The moon poured a milky light over the street, stretching the shadow of the Novice School across the cobblestones.

  Isabelle kept to that darkness, moving with measured steps, the polished wooden handle steady in her grip. The violet crystal set atop it gave a faint pulse, fragile enough to be swallowed by the moonlight if she did not watch it closely.

  She angled the Illusion Tracker from side to side, careful and methodical, as though sweeping a blade through fog, waiting for the smallest resistance that would betray Sierelith’s trail.

  Night granted her what daylight never would. The school stood at the city’s heart, and a Warden did not conduct unsanctioned inquiries on church grounds. One misplaced witness, one familiar face, and the whispers would begin. Whispers became questions. Questions demanded answers she could not give without dishonor.

  Leather armor lay beneath the long black robe and hood. The wide sleeves fell loose around her wrists, hiding the dagger where discipline and habit placed it. The robe softened her silhouette, broke the lines of steel and authority. That was enough.

  Too many had lived or died based on first impressions alone. Isabelle had no intention of testing fate tonight.

  Her boots pressed softly into the dirt road, where old wagon ruts had hardened into shallow grooves. The jungle’s scent lingered even here, raw and green, a reminder that the city’s walls were little more than a polite suggestion.

  The violet crystal of the device shed a faint halo, wrapping her in a cocoon of dim light.

  A dog barked in the distance. The squeak of a gate followed, sharp enough to make her pivot on instinct.

  Nothing. Only the whisper of wind through leaves.

  She steadied her breath and moved on.

  Garath had confirmed traces of Illusion magic in this district. If Sierelith had passed through, Isabelle might still pick up her trail. Perhaps the fox was hiding within the school walls to evade the Sacred Guard patrols, or perhaps she still had business with Alyra.

  Garath had made it clear he had no intention of pursuing the spy. His hunt lay elsewhere, and Isabelle understood that. Yet her reasons went far beyond duty or arrest.

  She had witnessed it herself: the way Sierelith had read Derek’s aura like a Seer. With Yorrin dead, the fox was the only link left to the coins. The same marked coins that had paid the assassin sent after Derek. Finding her was one thing; trusting her would be another entirely.

  But what was Sierelith doing here? Whatever web she was spinning, Isabelle could not yet see its shape.

  The crystal’s glow brightened, sharp and sudden. Isabelle froze.

  She swept the Illusion Tracker in slow arcs, like a candle warding off the night.

  When she aimed it toward the road leading to central Rothmere, the glow blinked twice, then went dark. Turning toward the school fence, she tried again. This time, the crystal flared. Faint but steady.

  Her jaw tightened. Garath had been right after all. Sierelith had entered the school. The trail was weak, aged, yet still alive enough to mark her passage, or that of someone wielding Illusion magic strong enough to scar the air itself.

  She slipped the device into one of the robe’s deep pockets and moved toward the fence.

  The iron was cool and slick beneath her fingers. She tested her grip, mindful not to snag the fabric. Then, bracing arms and legs together, she pulled herself upward. At the top, she paused, catching her breath, eyes sweeping the quiet courtyard below.

  All was quiet. The guards stood far off, near the main entrance. As far as she knew, no one ever patrolled the rear fence. This was the heart of Rothmere, after all. Who would expect danger here?

  With a burst of effort, she swung herself over. The sound of fabric tearing followed.

  She hit the grass with a muffled thud and crouched low, scanning the shadows. Her hand brushed the hem of her robe: a small rip near the edge, nothing serious. At least no scrap of cloth had been left on the fence; climbing back to retrieve it would have been far worse.

  She drew the device from her pocket again. Its glow was already stronger.

  Turning it slowly, she watched the halo brighten when pointed toward the school’s main building.

  Her climb hadn’t been for nothing. Sierelith had been here, and if she was still inside, Isabelle would find her.

  The building rose three stories high, its long fa?ade stretching across the courtyard. Narrow arched windows caught the moonlight like half-lidded eyes. The main portal stood framed by weathered stone columns, the Church’s emblem carved above. Marble once white, now dulled and pitted by years of rain.

  Square towers anchored each end, casting heavy shadows across the street like sentinels fallen asleep at their post.

  Kitchens, classrooms, dormitories, storerooms… an Illusionist could lose herself forever in a place like this.

  Isabelle moved with care, her boots crunching softly over the gravel.

  Without Garath’s insight, no one would have thought to search here. This was no place for spies. Only novices and teachers within these walls. Nothing to steal. No secrets worth uncovering.

  The crystal in her hand flared brighter. Isabelle angled it forward, and the glow deepened, steady and insistent.

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  It drew her toward a side door of the main building. If anyone saw her, she could call it an inquiry. No falsehood required. The teachers here were unlikely to question a Warden.

  The door itself was small, carved wood, and poorly shut. She brushed it with her fingertips, and it creaked inward without resistance.

  Odd. She remembered these doors from her years as a Novice. They were always locked at night, opened only with dawn prayers. Had Sierelith stolen a key? Slipped inside and forgotten to lock up afterward? An unlikely mistake for someone like her.

