The noble district of Siracusa wore its wealth with practised elegance.

  Stone-paved avenues curved gently between manicured gardens and high-walled manors, each estate competing in quiet arrogance. Cypress and silverleaf trees cast long shadows over polished marble paths. At the district’s heart, a broad gazebo stood beside a grand fountain, where water spilt endlessly from sculpted stone into a basin carved with reliefs of a king astride a rearing stallion—steel and authority frozen in eternal command.

  It was meant to inspire order.

  However, inside one of the district’s most unremarkable manors, said order was unravelling.

  A young man stood alone in a private chamber, his hand clenched so tightly that blood mingled with wine as crimson droplets fell to the floor, one by one, staining the pale tiles. Shards of a shattered goblet glittered at his feet.

  Servants lingered near the door, frozen in fearful indecision.

  They knew better than to speak.

  They also knew better than to stay.

  “Out,” the man snapped, voice sharp and brittle. “OUT.”

  They fled at once, heads bowed, doors closing softly behind them.

  Alastor De Basil paced the length of the room, breath uneven, boots striking the floor too hard.

  “Idiots,” he hissed. “Buffoons. Worthless, the lot of them.”

  His reflection stared back at him from a polished bronze mirror—dark hair dishevelled, green eyes burning with panic barely restrained by pride.

  “If the Vainillas trace this back to me…” His jaw tightened. “No. Not yet. Not like this.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair, smearing wine across his palm.

  “They were supposed to disappear.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when—

  THUNK.

  An arrow buried itself into the wall before him, the iron head quivering less than a hand’s breadth from his face.

  Alastor froze.

  For a heartbeat, the room held no sound but the soft rattle of the arrow’s shaft.

  His breath came shallow as his gaze fixed on the note tied neatly beneath the fletching.

  Slowly, very carefully, he reached out and untied it.

  The paper was small. The message was not.

  Whatever words were written there drained the colour from his face.

  His fingers tightened. His Praetorian-ranked Qi flared. The arrow and the note both disintegrated into fine grey dust that scattered across the floor.

  Alastor stood motionless, chest heaving.

  , he thought.

  House Basil had risen through trade, contracts, and clever alliances. Merchants first, nobles second. Loyal affiliates of House Vainilla, indispensable yet never fully trusted. His father, Roberto De Basil, ruled the house with a merchant’s caution. His elder brother, Caro, was everything Alastor despised—patient, respected, the perfect heir Alastor could never be.

  Alastor had refused that fate.

  He had wanted more.

  This venture—this “cargo”—had promised everything his birth denied him. Wealth beyond counting. Leverage enough to unseat his brother. Power earned not through inheritance, but through fear and favour.

  True power. The chance to become a Centurion, maybe a Legate. Fast.

  Rank.

  Legitimacy.

  Greed did not need complexity to take root. It only needed opportunity—and a man willing to believe he deserved more than the world had given him.

  Alastor exhaled sharply and turned for the door.

  This was no longer a matter of ambition. It was survival.

  Moments later, his carriage rolled out from the manor gates, wheels striking stone with hurried urgency, disappearing into the lamplit streets.

  And somewhere above Siracusa, unseen eyes followed its path.

  __

  Serena received the news shortly after dawn.

  Several of the missing children had been recovered near the city gates. Alive. Frightened, but unharmed. Alongside them, a group of suspected kidnappers had been found bound and abandoned in full view of the morning patrols.

  For a brief moment, relief washed through her.

  The pressure on House Vainilla had been suffocating. Merchants snarled about losses. Nobles whispered about incompetence. The curfew and caravan lockdown—necessary as they were—had already begun to fray the patience of the populace. A swift resolution, even a partial one, would quiet many tongues.

  But relief did not last.

  Because it had not been men who had done this.

  The five children had not been freed by the city guard. Nor by the patrols she had personally reinforced overnight. Whoever had intervened had acted beyond the reach of her authority—and worse, beneath

  Under curfew.

  Outside the walls.

  And had nearly allowed the kidnappers to escape the city altogether.

  That alone told her enough.

  Someone inside Siracusa had opened doors that should have remained closed.

  Serena dressed quickly, armour replacing silk, the familiar weight settling her nerves. She would oversee the interrogations herself—both of the captured men and of every guard on duty that night. No delegation. No filters.

  The kidnappers’ motives gnawed at her.

  No ransom. No demands. No message.

  Terror alone was a poor justification for this level of coordination. And terror, when used properly, was never the goal—it was the tool.

  As she stepped out onto the manor’s front path, her stride slowed.

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  Something was wrong.

  Serena’s gaze fixed on the stonework beside the entrance. One brick—no different in colour or size—bore a faint, deliberate mark that had not been there the night before. It was subtle. A symbol scratched shallow enough to vanish at a glance.

