Auction Night

The carriage slowed, wheels crunching over gravel laid in a neat arc before the stairs, an endless carpet unfurled across it. From a distance the mansion had seemed like a dream painted over ruin; up close, the illusion hardened—it was solid, impossible to ignore. Columns soared higher than felt reasonable, silk banners snapping in the night breeze.

Lanterns burned along the steps and balconies, their glow too steady, too cold—light without warmth, like glass filled with frozen fire. The same dead-light as Mason’s manor.

Movement flickered at the edge of the glow. Guards in dark coats stood rigid, crossbows braced and swords at their hips—dressy enough for the occasion, but muscle first. Between them prowled hulking shapes Nathan took for dogs at first… until a second glance showed them stretched too tall, too lean, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t animal. Wolves, maybe. Monsters, more likely.

Nathan’s stomach twisted. Perfect. Bad flashbacks of my own arrival at Mason's manor weren’t enough—now there are wolf monsters too.

Inside the carriage, Ronan’s voice stayed low, practical. “We keep formation until the doors. After that, I’ll peel off with the others—it’ll look expected. Here.” He held out the bronze plaque etched with curling sigils, its surface faintly pulsing.

Nathan blinked at it.

“You’re the boss. The one with the invite. Show it to the mage at the top of the stairs—they’ll need it to let us through.”

Nathan hesitated, then took it. “Right.”

Like scanning a ticket, he thought darkly.

Ronan’s hand stayed on the plaque a moment longer. “Listen. Past the mage’s threshold, you don’t get to keep steel. Blades, clubs, even a dagger’s hilt—they all vanish into the receiving circle. Same for anything volatile: rune-rings, bottled flame, spellglass. They only let you carry what looks ornamental. Jewels, cloaks, a scholar’s tools. That’s why we leave the real teeth in the carriage.”

Nathan blinked. “So you’re walking in naked?”

“Walking in clean,” Ronan corrected. “Different thing. The house is full of blind corners and careless men. By the time they’re serving you wine upstairs, we’ll have scavenged what we need.” His voice was even, like he’d rehearsed this ten times. “Don’t worry about us. Worry about keeping your mask straight.”

Nyx draped an arm over her jeweled bag, smile sly. “Mine’s already masked. Reads as nothing but silk and perfume to their circle.”

Nathan frowned. “You can mask an entire bag?”

“Of course. Women’s fashions are dangerous things,” she purred. “Besides, where else would I keep my pretties?”

Nathan didn’t ask. He really didn’t want to know.

Outside, the four mercs kept their stations—one riding the back of the carriage, another up front with the driver, the last two flanking on horseback. A wall of muscle and steel, for now. His so-called entourage—imposing, but about to vanish once they were inside the mansion.

The carriage jolted to a stop. Ahead, each coach drew up to its own strip of carpet that carried guests directly to the stairs, so not a single jewel-heeled noble touched dirt. Nobles spilled out in turn—some blazing in jeweled silks and feathers, a riot of wealth. Others stark in black and silver, masks smooth and unreadable—their restraint somehow louder than all the excess.

Attendants waited at the carpet’s edge, offering steadying hands, livery crisp as stage costume. Every gesture rehearsed, part of the theater of arrival.

Nathan glanced down at himself. Bright, gaudy, over the top—embroidery weighing every fold of his coat, opulent in a way that practically screamed look at me. Every stitch a reminder this wasn’t his world. Mhm. Yup. As if I needed to stand out more. Back home, the outfit alone would’ve been yelling I’m here, I’m queer, and proud.

Ronan exited first, his plain black mask cutting sharp against the glitter of the crowd. The mercenaries shifted into motion—dismounting, straightening overcoats, a wall of presence without needing fanfare.

Then Nyx. Ronan offered her his hand as she descended, a flash of pink and teal, neckline a daring plunge, jewels winking like living things in the lanternlight. Her faint smile said she knew exactly the effect she was making. Show off.

Nathan followed, forcing his expression flat as he stepped onto the carpet. They stood together, waiting. He glanced at Ronan—stone. Nyx tilted her head toward the stairs, the signal small but clear.

Right. I’m the boss. I lead. They follow. Great start, Nathan.

He strode forward. They climbed the stairs and stepped onto the wide terrace, where the great doors loomed open. At the center stood a mage, two men in tailored coats flanking him—swords at their hips, posture sharp as drawn steel. They didn’t lower weapons or speak; they just watched, ready to cut down anyone who made the mage’s job difficult.

