The long corridor stretched ahead, and on both sides ran niches with statues—mages, bestial figures, frozen in poses of power and dominance.

  Two girls in blue robes walked calmly down the corridor. By their gait, by their restrained gestures, by the way they didn’t glance around, it was clear—they were servants.

  “Yesterday young Lord Aiden paid me a compliment,” one of them said with a touch of excitement. “I almost fainted.”

  The other snorted, envy slipping into her voice:

  “You’re lucky… If he takes a liking to you, you’ll be in good standing. And that’s a completely different life.”

  They walked on, their conversation gradually dissolving into the echo of the corridor. Neither of them so much as looked toward the statues.

  And neither noticed two amber eyes slowly sliding free from the shadow of one of the statues behind them.

  Kael froze, crouching behind a pedestal. He barely breathed, careful not to give himself away. Libero gently maintained the effect, reducing his body’s weight.

  When the footsteps finally faded away, Kael nervously bit his lower lip.

  “Damn…” he cursed inwardly. “This isn’t a mansion—it’s a real labyrinth. And on top of that, there’s always someone wandering around.”

  Anxiety grew inside him, but he didn’t let it turn into panic. He understood too well: if he started rushing, if he lost his composure—it would be the end.

  As soon as the girls disappeared around the corner, Kael slipped out of the shadows.

  The dash was almost soundless. The reduced weight did its work—his steps turned into long, springy leaps, his body gliding forward easily, as if he were pushing off not stone, but air. The stone floor barely responded with sound.

  He ran quickly down the corridor, not lingering, yet not losing control. At the next intersection, Kael abruptly slowed, then froze for a moment. A mental map of the route he had already taken surfaced in his mind. He quickly matched the directions and turned right.

  “Hell…” irritation flared. “There aren’t even any windows here. I’m still somewhere underground.”

  He kept glancing back, feeling the tension build. The flow of mana in his body was no longer as steady as at the start.

  “My mana is gradually running out…” he noted coldly. “And Libero is starting to tire as well.”

  This was the first time Kael had used the spirit’s abilities—or even his own as a Steel Mage. In truth, he didn’t even understand his limits—testing them now, in a critical situation.

  And at that very moment, the edge of a garment appeared from around the corner ahead.

  Someone was walking toward him.

  Kael reacted instantly. He darted sideways and slipped behind the nearest statue—a winged lizard with its stone wings spread wide.

  A young man emerged from around the corner. He carried a stack of notes bound with a cord and walked with a brisk, businesslike stride, clearly lost in thought.

  Kael tensed, focusing as he assessed the young man’s aura.

  And as he came closer, there was no doubt.

  A predatory light flared in Kael’s amber eyes.

  “Bronze Mage…” he thought, realizing he’d have to act more forcefully. “I’ll have to take the risk.”

  The young man walked calmly, almost absentmindedly. Without even slowing, he opened one of the books mid-step and skimmed the first line.

  He didn’t manage to read a single word.

  SHUUV—!

  The air seemed to be sliced by a blade. In the next fraction of a second, something clamped onto his throat—precise and brutal, like the snapping jaws of a beast.

  “Ghh…” he tried to cry out, but no sound came.

  His throat was completely constricted; no air could escape, his vocal cords crushed. The young man’s fingers twitched convulsively, the books nearly spilling to the floor, but someone’s hand quickly pressed them to his chest.

  Kael was already in front of him.

  Amber eyes stared straight at him, without haste or hesitation. The palm gripping his throat was cold and impossibly strong.

  Kael leaned closer and whispered almost soundlessly:

  “If you want to live, answer quietly and briefly.”

  A sharp pull—and they were already hidden behind the statue, dissolving into shadow as if the moment had never existed. The lizard’s stone wings shielded them from the corridor.

  The grip loosened slightly—just enough to keep the young man from losing consciousness.

  “How do I leave the mansion?” Kael asked.

  The young man jerked, his chest hitching convulsively. He tried to draw a deeper breath, and in that instant panic flickered in his eyes—the urge to scream.

  But before he could cry out, the fingers on his throat tightened again.

  “I’m not in the mood, kid,” Kael hissed. “If you don’t start talking, I’ll just break your neck.”

  The pressure immediately increased.

  The young man’s eyes filled with tears, his lips turned blue, his body began to tremble. He clawed helplessly at Kael’s wrist, but the difference in strength was overwhelming.

  Suddenly, the grip vanished.

  The young man collapsed forward, gulping air and starting to sob—but before he could whimper again, a hard slap cracked across his face.

