The hallway smelled like cinnamon, which meant one thing: Gale was back and trying to emotionally ambush me with the one substance that could disarm any Blade.

  Soft cookies.

  With warm centers.

  Damn her.

  I rounded the corner cautiously, one hand on the hilt of a knife that was pretending to be a bottle opener today. The Estate’s south wing had decided it was a greenhouse this morning, so vines hung from the ceiling, and bioluminescent fruit glowed gently along the walls. I ducked under a dangling lemon that was humming “Stayin’ Alive” and found Gale in the kitchen.

  She was humming, too.

  Same key.

  Of course.

  Gale’s sweater was peach-colored today, her braid pinned with a little leaf clip that made her look like a living cottagecore Pinterest post. The oven had been charmed into behaving—for now—and she was pulling out a tray of cookies like she didn’t just live on the edge of an interdimensional warzone.

  “Hi,” she said brightly, as if it hadn’t been a week since we’d last seen each other and as if she didn’t regularly drop by only to deliver disasters in Tupperware.

  “Hi,” I said warily. “Are those cookies or a call to action?”

  “Yes,” she said, and handed me one.

  It was still warm. Gooey center. Chocolate chunks, not chips—because Gale believed in doing things “right,” even when she was about to emotionally gut you like a trout.

  I bit into it anyway.

  Because I am weak.

  Gale smiled at me like she was about to ruin my afternoon in six syllables or less.

  “So,” I said, through a mouthful of betrayal. “Is this a ‘hi just stopping by’ visit or a ‘death is coming in twenty minutes, better carb-load’ visit?”

  “Both,” she chirped. “But mostly the second one.”

  I sighed and leaned against the counter, cookie still in hand. “Of course. What is it this time? Rogue summoner? Cataclysmic prophecy? Demonic influencer trying to unionize?”

  “Cult.”

  I blinked. “Okay. That’s pretty typical. Go on.”

  “It’s in the Pacific Northwest,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel that had a pattern of smiling suns. “Very off-grid. Very anti-government. They started off with standard weirdness—potluck rituals, seasonal sacrifice, you know the drill.”

  “Normal Tuesday.”

  “But then someone got hold of a summoning text. One of the more complete ones.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.”

  She opened her tote bag and pulled out a manila folder labeled NOT FUN in green glitter pen.

  “They summoned a Sibilant,” she said, setting the folder on the counter like it might explode. “And it’s been offering contracts to anyone within a hundred miles.”

  I paused.

  “That’s—” I counted in my head “—thousands of people.”

  “Yup.”

  “So it’s making a cult army?”

  “More or less.”

  I chewed on that. Then on the cookie.

  It didn’t help.

  Gale sat down on one of the stools, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. “The Guardians want you to deal with it.”

  “Of course they do. Any idea what the Sibilant’s goal is?”

  “No. But they’re not killing anyone. Not yet. They’re preparing. Like they’re waiting for something.”

  I hated when the enemy got smart.

  Monsters were easy. You hit them. They died. You moved on.

  But this? This was ambition. This was order.

  This was dangerous.

  I rubbed a hand over my face and stared at the cookie like it might explain the universe to me.

  “Anyone we know?” I asked. “In the cult?”

  Gale hesitated.

  That was not a good sign.

  “You’re hesitating.”

  “I’m considering my phrasing,” she said gently.

  “Just rip the bandage.”

  “We think it might be connected to the group Caz used to be part of.”

  I froze.

  “The Guardians are pretty sure it’s the same town.”

  I exhaled slowly. The air felt colder than it had a second ago.

  Caz had never said much about the place. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes when the subject came up said enough. That faraway focus, like he was trying to stare through time just to un-see something.

  I dropped the rest of the cookie on the counter.

  “Great,” I said. “So we’re dealing with an organized Sibilant, a brainwashed population, a town-sized threat radius, and one of my rookies’ personal trauma flashbacks.”

  Gale brightened. “And I made you a travel snack bag!”

  “Thank you,” I said, deadpan. “That definitely balances it out.”

  “I included candied pecans.”

  “I take it back. You’re forgiven.”

  She stood and placed a hand lightly on my arm. “You’ve got this.”

  I arched a brow. “That’s what you said before the werewolf PTA meeting.”

  “And it worked out!”

  “I still have fur in my boots.”

  She beamed. “Sentimental.”

  I shook my head, but didn’t pull away.

  We stood there for a moment. Just two sisters. One made of soft light and cozy sweaters. One built out of knives and caffeine.

  Then I sighed and pushed off the counter.

  “Alright. Time to tell Lawson we’re going west. He’s going to love this.”

  Gale tilted her head. “Is it because of the cult?”

  “No. It’s because he hates Oregon.”

  With that, I left Gale in the kitchen with her heavenly cookies and headed down the hall toward Lawson's “office”, which actually was just a storage room full of whiteboards, ammunition, and bad lighting.

  The walls shifted as I walked, giving me extra doors to ignore and a hallway that looped once before deciding to behave. The Estate always got twitchy when Gale left—it liked her too much. It was a problem. Everything liked her too much.

  Except maybe our aunt. They didn't get along too well.

  I found Lawson sitting at a long table shaped like a knife—subtle—and typing something into a touchscreen that looked like it had been pulled from a spaceship and then duct-taped to a clipboard. He didn’t look up when I entered.

  “Whatever it is,” he said, “I already regret it.”

  “Hi to you too.”

  “Hello, Dagger. What’s on fire?”

  “Cult.”

  He stopped typing.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he said.

  “In the Pacific Northwest.”

  He blinked. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  He closed the file and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’d just summoned a migraine into his skull. “You’re not going to say the name, are you?”

  “What name?”

  He stared at me. “You know what name.”

  I did.

  I was just being mean.

  “It’s Caz’s hometown.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking to the side like he was checking his mental files.

  “That’s not good.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Gale’s sure. You want to argue with the girl who brought cookies?”

  He sighed. “No. That’s a trap. And she always wins.”

  I dropped into the seat across from him, the metal creaking under the weight of my bad decisions. “We have to go.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s spreading fast. The Sibilant’s already contracted anything that breathes within a 100 mile radius.”