A line of guests stretched ahead. Ronan shifted aside, the mercs following his lead, leaving Nathan exposed at the center. The cue was clear enough.

Mason wouldn’t wait in line.

Nathan moved toward the front. At once, a mage stepped forward with a guard at his shoulder. VIP service?

The mage gestured for the plaque. Nathan fumbled it forward, hand too stiff. A stylus traced its surface; sigils crackled, flared once, then guttered out. The mage inclined his head. The guard stepped back.

Nathan’s jaw locked, mask fixed. He strode forward—and the instant his foot crossed the threshold, the world shifted.

Sound pressed in first. Not raucous, not gaudy chaos, but a low, deliberate hum. Strings dragged each note too long, a courtly melody warped into something syrup-slow. Laughter spiked from an alcove—hedonistic, careless—before folding back into the murmur of masked conversation.

Scents rolled next—spices that burned his nose, oils so sweet they made his teeth ache, perfumes tangled until his stomach lurched. Half of it he couldn’t even name.

And then the sight.

Through the arched entry stretched a space that shouldn’t have fit inside the building. A cavernous hall dropped down a level, its central floor heaped with cushions and furs where masked nobles reclined like predators at rest. Beyond, galleries swept upward—three stories high—balconies hung with silks, banisters gleaming as though polished with gold dust. At the center, the ceiling soared into a glass dome framed by carved ribs, moonlight pouring down so bright it painted silver across every mask.

The rest of the light was stranger still. Flames in sconces and braziers burned green, violet, even pale blue, tinting silks and jewels until everything shimmered unnaturally. Shadows clung hard to the edges, refusing to flicker or bend. Decadence painted in magic, intoxicating and claustrophobic at once.

Nobles drifted in concentric circles across the marble, jewels flashing like constellations, every tilt of a mask hiding a smirk or a scheme. Others lounged in alcoves, games spread across low tables—gemstone dice glittering like trapped stars, rune-tiles shuffled in lacquered trays, slim crystal discs tossed across velvet to form constellations of chance. Their laughter rose too loud, leaning too close over cushions, spilling sharp as broken glass.

Nathan caught a flash on the balcony above—a bearded noble in a glittering white mask leaning close to one of the cropped-silk servers, hand brushing his waist. The servant only laughed, easy and practiced, before letting himself be steered through a jeweled curtain.

Nathan’s chest tightened. He’d braced for something loud and tacky, gold leaf slapped on every surface. Instead, it was worse—measured, controlled. Corruption wearing elegance like a crown. A palace built for predators.

Beside him, Nyx smiled faintly, eyes bright with private amusement, as though the whole spectacle were staged for her alone.

Servants wove through the crowd as fluid as water, trays balanced high. Goblets smoked faintly with spiced wine. Platters of candied fruit glittered on crystal picks. Slim vials glowed from within, light curling inside as though storms had been corked.

The servers themselves—men and women alike—moved with deliberate grace, cropped silks flashing at the midriff, jeweled chains clinking with every step. One drifted close, wrist tilting in silent offering.

Nathan’s gaze snagged on the vials, their glow sliding across glass like something alive. What is that?

Nyx’s elbow brushed his, voice low and amused. “Not for you. Two drops and you’d be drifting with the dream-serpents until dawn. I need you sharp.”

Magic drugs. Of course.

Nathan didn’t smile. He leveled a cold glare at the server the way Mason would, every line of his body declaring disdain. The server only bowed and slipped away. Inside, Nathan’s thoughts shrieked: I’m so sorry. Please don’t take it personally.

He pressed deeper into the hall—into the lion’s den—wearing Mason’s arrogance like a mask while every nerve screamed the truth: fraud.

Attention followed like heat. Masks turned. A pair of nobles in jeweled silks paused mid-conversation to bow their heads. Another murmured, “Draegor,” with a weight that was less greeting than acknowledgment. Nathan managed a shallow nod in return, the kind that cost nothing but felt like bluffing with his life. The irony wasn’t lost on him: in a hall full of masks, his was the only one that truly hid nothing. Everyone here knew exactly who Mason Draegor was.

Two attendants swept forward, bowing in tandem. “Honored Draegor,” one intoned, voice smooth as glass. “If you would allow us—we can escort you to the VIP chambers, where you and your guests may refresh before the auction begins.”

Nathan’s lungs cinched tight. VIP chamber. Questions. Expectations. Not ready.

