Leanor watched and debated. The glitch didn’t waver, didn’t change, no matter how long he stared at it. The scoreboard wasn’t on his side; his time was running lower than he would have liked, his plan already slipping behind schedule.

  He swept his hand through the air, magic coalescing around his arm until it thickened, then burst outward in dark ribbons, like shooting stars lancing across a night sky.

  Within moments he was left drained, a little weaker—but with something he could use.

  A shadowy form hovered before him, a shifting mass of darkness.

  “Find him. He’s in Melbourne. Observe, don’t harm. I need whatever it is.”

  It didn’t respond, but Leanor knew it would follow the order. The darkness vanished, like specks of sand on a beach. This would be his chance—maybe it was a way to gain an advantage.

  The carnage in a D-rank portal was different. The monsters were smarter here; they moved with intent, circling, testing, pulling back instead of just charging. They had strategy, something the lower ranks had completely lacked.

  But so did they. Ashe knew the plan: back to back, Annie in the centre with her bow, Joey and Amalia forming the wall around her while he covered the gaps and watched for anything that slipped through.

  His senses were already overwhelmed—the heavy thrum of wingbeats, the piercing screech of birds above, wind cutting around their bodies as they wheeled. He had no idea how he was supposed to react to swarms diving from the sky. He was used to things that came from below, things that rattled the ground or growled in his direction, not hunters that stayed out of reach until the last second and barely made a sound at all.

  Amalia’s voice cut through the noise, a clear guide in the chaos of the fight.

  “Left.”

  The dull ache flared as she spoke, sharp needle-pricks shooting out from his left side. He turned, understanding what it meant now. They were diving toward them, like razor-edged knives.

  A bowstring twanged behind him. A few of the pain-spots on his left blinked out as Annie’s arrows dropped their targets—but it wasn’t enough. He clicked the button on his walking stick; the metal sheath slid back. Rolling his left shoulder, he swung and connected with one of the birds. It shrieked, then hit the ground with a heavy thud, dirt spraying into the air.

  Relief lasted only a heartbeat before something else sliced through his jacket, then the skin of his hip. He dropped to one knee as a scream ripped through his mind, shattering his thoughts. Only then did he realise it was his own voice, his own pain.

  On the ground, he felt someone press in beside him, shielding his weakened flank. The sounds of battle were still dulled, muffled beneath the roar in his head.

  Another dull flare of pain bloomed, this time in his chest. He swung his arm in that direction on instinct. Even from the ground he made contact. It wasn’t a killing blow—a wing tore free and the creature spiralled down in front of him, a rush of air hitting his face just before it crashed.

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  He slid his good leg forward, dragging the other behind, and stabbed toward the still-twitching body, ending it with a few soft, broken croaks.

  Then warmth poured over him like a weighted blanket. It rushed through his hips and leg; the pain receded, and his knee obeyed him again. Cold followed a moment later, the familiar drain of exhaustion settling in—still there, but less crushing than the last times he’d pushed his ability.

  As he pushed himself upright, his legs still stiff beneath him, he let his senses soak in the battle that still raged around them. Joey’s broad frame brushed his shoulder, his voice rough and thin under heavy panting.

  “You alright?”

  “Yep,” Ashe answered, though his focus was already elsewhere.

  An arrow whispered past his cheek. Then another thwack somewhere ahead. That wrong pain rushed over him again, blossoming at his back. Something was coming.

  “Shit.”

  He spun and shoved Annie sideways; she only managed a startled, “What the—hell?” before he thrust his weapon straight out.

  The impact jolted up his arm, hard enough that for a second he thought his shoulder would give out. But it held, and something slid further down the blade. Warm blood trickled over his hand, running down the sword and heating his grip.

  The grass beneath his feet hardened, shifting into stone. The smell of blood and wet grass vanished, replaced by garbage and city streets.

  Cheers, clapping, bright voices of happiness flooded in. Their first D-rank, cleared. They’d actually pulled it off. Even with all the planning, Ashe hadn’t been able to stop fearing the worst.

  He stood there, waiting, awkward and unsure if he should join in—if he was really part of the team or still the outsider looking in.

  Then Joey’s hand landed on his back in a solid clap, and the fear loosened its grip. Ashe almost tumbled forwards, not ready for the big man’s congratulations.

  “Well done. Clean as hell!”

  Then Amalia’s voice, more measured now, with an edge of suspicion. “How did you get up from that?”

  His stomach dropped like a boulder. It dragged the words down. “I…”

  Her hand tugged at his pant leg, exposing the tear left from the fight. Surprise crept into her voice. “Only a small scratch. But why so much blood?”

  Ashe coughed. “It must’ve been the monster.”

  Joey bellowed, laughing. “Sounds about right. He seems like a little lucky shit.” His booming voice echoed in the quiet.

  Ashe could feel eyes on the back of his neck. Annie was watching, silent.

  Amalia still didn’t sound convinced. “Okay. But how did you react to the attack on Annie?”

  He shrugged, trying to smother the rising panic. “I heard it. You know they say blind people can hear much better than those with sight, right?”

  He listened to her breathing, calm and steady, but she didn’t answer. The question of whether they suspected anything felt like it would be an ongoing battle, always waiting at the edge of his thoughts.

  Leanor watched in awe. The boy’s movement was wrong for a human. He moved before the enemy did; the instant a creature decided to attack, the boy was already there, ready, as if he’d been given the answer key a second early.

  His short dark hair fell over his eyes, but he didn’t push it back or squint like the others. He wasn’t using them the way humans normally did. Instead he kept angling his head, positioning his ears toward the threat. Sound, then?

  Leanor’s mind raced, slotting the pieces together.

  His gaze snapped toward the vault, toward the ring locked inside.

  The ring.

  Was it him? The question surged through him, a flood that washed every other thought away.

  As the replay cut out, his minion spoke.

  “My lord. Others were watching. Your siblings are aware.”

  He sat there unmoving, mind churning in chaotic waves as he tried to untangle what that meant, what their angle could be. If they suspected what he did—if they’d seen the same thing in the footage—then they wouldn’t stay quiet.

  They would be coming for him.