Five years had passed since the night Primrose learned what it meant to kill.
Now, on a stormy night in the City of Lambert, she stood on the edge of a stone tower, high above the glowing streets. Rain lashed against the rooftop, blown sideways by the wind. The city below was a maze of narrow roads, dim lamps, and shadows that moved when no one watched.
Primrose—Prim to those who knew her—wore black from neck to boots. Her clothes were made from soft, silent fabric that hugged her body, light enough to move, thick enough to keep out some of the cold. A hood covered most of her silver-streaked hair, and a mask hid the lower half of her face. Only her eyes were visible, sharp and focused, glowing faintly violet in the dark.
Her gaze never left the mansion across the street.
The building was three stories tall, with tall windows and polished stone. It looked like any rich merchant's home, lanterns glowing behind curtains, guards at the gate, servants moving inside. To anyone else, Anry Devott was a normal businessman. A harmless man with ash-gray hair and a round, tired face.
But Primrose knew the truth.
Inside that mansion sat a man who bought and sold people with magic in their blood. Witches. Warlocks. Children. He traded them like goods, sending them to hidden buyers across Eurka. Some never came back. Most never did.
Tonight, he was their target.
The mission was simple on paper:
Infiltrate. Kidnap Anry.
Get information on his buyers and routes.
Leave no loose ends.
"South balcony. Third floor. Lantern above the door. That's his study," a voice whispered behind Prim.
She didn't turn. She didn't need to. She knew the voices of her team by heart.
Liam crouched near the edge of the tower, his dark brown hair slick from the rain. His eyes were pale gray, always watching, always calculating. Small strands of wind moved around him, almost playful, swirling rain in gentle circles until he pulled them tight again.
Beside him, Aoife sat with one knee up, rolling a tiny ember between her fingers. Her red hair was braided back, her freckles faint in the stormy light. The ember didn't go out, even in the rain; it danced, changed shape, then vanished when she closed her hand.
Conor leaned against the tower wall, steady like a stone pillar. Broad shoulders, dark skin, and patient eyes. Dust and grit sometimes shifted near his boots, even when he didn't move. The earth listened when he spoke.
Orla sat closest to Prim. Her black hair was tied in a low knot, and her blue eyes reflected the weak city lights. Droplets of water formed and broke on her gloves in a repeating rhythm, as if the rain itself was breathing with her.
They were not children from Blues Town anymore.
They were hunters.
"Guards?" Prim asked, finally pulling her gaze away from the mansion.
"Six visible," Liam replied. "Two at the main gate. Two walking the inner yard. One on the roof. One at the back door." He paused. "But that's the problem. Anry never keeps only six. There are more. Hiding."
"Shadow positions?" Prim asked.
"North alley. East wall. That rooftop near the fountain," Liam answered quietly. "I can feel their movement in the wind. At least eight more."
"Fourteen guards for one fat trafficker," Aoife muttered. "How scared is he?"
"Scared enough," Prim said. "Good."
She breathed in slowly, feeling the rain on her lashes, the weight of the blades strapped to her thighs, the small cold stone hanging from the chain around her neck—a smooth piece of ice from a night she never forgot.
"Plan stays the same," she said. "We take the hidden guards first. No sound. No mistakes. Anry must not know he's in danger until we're in the room."
"And if he does?" Conor asked calmly.
"Then we adapt," Prim answered. "But we don't leave without him."
Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the skyline of Lambert for a moment. The city's towers and chimneys stood like dark teeth against the night.
Primrose nodded once.
"Move."
They disappeared over the edge of the tower like falling shadows.
*****
The first guard never saw them.
He stood in the narrow alley north of the mansion, pressed against the wall, hood pulled low, watching the back doors and windows. He had done this work for years and thought he had seen enough danger to know when something was coming.
He did not feel the water gathering behind him.
Orla lifted her hand as she dropped silently from the roof. The rain between her palms tightened, forming a thin, clear blade. It reflected no light. It was as silent as the falling drops.
In one smooth movement, she stepped forward, pressed the blade against the guard's throat, and pulled.
He didn't even have time to scream. Only a soft, wet sigh slipped from his lips as he fell. Orla caught him before his body could hit the ground. She curled her fingers, and ice spread from her hand, crawling over his body in a white-blue layer until he became a perfect, frozen shape.
She placed her palm on his chest. The ice cracked soundlessly, breaking him into hundreds of small, glittering pieces.
With a small gesture, she shifted the ground water beneath them. The shards slid into the grate of the nearby sewage drain and vanished.
No blood. No body. No trace.
"North alley clear," she whispered.
*****
Near the outer wall, two guards stood under a lantern, speaking quietly. Their cloaks were pulled together against the rain, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, but their minds were elsewhere—home, warm beds, easy pay.
The wind changed.
They didn't notice.
Liam moved along the wall above them, his boots barely touching stone. He raised his hand, fingers spreading as if he were feeling the air.
