The world was dark and muffled as consciousness slowly returned. My ears rang, and my body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede. I coughed, each breath bringing in the acrid scent of smoke and charred wood. The pain in my shoulder was agonizing, radiating out like wildfire.

I blinked, my vision swimming. The room beyond the ruined door was ablaze, its walls and fixtures consumed by flames that flickered hungrily. The explosion had turned the kitchen into a fiery deathtrap, but it also meant I had likely taken out those five assassins—or at least incapacitated them.

I forced myself up, clutching my revolver. Blood seeped from my shoulder, and flowed down. I couldn’t close up the wound without removing the foreign object embedded inside, the bullet. My body screamed at me to rest, but I couldn’t afford to stop.

I had to temporarily stop the bleeding till I could properly take care of it. Finding a curtain on a nearby window, I cut off a plain section of the cloth and used that to put pressure on the wound and limit the bleeding.

I couldn’t sit still now, who knew how many assassins the king had sent? I knew that the room I was in connected to a hallway that was adjacent to the Staggering to the door’s frame, I peeked into the hallway. Shadows danced in the flickering firelight, but there were no signs of movement.

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Each step through the dimly lit servant hall sent a sharp jolt of pain through my body. The air was thick with smoke, the fire spreading relentlessly through the estate, devouring everything in its path. My breath came in ragged gasps, my exhaustion pressing down like a boulder on my chest. The makeshift bandage at my shoulder was already soaked through, and the bullet lodged within sent sharp, biting pain through my nerves with every movement.

But I had no choice. Stopping meant death.

The corridor was eerily silent, the flickering glow of fire casting long, restless shadows. The servants' quarters were sparse, rows of simple wooden doors lining the hallway, some left ajar in the chaos. A few bodies littered the floor—servants caught in the crossfire, their lives snuffed out before they even had a chance to understand what had happened.

I forced myself to move, my revolver heavy in my grasp. The grand entry hall lay ahead. If I could reach it, if I could just make it outside—

Then I felt it.

A presence.

It was different from the others. The moment I stepped into the hall, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

A voice drifted from the darkness ahead, smooth and unhurried.

"So… you’re still alive."

I froze.

A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim firelight. He was different from the assassins I had fought before—his movements precise, measured, effortless. His outfit was unlike theirs as well; while the others wore dark combat gear, this man was dressed simply, functionally, in a sleeveless tunic revealing lean, corded muscle. He had no wasted movement, no unnecessary gestures. Every part of him spoke of experience.

His eyes flicked over me, taking in my tattered dress, my blood-soaked shoulder, the revolver clutched in my trembling hand.

"I expected the boy to put up a fight," he mused. "But you? You were supposed to be easy. And yet here you stand, painted in the blood of my trainees."

Trainees? A sick feeling twisted in my gut.

"You’re telling me those were just novices?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

The assassin smirked.

"Did you think the king would waste true assassins on a simple execution? Those men were untested, sent here to learn the thrill of the kill. I thought it would be over quickly." He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. "Clearly, I underestimated you."

I swallowed hard. If the assassins I had fought so far were just novices—

"I’ll correct my mistake personally."

He lunged.

I barely managed to react, throwing myself backward as his dagger flashed in the firelight. The blade carved through the space where my throat had been a second before. My heel caught on the edge of a fallen beam, and I stumbled.

He pressed the advantage, closing the distance instantly.

A fist drove into my wounded shoulder. White-hot agony exploded through me. My vision blurred, my knees buckling.

But I couldn’t fall.

I twisted, lashing out blindly with my dagger. He slipped to the side, but not fast enough—I felt the blade slice across his forearm.

A minor wound.

I tried to retreat, but he didn’t let up. He flowed forward, his movements impossibly fast. His knife came in a flurry of slashes, forcing me to parry wildly, my arms burning with the effort. My reactions were slowing. The blood loss, the exhaustion—it was all catching up to me.

I fired the revolver.

He twisted just as I pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed his ribs, tearing through fabric and skin but failing to stop him.

Then his hand snapped out, gripping my wrist in a vice.

Pain flared as he wrenched my arm, forcing the revolver downward. I pulled the trigger again, but the shot buried itself in the floor.

He slammed his knee into my stomach.

I choked.

The impact sent me sprawling back, crashing against a wooden supply shelf. Jars of preserves and sacks of grain tumbled down, shattering on the floor. My vision swam. I struggled to breathe.

Before I could even react, he was on me.

His boot came down hard on my arm, pinning it to the ground. Then, with terrifying strength, he gripped my wrist—

And heaved.

Crunch.

A sound I never should have heard.

A sensation I never should have felt.

Agony detonated in my skull, raw and unfiltered. A scream tore from my throat, ragged and broken, a sound I barely recognized as my own. Colors burst behind my eyes, a kaleidoscope of pain, reds, yellows, and purples swallowing my vision whole. My breath came in ragged gasps, but the pain didn’t stop—it never stopped. Every nerve in my body was screaming, my mind white-hot with the unbearable wrongness of it.