  His head snapped to the side. He froze, stunned, eyes wide open.

  “No time for your sniveling,” Kael said coldly. “Pull yourself together and talk.”

  Those words hit harder than the slap.

  The young man shook all over, finally realizing this wasn’t intimidation—he could really be killed. His lips trembled, his breathing faltered, words spilling out in a stutter:

  “I-I… y-you… at the next turn… left…” He nodded hurriedly, as if afraid of being hit again. “T-then straight… to the stairs…”

  Kael narrowed his eyes.

  “Then?” he asked shortly.

  And without waiting for an answer, he slapped him again—sharp, sobering.

  The young man whimpered, nearly breaking into tears, and spoke faster, almost choking on his words:

  “There’s a staircase! Go up—you’ll reach the wine cellar! From there… through the kitchen… you can get outside!”

  That was enough.

  Without hesitation, Kael drove a sharp surge of mana into the young man’s body. The strike was precise, measured. The man jerked, let out a short cry—and went limp, losing consciousness before he hit the ground.

  Kael carefully lowered him at the base of the statue and paused.

  “Sorry, kid,” he noted inwardly. “I’m in too shitty a mood to hold back right now.”

  He straightened and scanned the corridor—empty.

  The next moment, Kael slipped out from behind the statue and moved forward almost soundlessly, following the path he’d been given. The reduced weight made his movements quick and light, his thoughts razor-focused.

  “Stairs. Wine cellar. Kitchen,” he ran through his mind. “If I’m lucky… I’ll be outside within minutes.”

  ? ? ?

  One floor above, in a spacious hall with a high vault and rows of columns, a pale young man walked with a quick, almost hurried step.

  His head was lowered, his gaze fixed on the floor, as if he were trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. His blue hair fell forward, hiding half his face and swaying slightly with each step. His clothes were expensive—fine fabric, neat tailoring, discreet yet clearly not cheap adornments. Yet he looked like a stranger here.

  The guards lining the walls seemed not to notice him.

  Not in the sense that they turned away—rather the opposite. Their gazes passed straight through him, as if through furniture or a shadow. Not a guest. Not a master. Not even a person—just something not worth noticing.

  The young man walked in silence, his hands clenched inside his sleeves, keeping close to the walls.

  Then one of the guards suddenly snapped his head around and grinned:

  “Hey, Slug!” he shouted. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The young man flinched, his step faltering, but he didn’t stop. Only his shoulders tensed further.

  The second guard immediately joined in with a laugh:

  “Look at him… You’re disgracing your father’s name, you hear? Darskar stood shoulder to shoulder with our leader, and now his precious son runs errands like a boy.”

  Laughter rolled through the hall.

  At those words, the young man froze.

  His step broke off on its own, as if someone had tugged an invisible string. Something stabbed into his chest—short and precise—and then spread into a burning, dragging ache that made him want to grit his teeth until they cracked.

  But he didn’t.

  The young man only pulled his head deeper into his shoulders and moved forward again, forcing his legs to move. As always.

  “They’re not even Steel Mages…” he thought, anger rising inside him. “And they dare wipe their feet on me. How pathetic…”

  His fingers clenched tighter inside his sleeves. He felt the humiliation settling somewhere deep within, piling up without finding an outlet. The helplessness was so acute that he didn’t even know how to protest.

  One of the guards had already opened his mouth, clearly about to add another “friendly” joke—but the words never left him.

  From the far corner of the hall, a woman in a guard’s uniform ran out. Her face was pale, her breathing ragged, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Seal all exits from the mansion!” she shouted without slowing. “Immediately!”

  The laughter died instantly.

  The guards exchanged looks, straightening at once.

  “What happened?” one frowned. “What’s with the rush?”

  “Who gave the order?” another added, already scanning the hall warily.

  The woman stopped, drew a heavy breath, trembling as she nearly shouted:

  “By order of Elder Zeiran! Now! Move—or they’ll skin you alive!”

  The guards snapped into motion as if on command. Their backs straightened, the mocking expressions vanished without a trace—replaced by rigid, professional focus.

  One of them turned sharply toward the young man:

  “Slug,” he said flatly. “You were heading to the kitchen, right?”

  The young man flinched, as if called from underwater, and snapped out of his dark thoughts. He nodded hurriedly, not lifting his gaze.

  “Then get moving,” the guard snapped. “Tell them to seal the outside exit. Immediately.”

  The words took effect at once.

