The corridors of the Vengeful Thunder Family’s main mansion were in complete uproar.

  Servants rushed back and forth, guards thundered past, peering into every passage, every niche, every door. Shouts, orders, the clang of metal—all of it merged into a single, crushing noise. Even the air itself seemed tense, heavy with anxiety.

  Through this chaos moved Girren, his pace quick but outwardly calm.

  He carried several bottles of wine for Aiden. His head was lowered, his shoulders slightly hunched, his face habitually unremarkable. But inside, his heart was beating faster than usual.

  He kept replaying his encounter with Kael, trying to make sense of what he was feeling. “I never thought I’d dare do something like that… Why did I help him? Why am I not afraid?”

  At that very moment, he sharply turned into the corridor leading to Aiden’s chambers—and nearly collided with Aiden himself.

  “Father, what in the world is going on?!” Aiden shouted, making no attempt to hide his irritation and confusion.

  Before him stood a tall man in his forties. Long violet hair was pulled back, a sharp beard neatly trimmed. He held himself straight, almost lazily, yet authority was felt in every movement. Foxlike eyes looked cold and calculating, and his aura was eerily reminiscent of Elder Zeiran.

  Girren froze for only a fraction of a second, then instantly bent into a deep bow.

  “Greetings, Lord Kargos.”

  The man merely slid an indifferent glance over him, as if over a piece of furniture, and immediately returned his attention to his son.

  “The prisoner escaped,” he said evenly, without emotion. “Someone important to your grandfather.”

  Aiden went pale.

  “Escaped?.. How is that even possible?!”

  Kargos narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “That is no longer your concern.” His voice hardened. “Lock yourself in your chambers and do not step outside until this is over.”

  Aiden flared up.

  “What is this nonsense?!” he shouted, clenching his fists. “I’m already a Silver Mage! I can take part in the search and help!”

  The words came out almost hysterical, as if for a moment he had forgotten he was standing before his father—not servants who obeyed him without question.

  Kargos merely snorted, brief and openly disdainful.

  The next instant, thin white lightning flickered across his body, and Aiden recoiled sharply. He staggered back a step, his breath catching, his face growing even paler.

  Aiden wanted to say something else, but fear of his father won out, and he fell silent.

  “Let the servants deal with it,” Kargos said calmly, as if discussing a leaking roof.

  He shifted his gaze aside—to Girren.

  “If you’re so eager to help,” he added with a cold smirk, “you can send your Slug along.”

  Girren immediately lowered his head even further, not allowing a single emotion to show on his face.

  “As you command, sir,” he replied evenly.

  Disgust flickered inside him. “Like father, like son…”

  But Kargos didn’t get the chance to say anything else.

  From around the corner, a guard burst out, almost at a run. He skidded to a stop, straightened quickly, and bowed.

  “Patriarch Kargos, we have new problems!”

  Kargos frowned.

  “Speak.”

  “Magister Priscilla has arrived at the main entrance,” the guard blurted out. “She demands an immediate audience with Elder Zeiran. She declared she would not leave under any circumstances.”

  Irritation flickered across Kargos’s face, and he ground out through clenched teeth:

  “Just what I needed. That damned old woman picked the worst possible time to provoke me…”

  He spun sharply and strode off, not granting either Aiden or Girren a parting glance. It was clear: the conversation was over, the decision made.

  As soon as Kargos disappeared around the corner, the corridor seemed to fall dead.

  The noise of the commotion remained somewhere farther off, muffled by the walls, and between Aiden and Girren hung a heavy, suffocating silence. Aiden stood with his teeth clenched, his chest rising with restrained fury. He slowly turned his head and looked at Girren—not as a servant, but as a convenient target.

  “Am I really still that weak, Slug?!” he spat.

  He didn’t even wait for an answer.

  With a sharp motion, Aiden tore the bottles from Girren’s hands. Glass clinked; one of the bottles nearly slipped free, but Aiden caught it, already turning toward his doors.

  “Out of my sight,” he threw over his shoulder. “Go do something at least vaguely useful. Look for the fugitive.”

  The door to his chambers slammed shut, the sound rolling down the corridor in a dull echo.

  Aiden was gone, and Girren remained standing there.

  For several moments he didn’t move at all, as if the words hadn’t yet sunk in. Then he slowly straightened. His shoulders squared on their own, as though his habitual stoop had suddenly become meaningless.