My arm—

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

And he was still looming over me.

My breath hitched, my vision swimming between reality and oblivion. The pain was too much, threatening to consume me, to drag me under.

But I couldn’t afford to stop.

Not now.

Not ever.

The assassin loomed over me, his grip tightening on my shattered arm. He wanted to see me break.

I refused.

With my free hand, I grasped blindly at the scattered debris around me. My fingers closed around something—a broken glass jar.

Before he could react, I swung.

The jagged shards buried into his thigh.

He hissed, staggering back, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench my arm free. My entire limb was useless, burning with unbearable agony, but I moved. I had to.

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I rolled, barely avoiding the downward arc of his knife as it plunged into the wood where my head had just been. Splinters flew.

Scrambling back, I kicked over a crate of coal dust near the wall. The black powder spilled onto the floor between us. An idea sparked in my mind—a desperate, reckless idea.

He lunged at me again.

I grabbed a nearby oil lantern and smashed it against the floor.

Flames erupted instantly, racing across the coal dust in a sudden firestorm between us. The assassin barely managed to recoil, shielding his face as the heat surged toward him.

I didn’t hesitate.

Using my good arm, I grabbed a heavy iron skillet from a supply rack and swung with every ounce of strength I had left.

CRACK.

The impact sent him staggering. Blood dripped from his temple. He turned back toward me, murderous fury in his eyes.

But I didn’t let him recover.

I lunged forward, slamming the skillet into his skull again—this time with all the force I could muster. His body went rigid. Then, slowly, he collapsed.

For a moment, I just stood there, swaying on my feet, my breath ragged.

Then my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees, gasping.

I had won.

But at what cost?

My body felt broken, my vision blurring at the edges. The estate was still burning, the air thick with smoke. I needed to move. Needed to find a way out.

But as I tried to rise, my limbs refused to obey.

And that’s when I heard it.

A quiet, wheezing chuckle.

My blood ran cold.

The assassin—he was still alive.

The wheezing laughter sent ice through my veins.

I turned my head slowly, and my breath caught in my throat.

The assassin lay sprawled on the ground, his body battered, his head bleeding from where I had struck him. But his fingers twitched, his chest still rose and fell. And his eyes—sharp, dark, and filled with malice—locked onto mine.

“Not… bad,” he rasped, his voice laced with pain but also something else. A sick amusement. “But you… think this is over?”

My muscles screamed as I forced myself to move. My shattered arm was useless, hanging limp at my side, but I still had one working hand. One working chance.

He reached for something—a dagger strapped to his belt.

I lunged.

Pain be damned, I threw myself at him, tackling him before he could unsheath the blade. We crashed to the floor in a heap of pain and desperation. He was still stronger than me, even injured, even bloodied. He twisted his body, trying to throw me off, but I clawed at his wounds, driving my fingers into the glass-riddled gash in his thigh.

He let out a strangled snarl, his body spasming.

And then—he flipped me over.

I barely had time to react before his weight came down on top of me, pinning me to the floor. His dagger, now unsheathed, hovered over my throat, trembling in his grip. Blood dripped from his forehead onto my face.

“Do you know… what the difference is,” he breathed, “between you… and me?”

I grit my teeth, struggling against him.

“You hesitate.”

He drove the dagger down.

At the last second, I thrust my knee up, slamming into his already injured leg.

He choked on a gasp, his body faltering—just enough.

I wrenched my head to the side as the dagger plunged down, its tip skimming past my cheek and embedding itself into the wooden floor.

He tried to pull it free, but I was faster.

I sank my teeth into the side of his neck.

He let out a shocked, guttural cry.

I bit down harder.

His grip loosened. That was all I needed.

I grabbed the dagger, ripped it free from the floor—and drove it into his jugular.

His entire body went rigid. His breath hitched. His fingers twitched, then slowly, slumped.

I shoved him off me with every ounce of strength I had left.

He fell backward, gurgling, clutching at his throat as blood poured between his fingers.

And then, finally—he stopped moving.

Silence.

Just the crackle of fire. My own ragged breathing. The distant collapse of burning wood.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I had won. This time… for real.

But the estate was still burning. And if I didn’t move now, I was going to burn with it. But my body had stopped responding. All I could do was watch and listen.

Chunks of the building began to fall all around me.

So this is how I die… at the very least I have avenged my brother… ha…

My field of view grew smaller and fuzzier and my body began feeling colder.

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Farthington stirred awake, blinking groggily as his mind sluggishly adjusted to wakefulness. The gentle sway of the carriage and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone had lulled him into an unintended nap. He rubbed his temples, feeling an odd, persistent weight in his chest.

Tokei sat across from him, arms crossed, gazing out the window. The cool evening air breezed through the slightly open curtains, but there was an unnatural stillness to it.

Something felt… wrong.

