—Alden Cael—
The city stank of fear.
Alden breathed it in like perfume.
He rode at the head of the Bladelings—his personal executioners—dressed not in House Cael's polished crimson but in worn black steel, their armor lacquered to hide blood, not display it. No banners flew. No horns announced their presence.
This wasn't a parade.
It was a hunt.
And Alden was bored.
They'd swept two districts already, dragging merchants into alleys for questioning, breaking locks, burning storerooms. Nothing. No frost witch. No traitor sister. No pet demon.
He sneered.
"She's playing mouse," he muttered to the soldier beside him. "She was always good at that."
The man nodded, nervous.
Alden spotted a boy across the square—maybe twelve. Filthy. Alone. Watching from behind a stack of crates.
Alden dismounted with a slow smile.
He approached the boy, blade still sheathed.
"Come here."
The boy didn't move.
Alden clicked his tongue. "I won't ask twice."
When the boy didn't come, Alden unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion and drove it into the crates next to the child's head. Wood exploded.
The boy screamed.
Alden yanked him out by the collar and dragged him into the square.
"Anyone else hiding here?" he called out, his voice calm, pleasant.
No one answered.
So he looked down at the boy, who was trembling in his grip.
"You're not going to be a witch when you grow up, are you?"
The boy shook his head frantically, eyes wide with terror.
"Good," Alden said.
Then he let him go—only to strike him across the face with the flat of his blade. The boy crumpled, crying.
Alden turned back to his troops. "Spread the net wider. If it bleeds and breathes, question it. If it lies, cut it down. We're not here to protect Tartarus—we're here to remind it who it belongs to."
The Bladelings dispersed like wolves loosed into a slaughterhouse.
Alden cleaned his blade, humming as he walked.
"She always hated cities," he murmured to himself. "Too many people. Too much noise. I wonder how long she'll hide once I start decorating the streets with corpses."
He grinned.
"Sooner or later, she'll come to me."
He didn't want Solene dead.
Not yet.
He wanted her shattered.
—Part II—
The aqueduct tunnel stank of rot and old runoff, the walls slick with condensation and rust. Lira led the way, torch in hand, while Nerys limped beside Seraphyne. Solene brought up the rear, her magic humming just beneath her skin.
They were close.
A few more turns and they'd reach the access hatch to the city outskirts—the place they'd first planned to hide Nerys before the rescue changed everything.
But the shadows ahead shifted.
Something stepped into the torchlight.
He was tall. Thin beneath heavy black armor. His helm was off, revealing a long face with sickly pale skin and a smile stretched too wide. His eyes gleamed like polished steel, and his blade was already out—serrated and stained.
A Bladeling.
The man raised the weapon with a twitch in his fingers, like it was an extension of his madness.
"Remove your hoods," he rasped.
They froze.
"I said remove them." His voice cracked like a whip. "I want to see which one of you bleeds blue."
No one moved.
Seraphyne's hand flexed near her side, shadow forming—but Solene stepped forward instead.
"It's me," she said.
The Bladeling cocked his head, grin twitching.
"And there you are."
In the next breath, Solene slammed her hand into the ground.
A wall of jagged ice exploded behind her—thick, sharp, and impassable. It sealed off the corridor behind her like a frozen barricade.
Nerys shouted, "Solene!"
Solene turned her head just enough to look back at them.
"Go," she said. "I'll meet you at the place we originally set Nerys. Trust me."
"Solene—no—"
"I'm not weak," Solene said.
Her voice was steady now, her heart beating like thunder. The ice reflected the flicker of torchlight across her face, sharp and clear.
"I'm magic."
Nerys froze. Her eyes welled.
Because those were her words.
Solene turned back to the Bladeling. Her hands opened wide, frost dancing in webs between her fingers.
The Bladeling lunged, cackling.
Solene met him with steel in her spine and winter in her veins.
And behind the wall of ice—
Nerys let herself be pulled away.
Trusting her.
Because Solene Cael was no longer hiding from who she was.
She was becoming it.
—Part III—
The sound of ice shattering and steel clashing echoed behind them.
Nerys turned, fists clenched. "We have to go back."
"No," Seraphyne said, sharp and low. "She made her choice."
"She's alone out there—"
"And you're barely standing," Seraphyne snapped, spinning on her heel. Her crimson eyes burned—not with anger. With restraint. "If we go back, we all die."
Nerys hesitated.
Seraphyne stepped closer, voice lower now. "You know I want to. I want to go back. But if I leave you and Lira here? You'll be captured before I get ten steps."
Nerys blinked, torn wide open, the guilt in her throat almost choking her.
Lira, behind them, held the torch tighter. Her eyes were wide. She didn't speak. She knew her role. She wasn't strong—but she wasn't useless.
She knew when to stay quiet.
Seraphyne looked at both of them.
"I swore to get you out," she said. "I'm not breaking that now."
Her fists trembled at her sides.
She didn't look back down the tunnel.
She couldn't.
Instead, she pressed forward.
Every step felt like betrayal. Like abandonment. But she kept moving, teeth grit, shadows flickering around her boots with each stride.
The tunnel curved.
The echo of battle faded.
Nerys slowed once more.
"She'll come back to us," she whispered, almost to herself.
Seraphyne didn't answer right away.
Then—
"She better."
And in the quiet that followed, they walked faster.
Because hope only mattered if you survived long enough to see it return.
—Part IV—
Solene—
The Bladeling came at her fast—sword raised, eyes wild, breath rasping like something already dead.
Solene moved on instinct.
Her ice shot up to meet his blade, a jagged shield of frost catching the first strike, shattering on impact. The force threw her back, boots skidding on wet stone, shoulder slamming into the wall.
He lunged again.
She ducked. Frost spiraled from her hand, spiking upward like a frozen spear—he sidestepped it with a snarl and lashed out. His blade caught her arm—deep.
Blood sprayed.
Pain flared.
She hissed, teeth grit, staggering back.
He laughed. "You're not magic. You're just broken."
Solene's eyes narrowed.
Her hand clamped over the wound—already slick, burning.
"I'm both."
Ice exploded from the floor, forcing the tunnel to constrict, buying her one second of breath. One heartbeat.
He burst through it.
They collided.
It was a blur of limbs, blade, frost, blood—too close for control, too fast for spells. Solene caught his wrist before the dagger found her throat, slammed her forehead into his nose—he howled and twisted, his elbow driving into her ribs.
She felt something crack.
He grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back.
"Last words, freak?"
She didn't speak.
She let go of everything.
Her free hand slammed into his chest, and a spike of ice shot straight through his armor. Not clean. Not pretty.
It ripped through bone.
The Bladeling choked on his own breath, eyes going wide as the light drained out of them. He slumped forward, the blade clattering from his fingers.
Solene pushed him off, panting.
Blood soaked her sleeve. Her vision blurred.
She dropped to one knee.
"Shit…"
There wasn't time to heal properly.
So she reached into herself. Found the cold. Forced it inward.
Her magic turned on her own flesh.
The blood froze in the wound—crystalizing, sealing. She screamed into her teeth, the pain white-hot and searing.
But it worked.
Her arm numbed. Her breath steadied.
She stood, slow but steady.
One fight down. Gods knew how many to go.
She looked around—no footsteps yet. No more Bladelings.
But she couldn't meet the others like this. She'd bleed out trying to catch them.
She needed shelter. Just long enough to recover. Hide. Then move.
Solene pulled her hood back up, wiped the blood from her mouth, and vanished into the alleys of Tartarus like a ghost cloaked in snow and steel.
She had to survive.
She had to get back.
She had to see them again.