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She walks to the door, pausing for a backward glance before slipping through it. I stay where I am, allowing myself one more second to think about what happened between us, then I force my mind back to the moment.

Today I reclaim what was taken from me. Today, I become whole again … or what remains of me does.

Ashenvale hums with barely-contained tension.

The air smells of damp stone, burning oil, and the sharp tang of metal.

Servants rush by with final decorations, heads bowed low.

Authority soldiers stand at intersections, eyes passing over every passerby with the suspicion that has become their second nature.

No one speaks unless spoken to.

Varam waits for me outside a narrow alleyway, the hood of his uniform casting his face in shadow. There’s a hidden entry point at the end, one his investigation yesterday confirmed hasn’t been used since Ashenvale was overtaken by the Authority.

He moves ahead when he sees me, slipping deeper into the alley’s mouth without a word.

“Guards?” I ask when I catch up to him.

“Two at the main entrance, as expected. One patrol circles the lower levels every quarter hour. The passage should bring us out in the kitchens.”

He glances around once, then presses a hand flat against the wall, his fingers splaying in an old, deliberate pattern. Earth magic hums faintly against my senses, releasing the hidden catch set into the stone decades ago.

The entrance creaks open just wide enough to admit us. Stale air spills out. The walk to the exit takes no more than ten minutes, but every footstep echoes too loudly in the narrow confines.

We emerge from the other end in a pantry adjacent to the main kitchen.

The sudden light is blinding. Staff bustle around massive ovens and tables heaped with food for the Day of Order feast. Our uniforms grant us a veneer of invisibility, but the kitchen staff duck their heads, pretending not to see us, moving quicker to avoid drawing attention.

Walking these halls again after so long stirs memories I’ve kept buried. I see them overlaid on the present like echoes.

Strategy sessions around tables now bearing Authority emblems. Drills called out in courtyards now patrolled by those who killed every Veinblood they could find. Faces of soldiers I once trusted flash in my mind, many of them dead, others lost to the enemy's reach in ways worse than death.

We descend deeper into the tower, moving quickly down narrow staircases where sunlight cannot reach.

Here, only torchlight flickers along the walls, throwing distorted shadows that ripple as we pass.

The walls are rough-hewn stone, the floor worn smooth by generations of feet.

The deeper we go, the stronger the pulse in the air becomes.

An almost physical pressure against my senses.

The vault lies two levels beneath the main floor. A fortress within a fortress. Built to protect records and artifacts too dangerous to destroy, now used to hoard the Authority’s stolen trophies. And somewhere within, my ring waits.

“There are guards ahead.” Varam slows as two men come into view standing at the hallway which leads down to the vault.

This is where our forged documents will be tested. This is the point where one wrong breath could undo everything.

The Authority’s power lies in process. The endless verifications, the paper walls meant to trap enemies before a blade is even drawn. Any inconsistency here, any hesitation, and the entire plan collapses.

We approach with our heads bowed, presenting our papers.

“State your business,” one demands, voice heavy with boredom, though his hand rests close to his weapon.

“Inventory verification, vault section three,” I reply, keeping my tone as dismissive as his. “Commander Jarel’s orders.”

The first guard barely glances down. The second pays closer attention, his gaze moving over us carefully.

“Haven’t seen you before. New assignment?”

“Recent transfer from the western garrison,” Varam says evenly. “Reassigned following the solstice rotation.”

The second guard frowns. His gaze narrows, assessing us, and for a breath, I feel it. The crack forming. But then he presses a seal onto our papers, grunting his approval, and waves us through.

We continue downward, the hallway narrowing. Each step seems louder here. Each torch sputtering above feels like a heartbeat.

At the last turn before the vault, I pause, extending my senses forward. Two guards are posted at the vault’s entrance. Another one is disappearing down the far hallway, his back to us .

They straighten the moment they see us, hands dropping nearer to their weapons. Their faces shift from inattentive to alert in a single breath. We present our documents again, showing the approval seal already received.

For a moment, it seems enough. Then the senior guard frowns, leaning closer to inspect it.

“Commander Jarel died two months ago.”

They move as one, reaching for weapons.

No time to negotiate. No time to reason.

