room, Brutus came barreling out like an avalanche made flesh.
The shotgun in his hands gleamed wickedly, but instead of firing it, he swung the butt of it like a club and caught the second guard right across the skull. There was a crunch, a thud, and the man collapsed in a heap that twitched once and then decided to stay very, very still.
And just like that, there was one left. The lantern-bearer. The one who had, until this moment, been doing nothing more threatening than squinting at me like I was a riddle wrapped in a thong.
His face twisted into fury, and with a snarl he whipped a short sword out from under his cloak. Steel hissed through the air. I was still standing on the table when the bastard slashed straight at my ankles.
Now, here's the thing about ankles: I've always been rather fond of mine. Slim, delicate, downright elegant if you ask me. Definitely not designed to be severed like spare rope. So the moment I saw that blade singing toward them, I did the only reasonable thing—I jumped.
It wasn't graceful. Wasn't heroic. More like a startled cat springing away from spilled water. But it was enough. The sword sliced harmlessly through empty air.
That gave Freya the opening she needed.
She moved like lightning, grabbing the man's arm from behind before he could adjust his stance. With a grunt, she wrenched it backward, twisting until the sword clattered to the floor. Then she slammed him down onto the stone, pinning his body under her knee, her shard of glass poised threateningly above his neck.
"Make another sound," she hissed, low and vicious, "and I'll break your arm clean off."
The man froze. His chest heaved, his lantern rolling across the floor to clatter against a crate. He let out one strangled yell for help before Freya's knee dug harder, and his cry died in his throat, choked into silence by the promise of pain.
I hopped down from the table, brushing invisible dust off my thighs.
"Well," I said cheerfully, surveying the carnage, "that escalated quickly. I was aiming for dinner theater, maybe a light musical number, but you know what? Blood fountains work too. Ten out of ten, Freya. Bravo."
She didn't answer. Freya rarely wasted words on me unless they were curses, threats, or weary sighs.
But I could swear her lip twitched, just faintly, like she was resisting the urge to smile. Which, in her language, meant she was practically roaring with laughter.
To the right of us, Atticus stumbled out of the hidden room, his cracked glasses askew, his thin fingers trembling like he'd just watched the apocalypse unfold.
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gods preserve us," he muttered, sounding as though he'd aged twenty years in the last twenty seconds. "Subtlety. That was subtlety itself. Truly, the epitome of restraint."
"Aw, thank you," I cooed, batting my lashes. "You always know how to make a boy blush."
He groaned. I grinned. Brutus, meanwhile, was already shoving the remaining crates back toward the hidden room, his massive shoulders rolling with barely restrained fury.
"More guards will come," he rumbled, voice like gravel grinding in a barrel. "We don't have long. Let's finish this. Now."
The man on the floor squirmed, his muffled protests slipping past the choke of Freya's weight. He started babbling, begging, promising nonsense, but I'd had enough of his little noises.
I strolled over, planted a boot firmly against his temple, and gave him a sharp kick. Not enough to kill. Just enough to shut him up. His eyes rolled back, his body went limp, and blessed silence returned.
"There," I said, dusting off my hands as though I'd done something noble. "Problem solved."
The next hour—or maybe it was only a few minutes, time always bends when panic sets in—was a blur of furious activity.
We stuffed powders into sacks, bundled herbs into cloth, shoved vials into hidden crevices.
Every crate that could be carried was dragged into the hidden backroom, and every loose scrap of evidence was either smashed or burned.
I redressed myself in the process, slipping back into my ragged blouse and skirt. My hair was a wreck, sticking up in defiant tufts, but I decided it added to the aesthetic. Nothing says dangerous and alluring like a man covered in blood, sweat, and sarcasm.
By the time the dust settled, Brutus, Freya, and Atticus were cloaked in the stolen garments of the unconscious guards, of whom had been thrown into the backroom alongside Malrick.
The hoods hung low over their faces, shadowing their features, while beneath the fabric their bodies bulged with hidden goods. Vials clinked softly with every step. Powders crinkled inside. They looked like pregnant monks waddling to confession.
I smirked, biting my lip to keep from laughing outright. "Oh, Brutus," I drawled, tilting my head. "Congratulations. When's the baby due? Is it twins? Or just one very large bag of powdered sin?"
He glared at me, and for a terrifying moment I thought he might use the shotgun on me. Instead, with a grunt, he shoved it straight into my hands.
I blinked. The weight of it was shocking, heavy and cold, the barrels yawning at the floor like a pair of hungry mouths. I tilted my head in confusion.
Before Brutus could reply, Atticus adjusted his hood and cleared his throat.
"It makes sense," he said, his voice brittle, as though he was still forcing himself to believe his own words. "Your new… power. If your body can vanish with your clothes intact, then the items you carry should be able to vanish as well."