  The submissive expression slid from his face. His gaze grew heavy, focused, and deep in his eyes flared a cold, restrained hatred.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes…” he whispered softly, almost mockingly.

  Girren turned away from Aiden’s door.

  He felt it clearly: something had ignited inside him. Not flaring brightly—no. Rather, it had smoldered for a long time, deep beneath layers of humiliation—the habit of staying silent, of swallowing grievances. And today, that smolder had begun to turn into fire.

  Not because of Kael’s words or promises.

  But because of himself.

  The moment he decided to help the fugitive—to stake his own life—became a point of no return. For the first time, he had made a choice not because he was ordered to, and not because he saw no other way.

  But because he no longer wanted to endure it.

  “I am not Slug. I am Girren, son of Darskar…”

  With these thoughts, Girren set off down the corridor, fading into the mansion’s winding halls.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, Priscilla stood within the inner grounds of the Vengeful Thunder Family’s estate.

  She had not been allowed all the way to the building itself, yet they hadn’t dared leave her outside the gates either. The guards silently parted, letting her into the main perimeter, as if the very thought of a Magister waiting beyond the walls was dangerous to them. At the gates she would have been far too conspicuous—and unnecessary attention was the last thing they needed right now.

  Priscilla stopped amid the manicured gardens.

  Fountains, marble paths, elegant arches—everything looked flawless, as befitted the estate of one of the Three Families. Yet that beauty was broken by the bustle. Servants hurried along the alleys, guards moved briskly around the perimeter, orders were shouted, someone nearly ran, constantly glancing around.

  Priscilla observed in silence.

  “They’re definitely searching for someone…” she noted calmly to herself. “Did Kael really manage to escape?”

  The thought was so absurd it almost made her smile. Almost.

  “Just who is Kael, really…” the thought flickered through her mind. “And how many more secrets is he hiding?”

  At that moment, the air near the main entrance trembled.

  A brief, barely perceptible pulse rippled through the air as the protective barrier weakened. Magical lines on the doors went dark one after another, and the heavy leaves began to open.

  Priscilla did not so much as flinch.

  Kargos stepped out of the doorway.

  The next instant he pushed off the ground sharply, a flash of white lightning racing over his body. Space compressed, and he vanished—only to reappear a second later a few steps from Priscilla, neatly bleeding off his inertia.

  Kargos adjusted his sleeves, inclined his head slightly, and smiled politely.

  “Good evening, Magister,” he said courteously. “May I be of assistance to you?”

  The reply came instantly—and was unexpectedly sharp.

  “Have your father come, Kargos,” Priscilla said coldly. “I have grounds to bring a serious accusation against your family.”

  Kargos’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

  Priscilla narrowed her eyes and swept her gaze over the estate, the gardens, the bustling servants, and the tense guards.

  “And judging by all this,” she added evenly, “I am even more confident in my suspicions.”

  Kargos raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, maintaining an outward air of politeness.

  “I believe there has been some misunderstanding,” he began softly. “I am certain we can resolve this—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Priscilla stepped forward and sharply released a portion of her mana.

  A golden radiance flared around her, and her voice struck like thunder.

  “Are you going to keep ignoring me, Elder Zeiran?!” she thundered.

  The shout rolled through the gardens, leapt over the inner walls, and echoed into neighboring streets. Several servants cried out and dropped to the ground in panic, the guards instinctively reached for their weapons, and magical seals on the buildings flared, reacting to the surge of power.

  Kargos flinched.

  The smile vanished without a trace. His jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes. He tightened his fists, and white mana burst from his body—cold, cutting, and saturated with lightning. Electric arcs crackled through the air, tearing at the space between them.

  The two forces collided instantly.

  WHAM!

  The impact was not physical—it was a clash of mana. The air between them compressed and ruptured in a short flash that made nearby statues tremble.

  Kargos took a step forward. His voice dropped lower, harder, stripped of its former courtesy:

  “You are crossing a line, Magister Priscilla.” Lightning flared within the white mana around him. “My patience is not limitless.”

  Priscilla did not retreat.

  The golden pressure of her power met his onslaught. Two auras locked together like predators, yielding no ground. The space between them began to pulse, spawning brief flashes of light.

  Two Golden Mages stood facing one another.