  Slug looked as if he’d been jolted by a shock. He spun around sharply and nearly bolted, breaking into a fast, uneven run toward the corridor leading to the kitchens. His thoughts tangled, his breathing went ragged, but his legs carried him forward on their own.

  Only now did he truly notice what was happening around him.

  Dozens of voices echoed through the corridors. Orders were being shouted somewhere, doors slammed elsewhere, servants and guards rushed back and forth, colliding, hurrying, glancing around. Even the air itself seemed denser, thick with anxiety and tension.

  The young man’s eyes widened.

  “What the hell?” flashed through his mind. “I don’t recall anything like this ever happening here.”

  But in the next moment, something far more startling occurred.

  Running past one of the tall windows, Slug reflexively lifted his gaze—and stumbled, nearly losing his balance.

  Across the glass, from the street side, a barely visible wave of light slowly spread. It was thin, almost transparent, like a tremor on the surface of water, yet utterly unnatural. The light slid over stone, over the frame, through the air—and vanished, leaving behind a strange sense of density.

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  Realization struck instantly.

  “A barrier…” the thought flared on its own. “They raised a barrier around the whole mansion?!”

  Slug swallowed as he ran. Cold spread through his chest.

  He remembered all too well how Aiden had once, almost in passing, told him about the mansion’s protective magic circles. About how many resources a single full activation consumed.

  “What would justify that kind of expense?” flashed through his mind. “Who are they afraid of? Or… who are they hunting?”

  There was no answer to that. Only a growing sense that he had found himself inside something vast and dangerous, something he had nothing to do with—and that made it all the more terrifying.

  He shoved the massive door open.

  It flew open, and Slug practically burst into the kitchen.

  A thick, rich blend of smells hit him at once: spices, frying meat, fresh vegetables, the sweetness of fruit. The air was warm, humid, alive. The enormous space hummed with life of its own.

  Several dozen cooks and assistants were working at full speed. Knives hammered against cutting boards, cauldrons were stirred, trays rushed between hearths. Open flames burned evenly beneath vats, and smoke dissolved into the air by magic, never gathering under the ceiling.

  The strangest thing was that none of them seemed to notice the turmoil outside.

  The kitchen lived by its own rhythm, as if the entire mansion were not, at that very moment, sealed under a barrier.

  But in that same instant, Slug snapped completely.

  He took several steps forward and, cutting through the kitchen’s roar, shouted as loudly as he could:

  “Close all exits from the kitchen! Immediately! By order of Elder Zeiran!”

  The noise cut off abruptly.

  Knives froze in midair. Someone froze with a ladle hovering over a cauldron. Several assistants turned in surprise, not immediately understanding what was happening.

  From the depths of the kitchen, a tall, broad man slowly turned around. Wide shoulders, massive arms, a solid belly stretched beneath his apron. His thick violet beard was neatly braided, reaching almost to his gut. His gaze was heavy and gripping, accustomed to command.

  He frowned when he recognized Slug and spoke in a low, displeased voice:

  “What is this about, Girren?”

  Slug swallowed and, without easing his tension, repeated, close to breaking:

  “Boros, something’s happening in the mansion. It’s better… better not to ask questions. The order is urgent.”

  A short, oppressive pause hung over the kitchen.

  For several seconds, everyone watched Boros, waiting for his decision.

  And he made it.

  “Who allowed you to be distracted?!” he roared, his voice echoing beneath the vaults. “Back to work!”

  The cooks jolted as if at a snap of the fingers. Knives resumed their clatter, cauldrons bubbled, the noise returned as if nothing had happened.

  And Boros was already striding toward the door.

  Fast, without unnecessary words. He slammed the massive door shut, turned the key in the lock, and immediately pressed his palm to a pattern set into the wall. A rune flared with a soft light.

  The protective barrier sealed into place.

  Boros stepped back from the door, cast one last glance at the rune, and only then allowed himself to exhale. The tension slipped from his shoulders, as if he had closed not just an entrance, but an entire front of problems at once.

  He turned and almost immediately stepped up to Slug. The movement was unexpectedly soft for such a massive man. Boros clapped him on the back—firmly, but kindly.

  “Thanks for letting us know,” he said in an entirely different tone, without the commander’s harshness.

  Slug gave a small nod.

  “I was just passing through,” he muttered, avoiding his gaze.

  Boros snorted, glanced sideways at him, and shook his head with a light, slightly tired smile.

  “Lord Aiden, as always, finds you the most… useless work?”