Then he pulled.
The wind tightened around one guard's throat like an invisible rope. He jerked, eyes bulging, hands clawing at his neck. His friend turned toward him, confused.
A second blast of wind struck the other guard in the chest like a hammer, slamming him back into the wall. His head cracked against stone; he slid down, unconscious.
Liam landed lightly between their bodies, still keeping the choking one suspended, feet kicking weakly above the ground. With a flick of his wrist, the wind twisted; the guard's neck snapped with a quiet, final sound.
"Sorry, mate," Liam murmured under his breath. "Wrong employer."
He released the air, and the body slumped into the mud. Conor appeared beside him, placing a hand on the ground. The earth beneath the two corpses softened, like wet dough, then slowly swallowed them. In moments, the ground looked untouched again, only mixed footprints left by the rain.
"East wall clear," Liam whispered.
*****
On the rooftop near the fountain, a crossbowman lay hidden behind a low ledge, scanning the street. His eyes moved, sharp and bored at the same time. He had been paid well to watch.
He never thought to look up.
Aoife dropped from a higher chimney and landed in a crouch, her hand pressed to the stone to steady herself. The man's head began to turn, some instinct warning him too late.
She snapped her fingers.
A thin line of flame sprang from her hand and wrapped around his neck like a bright collar. He gasped, fingers clawing at the burning band of fire, but the heat burned faster than he could react. Aoife pulled her hand back, and the fiery line tightened, then flickered out.
He collapsed, eyes wide open, throat seared black.
She knelt beside him, placing her palm over his face. A small, controlled flame burned just enough to turn his features into an unrecognizable mess. Another wave of heat washed over his clothes, leaving only singed, smoky cloth. No symbol. No crest. Nothing to trace.
"Rooftop clear," she said.
Slowly, they took the guards one by one.
On the tower roof facing the mansion, Prim crouched again, watching the balcony that Liam had pointed out. Through the glass doors beyond it, she could see a bit of movement. A man pacing. A hand reaching for a glass. A shadow crossing the room.
Anry.
"Outer ring is clear," Prim said softly. "Any movement inside?"
"Four guards still near the main hall," Liam replied, his eyes half-closed as he listened to the air. "Two near the kitchens. One right outside his study door."
"Seven inside," Conor said. "Plus Anry."
"We're five," Aoife added. "You want to take them quiet or loud?"
Prim thought for a moment, watching the way the light moved behind the curtains.
"Quiet," she answered. "For as long as possible. Once we grab him, the rest doesn't matter."
"And if there's more that we can't sense?" Orla asked.
"Then we improvise," Prim said. "Like always."
She stood, feeling the wind push at her cloak. The storm overhead was growing stronger, thunder rolling over the city like a slow drum.
"Liam, give us cover."
A faint smile crossed Liam's lips.
"With pleasure."
He closed his eyes, raising both hands. The wind shifted, twisting down between the buildings like a living thing. The rain thickened, turning the night into a curtain of water. The lanterns around the mansion flickered, struggling against the sudden gusts.
The world below blurred. To anyone watching from inside, the night would look distorted, shapes blending together, outlines lost in the storm.
"Let's go," Prim said.
They descended from the tower, moving from roof to roof, until they reached the mansion's side wall. Conor touched the stone; a small, narrow ledge rose beneath their feet, just enough to stand and move along the side without slipping.
They reached the level of the third floor, where the balcony sat.
One last guard stood near the end of the corridor inside, leaning on his spear, bored, half asleep.
Prim met Liam's eyes. He nodded once.
A soft gust of wind slipped through the crack under the balcony door and into the corridor. It carried the faint smell of smoke and oil—small, harmless, like a candle placed too close to drapes.
The guard sniffed, frowning, and turned his head. "Do you smell—"
He didn't finish. Aoife had already slipped through the balcony like a shadow, a tiny spark between her fingers. The air around the guard shimmered for a heartbeat as she snapped her fingers behind him. The spark flared, and for a second he thought he was choking on smoke that wasn't there.
Then Prim was behind him.
Her arm wrapped around his throat, one hand clamping over his mouth, the other driving a blade into the soft spot between his ribs. He jerked once, then went limp.
Prim eased him down gently, laying him flat, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Study door is ten steps ahead," Liam whispered from outside.
Prim nodded. She turned to her team.
"This is it. Orla, you freeze his legs if he runs. Conor, block exits. Liam, cut off sound to the street. Aoife, flames only if needed. We want him alive."
"And if he fights?" Aoife asked.
Prim's eyes hardened.
"Then we remind him why he should have feared witches more than werewolves."
She stepped toward the study door, rain still beating against the windows behind her, the storm hiding the sound of her footsteps.
Her hand closed around the doorknob.
She didn't know that, just a few streets away, something else had already joined the hunt.
Something that did not care about their mission.
Or about Anry Devott.
Only about death.