Before silence could choke him, Nyx’s hand brushed his sleeve and her voice spilled out, warm and silken. “Of course. Lead the way.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. She walked as though she owned the air, the jewels on her dress catching the strange flames—green, violet, blue—and bending every shimmer into her orbit.

Nathan let his mask tilt just slightly, enough to convey disdain. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Good. Great. Time to improvise.
“This one?” His voice came out low, clipped. “Scholar of the old tongues. I find her… useful.”

Nyx dipped her head, smile faint, voice pitched to carry. “Useful, Boss,” she agreed. “You’ve always sought relics no one else would touch—steel, spells, bones buried in dust. But not all doors open to force. Some artifacts are older than guilds, older than castes. Carved with sigils that whisper of what still stirs beneath the stone. That’s where I come in.”

The masks tilted closer, curiosity sharp as teeth. Nyx let the silence stretch, then leaned into it, voice lowering as though sharing a confidence.

“Take the vaults beneath Karuun. Their doors were said to drink the minds of any who tried to force them. Men vanished with their eyes still open, staring at nothing. The script carved into the stone wasn’t a warning. It was a lullaby. I spoke the words. And the doors opened.”

A ripple stirred through the masks around them—amusement, interest, thinly veiled greed.

Nathan took a step back, letting the mask do the rest. Nyx was already spinning the web, her voice turning the impossible into currency. All he had to do was look like the man who owned it—though the thought nearly dragged a laugh out of him. She would’ve made a terrifyingly good actress.

That was when a woman in crimson silk drifted close, mask feathered, perfume cloying. Her jeweled hand settled on his arm, nails dragging slow.
“Mason,” she purred, voice too smooth.

Nathan fought not to recoil. Ew.

“Where have you been hiding?”

His mind went white. “I—uh—been around.”

Her laugh was soft, cutting. “Don’t play coy.” Her hand slid away, perfume lingering like a taunt. Then, as though tossing a morsel to a dog, she added, “Be below for the third lot, Mason. That’s where the real prize waits.”

Nathan’s brow furrowed. Real prize? What the hell does that mean?

She drifted back into the crowd, leaving only the ghost of her presence behind.

Nathan resisted the urge to wipe his arm where her nails had dragged. The sour reek clung in his throat. If this was what Mason’s “friends” felt like, he’d take enemies any day.

The hall pressed in again—voices, laughter, the glitter of masks turning. Nyx was still holding court nearby, stylus flicking idly as she teased a knot of merchants into leaning closer, hungry for her every word.

Nathan lingered at the edge, mask fixed, catching stray snatches of conversation that spilled like crumbs between the circles.

“…the relic in the ancient dungeon…”
“…Eryandral is losing ground…”
“…if this guild raid doesn’t secure it, the Guild will…”

Nathan’s head spun. Relic? Which relic? He wanted to demand details, but Mason would never ask. Mason would already know.

A masked lord in blue swiveled toward him suddenly. “And what do you make of it, Mason?”

Nathan’s heart slammed against his ribs. Think Mason. He forced a slow smile, swirling the wine in his goblet—snatched from a passing tray—as if he had all the time in the world.
“…They’ve assembled quite the force. Seems likely the endeavor will pay off.”

A ripple of laughter circled the table, mocking. One voice murmured, “Pragmatic as ever,” like it was a private joke at his expense.

“Yes, Mason,” someone pressed, tone needling. “But what of the relic itself? What exactly is it?”
“And what does it do?”

How the hell should I know?

Nyx’s voice slid in, silk over iron. “Secrets are best left in shadows, wouldn’t you say?”

The noble in blue tilted, amused, before turning away.

Nathan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Right. Mason would know. And if I open my mouth too much, Ronan's plan may not succeed.

He forced his attention back to the tide of conversation, letting half-phrases bleed together until a shape formed: Droswain pushing into the ancient dungeon. Alliances fraying at the edges. And at the center of it all—a relic everyone wanted, but no one seemed to understand.

Then she was there, as if conjured—obsidian silk clinging like shadow, her mask edged fine as razors. No name. No introduction. A hand brushed Nathan’s sleeve, steering him into an alcove a half step aside as though they’d spoken this way a hundred times.

“Our shared friend grows… vexed,” she murmured, voice soft enough to cut. “Not having heard from you in so long. A contingent already makes its way to the rendezvous—down in the deep, where stone remembers everything. You’ll not leave them waiting.”

Nathan’s stomach flipped. Shared friend? Rendezvous? A contingent? What the hell was Mason supposed to be arranging?

She looked at him with impatient eyes.

“You’re right. I’ll have news for them… then.”