I blinked down at the shotgun, then back at him. "So, what—you want me to just… poof this thing into nonexistence with me?"
"Yes."
"Atticus, darling, I don't even trust myself not to trip over my own skirt while sober, and now you're asking me to juggle an ancient forbidden murder-stick through dimensions?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering something about "idiots" and "fate's cruel humor." But Brutus's steady gaze left no room for debate. The shotgun was mine, at least for now.
I sighed dramatically, cradling it in my arms like a newborn. "Fine. But if I blow my foot off, I'm haunting all of you. Forever."
I pointed at Atticus, "I'll scratch obscenities into your books." Then I pointed at Brutus, "I'll rearrange your balls." Lastly, I pointed at Freya. "And for you, mmm...I'll sniff your underwear."
She didn't answer, but the twitch in her jaw promised murder.
That was when Dregan, who had been lounging against the wall, finally spoke up. He jerked his chin toward the hidden door. "What about him?"
We all turned.
Behind that door, bound and broken, sat Malrick. Our little prize. Our phantom drug lord. Our very inconvenient hostage.
Freya snorted, sharp and dismissive, tossing her glass shard aside with the ease of a woman who had finished her evening's entertainment and was ready for dessert.
"Leave him," she said, voice low and certain. "He'll survive until we're back in the courtyard. Probably."
Probably. The word landed like a kicked bucket in my skull. I mean, here we were, discussing whether the bloodied, gagged kingpin rotting in our storage closet would still be breathing when we returned, and she'd tossed a probably at the end like it was a garnish.
I half expected her to add, "with love," just to really drive home the tenderness.
Of course, Brutus didn't even flinch. Atticus muttered something about probability curves and the survival rates of half-beaten men while Dregan only smirked as if the idea of Malrick choking on his own spit was the only kind of theater ticket worth buying twice.
And me? I was standing there, still sticky from earlier, wondering why the hell my newfound family was a traveling circus of psychopaths and alchemists.
But before I could sharpen my tongue into something suitably sarcastic, the sound hit us.
Footsteps. Heavy. Metallic. The kind of boots that didn't walk so much as declare war on every stone they touched.
My heart dropped lower than a whore's standards on a rainy night.
The sound rolled down the street outside, bouncing off stone, echoing closer with each heartbeat. I swear I could feel it in my bones. Not polite footsteps. Not casual. These were patrol strides. The kind of cadence that meant someone out there had authority and was about to wave it in our faces like an unwanted erection.
Everyone froze.
Even Freya, golden and unflinching, narrowed her molten eyes like a wolf sniffing the air for hunters. Brutus's jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth. Atticus fiddled with his glasses, muttering about timing and fate, while Dregan whispered a curse under his breath.
Brutus moved first, as always. He jerked his head toward Freya and Atticus. No words. Just the kind of nod that said time for a show.
And just like that, without hesitation, he grabbed Dregan by the scruff of his neck and hurled him out the door and into the street like yesterday's laundry.
Dregan stumbled, arms windmilling, before collapsing into the dust with a groan that was either very convincing acting or his hip giving out again.
The patrol froze. Five guards, each cloaked and hooded, their hands instinctively drifting toward blades.
They looked down at the heap of Dregan in the street, blinking as if unsure whether they were meant to fight him, arrest him, or bury him.
Brutus strode forward, his voice a low growl soaked in authority. "Drunk," he spat, nudging Dregan's side with his boot. "Caught him wandering. We'll deal with him."
Now, credit where it's due, the others put on a flawless act. Freya crossed her arms, her scowl sharp enough to cut steel, while Atticus hunched his shoulders, muttering like an exhausted scribe who'd seen it all before.
Brutus stood tall, his grip tight on Dregan's collar, shaking him for emphasis every time the man slurred something nonsensical. The guards seemed convinced—or at least too bored to care.
And me? I saw my opportunity.
Ten heartbeats. That was all I needed. I shut my eyes, called up the phantom rhythm in my chest, and let it build.
The mist coiled at the edges of my vision, reality beginning to shudder.
And then, right on the tenth beat, I slipped.
The world cracked apart around me, splitting into that strange, suffocating void. Black mist licked at the corners of my sight, turning Brutus, Freya, Atticus, and even poor old Dregan into warped shadows of themselves.
The guards loomed as smudged silhouettes, their blades gleaming like silver scars in the dark.
And, oh yes—the shotgun came with me. Its weight was still there, cool metal thrumming with menace. That was good news. Great news, actually. It meant Atticus had been right: objects I carried were bound to me in this strange half-existence.
It also meant I had about five seconds, give or take, before I snapped back to reality.
So I ran.
My boots made no sound as I dashed through the void. I skimmed past the shadowy figures of my friends, past the guards, flying across the street with quiet urgency.