  “Damn.”

  “Which means the Blades have to go in and do what we do best.”

  “Stab the root.”

  “Burn the branches.”

  “Then salt the soil.”

  We said it in sync. Like a hymn. Like a promise.

  Lawson drummed his fingers on the table. “We’ll need the full team.”

  “I know.”

  “That means Scarlet. You know that, right?”

  I grimaced.

  He raised a brow. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, but I'd rather die than admit it.’”

  “She’s going to make it weird.”

  “That’s kind of her thing.”

  “She’s going to be extra.”

  “That’s also her thing”

  “She's…:

  Lawson cut me off “She’s also one of the strongest fighters we have.”

  “Yeah. And the least stable. You remember what happened the last time we took her out?”

  “She drank the demon under the table.”

  “And then flirted with the fallout shelter.”

  “To be fair, that shelter had amazing bone structure.”

  “Lawson…”

  He smirked. “Sorry. Serious face. Very serious. Deadly serious. About-to-mow-someone-down-with-an-AK-47 serious.”

  “I tend to laugh maniacally when I get my hands on an AK-47.”

  “Forget that last part then.”

  I gave him a long look. “By the way, do you still have that portable ward beacon we used in Budapest?”

  “Which time?”

  “The one with the fog and the existential dread spiders.”

  “Oh. That one.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out something that looked like a taser made by an eldritch raccoon. “Still works. Mostly. It might smell like pickles when it activates.”

  “It's only a precautionary measure in case Scarlet misbehaves, hopefully it doesn't come to that.”

  He slid it across the table.

  Then he sat back, folding his arms. “What else do you need from me?”

  “Somebody to herd the rookies.”

  He didn’t argue.

  He just nodded.

  Which is why I kept him around.

  That, and because no one else could do the mission reports without including footnotes, timestamps, and snarky annotations.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’ll start prepping kits. Let me know when you’ve got Scarlet.”

  “Assuming I survive the encounter.”

  He nodded solemnly. “If not, I’ll write your eulogy.”

  “Make it short.”

  And with that, I left, heading towards the East Wing.

  I should probably mention the Estate’s East Wing is one of the most unstable wings in the Estate. In fact, it only exists when Scarlet’s in the mood to be found.

  Sometimes it’s a gothic wine cellar. Sometimes it’s a floating lounge above a lake of whispering bones. Once, it was a 24/7 fondue bar staffed by hallucinations. She said it was for her birthday. It wasn’t her birthday.

  Today, it was a spa.

  I stepped through the arched red door—carved with a variety of offensive Latin puns—and immediately smelled rosewater, burnt sugar, and something that might’ve been blood.

  The room stretched impossibly wide, marble and velvet as far as the eye could see. A steaming pool bubbled in the center, surrounded by floating lanterns and softly growling chaise lounges. Music played from nowhere—some kind of slow jazz that sounded like it wanted to seduce your soul out through your ears.

  And there she was.

  Scarlet.

  Draped across a couch like an old movie villainess with a wineglass full of despair and stolen youth. White hair cascading down her back. Blood-red silk robe. Eyes glowing faintly with that hungry, ancient light that meant she was bored.

  Not a good sign.

  She didn’t look up when I walked in.

  “I was wondering when you’d come crawling,” she purred.

  “I walked, actually,” I said, stepping over a small fur-covered ottoman that hissed at me.

  Scarlet waved a hand. “Semantics.”

  “I have a mission.”

  “Mm. You always do.” She took a lazy sip from her glass, then squinted at it. “I forgot what this one is. Might be wine. Might be the blood of my enemies.”

  “Why not both?”

  She grinned. “You always knew how to speak my language.”

  “I need you.”

  “Flattered.”

  “Not like that.”

  “Rude.”

  I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Guardians found a cult. Pacific Northwest. Sibilant summoned. Contracts spreading fast. It’s organized, embedded, and probably playing multi-dimensional chess.”

  “Mm.” She twirled the glass. “Sounds exhausting. Let someone else handle it.”

  “Scarlet—”

  “Darling, I only go outside when the moon begs me. And only if it cries little diamond tears. I’m not traipsing across the moss-soaked mortal realm to babysit your crisis.”

  “You’ll be in the van.”

  She perked up slightly. “The van?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The Death’s Little Learners one that I’ve heard so much about?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She made a soft sound. “I heard it has great upholstery.”

  “I’ll let you ride for free. We only have one stop available at the moment though, and oddly enough, it just so happens to be that town I was just talking about.”

  She raised a brow. “So let me get this straight, you mean you need me to supervise your feral children while you play stab-the-devil?”

  I crossed my arms. “Yes.”

  She leaned back and let her eyes glow just a little brighter.

  “Say please.”

  “No.”

  “Beg.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She smiled like a cat who’d just found a new place to knock a glass off a shelf.

  “Then I guess I’m not going.”

  “You are going,” I said.

  “Oh?” She arched one graceful brow.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell the Estate you’re feeling emotionally vulnerable.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I pulled a pink envelope from my coat pocket. “I already did. It started building you a tea room called the Scarlet Soothing Suite. With scented candles. And group affirmation circles.”

  She hissed.

  “You evil little—”

  “Coming or not?”

  She bared her fangs just a little. “Fine. But I’m bringing my own snacks.”

  “You don’t mean people, right?”

  “As I said, snacks.”

  Just as she said that, the door creaked open behind me.

  I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to turn. I could feel the chaos energy vibrating through the floor like a tuning fork for “someone’s about to say something regrettable.”

  “Helloooo?” Tobe called. “Dagger, you in here? We heard jazz and someone screaming ‘I require caviar’ so we figured—”

  He stopped. So did Harper, who stepped in behind him, tablet in hand, expression already registering deep and immediate regret.

  They had walked in on Scarlet rising slowly from her lounge chair, robe flowing like it had a personal wind machine, eyes glowing faintly, fangs peeking just slightly through her smile.

  Tobe made a small squeaking sound, like a balloon giving up.