  Slug didn’t answer right away. He only lowered his head further, his shoulders drawing in almost imperceptibly.

  “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “I’m used to it.”

  For a moment, Boros studied him. Then he reached out and lightly ruffled his hair—the gesture awkward, but sincere.

  “Ah, you…” he muttered. “The kitchen’s at your disposal. Take whatever you need. Don’t be shy.”

  Slug bowed respectfully, almost automatically.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  He turned and walked calmly toward a distant wooden door that seemed to lead to the kitchen storeroom. His face remained lowered, his movements restrained, but his thoughts were already far from here.

  The chaos outside wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Slug quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

  Cool air washed over him. A staircase descended downward, the stone steps worn smooth by time, while dim crystals glowed along the walls, flooding the space with soft, diffuse light. Even from the upper steps, it was clear—the cellar was enormous.

  Large and small barrels stood in rows, neatly arranged, with burned-in seals and dates stamped into the wood. Some were bound with metal hoops; others were old, darkened, soaked with wine over decades. The smell was thick and heavy—wood, alcohol, cold stone.

  Slug descended a few more steps and slowly swept his gaze over the room.

  In the far corner was a separate section—tall shelves rising almost to the ceiling, tightly packed with hundreds of wine bottles. Dark glass, neat labels, sealed necks. This wasn’t just wine—it was status, years, the memory of a lineage.

  He was about to step forward when a quiet door creaked in another corner.

  Slug froze, instinctively turning his head.

  The wine cellar seemed to freeze in place. Even the crystals appeared dimmer. Footsteps, breathing—everything fell away, leaving only a crushing silence.

  From the half-darkness beyond the opening door, two amber eyes stared at him.

  Cold washed over Slug.

  But it wasn’t the eyes that shocked him.

  It was who they belonged to.

  “Kael?” slipped out before he could stop himself. “What are you doing here—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Kael surged forward like a ghost. In an instant the distance vanished—a strong palm clamped over Slug’s mouth, the other yanked him aside and pinned him against a rack of barrels. The movement was sharp but controlled, without pressure or threat.

  Goosebumps raced over Slug’s skin.

  Kael was tense to the breaking point. His eyes darted, his breathing was uneven, and his expression held not just anxiety—almost terror.

  Then came the words Slug never expected to hear:

  “Girren, I need help!”

  Girren felt the grip loosen. The palm no longer covered his mouth—only held him, as if Kael still feared he might make a sudden move or cry out.

  Still not understanding what was happening, he asked:

  “Kael… how did you get here…”

  The words slipped out on their own, but the thought caught up instantly, and he snapped his gaze up.

  “Wait…” His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me all this chaos is because of you!”

  Kael closed his eyes for a second and swallowed. In that same moment, he recalled what had happened minutes earlier—shouts, running, orders, the barrier. Everything had begun too abruptly, too coordinated to be a coincidence.

  He immediately understood that his disappearance had been discovered, yet by sheer luck he had managed to slip to the staircase and into the wine cellar. He had absolutely not expected to run into Girren here.

  Fear and hope mingled in his chest.

  Kael straightened abruptly, but didn’t pull away. He looked Girren straight in the eyes and said firmly:

  “Please, believe me.”

  And without giving him a chance to interject, he continued:

  “A few days ago, your family abducted me. I was kept in a dungeon. Without explanation. Without any choice. I managed to escape by sheer luck…” He paused for a moment, as if choosing his words. “If they catch me now, I’m done for.”

  Girren went pale.

  His usually weary, worn face seemed to freeze, then darkened sharply with realization. The events of the Day of Winter surfaced in his memory, the cold corridor, and Zeiran’s figure emerging from the dungeon with that very expression of calm certainty which always meant someone had already been sentenced.

  Girren swallowed.

  “So… you were the one in the dungeon?” he murmured almost unconsciously. “But why?”

  In response, Kael grabbed Girren’s shoulders with both hands. Not painfully—but hard enough for Girren to physically feel the weight of the words.

  “Hell if I know why!” Kael burst out, strained. “But Zeiran himself said he wanted to sacrifice me!”

  His fingers tightened, his gaze turning almost feverish.

  “Do you understand what that means?!” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Girren, I know you’re a good man. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Please… help me, my friend.”

  There was a plea in those words—real, without pretense or performance. But behind it lurked something else as well: cold calculation, a survival instinct, the ability to press where it hurt most.

  “If you help me escape,” Kael continued more quietly, but clearly, “I won’t forget it. I swear.”