  Too careless to be chance.

  If Isabelle wanted answers, she would have to follow the trail, and see where it led.

  She slipped into the cold corridor and set the door back exactly as she had found it. If Sierelith had left it open deliberately, finding it closed might send her fleeing.

  The familiar stone hall stretched before her, one she had walked a hundred times. Yet by night it seemed different. Colder, hollow, stripped of life. Yellow crystals burned in iron sconces along the walls, though most had long gone dark. The gaps between them drowned in shadow, just as they had in her student days when the Church preferred frugality to comfort.

  She advanced in silence, the device’s glow pulsing brighter with every step, confirming she was on the right path. The soft rhythm of her boots echoed faintly off the vaulted ceiling.

  Everyone should have been asleep by now. Still, it wasn’t unheard of to find a Novice awake, lost in practice or meditation before a trial. She had done the same once—more than once—under Varom’s watch.

  The thought clenched her stomach.

  Endless drills, the harsh discipline of channeling chakra until her vision blurred. No matter how far she pushed herself, he had never looked satisfied. His lashes came not only from the whip but from his gaze, his voice, the crushing weight of his aura.

  He had forged her, yes, but he had broken her first.

  Damn Sierelith. Of all the places to crawl back into, she had chosen this one. Isabelle’s list of debts to settle with that fox was growing longer by the day. But retribution would have to wait.

  She lifted the Illusion Tracker. The crystal flared, bright enough now to wash the corridor in violet light, drowning out the moonlight that filtered through the windows.

  Her pulse quickened. The trail burned too strong to be old. The spy had to be close.

  A faint creak ahead. She froze.

  Door hinges, perhaps. The corridor bent into an L, the sound coming from just around the corner. If memory served, classrooms lay that way. Maybe a storage room. The dormitory wing was across the building. No reason for anyone from the school to be here now.

  Maybe fortune was with her tonight. Catching the heretic unprepared could finally yield answers.

  She moved forward, careful, measured. The effort was useless. Her boots struck the stone floor, each step ringing through the silence. And the Tracker’s glow painted her like a beacon.

  No point hiding now. Whoever was there already knew she was coming.

  She surged into a run, heartbeat drumming in her ears. The clang of her boots built into a metallic rhythm, echoing through the hall. The corridor blurred past, violet light swinging with her stride, her shadow stretching long against the walls.

  She rounded the corner.

  A sharp cry—then a curly head slammed into her chest. The impact knocked the smaller figure back, tumbling to the floor. She sprang up at once, hands raised in a clumsy guard.

  Isabelle’s heart kicked hard. “Alyra…”

  The girl froze, eyes wide. “Isabelle…”

  The Warden slipped the device into her pocket and stepped in, gripping the girl by the shoulders. “By Orbisar, what are you doing here at this hour? You should be in your quarters. If someone catches you wandering, you’ll answer to the High Sister herself.”

  Alyra’s mouth worked soundlessly. “I—uh… what about you? What are you doing here?”

  Isabelle released her with a sharp exhale. “Official business. I’m looking for Sierelith.”

  Alyra blinked. “Sierelith? How do you know she’s here? Did Derek tell you?”

  Isabelle stiffened. “Derek knew the spy was here? And you—” she cut herself off, staring. “You knew too?”

  The Sprout clamped a hand over her mouth. “No, I mean—I, uh—”

  A new voice interrupted, smooth and mocking. “Really now. Such agitation over trivial things. Surely there are greater matters worth our attention.”

  Isabelle spun toward the sound.

  It came from a half-open storage door down the hall.

  Violet light pulsed inside, licking at the floor tiles and her boots.

  “Come in, Warden,” the voice purred. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Isabelle slid a hand into her sleeve, fingertips grazing the dagger’s hilt. “I won’t fall for your tricks, heretic. Step out and surrender. I only need to speak with you.”

  A laugh, smooth and amused. “Oh, we’ll speak, Warden. That’s exactly why I made sure you both arrived together.”

  Isabelle’s eyes snapped to Alyra. The girl flinched, nodding weakly.

  “What is she talking about?” Isabelle’s voice hardened.

  Alyra shifted under her stare. “I… yes, I was looking for Sierelith too. I needed to talk to her.”

  “And what could you possibly have to say to her that you couldn’t say to me?”

  Alyra opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I’m sorry. You’ve been so busy and—”

  “How long has this been going on?” Isabelle’s tone cut sharper. Heat prickled at her neck as her jaw tightened. “Is she your friend now? Or are you planning to join the heretics next?”

  “No! I’d never!” Alyra cried, her voice breaking. “I’d never betray you or Derek!”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Sierelith groaned, impatience dripping from her tone. “Will you two finish your drama and come inside before someone walks by and ruins the fun?”

  Isabelle exhaled. Of course. The open door, the clear trail, Alyra drawn here in the middle of the night… everything had been arranged.

  The fox hadn’t been lying. This meeting was no accident.