  Scarlet grinned. “Oh. Visitors.”

  Tobe took a step back so fast he bumped into Harper, who elbowed him forward again.

  “Hi,” Harper said dryly. “We were told Dagger was here, not an aggressive perfume ad.”

  Scarlet gave her a slow once-over. “And you must be the one who thinks magic is just misunderstood data compression.”

  Harper didn’t blink. “You’re not disproving the theory.”

  Scarlet’s grin widened. “Delicious.”

  Tobe, for some reason known only to whatever gods govern terrible ideas, cleared his throat and attempted to make words.

  “You must be Scarlet,” he said. “Dagger’s, uh. You’re her... aunt, right?”

  “Among other things.”

  “That’s cool. That’s... wow, that’s really... you’ve got a vibe.”

  Scarlet drifted closer.

  Tobe backed up again.

  “Tell me, sweety,” Scarlet said, circling him slowly like a velvet shark. “What are you willing to sacrifice to become powerful?”

  “Oh god,” Harper muttered. “She’s doing the Sibilant foreplay voice Lawson was teaching us about.”

  “I—uh—” Tobe glanced at me, pleading.

  “Don’t make eye contact,” I said. “She can smell fear and unresolved romantic trauma.”

  “I don’t have romantic trauma!”

  Scarlet leaned in. “Yet.”

  Tobe made another squeaking noise and stumbled back, tripping over a decorative skull planter that hissed at him in Latin.

  Harper caught him with one arm and looked at me. “Do you have to bring her?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why.”

  “Because the alternative is we all die. And by we, I mean you, because I’ll be perfectly fine; this is just a typical Tuesday for me.”

  Harper looked like she was genuinely considering that for a second. Then sighed. “Fine. But if she bites Tobe, I get to tase her.”

  “Deal, sounds fun,” Scarlet said sweetly.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Scarlet pouted. “Rude.”

  Tobe finally found his voice again. “So anyway! We came to tell you Lawson’s got the gear packed, the van’s doing a warm-up reality stretch, and Liz says she’s not riding if Sagittarius sits on the roof again.”

  “Noted.”

  I turned to Scarlet. “We leave in twenty. And try not to eat anyone before then, we’re really running low on combat-qualified people if you haven’t noticed.”

  “No promises,” she said, already picking out a pair of sunglasses that probably caused dizziness in small animals.

  Harper muttered something under her breath about OSHA violations and turned to drag Tobe back out the door. He didn’t resist. He just kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected to be devoured by compliments.

  When the door closed behind them, I turned back to Scarlet.

  “You’re not allowed to flirt with the rookies.”

  “I wasn’t flirting,” she said innocently. “I was threatening them. With charm.”

  I glared.

  She raised both hands. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “And I did behave. I only fed on volunteers.”

  “You offered dental.”

  “I’m very considerate.”

  I pointed at her. “Armor up. I’m cutting your prep time to ten minutes.”

  She bowed, overdramatic as always. “Your wish is my command.”

  With that, I made my way down the central spine, past the armory (currently shaped like a spiral staircase made of teeth), past the observatory that never observed the same sky twice, and through the main courtyard, where the van waited.

  It shimmered like a migraine.

  Harper had tried to “optimize” it, which meant it now had solar panels made of repurposed Guardian sigils and a retractable turret that Lawson had very clearly forbidden but somehow hadn’t actually disabled.

  The paint job also seemed to have changed:

  “DEATH’S LITTLE LEARNERS: WE TEACH THROUGH TRAUMA”

  Accurate, honestly.

  Maroon was already leaned against the passenger side, whistling something twangy. Charcoal was inside, pretending not to mess with the stereo settings. Sagittarius clung to the roof like a nightmarish luggage rack. Ben curled lazily around the rear axle, humming.

  Tobe arrived next, dragging his duffel bag like it owed him money.

  He gave the van a long, deeply skeptical look.

  “Why does it have eyelashes now?”

  “They grew overnight,” Harper said, coming up beside him. “Don’t pluck them. They bite.”

  Liz joined them quietly, slipping into the side door without a word. Caz was last—silent as always, moving like someone tracing old memories through the walls.

  Lawson appeared next to me. I hadn’t seen him approach, which was saying something.

  “All loaded,” he said. “No one’s bleeding. Yet.”

  “I give it ten minutes,” I muttered.

  We boarded, and I twisted the ignition skull.

  With a ripple of unreality, the Estate folded behind us and the van dropped into Earthspace.

  We were on a mountain road. Mist hugged the trees like secrets. Pines blurred past the windows. The air smelled like moss, gun oil, and something worse waiting just ahead.

  Nobody talked for the first few minutes.

  The rookies were tense. They could feel it.

  This wasn’t like last time.

  Last time had been a mess—but this felt heavier. Denser. Like the world was bracing for something personal.

  Scarlet sipped her mystery drink. “You all could at least pretend to enjoy this. What was it that our dear founder used to say was our mission? ‘To save the world and have a damn good time of it’?”

  “No one enjoys going back to a place that broke them,” Lawson said, his voice low.

  That got attention.

  Harper looked up. Tobe stopped mid-joke. Liz stilled.

  Caz didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Didn’t react.

  But his hand, resting on his prosthetic arm, curled just slightly.

  Lawson met my eyes in the mirror.

  “You recognize it,” I said softly.

  He nodded. “It’s definitely the same town. The same stretch of road. I passed this sign the first time I came here.”

  I glanced back again.

  Caz’s face hadn’t changed.

  But the tension in the rest of his body? That was new.

  I brought the van to a slow crawl near the edge of what might’ve once been a main street. Dust coated the sidewalks. The air smelled wrong—not rot or sulfur, just the kind of sterile quiet you only get in spaces that have forgotten what laughter sounds like.

  Scarlet peeked out the window, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Charming.”

  “This is where it happened?” Tobe asked. “Where Caz—?”

  “Don’t,” Harper cut in.

  But it was too late.

  Caz moved.

  Just slightly.

  He leaned forward in his seat, stared out the windshield, and said, very softly:

  “Yes.”