The mist curled like smoke underfoot, dragging at my ankles, and for a moment I swore it was laughing at me. But I didn't falter. I burst out the other side, stumbling into a narrow alleyway cloaked in darkness, and reality slammed back into place with a gasp that tore from my lungs.
I crouched there, panting, shotgun slung across my shoulder. The alley smelled like piss, rot, and disappointment, which about summed up most of my life thus far.
Still, from here I had a perfect view of the street. My companions were already moving, shepherded toward the entrance of the courtyard under the watchful eyes of the patrol.
Dregan, gods bless him, was leaning so hard into his drunk act he was practically swimming in invisible wine. Every stumble, every hiccup, every pitiful groan sold the scene better than a troupe of professional actors.
And I, of course, was their shadow. Skulking. Trailing. A phantom flitting from alley to alley, slipping between dimensions when needed.
Each time I let the mist take me, my body screamed with the effort, five seconds stretching into an eternity, my lungs clawing for air.
But it worked. I reappeared in new vantage points, always close enough to see, never close enough to be caught.
Along the way, I caught glimpses of others. Prisoners, ragged and hunched, shuffled through the streets under guard.
Some I recognized as Malrick's men, their faces grim but unbroken. Luckily those bastards had evacuated from the warehouse without a hitch, escorted like prized cattle by their own shepherds.
The irony wasn't lost on me—we were all livestock here, only some of us carried shinier chains.
Eventually, the streets funneled everyone toward the courtyard's entrance. A massive gate loomed ahead, iron bars glinting faintly under torchlight. There, the guards were thorough, conducting body checks with all the care of priests rooting out heresy.
One by one, prisoners were shoved forward, searched, and waved through. Brutus shoved Dregan first, playing his role to perfection. The old man staggered, hiccuped, and spread his arms like a sinner begging for absolution. Of course, he had nothing on him—nothing but bruises and a talent for mockery.
For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe.
Maybe—just maybe—we'd pull this off. The contraband was hidden beneath cloaks, my shotgun safely tucked against my shoulder, and the guards none the wiser. I could almost taste the victory. Sweet, intoxicating, like stolen wine on a summer night.
And then everything shattered.
It began as a hum, faint and low, crawling under my skin like a swarm of insects. My chest tightened. My veins burned. The very air seemed to thicken, pressing against my lungs, suffocating me.
The hum grew into a scream—inaudible yet deafening, vibrating through stone and flesh alike. My heart pounded against my ribs, faster, harder, each beat like a drum of doom.
Then came the sound.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Each step hit like a hammer striking the earth, reverberating throughout the plaza. The lanterns flickered. Prisoners froze mid-breath. Guards stiffened, their hands trembling against hilts. The silence that followed was absolute, the kind that makes you wish you'd never been born to hear it.
I pressed myself deeper into the alley, chest heaving, shotgun slick in my grip. My body screamed at me to run, to vanish into the mist, to flee anywhere but here. But my eyes were locked on the gate, on the entrance where the sound was coming from.
Thump.
A shadow appeared first, stretching long across the cobblestones, blacker than black, swallowing every flicker of light.
Then the figure emerged.
He was impossibly tall, towering over even Brutus. A hulking slab of iron and terror, his body encased in armor darker than night.
Obsidian plates gleamed like polished void, jagged edges catching the lantern light in cruel, sharp glimmers. Chains draped from his shoulders and waist, clinking softly with each movement, like the whispers of condemned souls.
His skin—or what little of it I could see—was black as tar, seamless with the armor, as though man and plate were one.
In his hand, he carried an axe, massive and grotesque, its blade shaped like something clawed straight out of a nightmare. It wasn't forged metal—it was carved horror, serrated edges breathing menace.
And then there was the mask.
Gods. The mask.
It wasn't a face so much as a wound in reality. Obsidian carved into a visage that seemed to pull the very air toward it, a chasm of hunger shaped into the idea of a man.
But the mask wasn't alone. From beneath the black crown of armor spilled hair—dark, shaggy, and endless.
It tumbled down his back in wild strands, unkempt and heavy, dragging all the way to his knees like a cloak of midnight spun from nightmares. Every movement sent it shifting and swaying, as though it had a will of its own, whispering secrets no mortal should ever hear.
The sockets of the mask were hollow, endless, black pits that seemed to devoured the light. Every breath around him seemed heavier, dragged inward by some unseen gravity, as though his entire being were a vortex of disappearance.
Four escorts trailed around him in formation—silent, faceless, armored shadows who moved like extensions of his will.
Oh gods, that's him, isn't it?
I didn't need to be told who this was.
Every story whispered in the dark. Every curse uttered throughout the cells. Every nightmare I'd laughed off as exaggeration.
It was him.
The High Warden.