  Kael remembered perfectly the evening he had been drinking with Aiden and Arnevir. He had clearly seen the burning hatred in Girren’s eyes—toward Aiden and toward his own family.

  At that moment, Kael understood this might be his only chance for help. But he had to apply the pressure carefully…

  He loosened his grip—just a little—and spoke in a different tone:

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to tear you out of this slavery—out of serving Aiden.” Kael looked straight into his eyes without looking away. “I swear on my soul— if I get out of here, I’ll help you become stronger. Truly stronger. Strong enough that no one will ever dare wipe their feet on you again.”

  The moment those words were spoken, something inside Girren stirred.

  Not sharply, not brightly—rather deeply, somewhere beneath layers of habitual submission and exhaustion. As if something he had hidden from himself for years had answered. Unfulfilled ambitions. Resentment he had been forced to swallow every day. A quiet, viscous hatred that had been building for years. And a thirst—not for power, but for retribution.

  He slowly straightened.

  His gaze changed. The familiar haunted look vanished, uncertainty disappeared as if it had never existed. A sobriety appeared in his eyes—cold, clear, almost frightening. For a moment, Kael barely recognized the same downtrodden errand boy in him.

  Girren clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. When he finally spoke, there was no doubt in his voice—only dull, restrained fury:

  “I don’t give a damn about your oaths…” he hissed. “Or your help. Or my strength.”

  He lifted his gaze and, for the first time, looked at Kael not from below, but straight on—on equal footing.

  “I’ll help you for one reason only,” he continued quietly, but with such hatred that the words cut like a knife. “Because I hate that damn family with all my soul.”

  For a moment, silence hung over the cellar, and a thought flashed through Kael’s mind:

  “So this is what he’s really like… his true nature…”

  Somewhere above, from the direction of the kitchen, footsteps echoed.

  At first muffled, then clearer—fast, confident, and there was more than one. Shoes thudded against the stone, and the sound cut at the nerves harder than any shout.

  Girren reacted instantly.

  He jerked Kael by the sleeve and, without a word, pulled him aside, guiding him between rows of barrels and racks of bottles.

  “Here,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  They turned behind a tall rack, and almost immediately Girren rushed toward a conspicuous, clearly expensive dark steel door. The carving on it was fine, exquisite, the magical patterns barely noticeable—but Kael understood at once that this was no ordinary cellar.

  Girren snatched a key from beneath his clothes, his fingers moving fast and without a tremor. The lock clicked softly.

  “This is the cellar for the most expensive wines,” he whispered, already opening the door. “Only a few people have the keys. They won’t look for you here.”

  At that very moment, a door above burst open.

  Voices. Rapid footsteps on the stairs. Someone had already begun to descend.

  Kael didn’t ask any questions. He stepped inside instantly, turning back only for a second.

  “Thank you, Girren,” he breathed sincerely.

  Instead of answering, Girren sharply yanked two wine bottles with golden seals from a rack beside Kael.

  “You’re welcome, Kael,” he said quietly. “You’re one of the few who at least remembered my name.”

  He shut the door almost soundlessly and immediately turned the key in the lock. The lock latched softly, and the magical patterns on the steel flared faintly, then went dark.

  Less than ten seconds passed before the guards came down the stairs.

  They immediately spread through the cellar, wasting no time—peering behind barrels and between racks, checking niches and doors, lighting the way with small magical lights.

  One of them spotted Girren almost immediately.

  “Hey! Slug!” he barked, not even trying to hide his contempt. “Seen anyone suspicious down here?”

  Girren flinched, his shoulders drooping slightly, and answered meekly:

  “It’s been quiet here for the last minute… No one’s come in.”

  The guard snorted and turned away, no longer considering him worth talking to.

  “Search everything here—quickly,” he ordered the others. “Then we move lower!”

  Girren silently set the two bottles on the nearest rack and, without waiting for orders, began to help—moving barrels aside, peering under racks, opening simple cabinets. He did everything diligently, but without initiative, never taking a single step closer to the steel door.

  The cellar filled with bustle, footsteps, brief remarks. But it didn’t last long.

  “Clear!” someone called.

  “Nothing here either!”

  “Then down, move!”

  The guards rushed off just as abruptly as they had appeared, running on—along the very passage Kael had come from moments earlier. Not a word of thanks, not a glance toward Girren.

  When the echo of their footsteps finally faded, the cellar fell quiet again.