  That single syllable hit like a thunderclap.

  No one spoke after that.

  I parked the van next to an old post office that looked like it hadn’t processed mail since the invention of shame. There were posters in the window, but the ink had run—faces blurred, text smeared into nonsense.

  I killed the engine.

  Silence fell again.

  Then Ben uncoiled from the rear compartment, stretched to his full height.

  Sagittarius skittered down the side of the van and disappeared onto the roof of the gas station across the street like a hunting dog with eight legs and no chill.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Maroon stepped out and cocked his shotgun with a grin that had no business being this cheerful. “Homey. Bet the coffee here’s terrible.”

  Charcoal lit a match purely for dramatic effect and said, “If someone makes me join hands in a circle and chant about enlightenment, I’m burning this place down.”

  Harper stepped out next and scanned the area with a device that absolutely wasn’t legal in any known plane of existence.

  I turned back to the van.

  Liz and Caz were still inside.

  Liz was quiet, head lowered, hoodie pulled up. She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. Just... cautious. Like someone walking into a memory that didn’t belong to her but still had her name written on it.

  Caz sat like a statue.

  Unmoving.

  His eyes locked on the town ahead.

  I opened the door and leaned in. “You alright?”

  “No,” he said.

  I appreciated the honesty.

  “You want to sit this one out?”

  “No.”

  “Alright.” I nodded. “You’re with me.”

  He nodded once. Still not blinking.

  Liz slid out behind him, her presence calm but tightly coiled, like a lullaby with a fuse.

  I looked around at my squad. My disaster crew. My half-trained children and fully-armed nightmares.

  “Same plan as always,” I said. “No recon. No subtlety. If it looks like it belongs here, assume it doesn’t. If it talks like a preacher and smells like a soup kitchen, assume it wants to eat your soul. Stay sharp. Stay together.”

  Lawson adjusted his holster and muttered, “You say that like we have a choice.”

  I cracked my neck, drew my blade, and smiled.

  “I figure you all are smart enough to know that you don't… if you want to live that is.”

  Maroon whispered, “Something’s off.”

  I shot him a look.

  He grinned. “Just practicing my understatements.”

  Harper’s scanner beeped softly. “Picking up residual power signatures... Sibilant origin. Faint. But they’re everywhere.”

  Tobe glanced around. “You think they’re watching us?”

  “They’re waiting,” Lawson said.

  And then—

  They weren’t waiting anymore.

  It happened fast.

  A figure stepped out from the town. Human shape. Crisp clothes. Calm face. Looked like someone who taught ninth-grade history and said things like “let’s circle back to that.”

  But his eyes glowed.

  And his shadow wasn’t his own.

  He didn’t yell. He didn’t run.

  He just whistled.

  Once.

  That was the signal.

  The town in front of us erupted.

  Doors, windows, storm drains. They came from everywhere. Dozens. Maybe more. Moving like they weren’t individuals, but a single coordinated body. Some carried weapons—wooden clubs, rusted tools, ceremonial blades. Others didn’t need them.

  They moved fast.

  Ben reared back, shifting into a long wall of gleaming coils and slammed a pair of cultists into a parked car. Metal screamed. Bones cracked.

  Sagittarius launched from a rooftop and dragged three more into the shadows. He was quiet about it. That was worse.

  I spun my blade once, then let it grow.

  Scythe. Long. Wicked.

  Maroon cocked his shotgun. “Guess it’s showtime.”

  He fired. The first line of cultists collapsed like dominos hit by a freight train.

  Tobe charged forward with a manic grin. “WHO’S READY TO MAKE BAD DECISIONS?!”

  Harper yelled after him, “Tobe, you idiot—”

  Too late.

  A cultist swung at him with a jagged pipe. It hit.

  And bounced.

  The attacker screamed, clutched his own broken jaw, and crumpled.

  Tobe winked at Harper as he allowed himself to be hit by the follow up swing.

  She activated her null field.

  The air rippled.

  Cultists inside the radius staggered. Their movements got sluggish, their magic abilities stripped away from them.

  Harper stepped forward and jabbed a taser into one’s neck. He dropped with a noise like someone trying to recite scripture underwater.

  Caz was silent.

  Not motionless—just silent.

  Efficient.

  Precise.

  Terrifying.

  He picked up one cultist by the collar, slammed them into a wall, then flung them into another group without blinking.

  No hesitation. No emotion.

  Just force.

  I turned to find Liz.

  She was at the back—hands clenched at her sides, hoodie darkened by shadow. Her eyes were wide, but not afraid. Watching. Measuring.

  I moved toward her. “You good?”

  She nodded. “I’m waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to say it’s time.”

  I looked around.

  More were coming.

  They’d anticipated us. They wanted this.

  This wasn’t desperation.

  It was strategy.

  “Maroon,” I shouted. “Charcoal. Push right. Lawson—cover the center. Scarlet—do not flirt mid-combat please, I am getting second-hand embarrassment.”

  “I MAKE NO PROMISES,” she called, throwing a cultist through a window.

  Ben dropped from above, hissing in pleasure. “The lines connecting them to life is so taut. One gentle touch and they'll snap.”

  “Then hurry up and deal with them already!” I yelled, as I went to engage my own set of superhuman cultists.

  I slashed through the first two like paper. The third dodged—almost. I cut low, took out her knees. She hit the pavement screaming scripture through blood. The words meant nothing. They were rote. Rehearsed. She didn’t understand what she was saying.

  That made it worse.

  I paused.

  Just for a second.

  A mistake.

  I had turned.

  I shouldn’t have needed to. Should’ve trusted the team, trusted the rhythm of the fight, the flow of motion.

  But something shifted in the air.

  And I turned.

  Caz wasn’t where he’d been.

  He was thirty feet forward. Surrounded.

  The cultists hadn’t backed away from him. They were circling. Smiling. Like they recognized him. Or thought they did.

  One stepped forward. Older. Broad shoulders, sun-worn skin, faded tattoos that might’ve once meant something. He held a blade that looked ceremonial—curved, stained, reverent.

