The carriage ride to Vancourt’s prison had been stifling, thick with heat and heavier still with questions that refused to quiet. Linus sat in silence, arms folded tight, the leather seat creaking with every jolt of the wheels. Marcus sat across from him, alert but silent, knowing better than to speak when Linus’s mind was working.

  As they neared the outskirts of the city, the silhouette of the Mayor’s Manor rose in the distance, its stone walls catching the te-afternoon sun. But Linus didn’t look at it. His eyes were somewhere else—far off, pulled by something he couldn’t name.

  “Hold,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet like a bde.

  Marcus straightened. “Sir?”

  Linus’s gaze was sharp now. Focused. “Take me to the stone outpost. The one just past the tree line. We found it during the raids st winter.”

  Marcus didn’t hesitate. “At once.” He knocked on the driver’s panel and reyed the new orders.

  The carriage turned off the main road, its wheels bumping over uneven dirt. The trees thickened around them, their bare branches cwing at the sky. Dead leaves rustled underfoot, stirred by a wind that carried the scent of moss and rot. The path narrowed, swallowed by shadows.

  Linus stared out the window, jaw tight. That outpost had bothered him for months. The way the chamber was built—rough, rushed, yet oddly deliberate. He’d written it off at the time as Mayor’s twisted personal projects.

  But the cuts on Alfred’s body had changed everything.

  Those marks weren’t wild. They weren’t rage. They were purpose.

  If this pce showed even one simir detail—one sign of that same careful hand—it meant this wasn’t isoted. It meant someone had been building toward something. Repeating something.

  Then the world shattered.

  A deafening bst tore through the stillness, cracking like thunder right above their heads. The carriage jolted sideways. Linus smmed a hand to the wall to steady himself as the wheels hit a rut. The horses screamed.

  A column of smoke—thick, bck, and roiling—rose above the trees behind them.

  Then came the fire.

  Fmes licked the sky in wild bursts, spilling from the direction of the Manor like a beast unchained. The trees nearby shook from the force of it. Ash rained down in light gray flecks, sticking to the windowpane.

  Linus lurched forward, gripping the frame of the carriage window. His breath hitched. The explosion had been massive. No misfire. No accident. Something had hit the Manor.

  He scanned the woods. No archers in the trees. No shadows moving in the hills. No ambush.

  Not yet.

  “It came from the Manor!” he barked, eyes locked on the smoke. “The explosion—there!”

  Marcus was already moving. “Driver, turn us around!”

  “No,” Linus snapped. “We’re not creeping back. Full speed.”

  The carriage swung hard as the horses were whipped into motion. Dirt flew from the wheels. Branches cwed at the sides. Linus didn’t flinch.

  Something had happened. Something big. The visit to Vancourt, the outpost, the investigation—it all fell away like broken pieces of gss. This wasn’t just a clue anymore. It was a firestorm.

  He turned to Marcus, his voice low and cold.

  “Get me to the Manor,” he said. “Now.”

  The approach to the Manor was a descent into hell.

  Even from a distance, the scale of the devastation was horrifying. Half the structure had simply… vanished. Gone, as if scooped out by some invisible hand. What remained was a jagged ruin—walls caved in, support beams snapped like kindling, and a roaring fire devouring what was left. Bck smoke cwed at the sky, thick and choking, turning the sun to a dull red smear above the horizon.

  The carriage hadn’t even stopped when Linus flung open the door and jumped down.

  “Hold!” he barked, already moving. “Secure the perimeter! No one in or out. I want a full headcount of our people and a sweep of the grounds—every corner, every tunnel. Search for survivors. And identify any… hostiles.”

  He didn’t wait for confirmation. His boots crunched over shattered gravel and scorched dirt as he marched forward, his eyes scanning the carnage with sharp, clinical focus. The once-manicured gardens—symbols of Vancourt’s old wealth—were now unrecognizable. Stone paths were cracked and spttered with ash. Trees burned like torches. The flowerbeds were charnel pits, scattered with burned limbs and bodies too broken to name.

  “Find Eliza,” he added, his voice low but deadly serious.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir!” he called, already turning to the guards. “Establish a security line! Triage anyone breathing. Teams of two, sweep the grounds. West wing gets priority!”

  The next hour blurred into chaos.

  Guards moved through the wreckage in staggered lines, calling out over the roar of fmes. Every step was a risk—floorboards cracked underfoot, beams creaked above their heads, smoke stung their eyes and lungs. Linus moved with them, refusing to stand back. He pushed aside broken stones with his own hands, ignoring the heat, ignoring the pain. Sweat soaked his colr. Ash coated his gloves. His breath came hard and fast.

  The air was a nightmare—acrid smoke, burning wood, and something worse. A sweet, cloying scent that wrapped around his throat and refused to let go.

  He knew that smell. He didn’t want to name it yet.

  “Report!” he demanded, voice hoarse.

  A soot-streaked guard stumbled toward him. “Minimal survivors, sir,” he panted. “Mostly household staff. Bad burns. Confused. We’re pulling them to the edge of the garden for treatment.”

  “Any sign of an attack? Weapons? Arrows? Magic residue?”

  “Nothing clear, sir. No scorch marks, no bde strikes. Just… the explosion. It looks like it came from inside.”

  Linus felt something go cold behind his ribs. Internal? That didn’t make sense. There were no guests, no visitors. Just Eliza. Just his people.

  “Focus on the west wing,” he snapped. “Eliza’s chambers were there. I want it cleared. I want her found.”

  Guards nodded and moved fast, though the west wing was barely standing. Chunks of stone teetered on edge, and every step sent pebbles trickling down from above. The heat there was worse—waves of it pulsing from broken windows and twisted iron fixtures.

  Then came the shout.

  “Sir! We’ve got someone!”

  Linus’s heart smmed into his ribs.

  He crossed the distance in seconds, weaving through the wreckage until he found the guard kneeling beside a fallen beam. The man didn’t look up. His face was pale, eyes fixed on the shape beneath the debris.

  Linus crouched beside him, chest tight.

  The body was unrecognizable—burned bck, curled inward like a broken doll. The skin was cracked and blistered, and most of the clothing had fused into ash. But a scrap of silk clung to one wrist, stained but still distinct—a soft vender hue, the kind Eliza always wore.

  Beside the body y a silver locket, half-melted, the chain snapped.

  It was hers.

  Linus stared at it for a long moment, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes saw. Then the smell hit him again—sharp and sweet, like roasted sugar gone wrong. The stench of burned flesh.

  He turned away for half a second, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Something twisted in his chest. Not shock. Not guilt.

  Something closer to grief.

  He had used Eliza. Maniputed her. Broken her. She was his. And now she was gone. Torn from the board in a single bst, reduced to smoke and ash like she’d never existed.

  First, someone had come for him—a bde to his chest. Then Mara, suddenly bolder, questioning his intent, starting to slip out from under his thumb. And now… this.

  He forced the feeling down—stuffed it deep into the same dark pce he kept his old memories, his regrets, his humanity.

  No time for mourning. Not now.

  “Confirm the remains,” he said, voice low. “Secure the scene. I want this wing sealed off. No one touches her.”