By midmorning, Siracusa was restless.

  Merchants gathered in knots along the avenues leading to the Governor’s manor. Noble envoys arrived in polished carriages, smiles tight, patience thinner by the hour. The capture of the kidnappers had sparked relief—but relief curdled quickly when it became clear the curfew would not be lifted, the caravans would not move, and the matter was far from resolved.

  Serena did not yield.

  She stood at the Governor’s side like a drawn blade, her presence alone enough to keep voices measured. When persuasion failed, authority followed. The Royal Army detachment under her command sealed streets, dispersed gatherings, and escorted the loudest protesters away with cold efficiency.

  Threats followed soon after.

  Complaints would reach the Capital, they promised. Superiors would hear of this. Old favors would be called in.

  Serena listened. She did not respond.

  Behind the scenes, the investigation stalled.

  The rescued children could offer little more than fragments: darkness, movement, fear. They spoke of an ordinary-looking young man who appeared suddenly, moved too quickly to follow, and vanished just as fast. No clear face. No name.

  The bandits themselves knew even less.

  They had taken children to shifting locations, never the same twice. Their orders were simple: deliver, withdraw, forget. No faces. No questions. No explanations.

  Only the leader remained unbroken—for now.

  He was held in the deepest cell beneath the Governor’s manor, his Qi sealed, his senses dulled by confinement. Interrogators avoided him deliberately, working instead on his subordinates within earshot. He listened to screams. To pleas. To silence.

  By nightfall, his confidence had eroded into sweat and shallow breathing, his mental defences were frayed to the breaking point.

  Then, without warning, the door opened.

  A city guard entered—silent, expressionless—and cut the leader’s bindings without a word.

  “Who are you? Where are you taking me?” Leto rasped. His power was sealed, his body heavy. When the guard smacked him across the jaw to silence him, Leto’s desperation turned to pure terror.

  They walked.

  Deeper. Then upward. Through passages the prisoner did not recognize.

  When cool night air struck his face, disbelief hit harder than fear.

  He was free.

  The guard removed the seals, turned away, and vanished back inside.

  The leader laughed—once, sharp and hysterical—then ran.

  He moved through the sleeping city with practiced ease, keeping to shadowed routes until he reached an open square used for markets and festivals. Empty now. Quiet.

  He mimicked the cry of a wildcat.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A shape emerged from the darkness.

  A man in black. Featureless. Still.

  “Sombra,” the leader breathed, relief flooding his voice. “Thank the boss for me. I knew he wouldn’t abandon—”

  “Idiot.”

  The voice was like a shard of ice. The figure in the dark vest sneered, a mask on his face, a pair of slits for eyes, and a hideous grin carved into his mask, catching the moonlight.

  The blade flashed.

  The head struck the stones before the body realised it was dead.

  Sombra turned his head towards a particular building nearby.

  In that particular building, three hundred meters away, Serena felt it.

  She and her men burst into motion, crossing rooftops in a blur of force and fury. Serena made the distance in barely more than a single second. But it was a few milliseconds too late.

  Blood cooled on the stones. No trail remained.

  Sombra was already gone, vanished into the ink of shadows.

  Serena’s face twisted in fury, rain beginning to patter down as if the heavens mocked her failure.

  Several streets away, he stepped from shadow to shadow without haste. He knew he had lost them; this was his confidence in the

  A stray dog lingered near a refuse pile, nose to the ground.

  Sombra did not look at it.

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  The dog did.

  Later that night, Sombra entered a discreet manor near the inner walls.

  A hooded figure awaited him.

  “Is it done?” the figure asked.

  Sombra’s silence was answer enough. However, his silence in that hideous grinning mask was mockery made flesh.

  “We still need more cargo,” he said at last. “And you have an opportunity. The children under Serena’s protection. The ones who haven’t returned home.”

  “That will expose our spy.”

  Sombra turned.

  “If you fail again,” he said softly, “exposure will be the least of your concerns.”

  The temperature in the room dropped.

  When the shadows swallowed him, the hooded man remained alone, shaking with rage.

  "Damn him," he hissed. "Treating me like dirt. But I'll prove them wrong." He stepped to a gilded mirror, his reflection revealing Alastor De Basil's twisted face—ugly ambition etched in every line, a dark grimace promising vengeance.

  "For now, let Serena De Vainilla choke on failure.”

  , “They’ll likely push a Non-Confidence Motion, and topple her house. And the others? They hunger for her blood. After the ritual, we'll bait her with lies—exploit her desperation to save those brats. Success means they help me crush my brother. Then the house is mine."

  Rain pounded the roof, relentless, echoing the storm of treachery brewing within.

  Dawn came without delay, time waiting for no man.

  The Governor's study felt smaller than its vaulted ceilings suggested, the air thick with the scent of polished oak and flickering candlewax. Rain lashed the tall windows, blurring the city lights into smeared halos.

  Oliverio’s expression was carved from stone.

  Across the study, Saras De Vainilla paced like a caged animal, boots striking the floor with sharp, uneven rhythm. Each turn brought him closer to eruption — and each time, he forced himself to stop short of it.

  Barely.

  He admired Serena, in truth—her fire, her unyielding spine. But her stubbornness? It bordered on recklessness, and now it had birthed catastrophe.

  Serena sat opposite them, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. Her posture was composed. Her gaze was alert. Not lowered — not defiant — simply .