  “Back again,” the man said, voice full of edgy cultist energy.

  Caz said nothing.

  The man stepped closer, like this was some kind of reunion.

  “We prayed for you. After you left. Said your name in the old tongue. The demon said you’d return.”

  Still nothing.

  “Your soul is still bound,” the cultist continued. “You never broke your pact. That means—”

  Caz moved.

  Fast.

  Too fast.

  The man didn’t scream. He didn’t have time. Caz’s prosthetic arm caught his throat in mid-sentence, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the pavement hard enough to splinter concrete.

  The others moved in.

  Caz tore through them like he didn’t see people—just obstacles.

  One cultist swung with a pipe. Caz caught it. Twisted. The man’s wrist broke with a snap that echoed. Caz didn’t even blink.

  Another lunged with a knife. Caz stepped into the swing, let the blade drag across his shoulder, and drove his fist into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch.

  He was silent the whole time.

  No shouts. No fury. Just intent.

  But it wasn’t mechanical.

  This wasn’t cold efficiency.

  It was rage.

  Weaponized. Contained. Only just.

  “Tobe,” I barked. “Fall back!”

  Tobe had been cheering like this was a cage match. Now he stumbled backward with wide eyes, Harper dragging him behind the van for cover.

  Charcoal dropped beside me, breathing hard. “Okay. I knew he was scary, but this is some Old Testament level crap.”

  “Don’t engage him,” I said.

  “He’s on our side, right?”

  “For now.”

  Caz threw another cultist into a wall. The man slumped. Didn’t get back up.

  Three more came at Caz from behind.

  He didn’t turn.

  A burst of raw force from Caz hit all three cultists and crumpled them like tin cans.

  I stepped forward.

  Slow.

  Careful.

  “Caz,” I called.

  He didn’t look.

  Just kept moving.

  “Caz,” I said again.

  He stopped.

  Only for a heartbeat.

  Turned to look at me.

  And there was something in his eyes that didn’t belong.

  Not magic. Not madness.

  Just pain.

  Older than him. Deeper than combat.

  Then he said, very calmly:

  “I want to kill the Sibilant.”

  I blinked.

  He stepped over a fallen cultist.

  “I need to,” he said. “I have to.”

  He was close now. His voice wasn’t wild. It was steady. Too steady.

  Like this wasn’t a choice anymore. Like it had been waiting.

  “Dagger,” Lawson called from behind me. “We need support on the east—”

  I raised a hand to stop him. My eyes stayed on Caz.

  “You think you can kill it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You're sure?”

  He didn’t blink. “Yes.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “I’ll go anyway.”

  At least he was honest.

  I exhaled.

  Then nodded.

  “You lead,” I said. “I’ll back you up.”

  He turned without another word and started walking toward the heart of the town.

  Toward it.

  Behind me, Charcoal muttered, “You’re letting the horror movie subplot walk off alone?”

  “He’s not alone,” I said, following Caz. “I’m going with him.”

  “That might be worse.”

  The street narrowed as we moved deeper into town.

  Sidewalks gave up. Trees crept closer. Even the mist started to lean in like it wanted to hear what we were saying.

  Caz walked ahead of me, silent, sharp, focused. His back was straight, movements deliberate—like each step was a decision. Not toward survival. Not toward victory.

  Just toward closure.

  I let the silence stretch for a while. Partially because I didn’t know what to say, and partially because—well, when you’re built like I am, starting emotional conversations is easy.

  Finishing them?

  That’s where the blood gets on the carpet.

  Finally, I tried.

  “You good?”

  Caz didn’t stop walking. “You already asked that.”

  “Yeah, well. You didn’t get less terrifying.”

  He didn’t respond.

  We passed a half-collapsed coffee shop. The sign in the window read TRUTH & BREW and I made a mental note to set it on fire later for the name alone.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Back there? That level of violence was… at least rated R… or M if you're into video games.”

  Still no response.

  I tried again.

  “This is your town, right?”

  “It was,” he said. No emotion.

  “You remember it?”

  “I try not to.”

  That landed heavier than I wanted.

  We passed a statue in the square. Rough-hewn. Weather-beaten. It looked like someone important once, but time and exposure had eaten away the face. Only the nameplate remained. One word:

  REVELATION

  Not subtle, cult.

  “You know,” I said, hands in my pockets, blade humming faintly at my side, “I’m not great at this part. The whole emotional unpacking thing. I’m more of a ‘stab now, cry later’ kind of girl.”

  Caz’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

  Progress.

  “So,” I went on, “consider this me trying. Like. Actual effort.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he said, tone dry. “If the goal is mild confusion.”

  “Great. That’s my specialty. Emotional confusion with a splash of suppressed trauma. You want a cookie?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I didn’t bring any.”

  Another beat.

  He slowed slightly.

  “This place,” he said finally, “isn’t just where I’m from. It’s where I stopped being.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  We turned a corner. Ahead, a small church stood like a sentinel—doors closed, windows dark, a bell tower tilting slightly to the left like it was nodding off.

  Caz stared at it.

  “When I left,” he said, “I thought I was escaping. But I was just... carrying it with me. Every look. Every voice. Every command. It all came with me. I’m not free of it. I’m just... farther away.”

  I didn’t have a snappy answer for that.

  Didn’t have any answer, really.

  So I said the only honest thing I could:

  “Yeah. I get that.”

  He looked at me then. Not a full turn—just a glance over the shoulder. “Do you?”

  “My dad disappeared into who-knows-where and left me in charge of a collapsing institution with a sword collection and commitment issues,” I said. “I very much get that.”

  Caz blinked once. “That’s... wow….”

  “Welcome to my TED Talk.”

  He looked forward again. But this time, his shoulders eased—just a little.

  Enough.

  We kept walking.

  Ahead, the houses began to shift.

  Not just in architecture. In intention.

  They weren’t abandoned anymore. They were arranged. Doors open. Windows clean. Candles flickering in the glass.

  A trap dressed up like hospitality.

  Caz stopped in the center of the next intersection.

  “There,” he said.

  I followed his gaze.