At first, it was just a nagging sense of unease, a whisper of tension curling around his spine. But within seconds, it twisted into something worse—a suffocating dread, pressing against his ribs. It was an instinct, something deeper than logic or reason.

“We need to go back.”

Tokei turned her gaze to him, one brow raising at the sudden urgency in his voice. “Go back where?”

“The estate. Now.”

Tokei studied him for a long moment. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” He clenched his fists, the unease growing into outright fear. “I just… I have a really bad feeling. We need to get back. If we don’t—”

A distant boom shook the air.

Both of them froze.

Then, beyond the clustered rooftops of the city, an orange glow erupted into the sky—followed by a plume of smoke and fire.

Tokei’s eyes widened, then immediately narrowed in focus. She turned to the driver. “Turn around. Take us back to the Luminastra estate. Now!”

The driver hesitated only a moment before snapping the reins. The carriage lurched, turning sharply onto another road.

Flames climbed higher in the night, licking at the sky like grasping fingers.

“We might be too late.”

Tokei’s grip tightened. “Not yet.”

By the time they reached the estate’s grounds, chaos had fully taken hold. Smoke billowed from shattered windows, flames consuming the walls. The explosion had torn through a portion of the upper floors, leaving jagged rubble and collapsed beams.

Farthington stared in a daze. The grand hall was barely visible through the inferno. Heat blasted against them, searing and suffocating.

“This is madness,” he muttered. “How are we supposed to do anything in this—”

Tokei didn’t hesitate.

She exhaled—and then, in a blur, her body shifted.

The air around her rippled as the transformation took hold, her form warping and twisting. Within moments, the features of her face were only partly human. Bluish scales with an iridescent sheen began glitching into existence, plating her body partially.

Farthington stumbled back. “Tokei, wait—well, if anyone asks, I tried to stop her... Wait a minute. Since when could she do that!?”

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The ground shook beneath her steps as she sprinted toward the flames.

Then—she leaped.

A single bound carried her through a shattered window and into the inferno.

The heat was unbearable. Even in her Gekran mimic form, Tokei could feel the blistering intensity of the flames closing in. Smoke clogged the air, turning the hallways into a maze of suffocating darkness. She moved swiftly, her enhanced body allowing her to navigate the crumbling wreckage.

Then—a sound.

A faint, ragged breath.

She followed it, pushing through a collapsed doorway—and there she was.

Elysia.

Battered. Bloodied. Barely conscious.

She lay slumped against a pile of debris, her body barely holding together. One arm was mangled, her clothing soaked in blood, and her breathing was shallow.

Tokei’s eyes widened. “Elysia!”

No response. Just a flicker of her golden-orange eyes, barely clinging to wakefulness.

Tokei rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside her. She was so cold.

She hoisted Elysia into her arms, her enhanced strength making it easier—but not easy. Elysia was barely conscious, her weight slumped against Tokei’s armored chest, her blood warm and sticky against the scales of the Gekran transformation.

The flames snarled around them, licking at the remnants of the collapsing estate. The walls groaned, timbers snapping under the heat. Smoke choked the air, making every breath heavier.

Tokei’s mind raced. The main hall was a death trap. The servants’ exit had already collapsed.

There had to be another way out.

Then—a crash.

A section of the ceiling collapsed behind her, fire roaring hungrily over where they had just been.

No time.

She gritted her teeth and sprinted forward, dodging around flaming wreckage.

Tokei’s enhanced vision cut through the smoke and darkness, scanning for an exit. Her eyes landed on a cracked section of the western wall, where the explosion had weakened the foundation.

That’s it.

She adjusted her grip on Elysia. “Hold on.”

Not that Elysia could hear her. Her head lolled against Tokei’s shoulder, her breaths shallow. If I don’t get her out now, she’s not making it.

Tokei lowered her stance, gathering power in her legs—then leaped.

The floor buckled beneath the force of her jump as she launched toward the weakened section of the wall. She twisted mid-air, bracing Elysia against her chest as her armored shoulder slammed into the crumbling stone.

The wall shattered.

Bricks and dust exploded outward, the impact sending them hurtling into the cool night air.

The explosion of stone had thrown them into the open courtyard, but they were still airborne. Tokei twisted, angling herself so that she would take the brunt of the landing.

She hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact. The force nearly knocked the breath out of her—but Elysia was still in her arms.

That’s what mattered.

She pushed herself up, smoke and fire raging behind them. Her ears rang, her pulse thundering in her head.

Farthington rushed toward them, eyes wide. “Goodness, now who’s gonna heal the healer?”

Tokei glared at him. “Find a doctor before you require treatment as well.”

Farthington clicked his tongue. “Understood, my lady, no need to get scary about it.” He turned and dashed off, still muttering to himself. “Not even a ‘thank you, Farthington, for your tireless efforts and dashing good looks.’ No appreciation for genius…”

With Elysia in her arms, Tokei disappeared into the night.