  But it lasted only a few seconds.

  The mansion doors burst open again—this time sharply, without any ceremony. Magical lines on the doors flared and immediately went dark.

  Elder Zeiran stepped out of the doorway.

  He didn’t descend the steps. The space before him compressed, and in the next instant he was between Kargos and Priscilla. His arrival was silent—but that very silence was far more frightening than any thunder.

  A single wave of his hand was enough, as neither Priscilla nor Kargos had been using their full strength—only displaying their authority.

  Zeiran’s power rolled out like a tide, erasing the clash of auras. Priscilla’s golden mana dispersed as if it had been wiped away. Kargos’s white lightning guttered out, leaving not so much as a spark.

  Kargos stepped back half a pace and bowed his head in silence.

  Zeiran narrowed his eyes and looked at Priscilla. There was neither anger nor surprise in his gaze—only the cold irritation of a man with too much to do.

  “Why bring disorder into my house, Magister Priscilla?” he asked calmly.

  The reply came at once.

  “Why abduct our people, Elder Zeiran?” she parried just as evenly.

  For a fraction of a second, the old man truly looked surprised. His brows lifted, his gaze sharpening.

  “Is this… some kind of joke?” he asked, puzzled.

  He waved a hand toward the mansion, where the turmoil still reigned, and added:

  “I already have more than enough problems. Some thief broke into the archives and attempted to steal one of our Canons of Magic.”

  He narrowed his eyes slightly and, as if seeking compromise, continued:

  “I suggest we discuss your… accusations tomorrow. Today I have neither the time nor the inclination to indulge someone’s fantasies.”

  Priscilla merely lifted one corner of her lips, ignoring Zeiran’s “request.”

  “Master Kael vanished on the Day of Winter,” she said distinctly, her tone deliberately calm. “And by a strange coincidence, it was precisely on that day that your family showed an extraordinary interest in him. Far too deliberate to be written off as chance.”

  She paused, letting the words settle. Then, sweeping the estate with her gaze, she added:

  “And today you are actively searching for someone within your own walls… An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  The air around Zeiran grew palpably heavier.

  The wrinkles on his face deepened, his eyes narrowed, and for the first time real anger cut through his voice—not feigned, not weary, but alive:

  “Do you even understand who you are accusing, Magister Priscilla?” he ground out. “Know your place.”

  Kargos tensed, feeling the pressure around the Elder steadily increase. The guards along the perimeter instinctively stepped back.

  But Priscilla did not retreat.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  On the contrary—she took a step forward.

  “My place?” she repeated softly, and there was far more threat in that tone than in any shout. “You should know your place, Elder Zeiran.”

  Her gaze hardened, cutting.

  “You are one of Lasthold’s protectors. An Elder. A keeper of order. But you are not a ruler.” She stressed every word. “Since when did you decide you were untouchable? When exactly did you think the laws no longer applied to you? When were you granted the right to abduct members of the Hall of Ancient Research?”

  The gardens around them seemed to freeze. Even the fountain faltered in its rhythm for a moment.

  Priscilla didn’t let him interject.

  “Hand Kael over. Immediately,” she said coldly. “Otherwise I will raise this issue before the Council of Elders.”

  She inclined her head slightly, and there was something merciless in the gesture.

  “And then it will no longer be possible to bury this.”

  Not a single muscle twitched on Zeiran’s face.

  He stood motionless, as if carved from stone, and only his deep-set eyes narrowed slightly. Outwardly—complete calm. Inwardly, he sneered, cold and venomous:

  “You old hag… You say I’m not a ruler? Wait a few days—and we’ll return to this conversation. Then you’ll remember who makes the rules here.”

  But aloud he said something else entirely.

  His voice was even, devoid of emotion, like that of a man bored with a drawn-out dispute:

  “I have no desire whatsoever to continue this farce, Magister Priscilla. If that is your will, take it to the Council of Elders.”

  He turned his torso slightly, gesturing toward the gates.

  “Now leave my house.”

  For a moment, it seemed Priscilla would indeed turn and go.

  But instead, she slowly straightened.

  Golden mana shivered faintly around her. It seemed to weave into her voice, making it heavy and resonant, capable of carrying far beyond the gardens.

  Priscilla drew a breath—and shouted.