  At the far end of the street, just beyond a wrought-iron gate, was a house. Two stories. Clean. White paint. Black trim. Windows all intact. A front porch swing swaying with no wind.

  And on the porch?

  A man.

  Seated. Calm.

  Waiting.

  He looked...

  Like Caz. A genetic echo. Older. Taller. Dressed in plain, pressed clothes. Reading a book.

  He looked up.

  And smiled.

  Like nothing was wrong.

  Like we were just visiting.

  Caz’s whole body went still.

  He didn’t breathe.

  I stepped closer.

  “You know him,” I said softly.

  Caz didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

  He just stared.

  And in his voice—tight, low, barely held together—he said:

  “That’s my father.”

  I knew better than to press any further than that, so instead we crossed the final stretch like we were walking into church and a gunfight at the same time.

  The gate didn’t resist. It welcomed us. Swung open on silent hinges, like it had been waiting for someone specific and didn’t want to risk offending the guest of honor.

  The man on the porch didn’t move. Just flipped a page in his book.

  Caz didn’t slow. But I could feel the change in his pace. Each step deliberate. Like he was forcing his body to keep moving. Like if he stopped, he wouldn’t start again.

  I kept a step behind. My blade was still sheathed. For now.

  The man looked up as we approached. His eyes were too warm. Too knowing.

  “Caziel,” he said softly. “You’ve come home.”

  Caz stopped two feet from the porch. Didn’t speak.

  The man stood. Smiled.

  I noted the details—sharpened teeth, but only subtly. Veins in the temple pulsing out of sync. Shadows that didn’t match the angle of the sun.

  The Sibilant was inside. Deep inside.

  But it wasn’t leading.

  It was comfortable sitting in the background for now.

  Caz’s voice came out low. Controlled. “Don’t call me that.”

  The man blinked. “It’s your name.”

  “It was,” Caz said.

  “I gave it to you.”

  Caz’s jaw flexed.

  “You gave me a lot of things,” he said. “None of them good.”

  I shifted slightly, spreading my stance. Just in case.

  The man looked at me for the first time.

  “And you must be the knife,” he said. “The little Blade.”

  “Dagger,” I said. “Pleased to ruin your day.”

  He chuckled.

  There was something unsettling about how normal he looked. How practiced the expressions were.

  He wore humanity like a mask he’d practiced in a mirror. Not the Sibilant—the man. The one who’d lived in this house. Raised a child. Built a cult.

  “You’ve grown,” he said to Caz. “So strong. So disciplined. The demon has watched your path. It’s impressed.”

  “I didn’t come for compliments,” Caz said.

  “No,” the man said. “You came for closure.”

  His form rippled.

  Only slightly. Skin shimmered like a heatwave. Fingers stretched a little too long. The Sibilant stirred. But it didn’t take over.

  It didn’t need to.

  “Why?” Caz asked.

  The word hit like a stone dropped into a well.

  His voice was raw now. Just slightly.

  “Why me? Why then?”

  The man tilted his head.

  “You had potential,” he said. “Still do. We wanted to shape it. You were... pliable.”

  “You took my life.”

  “We gave you purpose.”

  “You broke me.”

  The man stepped forward. Down the steps. Slowly.

  “I forged you.”

  Caz’s fists clenched. His prosthetic arm shimmered faintly, energy humming beneath the surface.

  I stepped between them.

  “Easy,” I said, quiet but firm. “We do this clean.”

  “I don’t want clean,” Caz said, his voice breaking.

  The man—his father—watched us both.

  “You can end this,” he said, voice suddenly gentle. “Right now. Kill me. Burn it down. Be the righteous fire. The perfect Blade.”

  He smiled again.

  “Or... you can finish what we started. Take your place. Rule beside me. The Sibilant will accept you. It never truly left. That power of yours is proof.”

  Caz stared at him.

  Then said: “I don’t want power.”

  The man paused. “No?”

  “I want you to feel what I felt. Alone. Controlled. Powerless. Empty.”

  The Sibilant stirred again—ripples dancing across the man’s skin, his shadow twitching like it wanted to crawl away.

  And then the man bared his teeth.

  And let the Sibilant speak.

  The voice that came out wasn’t human.

  It echoed.

  It vibrated.

  “We did not break you, child. You broke yourself. We simply... handed you the hammer.”

  Caz didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t reply.

  He just moved.

  His punch caught the Sibilant full in the chest.

  Not a warning shot.

  Not a challenge.

  A declaration.

  And then it shattered.

  A sound like glass breaking inside a throat. Like bones rearranging mid-word. And suddenly, the man who’d been Caz’s father wasn’t a man at all.

  The transformation wasn’t grotesque. It wasn’t violent.

  It was smooth.

  Like the skin had always been paper-thin. Like the body had just been borrowing time.

  Tendrils unfurled like extra limbs—slick, boneless, glistening in the half-light. Its mouth stretched wider, splitting upward toward the ears, too many teeth glinting like secrets.

  Caz didn’t hesitate.

  His prosthetic arm flared—energy pulsing through the engraved seams—and he launched forward again, tackling the creature through a rotting fence. They crashed into the yard beyond, knocking over a stone basin that had probably once held holy water and now just held dust.

  The Sibilant rolled, caught itself mid-spin, and lashed out with a limb made of shadow and something that hissed.

  I stepped forward—

  —but three figures burst from the alley to my right. Cultists. Reinforcements.

  Of course.

  They never let the main act go on without backup dancers.

  I pivoted, blade out, letting it snap into something wide and jagged—like a butcher’s cleaver met a fan blade and decided on marriage counseling rather than divorce.

  The first cultist swung a machete.

  I ducked.

  Let him overextend.

  Then cut his legs out from under him with a twist.

  The second lunged.

  I parried.

  Thrust.

  Flicked my blade up in a motion that cut through cloth and skin and sent him reeling back, howling.

  The third hesitated.

  Smart.

  I threw my knife.

  It sank into her shoulder with a quiet thunk. Not lethal. Just loud.

  She dropped.