A nod. Enough. He forced a smirk the way Ronan had drilled into him, signaling the end of their exchange, and she slid back into the tide of masks. Inside, his thoughts were chaos: I’ll just ask Ronan later. Please let Ronan know what the hell that was.

The tide of voices washed over him again. Nyx was still encircled by merchants and nobles, smile wide as she spun some tale. “…an inscription found half-buried beneath the river stones,” she was saying, “letters so old they glowed when touched. The fools thought it was a curse. They never guessed it was a door.” The listeners leaned in, rapt, laughter spiking sharp as she twisted the story toward a punchline.

Nathan slipped toward the edge of a cushion-strewn alcove, drink in hand, trying to look occupied.

Across the room, two masked men leaned close around a server—his laugh bright between them as one brushed fingers down his arm while the other pressed a kiss to his neck. No one blinked.

His chest hitched, a beat of startled silence. Here? In the middle of all this?

He dragged his gaze away, forcing himself to sip his drink and study the carved lattice overhead. But the image clung—three men tangled together in plain sight, laughter and touches so casual it was obvious where things were headed. Nathan wasn’t naïve—he’d had men pressed against him on dance floors, kissed strangers in clubs—but he hadn’t expected to catch that same charge here, in a masquerade thick with politics and knives.

A moment later Nyx drifted nearer, as if just adjusting her orbit between circles of conversation. She didn’t even glance at him, but her voice brushed his ear, low and amused.
“Don’t stare. Desire’s no scandal here.”

“I was just… surprised,” Nathan murmured, low enough for her alone. “I only prefer men.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth curve again, a secret pocketed. “Then you’ll fit right in,” she said, and turned back to her circle without another glance.

Nathan blinked. That’s it? No sermon. No side-eye. I’m in a den of masked criminals and corrupt nobility, and the one thing this world does better than mine is not giving a damn who you kiss.

Nyx was summoned away by a plump woman in emerald silk, her laughter sharp enough to slice through the din.

Left on his own. Fragments drifted past like broken glass—glittering, jagged, impossible to piece into anything useful. Time blurred, an hour bleeding away in emptied goblets, false smiles, and half-caught whispers.

He stayed put, expression ironed flat, trying not to drown in details.

At last, attendants bowed low. “If you will, honored guests—the auction is to begin.”

Nathan and Nyx were swept with the tide, down a spiraling staircase where marble became stone, stone became velvet, until the hall opened: cushions, unnatural lanterns, masks bright as blades.

A chime rang—clear, crystalline, cutting through the layers of talk like a blade. The hall hushed.

From a raised platform, a man stepped forward. No mask concealed him, but his face was painted in stark white and gold, lips drawn into a perpetual smile. His coat flared velvet and feathers, every gesture sweeping like a conductor’s baton.

“Honored guests,” he called, voice magnified by unseen spell. “Welcome to tonight’s delights! You have crossed thresholds sealed to the common world—here, you are the chosen few. Here, every whim has a price… and every price is worth paying.”

Applause rippled, polite but charged. The auctioneer bowed low, rising with a flourish that sent his sleeves billowing like wings.

“Our first offering—minor, perhaps, but precious nonetheless.” He clapped his hands. Two attendants carried forward a glass case etched with glowing sigils. Inside, a dagger hovered, blade black as night, an ornate sheath laid beneath.

“A Veinpiercer, wrought in the forge of famed artisan Jusen. One cut, and your foe bleeds as though struck thrice. Curses in the hilt, runes to bind them. Who shall open at one thousand crowns?”

Hands lifted at once, jeweled fingers flashing.

Bids snapped through the room.

“Fifteen hundred!”
“Seventeen!”
“Two thousand!”
“Twenty-five hundred—from the gentleman in jade!”
“Three thousand!” called the woman in the red mask.

The gentleman in jade lifted his hand again. “Thirty-two hundred.”

The auctioneer’s painted smile widened. “Thirty-two hundred once, thirty-two hundred twice—sold! To our gentleman in jade. May your enemies bleed thrice for every cut you spend.”

Applause rippled, laughter sharp, the chamber alive with wealth unchained.

“Onward.” He clapped again. Attendants rolled in an aviary cage, faint sigils humming along its bars. Inside, jeweled birds darted from perch to perch, feathers catching the lanternlight in bursts of sapphire, emerald, and molten gold.

“Lot Two—the Songbirds of Veyrun. Their calls mimic any voice they hear. Delightful for serenades, inconvenient for secrets. Who shall open at two thousand crowns?”

