The city of Stonetree slept uneasily under a waning moon, its jagged rooftops casting irregular shadows over twisted alleyways. The scent of damp stone and burnt incense clung to the air, a reminder that necromancers ruled this part of the city. Among the labyrinthine streets, past the iron-barred temples of the dead, loomed the Aguilar estate—a fortress of black marble and cold iron.

  A shadow detached itself from the murky darkness of an adjoining rooftop. It slithered, pulsed, and shifted, moving like a phantom wind over the tiles. No footfalls echoed. No breath betrayed its presence. Where the moonlight should have revealed a man, there was only an undulating smear, a distortion in the air. The Wraith was in Sneakform.

  His body rippled, flesh bending in unnatural ways. Skin darkened, lightened, swirled into new textures at will. He mimicked the shadows, the stone, the very air, blending into whatever was needed. He had used the mimic octopus as the Template for this form and had never regretted it. It was perfect for someone who wanted to go unnoticed.

  The Aguilar mansion was his prey tonight. The necromancer lords who resided within trafficked in dangerous arts, binding spirits to unwilling bodies, twisting life and death to their whims. The Wraith was well aware that if he were caught, death would not be the end of his torment. Despite the risk, he kept going. After tonight he would be one step closer to his ultimate goal. He judged the risk to be worth it.

  He reached the edge of the roof, melting into the ornate gargoyle perched there. His form flexed, his limbs lengthening, his skin hardening to mimic the stone beast’s weathered surface. Golden light spilled from the tall, stained-glass windows below, but he saw no movement within the great hall. It was time.

  A single, fluid motion sent him cascading down the wall, his limbs reshaping into tendrils that gripped every imperfection in the stone. The instant his feet touched the balcony, they molded to match the dark iron rail, indistinguishable from the real thing. A moment passed. Another.

  Still nothing.

  The Wraith flowed over the railing and flattened against the glass doors, sensing the heat and movement beyond. Two guards in half-plate, their faces obscured by lacquered bone masks, stood at either end of the chamber. Their eyes burned with the unnatural glow of deathbinding—animated husks more than men. Between them, a grand hall stretched, draped in crimson banners marked with the sigil of House Aguilar. The air shimmered with alarm glyphs. The Wraith fingered his brass ring for a moment. He had paid a fortune for it and was now about to see if it had been worth it.

  With infinite patience, he willed himself into something smaller, thinner. His ribs narrowed, his shoulders collapsed inward, his very bones liquefied. Inch by inch, he pressed himself through the narrow gap between the doors, a smear of flesh and shadow.

  His ring let out a high pitched tone that was audible only to him as he came inside. He smiled upon hearing the signal that the alarm wards had been successfully bypassed. He would have to remember to thank Thessily the next time he saw her.

  Inside, the scent of embalming fluid and old parchment filled his nostrils. The guards did not move. The hall yawned before him, lined with grotesque statues—effigies of the necromancers’ greatest conquests. Beyond them, an archway led deeper into the mansion, toward the sanctum where his quarry slept.

  The Wraith did not run. He did not rush. Speed was for those who sought to be noticed. Instead, he slithered along the floor, his form darkening to match the obsidian tiles. A ghost against a grave.

  The Wraith advanced, his body a shifting specter against the cold stone floor. He reached the archway and peered beyond. The corridor beyond was dimly lit by hanging iron lanterns, their flickering light casting restless shadows across the walls. At regular intervals, elven guards patrolled—silent, disciplined, their armor blackened steel inlaid with silver sigils of House Aguilar.

  He did not hesitate.

  A whisper of thought sent his psychic influence rippling outward, a subtle nudge against the minds of the sentinels. You see nothing. You hear nothing. Their shoulders remained squared, their spears held firm, but their eyes lost focus for just a moment—long enough for the Wraith to glide past them like a breath of wind.

  Further down the hall, a set of spiral stairs coiled upward into darkness. As he approached, movement caught his eye. A pair of human slaves in rough linen robes stepped into view, their wrists bound by thin iron chains. They carried a heavy wooden chest between them, struggling under its weight. An elven overseer strode beside them, his whip coiled at his hip, his expression cold and impassive.

  The Wraith stilled. He had to be careful. The guards were trained warriors, but the slaves were something else entirely—frightened creatures, attuned to every shift in their captors’ moods. Fear made them perceptive. A flicker of movement, an out-of-place shadow, and their panic would give him away.

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  He wove his spell again, deepening its touch. You do not notice me. You do not question the unnatural. The overseer’s gaze flicked past him without interest. One of the slaves hesitated, his brow furrowing. The Wraith froze, his form merging with the curve of the stone wall. The moment stretched. Then the slave exhaled, shook his head, and continued onward.

  The Wraith resumed his advance.