  I turned back toward the fight—

  —and caught a glimpse of Caz in mid-air, slamming the Sibilant into a dead tree so hard the bark peeled off in sheets.

  He wasn’t using technique.

  He was using history.

  Each strike was a sentence.

  Each blow said: I remember. I remember what you did. I remember who I was before you rewrote me.

  The Sibilant fought like it was bored.

  Casually.

  Mocking him with every movement.

  Its voice came in waves—rippling through the air, making the ground hum.

  “You are not broken. You are unfinished. Let us complete you.”

  Caz roared.

  Grabbed it by the throat.

  And threw it across the yard into a half-collapsed tool shed that exploded in a bloom of splinters and shrapnel.

  He was panting now.

  Sweating.

  His shoulder bled where the knife had landed earlier—but he didn’t slow.

  I moved again—cut down another cultist, this one with a branding iron. He swung like a zealot. Died like a footnote.

  Over the noise, I heard Caz shout: “You made me think I needed you!”

  The Sibilant slithered up from the wreckage, its form flickering.

  “You still do.”

  Then it lunged again.

  They clashed.

  Closer now.

  I was watching the way the Sibilant moved—not just as a monster, but as a man. The way its hands struck. The angles it chose. The faint limp it didn’t quite erase.

  And it clicked.

  He wasn’t possessed.

  Not fully.

  This wasn’t a hijacked body. This was a collaboration.

  The man—Caz’s father—wanted this.

  Had invited it.

  Had held the door open and said come in.

  He was the type of person who read the fine print on the Terms of Service, saw that it was signing away his soul, and clicked “I Agree” anyways.

  Letting the man steer, just enough to keep the shape. Just enough to wear a face that would hurt.

  Besides, why put the effort in to suppress someone's will when their will aligns so perfectly with your own?

  Caz slammed the Sibilant to the ground. Raised his fist.

  His prosthetic arm flared with that radiant, pulsing heat again—energy coiling up toward a final strike.

  And I knew that would be it

  And I knew I couldn't let him make that choice.

  I knew it would be one he regretted.

  I knew it because of my own wish that I could have spent more time with my father.

  And I stepped forward. Fast. Voice sharp:

  “Caz. Wait.”

  He didn’t look back.

  Didn’t flinch.

  He meant to end it.

  Caz’s arm came down with enough force to crack steel.

  I moved faster.

  My blade dissolved in a flash of red light, and my hand caught his wrist just before it landed. The impact sent a shockwave through the air—dust exploded off the ground, the trees nearby shivered, and my boots skidded half an inch through broken grass.

  Caz turned toward me, eyes wide, breath ragged.

  “What—”

  “Stop,” I said.

  My voice wasn’t loud.

  It didn’t need to be.

  It cut.

  I tightened my grip on his wrist—not hard, just enough. His prosthetic thrummed beneath my palm, power still humming in his bones.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said.

  “Yes,” he growled. “I do.”

  “No,” I said, stepping between him and the collapsed figure of the Sibilant. “You want to. That’s not the same thing.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But you don’t deserve what it’ll do to you.”

  His jaw clenched.

  I looked down at the Sibilant—still curled, that too-human face flickering with echoes of the man who’d once taught a child how to pray and then turned him into a weapon.

  “He’s still alive,” I said. “I can feel it.”

  “I don’t care,” Caz said.

  I did.

  I really, really did.

  I reached out.

  Just once.

  Touched the Sibilant’s chest.

  And opened the floodgates.

  My power burst forth, a power I hadn't used in a long time. After all, the power to reshape reality does tend to make fights pretty boring. At least, that's the reason I told myself to explain why I never used it.

  The real reason was I didn’t trust myself.

  The air folded. The light bent. Reality leaned forward and listened.

  The Sibilant screamed—not out loud, but I could feel the intent. Sound, color, gravity. It shredded.

  And then—it peeled away.

  Like a mask melting off.

  A shadow cast backward through the soul.

  And what remained was...

  Just a man.

  Human.

  Barely conscious.

  Shaking.

  I stumbled back, breathing hard, power still whispering in my blood. My eyes were glowing—I could feel them burning through my skull. I never did this. It was too much. Too much power for someone as irresponsible and reckless as myself.

  But it was right to use it this time.

  Wasn’t it?

  I turned to Caz.

  Expecting relief.

  Maybe tears. Closure. Catharsis. Something.

  What I got was—

  Rage.

  Raw. Unfiltered. Not any fraction diluted.

  He stared at the man. At the absence of the Sibilant.

  And then at me.

  His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

  “Did you… kill him?”

  I blinked. “No, I saved—”

  “Good,” he snarled.

  My mouth opened. Nothing came out. I needed to tell him that the Sibilant was gone. That all that was left was his father.

  The man on the ground stirred. Caz stepped toward him.

  I blocked him again.

  “It's gone,” I said quietly, “That man is just your father now. You can stop.”

  “No, you're wrong.”

  He was shaking now.

  His face twisted—not with hate.

  With hurt.

  “The Sibilant wasn’t what I was after.”

  I stood there.

  In the center of the storm I had thought I stopped.

  In the wreckage of the moment I thought I could fix.

  The man behind me whimpered and I could hear his bones crunch under the weight of one of Caz's combat boots. I didn’t look at them.

  I just stared at the place where Caz had stood.

  And for the first time in a long time—

  I felt like I’d failed.

  I listened as Caz walked away.

  Didn’t run. Didn’t yell. Just walked.

  I stood there for a long time. I didn't know what to say.

  But I knew at some point I'd have to say something, and I started walking towards the van.

  I found him by the broken statue near the edge of town on my way out.

  The same one we’d passed on the way in. Still faceless. Still weathered. But now, it looked like it was watching me. Judging me. Waiting for me to admit something I didn’t want to.

  Caz stood with his back to me, hands at his sides, fingers twitching just slightly like they didn’t know how to unclench.

  I didn’t say anything at first.

  Didn’t want to rush it.

  Didn’t want to make it worse.

  So I just sat on the edge of the fountain, resting my arms on my knees, letting the silence settle between us like fog.