  She approached without calling attention, fingers brushing the stone as if in idle thought.

  The brick came loose at her touch.

  Behind it, folded carefully, lay a note.

  She read it once.

  Nothing in her expression changed.

  The paper turned to ash in her hand, the residue carried away by a faint breeze. Serena replaced the brick, aligning it perfectly, the mark hidden once more. When she stepped back, the manor stood exactly as it had before.

  Untroubled. Untouched.

  Only then did she continue toward the governor’s annexe.

  Whoever had acted last night had wanted her to know two things:

  Serena De Vainilla smiled thinly as she walked.

  Good.

  Evelin walked beside Nerion in thoughtful silence for a while, her bare feet barely stirring the dust of the road.

  “Do you know that army woman?” she asked at last, voice light but curious.

  Nerion nodded. “Once. A long time ago.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the city, his enhanced memory bringing back the image of the pretty Major from six years ago. “She helped me. I think she knows my Big brother as well. From what I’ve seen… she hasn’t changed. She stands for justice. That much is clear.”

  Evelin hummed softly. “Then what was written on the note?”

  Nerion smiled, just a little. “A surprise.”

  She glanced at him sideways. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s enough of one,” he replied calmly. “We can’t rescue the rest of the children alone. Not cleanly. But now?” His eyes sharpened. “Now they’ll rush. And rushed people make mistakes.”

  He paused, then added with faint amusement, “Besides. I’ve already cast my line. When the fish panic, the net fills itself.”

  Evelin snorted. “Show-off.”

  She folded her arms. “So you’re really going to help all of them?” she asked. “Are you related to any of the kids?”

  “No,” Nerion answered simply.

  He stopped walking and turned to face her fully, seriousness on his face.

  “If I told you I just wanted to make a quick buck,” he said evenly, “would you believe me?”

  Evelin didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  For a moment, they held each other’s gaze.

  Then Nerion laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I can’t even lie convincingly to a kid anymore.”

  She smiled faintly, then grew thoughtful.

  “I don’t know you well,” Evelin said slowly, “but I saw how you looked at them. The little ones. You’re angry. You pretend not to care, but you do.” She hesitated. “And you didn’t take credit. Not even with that army woman.”

  She lowered her voice. “I can feel it. People’s emotions. Their intent. It’s not always clear, but… yours is.”

  Her smile faltered, just for a heartbeat.

  “It’s a blessing,” she murmured. “Most days. Other days, it’s not.”

  The moment passed.

  A shadow of deep, hidden sadness flickered across her face—the first crack in her perpetually smiling mask. Nerion saw it, but he remained silent. He knew better than most that everyone carried a darkness they preferred to keep buried.

  After a while, he spoke.

  “I know I shouldn’t interfere,” he said quietly. “I could walk away. I have the strength to reach where I’m going. I could pretend this isn’t my problem.”

  He looked ahead, jaw tightening.

  “But I understand them. The fear. Being taken. Being powerless.” His voice dropped. “If I can stop it, and choose not to… then I’m no better than the ones who profit from it.”

  Evelin frowned. “There are injustices everywhere. You can’t fix them all.”

  “I know,” Nerion said. “I’m not trying to.”

  He met her eyes again.

  “But this one crossed my path. And I have the power to act.”

  He smiled lightly, almost playfully. “Maybe it’s fate. Or coincidence. Or just bad luck—for them.”

  For a fleeting instant, something cold and brilliant flickered behind his calm expression.

  “Think of it as a natural event,” he said softly. “Lightning doesn’t choose where it strikes. I just happened.”

  Evelin felt a chill crawl up her spine.

  For the briefest moment, she imagined him not as a boy, but as something descending— a sword of judgement: swift, impartial, and devastating.

  Then the image shattered.

  She scoffed inwardly.

  Her gaze drifted away. Somewhere far off, she remembered another young prodigy, standing near the Vicar, power coiled so tightly it bent the air.

  The thought lingered uncomfortably.

  “Well,” she said briskly, shaking it off, “whatever you’re planning, you’d better hurry.”

  He smiled again—warm, human.

  “That’s the idea.”

  Together, they turned back toward the city gates.

  The bait was set.

  Now, they waited to see what would surface.

  Serena stood before the Governor’s desk, posture straight, hands folded behind her back.

  Across from her, the atmosphere in the study was brittle.

  Saras De Vainilla sat heavily in his chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, irritated rhythm. Beside the tall windows, Oliverio remained standing, gaze fixed on the waking city beyond the glass, his expression carved from stone.

  The reports lay open between them.

  In the reports, there was no mention of Evelin and the little bird. The result of Nerion's coaching of the children, of course. As for him, they’d probably take him as a noble scion or a sect-honing disciple.