Bidding flared, quick and careless—coins thrown at pretty noise. The cage vanished to another round of applause, and the auctioneer’s smile only sharpened.

“Now… Lot Three.” His voice dropped, savoring the words. “A rarity beyond measure. A Moonveil stag.”

Gasps prickled through the chamber as attendants wheeled out a heavier, iron-bound cage.

“From the high valleys of Orset,” the auctioneer intoned. “Antlers ground to powder will break fever. A sliver of liver steeped in wine restores vigor for seven nights. A vial of blood fuels alchemy unmatched. Even the hide, stitched into armor, turns blades aside. Shall we open at ten thousand crowns?”

The stag lifted its head inside the bars. Smaller than Nathan expected, its antlers gleamed like molten silver, tips still rounded in youth. Its wide, liquid-dark eyes swept the room—and the gaze was too steady, too present.

Beside him, Nyx shifted, the movement too sharp to pass as idle grace. Her eyes flashed, hard now, and her voice came low but unflinching.

“Moonveil are not beasts,” she said. “They are thinking, feeling things. They remember faces. Families. They mourn.” A beat, deliberate, edged with fury. “And they know when they’re being slaughtered.”

Nathan’s stomach lurched. They’re going to kill it. Carve it apart piece by piece while it still breathes, while it knows.

Hands went up anyway—jewels flashing like teeth.

His fingers dug into his palms until pain burned up his arms. Don’t move. Don’t break cover. Just breathe. Hurry, Ronan. Please.

***

On the bottom floor...

They held back until the guard rotations thinned, then slipped down the stairs to the lower floor where the auction’s merchandise was kept. Ronan led the way—mercs tight at his flanks. Kerric a shadow, Brask a boulder, Caldris kept a restless hand at his belt, Dane steady as a wall. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

They passed the first threshold without question. Draegor’s men were a common sight below; no guard would challenge them. The air thickened with the smell of iron, sweat, and rot—and beneath it all, the metallic sting of old blood that never fully washed from the stones. Mason’s orders had sent him through halls like these countless times, forcing him to deliver chained lives into cages until the paths burned into muscle memory. Every turn felt carved into his bones—not chosen, but branded there.

Brask’s face was set—grim, unsurprised. Kerric moved like a man retracing old steps. Dane’s jaw tightened, but he did not flinch. Only Caldris faltered, nose wrinkling, eyes darting over the walls as if the stones themselves whispered. He hadn’t been down here before. He hadn’t carried what they had.

The next junction opened into a broad stretch of corridor where a rough table had been shoved against the wall, half blocking the path. Four guards sat around it, dice clattering over the wood, their voices low and bored.

Brask slowed his step, voice casual. “What’s the stake tonight?”

One of the men looked up, grinning. “Depends who’s losing. You lot pulled from upstairs duty? Thought the boss kept his own close for that crowd.”

“Something like that—he’s makin’ his rounds,” Brask said, strolling closer. Kerric fell in beside him, hands loose at his sides. Caldris and Dane closed from either flank, all four moving like a single shadow.

Another guard snorted. “Better to be guarding down ’ere instead of those nobles upstairs. They’re—”

He never finished. Brask’s hand shot out and slammed the man’s head onto the table’s edge. The first strike stunned him. Brask held the collar and drove a second, solid blow to the base of the skull; the guard sagged with a wet little sound and slumped forward.

Kerric moved tight and wedged a hand under the second guard’s chin, snapping his head back. A hard palm to the temple and the man folded, limbs going slack.

The third's hand darted for a knife. Caldris closed, caught the wrist, twisted, and drove the man's head down on the table. The knife skittered free; the guard slid off his stool, out cold. Dane hooked the fourth off his stool and drove the butt of his spear into the man’s shoulder and jaw. The guard pitched forward and did not rise.

Brask checked pulses and gave a single nod. “Alive.”

“Good.” Ronan said with an approving nod.

They bound and gagged the guards, dragging them out of sight.

Before pressing forward, they collected the guards’ swords while Ronan crouched, scooped up the knife that fell in the scuffle, and tucked it into his belt.

Around the next bend two mages walked the corridor, mid conversation. They glanced up, then back to one another—no alarm.

Kerric’s fist connected with the first mage’s temple and the man folded, limp. Caldris’s hook cracked the second man’s jaw; Dane followed with a sharp strike from his sword hilt, the blow catching the collarbone and driving the caster down hard.

Dane stripped the styluses from their belts. They bound the mages fast and moved on.