  “I'm sorry,” I said eventually. “I only made that harder for you, didn't I?”

  He didn’t turn.

  I looked down at my boots. They were still flecked with dust and someone’s regret.

  “I thought saving your father from the Sibilant would give you back something. Like... like it would fix something.”

  Caz laughed.

  Just once. A dry, brittle sound.

  “There was nothing to fix. That man hadn't been my father for a long time, and I haven't been his son. That boy died the moment I wrote my name on that damned contract.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “I told you.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  That made him turn.

  His face was stone. But his eyes were raw.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You didn’t.”

  “I didn’t want to believe someone could be that bad,” I said quietly. “Not without something else pulling the strings. A Sibilant. A curse. Something. I wanted it to be the Sibilant who ruined you. Not…”

  “Not him,” He said, and looked away again.

  “I keep doing that,” I muttered. “Trying to make people better than they are. Thinking if I fix the right piece, everything else will click back into place. Like grief’s just a puzzle.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck.

  “You’re not the first person I’ve disappointed.”

  He said nothing.

  “I keep trying to be like my dad,” I said. “He would’ve known what to do. What to say. He would’ve stopped you too, but it would’ve meant something. It would’ve felt right.”

  Caz turned again. Studied me.

  “And you?”

  “I just get in the way.”

  I laughed once. Bitter. Small.

  “Do you know how many people stayed when he disappeared? How many actually stuck around? You. Harper. Liz. Tobe. You all were all givens. You joined right as he left, you wouldn’t have known anything had changed. As for those who actually knew my father? Lawson. Maroon and his band of nightmare cowboys. A few more you haven’t met yet. The others all left. They didn’t believe in the Blades. They believed in him. Evidently, not in me.”

  “Then why are you still here?” Caz asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Because someone has to be.”

  He stepped forward. Slowly.

  Sat on the edge of the fountain next to me. Just close enough.

  We didn’t talk for a while.

  Didn’t need to.

  Then Caz said, softly: “I didn’t want him back.”

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to make him afraid. Just once. I wanted him to look at me the way I looked at him for years.”

  I nodded.

  “I get it,” I said. “I still want to punch my dad in the face for leaving.”

  “I thought you idolized him.”

  “I do. And I still want to punch him.”

  Another beat.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For saying the wrong thing. And then saying the right one.”

  I smirked. “Anytime.”

  We sat in silence again.

  But this time, it didn’t feel heavy.

  We sat there for a long time before the others eventually came looking for us.

  We packed the van in silence, and the return to the Estate in general was a quiet one.

  Not because anyone ordered it.

  It just was.

  Even the van seemed to know better than to make a scene this time. No dramatic suspension lurch, no overly excited upholstery. Just a long, slow coast through the corridors of reality until the world folded politely and placed us back home.

  The Estate’s main hall had taken the form of a wide, warm atrium this time—vaulted ceilings, soft gold light, distant strings playing something old and sad that somehow made the walls feel like they were listening.

  Gale was there.

  Of course she was.

  She sat on the bench beneath the ivy curtain, legs crossed, sweater a little too cozy for someone who didn’t feel temperature. A Tupperware container balanced on her lap.

  Tobe spotted her first.

  “Oh no,” he said. “She has more cookies.”

  Gale beamed and held up the container like a peace offering. “Return of the baked goods.”

  Harper muttered, “We don’t deserve her.”

  “After all that? I think we all deserve one,” Lawson said, rubbing his temples. “Not one each, mind you, one to share between all of us. Those cookies are heavenly.”

  I didn’t argue. Gale’s baking really was amazing. When it wasn't laced with bribery, that is.

  I watched Gale as the rookies peeled off, well, except Liz who was hugging Gale like her life depended on it. Ben and Sagittarius slithered and skittered into their preferred corners. Maroon and Charcoal started a passive-aggressive debate about whose playlist had caused more battlefield success.

  Gale caught my gaze.

  Smiled.

  I smiled back.

  It didn’t reach my eyes.

  She tilted her head slightly, like she could see the weight on my shoulders. I gave her a quick salute with two fingers, turned on my heel, and walked.

  She didn’t follow.

  But someone else did.

  I knew it before I heard her high heels clicking.

  Scarlet always waited for the exact moment you thought you were alone before making herself known.

  “You walk like someone about to punch a wall,” she said behind me.

  “Maybe I am,” I muttered.

  She caught up easily. Didn’t ask where we were going. Just matched my pace as I wandered the twisting halls of the west wing until the air got colder and the lighting stopped pretending to be comforting.

  I found a room with no name. Opened the door. Stepped inside.

  It was empty.

  Just a bench and a window that didn’t show anything at all.

  I sat.

  Scarlet leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.

  “You don’t do this often,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Disappear.”

  I stared out the window at nothing.

  “I should more often, it’s easier.”

  “Than what?”

  “Than pretending it’s fine.”

  Scarlet didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  I didn’t look at her when I said it.

  “I thought helping Caz's father would fix something in me.”

  She was silent.

  “I thought if I did the right thing, I’d feel better. Like I was proving something. Like if I could just solve someone else’s damage, maybe I’d stop feeling like mine’s permanent.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  I swallowed.

  “My dad always knew what to say. What to do. He made people better. Made this place matter. He built it. And when he vanished... he didn’t leave instructions. Or a note. Or even a damn clue.”

  My voice cracked. I hated that.

  Scarlet’s eyes narrowed, just a little.

  “And I kept telling myself,” I went on, “that he left for a reason. That it was some big noble mystery, or secret mission, or... or some tragic sacrifice. That he didn’t choose to leave.”

  I looked down at my hands.

  “But what if he did?”

  That was the question.

  That was always the question.

  What if he didn’t vanish? What if he just left?

  Scarlet walked over.

  Didn’t sit. Didn’t say anything dramatic.

  She just reached out and placed one hand on my shoulder.

  Not warm. Not cold.

  Just... steady.

  I didn’t cry.

  Not really.

  But I let the silence hold everything I couldn’t say.

  And Scarlet held the silence.

  Like she knew.

  Like maybe she’d been holding it too.