Yvette stirred at midday, her mind clear and powers sharper than ever. Within three meters, her control was near-flawless—a gun in her hand could bend bullets to her will, striking distant targets with ease. At the edge of her range, though, precision wavered, like a child’s clumsy toss landing inches shy.

But overnight, something had shifted. Where before she’d fumbled at maximum reach, now she sensed mastery. Did battle hone me? she wondered, uneasy.

Memories of last night’s dream intruded. The hazy first half recoiled from her grasp, but the latter unfolded with crystalline clarity—a vision through Durand’s eyes.

The black-robed man had been a scholar of forgotten worlds; Durand was a brute. Awakened by chance, he’d hoarded his power like a miser, evading the Bureau for years. Yvette guessed he’d thought himself alone until the secret society claimed him.

In the dream, Durand pored over Penstrokes on the Isle of Idhra, extracting a letter.

Your power flows from ancient gods. To climb their ladder, feed their hunger. Blood opens divine ears. Cain’s crops withered; Abel’s lamb won favor. Heed this: Rituals are maps. Let your blood guide you.

—Hydra

The black-robed man’s Gothic script clung to her thoughts. Sacrifice—the very act that had greeted her arrival here. The Bureau forbade such rites, yet Hydra prospered through butchery. Why hadn’t they sought the Bureau’s sanctioned晋升?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Durand’s reply quivered with zeal. A voice in his blood demanded his wife, a “prime offering.” He feared failure but would comply. His letter, paired with gold, vanished into the book.

No addresses. No names. How did Hydra’s letters travel? A dead drop, Yvette guessed—a hiding spot known only to members. Durand’s library might hold answers...

At the inn, Nerium and Strophanthus lunged to embrace her. Inside, Strychnine bemoaned missing her “epic clash” with Durand, lauding Julius’ tall tale.

Spotting Julius fleeing on horseback, Yvette snagged his reins, strength belying her frame.

“Explain,” she growled, driving a fence post into the earth.

Julius coughed up the truth: a prank gone awry. As she marched off, he followed, wary of her simmering rage—a telltale crack in the Old Gods’ grip.

Meditation steadied her. “I’m sorry,” she offered. Julius deflected with a grin: “A little fire suits you.”

At Durand’s estate, cops relented under Julius’ bluster. Yvette combed the study, finding Penstrokes... and Durand’s unfinished plea to Hydra—stalled investments, a request for patience.

Julius deciphered the code: “Idhra” was Hydra’s ancient name. The book was a drop point. Inspector Alto pinned it to his conspiracy wall, linking Durand and Thomas Simon (a.k.a. Hydra) with red threads.

“Secret societies multiply like rats,” Alto grumbled. “The literate age’s curse.”

Yvette pressed to examine Thomas’ seized books. Alto obliged, touting her as a future star detective. Julius vetoed: “No daughter of mine wastes breath on titled fools.”

Their bickering—Julius’ Latin barbs, Alto’s baffled glare—sealed the feud. Some partnerships, it seemed, thrived on spite.