  Girren waited a couple of heartbeats longer, then quickly approached the steel door and, leaning close, whispered almost soundlessly:

  “All the exits from the mansion are closed now. They’ve put a barrier over the mansion itself.”

  From inside came Kael’s muffled whisper at once:

  “Damn it… This is bad. If they find me, that old psycho Zeiran will kill me.”

  Girren glanced around, checking whether anyone else was nearby. Then he crouched by the door and carefully slid the key through the gap beneath the door.

  “They won’t find you here,” he whispered. “At least not right away. It’s better to wait it out. Let the noise die down… then maybe there’ll be a chance to move.”

  A quiet click sounded—the key slid inside.

  Girren felt it slip from his fingers and kept his hand there for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else but didn’t dare.

  “Sorry,” he breathed. “I can’t help you any more right now. If I notice the barrier’s been lifted, I’ll come right away and let you know. But if you realize things are going downhill…” he clenched his teeth. “Just run. You’ve got the key.”

  From the darkness came a muffled reply:

  “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

  Girren gave a crooked, joyless smirk.

  “For now, just escape,” he said quietly. “If they catch you, I probably won’t survive either.”

  He snorted; there was more bitterness than humor in the sound.

  “Still… even that’s better than spending the rest of my life serving that bastard Aiden.”

  Girren straightened, picked up the same two bottles of expensive wine, and, as he walked away, tossed over his shoulder with a faint smile, clearly not believing such an outcome possible:

  “If everything works out… I’ll be waiting for that strength you promised.”

  His footsteps quickly faded, dissolving into the depths of the cellar.

  Kael was left alone in the darkness, amid the silence and the scent of old wine. He clenched the key in his palm and slowly exhaled.

  “If I survive, Girren…” he thought, cold resolve gathering inside him once more. “Believe me. I’ll do whatever it takes to give you the chance to take revenge on those who wronged you.”

  ? ? ?

  At the same time, far from the wine cellars and the bustle of the Vengeful Thunder Family mansion, tense anticipation still reigned in Magister Duran’s house.

  Priscilla stood by the window with her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture was calm, but her gaze was focused, as if she were listening not to the sounds of the house, but to the very fabric of what was unfolding. Riada sat at the table, sorting through some notes. The Black Rat leaned silently against the back of a chair, fingers interlocked—a rare sign that even she was beginning to feel uneasy.

  The silence was broken by a quiet but distinct knock at the door.

  All three looked up at once.

  The door opened without haste, and a man stepped inside who, at first glance, was utterly unremarkable. Of average height, dressed simply, with a slightly tired face and the look of someone used to haggling over every coin. There were hundreds like him in Lasthold—merchants, intermediaries, petty shopkeepers.

  But none of the women present were deceived.

  The Black Rat raised an eyebrow and asked curtly:

  “Any news, Luchi?”

  The man nodded and closed the door behind him. His voice dropped, wary and low:

  “Our spies have passed along troubling news. Something strange is happening at the Vengeful Thunder Family mansion.”

  He paused, as if weighing every word.

  “All the guards and servants are on edge. Everyone’s searching for something. And most importantly…” Luchi lifted his gaze. “A full defensive barrier has been raised around the entire mansion.”

  The air in the room thickened noticeably.

  “A barrier?” Riada repeated, sharply setting her notes aside. “That level of protection is only raised in extreme cases.”

  “Exactly,” Luchi nodded. “By the feel of it, they’re trying to protect something valuable… or prevent a theft.”

  The Black Rat slowly straightened. A familiar, predatory spark flared in her eyes, and she added another possibility:

  “Or prevent an escape.”

  The moment those words were spoken, all three rose at once.

  There was no fuss—only sharp, synchronized resolve, as if the decision had been forming for a long time, merely waiting for a signal.

  Riada broke the silence first, voicing the thought already spinning in all their minds:

  “As it turns out, Kael has far too many surprises up his sleeve.” She frowned. “Could this be him?”

  The Black Rat didn’t hesitate. Her answer was immediate and firm:

  “We need to act. Now.”

  Priscilla nodded slowly, turning away from the window. There was no doubt in her eyes.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences either.” She faced the others. “We move without Duran.”

  Riada exhaled briefly, accepting it, and immediately shifted to business:

  “Then what’s the plan?”

  Priscilla headed for the exit, already moving as she spoke:

  “On the move.”

  The Black Rat pulled up her hood, the smile vanishing, replaced by businesslike focus.

  The three women left Magister Duran’s house almost simultaneously.

  The waiting was over. It was time to act.