  “Hold on, Kael!” her voice rolled across the entire estate. “The Hall will come for you!”

  The words echoed through the inner grounds, burst beyond the gates, and carried into the neighboring streets, to the ears of gawkers, merchants, and passersby. No one understood what had happened, but countless eyes turned toward the mansion.

  The words had not yet died away.

  The echo of Priscilla’s shout had only begun to dissipate above the gardens when something inside Zeiran finally snapped.

  The air around him exploded with pressure.

  In the next instant his aura ceased to be restrained—it flared, burst outward, revealing the Elder’s true form. The skin on his hands became covered in dense violet scales, his fingers lengthened, membranes stretched between them. Behind him, with a dull crack, a thick reptilian tail snapped into view, and small membranous wings burst from his back—short, clearly not meant for flight.

  He partially merged with his bound spirit.

  Kargos recoiled, the guards instinctively retreated, and the servants dropped to their knees in panic.

  Zeiran lunged forward, and his clawed palm clamped onto Priscilla’s face, roughly sealing her mouth. With a jerk he lifted her off the ground like a helpless pup.

  “Testing my kindness, old woman?” he hissed, and there was no weariness or feigned courtesy left in his voice. “You think you can slander my family and walk away unpunished?”

  Priscilla was held in the air, but she did not choke.

  The golden mana around her condensed, resisting him, grinding like compressed metal. Her gaze was cold and clear—no panic, no pleading.

  Behind Zeiran, spheres of lightning began to form.

  Violet-white, dense, unstable. They rotated slowly, as if alive, waiting for the right moment. The pressure from them was such that leaves were torn from branches in the gardens, and glass in distant windows began to tremble.

  “Get out of here,” Zeiran ground out, bringing his face close to hers. “Nicely. While I still allow you to walk away alive.”

  Priscilla’s eyes did not waver.

  There was neither terror nor supplication in them—only cold, almost detached condemnation. She looked at Zeiran the way one looks at an exposed villain whose true face has finally been laid bare.

  The golden mana around her began to twist slowly, thickening, forming a dense vortex. The air near Priscilla started to vibrate, as if she too were preparing to merge with her spirit-self.

  But at that very moment—

  BA-BAAM!

  From the rear of the mansion came a deafening explosion.

  The ground shook. A column of fire and thick black smoke shot into the sky, a shockwave rolled through the gardens, shattering some of the windows. But more importantly, the barrier around the estate fell with the blast.

  Zeiran roared in fury and reflexively loosened his grip. Priscilla dropped to the ground at once, her merge unfinished.

  “What the hell is this?” Zeiran bellowed, turning toward the source of the explosion. “Who dared?!”

  Kargos spun around sharply, his face paling as the guards shouted and snapped into combat readiness. Alarm signals, cries, and commands rang out across the entire mansion.

  And at that exact moment, Priscilla played her role flawlessly.

  She staggered back as if stunned, eyes wide, perfectly measured shock ringing in her voice:

  “Gods…” she breathed. “There are people in there!”

  Without wasting a second, she poured all the mana she had gathered into her voice at once and shouted so that the sound carried far beyond the mansion, sweeping over the gardens, streets, and neighboring quarters:

  “Help!” it rang out desperately. “The Vengeful Thunder Family is under attack!”

  Those words were far more dangerous than any spell.

  Zeiran flinched.

  Not from fear, but from realization. His tail lashed violently against the ground, shattering stone. Rage flared in his eyes, thick, nearly unhinged. He whirled toward Priscilla, clenching his claws until the air around them crackled.

  “You will answer for this,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “If you’re involved—I’ll personally rip your head off!”

  Priscilla neither argued nor tried to justify herself.

  She did exactly what no one expected—she was the first to rush toward the explosion site.

  “What are you even talking about?!” she shouted, playing panic to perfection. “Hurry! There could be wounded people!”

  Golden mana flared briefly at her feet, and she burst forward, vanishing around the bend of the path leading to the rear of the mansion. To anyone watching, it looked flawless: a Magister, forgetting all conflict, rushing to save people.

  Zeiran moved to follow her.

  Instinct demanded that he be where his house and authority were collapsing—but the very next instant he stopped short.

  His pupils narrowed.

  In two separate points of Lasthold, in the same noble quarter, powerful auras flared. They rivaled his own.

  Zeiran clenched his fists until they cracked.