  Whatever illusions Sierelith had prepared inside, Isabelle doubted they were meant to fool her for long. Arresting the spy wasn’t her goal tonight.

  Not yet.

  She stepped to the door and pushed it open.

  Inside was… a storage closet. Cramped, dim, smelling faintly of wax and dust. Brooms leaned in the corners, buckets stacked like forgotten soldiers, shelves cluttered with rags and burned-out candles.

  At the center stood Sierelith, a small violet orb hovering above her palm. Her sharp cheekbones caught the light, her grin sharper still. Green eyes gleamed, studying them the way a cat studies trapped prey.

  “Come in, and close the door,” the fox said lightly. “Use the key. We wouldn’t want any uninvited guests.”

  Alyra slipped in behind Isabelle and turned the key. The lock clicked, loud in the silence.

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “I expected more from you than a broom closet.”

  Sierelith shrugged. “No one visits broom closets at night.”

  “And how would you know that?” Isabelle’s tone hardened.

  “Where do you think I’ve been sleeping the past few nights?”

  Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Not here. If this were truly your den, you wouldn’t be showing it to us.”

  Sierelith’s grin softened. “My compliments, Warden. I’ll remember not to underestimate you again.”

  Isabelle’s jaw tightened. “I have no interest in compliments from a heretic spy and kidnapper.”

  Sierelith’s smile widened. “No, of course not. But you are interested in getting something else from me, aren’t you?”

  Could she already know Isabelle’s purpose? No—likely a bluff. “First: what does Alyra have to do with this? Why is she here?”

  “I asked to meet her,” Alyra said, stepping forward. “Varom—my instructor—wanted a Seer to examine my chakras.”

  Isabelle’s breath shortened. “Alyra, you cannot discuss your chakras in front of—”

  “I already know,” Sierelith cut in, smooth as oil. “I’m aware of the Death energy fused into the chakras of Alyra’s hands. Not from her telling me, if that helps.”

  Isabelle’s brow tightened. “And how exactly did you discover that?”

  Sierelith rolled her eyes. “I was in Ebonshade too, remember? I didn’t miss a single thing that happened down there.” She gave Isabelle a look that promised untold details. “Not a single thing.”

  Isabelle drew steady air. “You still haven’t said what Alyra has to do with this. Varom wants her chakras examined. What are you doing in the middle of that?”

  Sierelith huffed, impatient. “If you’d stop interrupting, I might explain. The Death Cult has taken an interest in Alyra. The way Death energy has grafted into her chakras without breaking her fascinates them. My assignment is to dig into their plans and put a wrench in them. I asked little Alyra to help.” She winked.

  Alyra frowned, searching for words.

  Sierelith went on. “Seems our Sprout is struggling with her… aggression, and nearly gave herself away today.” She pressed a hand to her forehead in theatrical dismay. “It’s exhausting, keeping that silly child from either revealing herself or being consumed by Death’s power, ending up mad, just like Derek.”

  “What?!” Alyra shouted. “Derek has been tainted by Death power?”

  The air narrowed around Isabelle. Her stomach knotted. Damn it. Alyra hadn’t known. Damn the heretic, never able to hold her tongue.

  Alyra stared, pale. “Tell me it’s not true…” she whispered, voice breaking.

  Isabelle’s jaw clenched. She leveled a venomous look at Sierelith.

  The spy only shrugged.

  “No—” Isabelle began, then stopped, forcing the words into order. “I… I’m sorry, Alyra. It seems when you gave him the sphere—”

  Alyra clapped both hands over her mouth. “Oh no!” The sound ripped out of her, raw and broken. “It was me… I gave him the sphere… it was my fault.”

  Isabelle seized the girl’s shoulders, fingers firm against trembling arms, and met her eyes. “No. Don’t you dare think that. Not for a second. I told you to give it to him. You obeyed an order. You saved us. Do you understand?”

  Alyra stared back, lips quivering.

  Sierelith inspected her nails with bored amusement. “You saved almost all of us, Alyra. Derek, I suspect, is already done for. If it comforts you—the sphere won’t finish him. He’s taken care of that himself by planning to run off on a suicide mission.”

  Isabelle’s mouth fell open. The spy even knew about the expedition under the Citadel.

  Alyra looked up at her, bewildered and pleading. Isabelle rested a steady hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to that witch. You know Derek. He’ll do something reckless and stagger back alive in the most ridiculous way. Like always.”

  Alyra sniffled and offered a faint, hopeful smile. “You’re right… his armor always saves him in the end, doesn’t it?”

  Isabelle nodded; the answer lodged in her throat. She swallowed the knowledge that Derek had planned to go without his armor, and kept it to herself for now.

  “Well then!” Sierelith clapped, making them both flinch. “Forgive me. Did I ruin the moment?”

  Isabelle leveled a withering glare. Her fingers itched at her sleeve.

  Sierelith’s smile thinned to something sharp and precise. “Now, if we’re finished with pleasantries, let us speak of business.”