  He ascended the stairs, his body flowing like liquid over the steps. At the top, another hall stretched before him—narrower, darker. The doors here were heavy oak reinforced with bands of iron, each one marked with different runes of warding. He could feel the pulse of magic behind some of them, the telltale hum of bound spirits straining against their imprisonment.

  And then, at the end of the corridor, he saw them.

  Two elven sentries flanked a set of double doors, their armor richer, their weapons finer than those below. Their postures were rigid, their hands resting on the hilts of curved sabers. No necromantic glow shone in their eyes—these were living warriors, trained and alert. Worse, a quick Identify told him that they both possessed the Sentinel Class. They would no doubt have a number of detection Skills that would make it nearly impossible to sneak past them or cloud their minds with a simple spell like the one he had been using so far.

  The Wraith knew better than to test that spell’s limits against those with keen minds and stronger wills. Instead, he changed tactics. He pressed himself against the ceiling, his form blending with the stone beams above. Inch by inch, he slid forward, careful to move only when their gazes were elsewhere. Below him, the guards remained still, unaware of the phantom slithering past them.

  The Wraith extended his hand, fingers curling into the shape of an unseen glyph. He had been prepared for this. The Dream spell was not like the simple mind-clouding whispers he had used before—it was deeper, more insidious. It bypassed conscious thought, worming into the subconscious, weaving its way into the target’s very dreams.

  He exhaled, sending the spell forth like a drifting mist. The magic unfurled in delicate, curling tendrils, invisible to the waking world but potent all the same. It slithered into the minds of the two sentinels, gently tugging them downward into the embrace of slumber.

  At first, they resisted. Their training was formidable, their minds sharp and disciplined. But the Wraith was patient. He did not force his way in; he coaxed, whispered, guided. He let the spell shape itself into something familiar, something the sentinels would not reject—a memory, a moment from their past, a soft echo of exhaustion creeping into their limbs.

  One of them shifted, a slight tremor in his stance. His fingers flexed against the hilt of his saber. His breathing slowed. The other blinked, head tilting slightly as if listening to something only he could hear. Their shoulders slackened, their grips loosened, and then—

  Their eyes slid shut.

  It was not a deep sleep, nor an immediate collapse. That would have drawn suspicion. No, this was a dreamer's sleep—standing, breathing, aware but unaware, lost in a half-conscious haze where reality and illusion bled together. Their bodies remained upright, their minds caught in a web of conjured reverie.

  He passed beneath an archway and found himself in a corridor lined with more doors than seemed possible for the mansion’s outer dimensions. Magic warped the space here. He observed the corridor for several minutes without moving. He noted a single candle flickering at the end of the hall, its wax pooling but never quite melting away. A warding trick. He would not step into its glow.

  He reached for the ceiling instead, his form flowing upward, fingers and toes stretching to grip the carvings above. Hanging like a hunting spider, he crept forward, his body shifting to match the ancient wood grain. When he passed over the candle’s light, he did not cast a shadow.

  The door at the end of the hall bore no keyhole. No hinges. Just smooth, dark wood carved with the visage of a screaming skull. Not locked. Sealed.

  Wraith reached into the pouch at his waist and withdrew a vial of black sand. He poured a thin line along the frame, tracing unseen symbols with his fingertips. The moment the last sigil was drawn, the wood shuddered, exhaling a soft sigh as the spell unraveled.

  Beyond the door, the sanctum stretched out like a temple of the dead. A great marble table dominated the center, covered in scrolls and dissected cadavers, their flesh preserved in unnatural stillness. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bone charms, cursed tomes, and relics stolen from forgotten crypts.

  He moved carefully, scanning the shelves, eyes flicking over arcane inscriptions until he found what he sought—an iron-bound chest embedded into the farthest wall. The sigils on its surface pulsed faintly, a sign of protective wards. He reached into his pouch, pulling out a thin bone stylus. Tracing carefully over the locks, he bypassed the first enchantment, then the second. A final twist of his wrist, and the chest clicked open.

  Inside, scrolls lay nestled in a bed of red velvet. He unrolled one, recognizing the sigils marking it as an Aguilar family cipher. This was what he had come for.

  Reaching once more into his pouch, he retrieved a small, quivering mass contained in a glass vial—the Mirror Slime. A rare and expensive item, it could replicate the form of an object with unnerving precision. He unsealed the vial, allowing the gelatinous substance to slip onto the scroll and then into the vacant space left by the removed scroll.

  The slime expanded, stretching and molding itself into the exact dimensions of the original scroll. Its surface rippled momentarily before settling into an indistinguishable replica, down to the worn edges and the faded ink of the sigils. It would even carry the same magical resonance for a time, deceiving most casual inspections.

  Satisfied with the deception, the Wraith secured the genuine scroll in his belt pouch and closed the chest with deliberate care. He retraced his steps, silent as a whisper, knowing he had left no trace of his intrusion—only an illusion waiting to be unraveled at the worst possible moment for his enemies.

  Then, a pulse of magic flared out, and the room trembled.