  Saras stopped pacing at last.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he demanded. “Anything at all that helps us identify the man who killed the prisoner?”

  Serena did not answer immediately.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in avoidance, but in thought.

  That silence scraped against Saras’ nerves.

  “Saras,” Oliverio said calmly, without looking at him. “Enough.”

  He turned his gaze to Serena.

  “The elders are alarmed,” Oliverio continued. “And rightly so. You took responsibility for this course of action. Now a prisoner is dead, and tomorrow this will not remain contained.”

  A pause. “You will speak.”

  Serena lifted her head, meeting her father's eyes directly. Still, no words.

  Saras opened his mouth to erupt anew—

  A furious knocking thundered against the door, sharp and insistent.

  "Who dares?" Saras bellowed, gloom thickening his tone. "I ordered no interruptions unless the world itself was ending!"

  The door opened at once.

  A servant stepped in, breathless, face pale.

  “County Governor… Patriarch…” He swallowed. “The children. The ones under guard.”

  Silence.

  “They’ve been taken. Again.”

  For a heartbeat, the room did not move.

  “No signs of forced entry,” the servant continued quickly. “No struggle. The guards saw nothing. By the time they realised—”

  Saras staggered back a step.

  “…Impossible,” he whispered. “This—this cannot be happening.”

  He dragged a hand down his face, suddenly looking far older.

  “When it rains,” he muttered hoarsely, “it pours.”

  Serena rose slowly, shock flashing across her features—raw, unguarded. But beneath it, unnoticed by the others, lay not despair's abyss, but the jolt of inevitability: a plan unfolding exactly as foreseen, yet staggering in its audacity.

  The note from the previous night burned in her memory—a cryptic promise, a deliberate provocation.

  Her shock ebbed. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips.

  Not wide. Not triumphant.

  Controlled.

  Saras saw it — and nearly exploded. “Are you ?” he snapped. “After this—”

  She interrupted, "Father. Uncle Saras. I require a special detachment from the Army—immediate authorization. I'll return by evening."

  Oliverio studied her.

  “You believe this was inevitable,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe it is useful.”

  “Yes.”

  Saras laughed bitterly. “Useful? Children have been taken from under our protection!”

  Serena met his gaze without flinching.

  “And now,” she said, “we know exactly how deep the rot goes.”

  She turned to her father.

  “Do not lift the curfew. Do not reopen the caravans. Do not reassure the city… Let them panic.”

  Oliverio’s eyes sharpened.

  “And Ansara?” he asked quietly.

  Serena answered without hesitation.

  “Ansara does not bend because criminals test it. It proves itself by answering.”

  Silence followed.

  At last, Oliverio inclined his head.

  “Go,” he said. “But understand this, Serena: if you are wrong—”

  “I will bear it,” she replied at once. “Alone, if necessary.”

  She turned and strode from the study before either man could speak again.

  Saras stared after her, jaw tight, fury and dread tangled together.

  Oliverio remained still.

  “You’re right, Saras. When it rains,” he said softly, almost to himself, “it pours. But, it may not be pouring for us.”

  A single carriage rolled along a narrow road beyond Siracusa’s outer lights, its wheels muffled by dirt and dew-soaked grass. No sigils marked its sides. No escort rode beside it. Just another shabby merchant wagon, easily ignored by anyone who happened to glimpse it from afar.

  The man holding the reins wore a hood pulled low over his face.

  Alastor De Basil did not look back.

  He had decided, at last, to act personally.

  Using the guard who still answered to him, he had arranged the transfer cleanly and quietly. No alarms. No witnesses. The Vainillas would wake to the news too late to stop it—and when they did, the damage would already be done.

  He smiled to himself.

  Yesterday’s chaos already felt distant. Sombra had severed the last loose threads with his usual efficiency. The panic in the city, the pressure on Serena, the confusion among the guards—everything was falling back into alignment.

  This delivery would complete the tally.

  That thought alone made his fingers tighten on the reins.

  The ritual would proceed.

  A shiver traced his spine at the thought—that forbidden ceremony, promising power unbound by bloodlines or slow cultivation. Rank accelerated. Legitimacy forged in shadow. He gritted his teeth against the thrill of fear, urging the horses faster. The point of no return lay far behind him now.

  Inside the carriage, the children sat bound and silent.

  Six of them.

  They should have been crying. Pleading. Shaking. They were not.

  They exchanged glances instead—small, quiet looks, as if sharing something unspoken. Fear lingered in their eyes, yes, but not the raw despair Alastor expected. It unsettled him more than screams would have.

  One girl sat slightly apart from the others.

  Her face was plain enough to pass unnoticed. Freckled. Ordinary.

  Her eyes were not.

  Dark, deep, and far too alert for a child who had just been taken for the second time.

  Now and then, the corner of her mouth twitched upward, a fleeting smile she did not bother to hide.

  Above the road, a shape moved without sound.

  Overhead, a small bird ghosted through the night, wings slicing the air without a sound. It wove from shadow to shadow, never straying far from the carriage's path, its gaze fixed and knowing.

  Alastor, lost in his triumph, noticed nothing amiss. He remained blissfully unaware that the original count had been five.

  The road curved away from the city, into darker land.

  And somewhere behind them—unseen, unhurried—the trap finished closing.