Dawn bled gray over the Under district. We moved like ghosts—me in front, Liraya at my left flank in muted armor, Sylvara melting in and out of shadows on the right. The new shadow-step let her vanish for heartbeats at a time, reappearing with a whisper of cool air and the faint scent of smoke. She'd already proven useful twice: once slipping ahead to scout a patrol, once pulling a knife from a thug's belt before he could draw it.
The target was Harlan Voss—no relation, thank the gods—a bloated Council contractor who laundered refined memories through his "import" business. He supplied the High Mnemonics with talent stolen from the Hollowed. Tonight he was hosting a private auction in his warehouse on the riverfront. High bidders only. High security. Perfect place to hit for intel, coin, and a fat skill graft.
We crouched on a rooftop across the street. Rain had stopped; the air smelled of tar and river rot.
"Guards on the doors," Liraya murmured. "Rune-traps on the loading bay. Harlan's in the back office—fat fuck never leaves his ledgers."
Sylvara's tattoos pulsed softly. "I can shadow-step us past the outer wards. But inside it's lit like a Memory Ball. No darkness to hide in."
I nodded. "We go loud if we have to. I need something big from him. Pyromancy rumor's been floating for months—he's got a master arsonist's memory vial in his personal collection."
Liraya's eyes narrowed. "You're going to graft fire? That's unstable even for you."
"Which is why I'll have both of you to burn it clean." I glanced between them. "Ready to share again?"
Sylvara smirked. "Always."
Liraya just gripped her sword hilt tighter. "Let's burn the bastard."
We dropped.
Sylvara vanished first—reappeared behind the door guard, hand over his mouth, dagger through his kidney. Silent drop. Liraya took the second—sword through the throat before he could shout. I shadow-stepped inside after them, the new skill feeling like cool silk sliding over my skin.
The warehouse was cavernous: crates stacked high, lanterns swinging, voices echoing from the central platform where Harlan held court. Fat, red-faced, rings on every finger. Around him: six guards in rune-plate, two bidders in silk robes, and a caged pedestal holding glowing vials.
Harlan laughed at something one bidder said—deep, wet cough. "Gentlemen, the arsonist's essence is pure. One vial, one fortune. Start at five thousand crowns."
I signaled. Sylvara melted into shadow again. Liraya and I moved along the crates.
First guard spotted us. He opened his mouth—Liraya's blade silenced him mid-breath. Second turned; I slammed my palm to his temple, ripping memories: basic combat drills, nothing special, but enough to top off my stack. Pollution prickled—faint burn behind my eyes.
We closed on Harlan.
He saw us too late. "Intruders! Kill—"
Sylvara appeared behind him—shadow tendrils wrapping his wrists, yanking him back. Liraya's sword flashed—taking a guard's arm at the elbow. I charged the platform.
Harlan panicked—grabbed a vial from the pedestal and smashed it against the floor. Flames erupted—blue-white, unnatural. Pyromancy essence unbound, spreading like liquid fire across the crates.
Chaos.
Guards rushed. I shadow-stepped through the flames—heat licking my skin but not burning, not yet—and tackled Harlan. We hit the ground hard. He was heavier than he looked. I pinned him, knees on his chest, fingers sinking into his temples.
"Give it to me," I snarled.
He laughed—maniacal. "You'll burn with it, Thief!"
I tore.
The graft hit like a furnace blast. Master arsonist's memories: flame shaping, heat control, ignition from nothing. Muscles remembered the flick of a wrist to birth fire, the focus to contain it. Power surged—hot, wild, intoxicating.
But the pollution roared back—assassin cold mixing with fire rage mixing with lock-picking precision. Head splitting. Vision blurring red.
Harlan convulsed under me—brain frying from the extraction. He went still.
Flames roared higher. Crates ignited. Bidders screamed, fleeing. Guards closed in.
Liraya and Sylvara fought back-to-back—sword and shadow dancing. But the fire was spreading too fast.
I staggered up. Pollution clawed—whispers urging me to burn everything, everyone.
Needed release. Needed them.
I shadow-stepped to them—grabbed Liraya's waist, pulled her against me. "Now."
She understood instantly. "Here? In the fire?"
"Yes."
I shoved her against a burning crate—flames licking the wood but not touching us yet. Tore her undershirt open—tits spilling free. Sylvara appeared beside us—shadows coiling protectively.
I ripped Sylvara's remaining clothes away. Naked, tattoos blazing. I bent Liraya over the crate—ass up, hands braced on hot wood. Slammed into her from behind—deep, brutal. She cried out—pleasure cutting through the roar of fire.
Sylvara knelt in front—mouth on Liraya's clit, tongue flicking while I fucked her. Liraya's moans turned to screams—overwhelmed, hips bucking between us.
The pollution burned hotter—fire in my veins—but their heat was hotter.
I pulled out—cock slick—and turned Sylvara around. Bent her over beside Liraya—two perfect asses presented. I alternated—thrust into Sylvara, then Liraya, then back. Each stroke drove the pyromancy deeper, stabilizing it. Flames danced around us—close enough to singe hair, but the graft kept us untouched.
"Mine," I growled. "Both of you. Forever."
Liraya came first—shuddering, squirting over Sylvara's tongue. Sylvara followed—walls clamping, tattoos flaring white-hot. I buried in Sylvara and exploded—thick pulses flooding her, then pulled out mid-climax and finished on Liraya's ass—marking them both.
The pollution vanished. Pyromancy locked clean: I could feel the fire answering my will now. A flick of my fingers—flame bloomed in my palm, controlled, obedient.
The warehouse burned brighter. Guards dead or fled. Bidders gone.
We gathered what we could—ledgers, coin sacks, more vials. Sylvara shadow-stepped us out through a collapsing wall—cool darkness swallowing the heat.
Outside, river wind cooled sweat-slick skin. We stood on the dock, watching the warehouse become an inferno.
Liraya leaned against me—breasts pressed to my side. "Pyromancy suits you."
Sylvara licked her lips—still tasting Liraya. "Next time, I want to ride you while you summon flames."
I smirked. "Next time we hit the Dead Zone. Veyra's daughter. Then the first High Mnemonic."
I opened my palm—blue flame dancing harmlessly. Power. Control. Hunger.
The empire would burn.
And I would rise from the ashes—with my queens at my side.