  “Durimar… and Vulnar,” he cursed inwardly. “They’ll be here any minute now.”

  And in that moment he realized he had been played.

  “Distracted. Chaos sown. All of Lasthold’s attention drawn. Done so I couldn’t possibly ignore it.”

  The Elder cast a look toward the corner where Priscilla had disappeared, and cold, calculating fury boiled up in his chest.

  “Just wait… I’ll kill you—and everyone who ever helped you. I don’t need trash like that in Lasthold!”

  He spun sharply toward his son.

  “Kargos!” Zeiran roared. “Issue orders at once—send half our people to contain the fire! We cannot appear to care more about a thief than about the well-being of our own people. That would raise suspicions.”

  Kargos jerked, straightened, and gave a short nod:

  “It will be done, Father.”

  Zeiran didn’t waste another second.

  His body surged forward, his tail lashing against the stone, violet scales flaring as he shot toward the fire, leaving behind the crackle of mana and the sense of an approaching storm.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, those who had caused the explosion were already disappearing.

  The Forsaken Brotherhood had no intention of fighting anyone—and no need to. The brief window Priscilla had created with her provocation was enough. A single instant of chaos. A single shift of attention.

  Beyond the mansion’s outer perimeter, amid a rapidly swelling crowd of onlookers, only a handful of their people remained. They didn’t stand out at all: simple clothes, confused faces, muted conversations. Just like everyone else—craftsmen, apprentices, idle townsfolk drawn by the commotion.

  Among them stood both Principal Riada and the Black Rat.

  Riada held herself calmly, like an ordinary passerby drawn by the explosion. Her gaze slid over the mansion walls, the fires, the bustling guards. She looked deeply concerned about what was happening. Almost afraid for the Vengeful Thunder Family’s safety.

  The Black Rat stood slightly aside, hands clasped inside her sleeves, and murmured softly, barely parting her lips:

  “Can your man be trusted?”

  Riada didn’t turn her head. The reply came just as quietly, and with confidence:

  “Malas has an innate sensitivity to mana types. It’s not a skill—it’s instinct.”

  She paused briefly, watching signal spells flicker above the walls.

  “Kael’s mana is fundamentally different from the Vengeful Thunder Family’s. If Kael is inside and uses even a thread of his power, Malas will notice him.”

  The Black Rat hummed softly, the corner of her lips twitching almost imperceptibly.

  “While the Inextinguishable Flame is raging and they’re trying to put it out, the auras of the mages will create perfect cover. But it won’t last.”

  Riada slowly exhaled, feeling the anxiety inside her rise sharply.

  “Stealth and tracking are his specialties,” she said, as if reassuring herself. “Malas has to make it in time.”

  The crowd around them continued to buzz, understanding nothing of it—discussing the explosion, guessing who would dare strike the home of one of the Three Families.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, Kael was still inside the sealed section of the wine cellar.

  The stone walls pressed in with silence, the scent of old wood and aged wine hanging thick in the air. His heart was beating too loudly, too fast, as if it were trying to burst out and betray his presence to the entire cellar.

  Moments from earlier resurfaced in his memory, and the thought formed on its own: “That was Priscilla’s voice. And then… an explosion.”

  He slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself, but his fingers had already found the key without him realizing it.

  Kael didn’t even immediately realize that he was holding it, that he was reaching for the keyhole, acting on instinct rather than reason. A new thought flared in his mind—clear, sharp, devoid of hesitation:

  “I don’t know what’s happening outside, but this might be my only chance to escape.”

  Amber eyes flared with resolve.

  The key slid into the lock almost without a sound.

  And just as he was about to turn it, a door opened above.

  Kael froze, cursing silently: “Damn it…”

  His entire body tensed, his breathing stopping on its own. Quick footsteps followed on the stairs.

  He was already preparing to fight, bracing for the worst, when the steps abruptly closed in on the door itself, and a voice sounded from the other side—quiet, but clear:

  “Kael, we need to run.”

  He recognized it instantly.

  Kael twisted the key hard, the door gave way, and he yanked it toward himself. Girren appeared in the doorway—out of breath, pale, but with eyes that held no panic—only urgency.

  “What the hell is going on?!” Kael blurted out, not even giving himself time to look around.

  Girren didn’t hesitate.