I move before either can draw. The shadowblade pours from its sheath, my fingers closing around the hilt before it solidifies. It finds the first guard’s throat in a single, mercifully clean stroke. Varam takes the second before the man can shout a warning.

Their bodies collapse into the waiting shadow. No noise. No struggle. Nothing left but the faint shudder of death passing through them. Three heartbeats. That’s all it takes.

Three heartbeats in which the entire mission balanced.

“We don’t have much time,” Varam says, dragging the bodies around the corner. “The other guard will return in less than four minutes.”

I turn my attention forward, where beyond a single reinforced door, my ring, and everything it represents, awaits.

The heartbeat inside me does not slow. It quickens.

Not with fear. With recognition. With hunger .

I push open the door to the vault. Shelves of confiscated items and scrolls line the walls, each labeled with date of seizure, location, and what it is .

Books. Weapons. Artifacts the Authority deems dangerous to its control. The room hums with restrained power, magic contained but never truly neutralized.

And at the center, on a pedestal under a crystal case, displayed like a trophy, lies my ring.

Twenty-seven years collapse into nothing as I move forward, my shadows flowing onward to meet it, eagerly. Like starving creatures sensing sustenance, they writhe beneath my skin, stretching toward the object that holds the last part of my power.

The case is designed to display, not defend. I tilt it aside with a care that feels unnatural against the hunger rising in me. The ring gleams in the dim light, a band of solid black, a stone so dark it seems to devour the torchlight itself.

I hover a hand above it, the pull nearly tangible. The ring's pulse answers my own, matching it, deepening it, folding me into its rhythm. After the Authority stripped it from my hand at Thornreave Pass, I felt its absence like a phantom limb. Now, it calls to me with the promise of completion.

“Patrol approaching,” Varam warns.

My fingers close around the ring. Power races up my arm and spreads through my chest like ice and fire intertwined.

I resist the overwhelming urge to slip it onto my finger.

Now isn't the time. I have no idea how the reconnection will affect me after so long.

Whether I can control the full force of my power again or if it might overwhelm me in this vulnerable moment.

I won't risk our escape for the satisfaction of feeling whole again. It will wait until we reach the river .

Ellie's dream flashes through my mind with sudden, unsettling clarity. Shadow consuming everything. Silver light burning through darkness.

It’s a warning I can’t afford to ignore.

A chill races down my spine as I tuck the ring into my inner pocket, close against my chest where I can feel its pulse matching my own.

“We need to go.”

I turn at Varam's warning, forcing my focus back to our immediate survival. Slipping out of the vault, we make our way back the way we came, though part of my awareness remains fixated on the weight of the ring—the piece of myself I've finally reclaimed.

We’re almost past the upper checkpoint when the sound rips through the tower.

Three short, sharp blasts of a war horn. An alarm, harsh and unmistakable.

“The bodies have been discovered. The alarm will spread quickly. We need to get out of here before they restrict movement.”

We duck into a storage room at the sound of hurried footsteps. Guards rush past, voices raised, demanding to know what happened. I consider our options, sending out shadows to check routes.

“The kitchen passage. We'll lose ourselves in the servants’ flight.”

We strip off the soldier cloaks and tunics in seconds, revealing drab servant garb beneath, and slip into the human current flooding toward the kitchens.

The kitchens are in chaos. Staff shove each other aside, dropping baskets, shouting warnings. No one notices two more faces among them.

We pass through, keeping our heads down, and avoiding eye contact, taking the path we used to get in.

The alley is still empty when we step out into sunlight, the alarm not yet reaching the outside, and we walk through the city, heading toward the gate at a steady pace.

Running would draw attention, hesitation would cause suspicion.

We’re within sight of the gate when the horn sounds again. Three sharp blasts that freeze the entire market in place.

The lockdown has begun.

We have one chance to get through. A single moment when confusion precedes action.

“Run,” I tell Varam, abandoning all pretense at blending in as guards snap to attention.

We sprint for the gate.

“Stop them!” A voice rings out behind us.

Guards move to block the gate, weapons drawn. Too many to fight without revealing who I really am. I assess angles, distances, and can see only one option.

“The cart.” I shout to Varam, changing direction without breaking stride.