Beyond them, a containment seal spanned the corridor, a grid of light pulsing through carved channels in the stone. Ronan drew a glass vial Nyx had pressed into his palm earlier—its contents glowing like bottled dusk. He tipped a drop onto his scavenged knife; the steel thrummed, veins of light racing along its edge.

He pressed the blade to one of the junctions where the light converged, a focal groove etched into the wall to stabilize the flow. The seal resisted, brightness running the length of the corridor, until he leaned harder. The vibration bit into bone. The vial’s contents hissed, eating through the channel like acid. Cracks spidered through the grid, light bleeding out before the whole thing gave with a brittle, ringing snap.

The corridor trembled—stone answering like a plucked string. The pulse of light flickered out—then shot upward through the ceiling, veins of glow unraveling toward the mansion above.

The lattice shattered.

Brask’s head tilted. “Illusion’s going down.”

Ronan didn’t look up. “Good.”

He waved them forward, casting one quick glance toward the ceiling. Hope they’re holding their own up there.

They pressed deeper toward where the holding cells were located. The air grew heavier with each step.

The first holding pen yawned open. Iron bars formed a throat along the wall, each door clenched by a rune-lock that hissed at their approach.
Ronan stepped forward, pressed his glowing knife to the sigil, and twisted. Light flared, spat, and died; the bolt gave with a shriek of metal.

Faces crowded the gap—hollow, gray, too old for their years.

Ronan froze. Two faces he remembered.

An emaciated boy, his jaw set like he’d swallowed a reputation of pain. A girl no older than seven clutched his arm. Ronan had been part of the retrieval party that delivered their group from Venthane. His chest ached with guilt—and with a sharp, fleeting relief that at least these two had survived.

He did not look away. He had no excuses. Only action.

“Go,” he told Brask, voice low but steady. “Start leading them toward the exit. Once we get it open, the wagons are waiting just beyond the tree line.”

The prisoners spilled out like a wave breaking—women, men, children. Bewildered, not triumphant: confusion and suspicion braided into their steps. A woman clutched a babe so tight its mouth was white with milk and fear. An old man shuffled as if he expected chains at any second.

Where guards raised a shout, they were silenced. A sentry lunged for a horn; Caldris’s sword struck his shoulder, sending the instrument clattering away. The guard went down hard but breathing. Where a mage flung sparks, Kerric intercepted, blade snapping the cast and knocking him senseless. Blood spattered, but only where necessity demanded.

At the third pen, Kerric hauled open a heavy door after Ronan removed the lock. The prisoners there moved like sleepwalkers, blinking against the light. One child stumbled, legs like wet string, and collapsed into Dane’s arms. Dane lifted the kid to his shoulder as if it were grain. The child blinked up at Ronan, then buried against Dane’s neck.

The boy Ronan had recognized guided his sister past without a backward look. His eyes flicked once to Ronan—no gratitude, only remembered betrayal.

It cut him cleaner than any sword.

A child clutching a threadbare scrap brushed his sleeve. “Sir?” she whispered.

He bent. For a second the armor dropped from his face. “You’ll be taken to the wagons,” he said, and meant it. He put a hand once on her head—a gesture, a benediction, nothing else.

They moved him. Brask hoisted a limp woman. Caldris shepherded two wounded men. Kerric kept his blade where it needed to be.

For the first time since Mason’s grip had loosened, Ronan felt something unclench inside. Not redemption. Not absolution. A starting point.

A small smile ghosted his mouth—sharp, brief, honest.

At the end of another corridor, an old iron door loomed—broad, built for carts and stock. Ronan pressed his knife, Nyx’s vial still thrumming along its steel, to the sigil-lock. The glyph hissed, light bleeding like ink in water. With a crack like tired bone, the bolt surrendered.

Cold night air spilled in, sharp and open. He caught Brask’s eye. “Keep them moving. Straight to the wagons. Don’t stop.”

Brask shifted the limp woman higher. Dane guided the children. Caldris closed the rear. One by one, the prisoners filed through the wide door, steps hesitant but steady, swallowed by the dark path leading out.

Ronan stood at the edge of the estate, listening. The night had changed—shouts carried sharp from the mansion, orders clashing over the din, glass breaking somewhere above. The illusion was gone.

No guards lingered here. The rear grounds were empty now, abandoned in the rush toward the chaos inside.

Ronan turned back toward the mansion, jaw set. “The boss and the witch,” he muttered. “Let’s see how they’re faring.”