  “The mansion was attacked,” he answered sharply. “There was an explosion. A fire. Half the guards and servants are tied up there.”

  He grabbed Kael by the sleeve and pulled him along, turning him toward the stairs.

  “We run while there’s still time,” he said quickly and quietly. “I’ll get you out.”

  Kael held Girren’s gaze for a second, then gave a sharp nod.

  Inside him, every doubt burned away.

  “To hell with everything. I’ll think later. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting out.”

  He let himself be pulled, and the next moment they were already sprinting.

  Footsteps boomed under the stone vaults; breathing went ragged, his body moving on sheer instinct. Kael expected Girren to drag him upward—toward the kitchen, toward the exit, toward air and freedom. But instead, he led him toward the staircase Kael had originally come from.

  “Why not the kitchen?” Kael shouted while running. “The exit is right there!”

  Girren didn’t slow for even a step.

  He wrenched open the heavy door leading down and threw it over his shoulder as he moved:

  “The explosion was near the kitchen. Almost half the family is there now.”

  The door burst open with a dull thud, and they dove inside, into an even narrower, darker passage.

  “And Zeiran is there too,” Girren added, not breaking stride. “We’re going around.”

  Those words killed any urge Kael had to argue. He simply trusted Girren—and kept running.

  ? ? ?

  While Kael ran after Girren through the cold underground corridors, a different kind of hell reigned above.

  In the inner courtyard and near the rear of the mansion, around a hundred people—guards, servants, combat mages—were scrambling through fire and smoke, trying to contain the blaze. Stone cracked under the heat, decorative elements crumbled, and the fire seemed to have a will of its own: stamp it down in one place, and it flared up with fury in another.

  Zeiran stood at the very center of the chaos.

  The violet scales on his arms glinted in the firelight; his tail lashed irritably against the stone. He wove entire nets of lightning, keeping the fire from spreading further. But the moment a single spark slipped through, it sparked a new blaze.

  Zeiran clenched his teeth, feeling rage boil inside him.

  “This fire has been enhanced,” he snarled. “By an artifact… and alchemical mixtures.”

  The answer came at once—low, booming, familiar.

  “That sort of thing is sold on the black market.”

  Beside him, as if stepping straight out of the flames themselves, appeared Elder Vulnar. His massive figure radiated pressure, and his thick red beard blazed with living flame. He threw his hands up, and two enormous waves of fire crashed down from opposite sides.

  But this was not destructive fire.

  Vulnar’s flames closed in like walls, cutting off the spread of the blaze, stripping it of space and momentum. The fire trapped within those bounds began to thrash, losing its fury.

  And in that same instant, the air trembled once more.

  Green roots burst straight out of the air. Thick and alive, they rapidly intertwined, coiling around the heart of the blaze, oozing thick sap that smothered the flames. The hissing grew louder, and the fire began to die out far faster than before.

  It was Durimar.

  “Who attacked you, Zeiran?” he asked flatly.

  Zeiran slowly straightened, continuing to suppress the flames.

  He clenched his teeth and said coldly, as if he wanted to kill someone right now:

  “First, a thief breached our defenses… I immediately raised the barrier to seal him inside the mansion.”

  His tail twitched irritably, and his gaze slid toward Priscilla.

  “And then Magister Priscilla appeared,” he continued, suspicion no longer concealed. “She began making accusations. Pressuring. Provoking.”

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, and his voice rang with steel.

  “And almost immediately after that, the explosion followed.” He paused, then added, “Is that merely a coincidence?”

  For a moment, the air between them grew dense again.

  Priscilla answered at once, without averting her gaze or raising her voice.

  “I am not insane enough to stage something like this,” she said evenly. “I came here for a different reason.”

  She let her gaze move from Zeiran to Vulnar and Durimar, as if deliberately making them witnesses.

  “I have information that you abducted Kael—a member of the Hall. And that is precisely why I demanded an explanation.”

  For a second, it seemed the situation was about to unravel completely. The pressure of three Elders, a Magister, and the raging fire collapsed into a single point, ready to explode.

  But at that very moment, Durimar stepped forward, and his voice sounded low and stern, allowing no argument:

  “Enough.”

  A single word was enough.

  “We will finish dealing with the fire now and assist the Vengeful Thunder Family,” he continued, sweeping everyone with a heavy gaze. “Tomorrow, we will address the accusations.”