  As for the criminals, if they decided to say they had been beaten by a little girl, then so be it. This was far from a perfect plan. But Nerion wasn’t looking for perfection. Baiting is an art.

  And if a mistake wasn’t made, he just had to force one.

  “They remember almost nothing,” Saras said at last, breaking the silence. “A young man. Average. Moving quickly. No defining features.” His mouth twisted. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  “They were terrified,” Serena replied calmly. “Taken at night. Moved constantly. It’s not surprising.”

  “What surprising,” Saras shot back, “is that our patrols found nothing until those children came screaming to the gates at dawn.”

  He leaned forward.

  “If not for this mysterious helper, those men would have left Siracusa under curfew, right beneath our noses.”

  Oliverio spoke without turning.

  “Which means,” he said evenly, “that someone helped them move.”

  Saras nodded sharply. “Exactly.”

  Serena did not argue.

  “That is why I believe we cannot afford to relax now,” she said. “Not yet.”

  Saras exhaled through his nose. “We have results,” he said. “Visible ones. The city needs reassurance: the merchants are demanding answers, the caravans are bleeding us dry, and the Salinas are just waiting for the opportunity to see us fall.”

  He gestured to the reports.

  “We execute the ringleaders publicly. We announce success. We ease the curfew. We reopen the roads.”

  Serena’s eyes hardened.

  “And the children who haven’t been found?” she asked quietly.

  Saras hesitated. “We continue investigating. At a measured pace.”

  “At a pace that gives whoever is behind this time to disappear,” Serena replied. “Or worse.”

  “Or,” Saras countered, “we maintain pressure until the city fractures. Panic spreads. Trade collapses.” His voice sharpened. “You are asking us to gamble stability on a hunch.”

  Serena turned to face him fully.

  “No,” she said. “I’m asking you to trust judgment.”

  “And whose?” Saras snapped. “Yours?”

  “Yes.”

  The word landed cleanly, without arrogance.

  “Because since I arrived,” Serena continued, “the kidnappers were forced into motion. They made mistakes. They exposed themselves.” She paused. “If we declare this finished now, we tell them they were right to wait us out.”

  Saras’s jaw tightened. “You’re idealising criminals.” He became more and more irritated. “And you’re jeopardising this county and our family because of slum kids. Their families—”

  “—are citizens of Ansara,” snapped Serena. “Don’t say that again. Ever. Do they lose rights because they’re poor? If the commanders heard you — and half of them came from nothing — they’d turn their backs on our whole house.”

  “Idealism doesn’t rule Counties,” tried to argue Saras.

  “But principles are not negotiable.” Serena started to look at Saras angrily. Her Qi flared briefly—just enough for Saras to remember that this “cute” niece of his was a TAO Monarch.

  “This is Ansara!”

  The motto of the idealists who bled for Ansara in the Army. The motto of a Territory that boasted being the second most powerful, even if it was the youngest. The motto of a generation that believed that neither birth nor circumstances matter, but what you make out of yourself.

  Silence followed.

  Oliverio turned at last.

  “If we decide that some children are expendable for the sake of convenience, then we are no better than the territories we condemn, is what you’re trying to say.”

  Serena nodded.

  “That belief,” Oliverio said carefully, “is the reason Ansara’s banners still inspire loyalty.”

  Saras exhaled, irritation warring with restraint. “I am not saying their lives do not matter,” he said. “I am saying that stability matters too.”

  What he left unsaid, of course, is that the lives of thirty slum children were little in comparison to the plight of the nobility. Saras bit back the words, knowing better than to fight a losing battle.

  Serena became resolute.

  “I am not asking for weeks,” she said. “I have my sources. Reliable ones. Give me one more day. Maintain the curfew. Keep the routes closed. Let the pressure mount. This is a command. A Royal Army Brigadier’s command.”

  Saras shook his head. “And if nothing comes of it?”

  Serena met his gaze unflinchingly.

  “Then the responsibility is mine,” she said. “I will answer to the Royal Army. To Ansara. To AEON, if needed — and to the children we failed.”

  Oliverio studied her for a long moment.

  “Our house has endured worse than merchant outrage,” he said at last. “And Ansara has endured because it dared to claim it was better.”

  He inclined his head.

  “One more day.”

  Saras stiffened. “Patriarch—”

  “The responsibility is hers,” Oliverio continued. “The consequences, too. I raised you for moments like this, Serena. Take care it doesn’t burn you in the end.”

  Serena bowed once, sharply, and turned toward the door.

  As she left the study, her steps were steady, but her thoughts were anything but light.

  Ansara claimed to be different.

  Now she would have to prove it — not to the people, but to those who ruled them.

  And she would do so without revealing all the cards in her hand.