I avoid the front entirely, taking instead the narrow, twisting alley that skirts the estate’s perimeter. My movements are deliberate, calculated, each footfall a whisper in the heavy silence of the night, the darkness swallowing my shape.

  From this vantage, I can see the rear courtyard of Xandar’s Mansion spread before me. On one side, a stable sits beside a coach house—modest, unassuming, yet noticeable enough when set against the expanse of the courtyard. On the opposite side, a small building resembles a workshop, its windows dim and dark.

  Between them, gardens thread through the space, framing the pathway that leads directly to the mansion itself, carefully maintained.

  Light spills out of the mansion, yet there’s no patrol, no flicker of movement along the walls. It looks safe enough. I climb the gate. Tall, but manageable, the metal cold beneath my hands.

  I land silently on the other side, the gravel beneath my boots barely whispering. I move fast and quiet, not toward the backdoor but a window.

  Reaching the wall, I press my back against the stone, sliding sideways. Each step is slow and measured.

  Clak.

  Clak.

  Footsteps from within. I freeze, pressing closer to the wall, holding my breath, letting the sound pass, counting the seconds until it fades.

  When the echo dies, I take a quick peek through the window. A scan across the room: no one nearby. Good.

  But the window is still locked.

  I retreat to the courtyard, moving through the garden low, letting the soft fragrance of roses and herbs cloak my presence. Moonlight glints off carefully trimmed leaves, shadows playing across the path. One plant catches my eye—an old wisteria vine, thick and woody, climbing along a trellis. Its branches coil like living ropes, reaching down toward the stone path.

  I kneel, testing the vine. Solid. Dense enough to hold weight. Perfect.

  I wrap it around one of my Trackfangs and twist it once, forming a makeshift rope. The knot is crude, but reliable.

  I toss the Trackfang toward the second-floor balcony where the window is open. It arcs through the air, spinning, and twists into the gap between the railing bars, looped like a hook.

  I grip the improvised rope with both hands. Feet against the support pillar. Carefully and slowly, I begin my ascent. Leaves scrape under my hands, but the sound is absorbed by the night, swallowed by the courtyard’s quiet.

  Halfway up, I pause, eyes scanning the courtyard. Nothing. No shadows, no patrols. My chest remains calm, rhythm even.

  I pull myself onto the balcony. From there I advance toward the open window, feet silent against the stone ledge. Every motion measured, ensuring the night carries no announcement of my presence.

  I draw my gun, fingers tightening on the grip, thumb brushing the hammer. I pause, listening. Nothing.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  I slip through the window, entering the second-floor corridor. My footsteps glide over the marble, soundless like a ghost in the still air. Each door I pass, I pause, listening. Not a single room produces sound.

  I continue down the corridor, section by section. Stillness dominates. Every door remains closed and silent, each hallway empty.

  At the staircase, I ascend, checking one section of the third floor. Just like the second, the section is empty.

  Maybe the footsteps earlier belonged to Xarxar. I pivot. Decision made. First floor comes next. The third and fourth floors will wait. My mind parses every possibility, every angle, each like water flowing over stone, settling naturally into conclusion.

  I descend to the first floor. In the corridor leading to the Foyer, the sound comes first:

  Clak.

  Clak.

  I press my back against the wall. Shadows bend and stretch along the chandelier’s light. The sound approaches the next turn.

  I ready my gun in one hand, Trackfang in the other. Fingers tense. Breath held. Heart steady.

  I place Trackfang against the corner, the steel edge angled perfectly. The blade becomes my eyes. In its reflection, the corridor folds toward me. Light glints along the edge, highlighting the faintest movements.

  The reflection shifts. A figure appears carrying a spear. Height roughly mine. Blue uniform. Faceless. A Lessie.

  Xandar possess knowledge to make them.

  I study the reflection, watching posture, angle, distance. The mirrored surface allows me to map the space ahead without exposing myself. My mind calculates trajectory, spin, arc, rotation—everything.

  I throw Trackfang.

  Swoosh.

  The knife spins, following the exact path calculated from the reflected corridor. Edge slicing precisely along the position traced in the mirrored steel.

  Slash.

  It lands.

  I peek. The Trackfang pierces the Lessie’s neck. Black kuor flows, dark and absolute. The figure collapses, motionless.

  I approach, retrieve Trackfang, keeping it firmly in my palm.

  I move forward, checking each turn first. If no Lessie waits, I continue. If one does, I adjust and engage.

  The corridor opens into the grand hall where the masquerade took place.

  All six Lessies standing there in the center spot me the moment I step in from the corridor.

  Immediately, they rush forward, spears leveled toward me.

  I throw the first Trackfang. It lands at the neck of the nearest target, clean and precise.

  Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

  Three more follow, piercing the other three Lessies with unerring accuracy.

  Two remain, reaching me before I can draw another.

  I pivot sharply to my right, gaining distance. One lunges, spear thrust forward, but I roll aside, fluid and controlled, absorbing the momentum.

  I angle my revolver barrel at the remaining two.

  BANG.

  The first is struck in the head, the shot precise and instantaneous. The second takes a neckshot, the bullet cutting clean and absolute. Both fall simultaneously, motionless, black kuor pooling around the second, the air tense and still.

  Clak. Clak. Clak.

  New sounds from a different corridor demand attention. I rush toward them, meeting more Lessies head-on.

  I kill some more and move past the last of them.

  The corridor opens to a steel door, heavy and unyielding. My hand finds the handle, tests it—locked.

  A voice calls from within, sharp and curious, breaking the quiet: “Who’s there?”

  “Itssa me Mario,” I say, imitating a video game character, voice low but audible enough to provoke a reaction.

  Rustle.

  “You still there?” I ask after hearing a movement.

  “Y-yeah...”

  I step back, calculating distance, using one of the Lessie corpses as cover. I aim, precise. Shardfang flies.

  Swoosh.

  Ding.

  BOOM.

  The shardfang strikes the door and destroys the handle mechanism. Metal groans, a sharp snap. The door creaks inward, yielding.

  Bang. Bang.

  Before I can move, gunshots fire from within. All of them miss.

  I see Xarxar standing at the very center of the room. Beneath him, a circle etched with intricate patterns and writings spreads across the floor.

  I throw in another shardfang. He notices instantly, stepping back, the explosion radiating just enough to give me an opening. I use it to enter.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  We trade shots blindly as I advance, him ducking behind one of the six pillars that mirror each other, arrayed between the empty space where the circle is drawn.

  I pivot toward another pillar opposite his and press my back against it, slowing my breath, letting the rhythm of the room settle for a fraction of a second.

  The firing stops.

  “Xarxar?” I ask.

  “Who sent you?”

  His reply is exactly the confirmation I need to measure our distance.

  I use his voice as reference of range, then throw my third shardfang toward his position.

  A moment later.

  Boom.

  “AAAAAAAH! MY LEG.”

  I step away from my pillar, revealing my body fully while he remains shielded behind his. His breath is loud yet calm, steadying.

  I hold my gun up, aiming at the right side of his pillar. Then I throw another shardfang toward his left.

  He moves instantly upon hearing the throw. That’s his mistake. He enters my line of sight.

  Bang.

  He collapses. The bullet penetrates his torso. Blood spills, dark and viscous, encroaching slowly toward the Alchemical circle.

  For a moment, I hold still, waiting, measuring his movements.

  No movement. I breathe a slow, controlled sigh of relief. My muscles relax.

  Just as I turn, he mutters something, words I cannot understand.

  I look at him again. Then at the circle.

  It glows red.