  He turned to Priscilla.

  “Magister Priscilla, I ask that you appear before the Council of Elders tomorrow and present your arguments there. Before everyone. You will also be required to answer for yourself.”

  Priscilla met Zeiran’s gaze for a moment, then calmly nodded.

  “Very well,” she replied without hesitation. “I have nothing to hide.”

  The fire around them continued to fade, but the tension did not disappear. It merely changed shape, lying in wait until the next day.

  ? ? ?

  Kael was racing after Girren, barely able to keep his legs moving. Corridors flashed by one after another, torches and crystals smearing into bands of light, his breath cutting into his chest, but he didn’t even try to slow down. Right now, only one thing mattered—not falling behind.

  Ahead, Girren jerked to the side and hissed almost soundlessly:

  “Hide!”

  He grabbed Kael by the shoulder and dragged him behind the nearest corner. They pressed themselves against the cold wall, holding their breath.

  A moment later, two guards emerged into the corridor. They ran right past, not noticing them at all.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?!” one of them swore angrily on the run. “Search for the fugitive inside or seal off the perimeter? I don’t understand a damn thing anymore!”

  “He’s probably already slipped out,” the second waved him off. “The barrier fell. If he’s not an idiot, he’s not here anymore.”

  Their footsteps quickly faded.

  Girren waited a couple more heartbeats, then cautiously peeked out, made sure the corridor was empty, and hissed again:

  “Run. Now.”

  Kael only gave a short nod. Words were unnecessary.

  They took off again, weaving through the corridors, turning left, then right, until they finally burst into a small hall. The space here was wider, the ceiling higher, and the walls were adorned with ancient frescoes—clearly not a place meant for everyday use.

  Girren shouted as they ran:

  “This hall’s sometimes used for family celebrations. There’s a service staircase leading outside.”

  Those words hadn’t even settled when a cold, unsettlingly calm voice washed over them from above, from the gallery:

  “So that’s how you repay kindness, Slug?”

  At the same instant, a brief bolt of lightning cut through the air.

  CRACK!

  The space before them warped, and a man stepped out of the electric discharge. Tall, lean, with short-cropped hair tinged with blue. A jagged scar ran across his entire face, from temple to chin, giving him an even harsher look.

  Kael felt everything inside him clench.

  “Damn it…” flashed through his mind. “Did we really not make it in time?”

  Girren went pale so abruptly it was as if all the blood had drained from him at once. His shoulders twitched, fingers clenched into fists, and he murmured barely audibly, almost breaking into a whisper:

  “Warden Kanzan? What are you doing here—”

  The man didn’t answer right away.

  White mana flared around his hand in a sharp burst. A dry crackle ran through the air, making Kael’s shoulders tense instinctively. Kanzan shifted his cold gaze to him, as though what stood before him was not a person, but a thing to be put back where it belonged.

  “You’re coming with me, boy,” he said evenly, without raising his voice.

  Then he slowly turned his head toward Girren. A crooked, malicious shadow of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “And you,” he added with the same calm cruelty, “will soon die in disgrace. Just like your father.”

  Those words struck harder than any slap. Girren jerked as if he’d truly been wounded, but he made no sound.

  Kael wasn’t looking at Kanzan’s face.

  He was looking at his mana.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  “A Silver Mage…” the realization hit instantly. “And not an ordinary one. His mana… it’s dense. He’s powerful.”

  Not some overconfident upstart hiding behind a title. This was power tempered by years of service, battle, and crushing people like him.

  Kael clenched his teeth.

  “I’d rather die,” he rasped, “than go back into captivity.”

  In that same instant, Kael’s body flared with gray mana.

  Libero responded immediately. The ant’s power poured into his muscles and bones, making Kael’s body lighter, more pliable. At the same time, Kael’s mind sharpened. He cast aside all emotion, all fear, leaving only razor-sharp focus on Kanzan.

  Everything unnecessary fell away.

  Only the enemy remained.

  Kanzan narrowed his eyes, watching this without surprise, only with irritation.

  “You think too highly of yourself, boy,” he said coldly. “Your childish games end here.”

  The white lightning around his hand flared brighter, and the hall froze on the brink of catastrophe. Freedom was within arm’s reach—but the path was blocked by an obstacle far too powerful.