Getting three career thugs to act as interior decorators wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned my Tuesday, but life in the Ashen Gryphon was a series of unfortunate improvisations.

  Jiro, the leader with the nose still plastered in a messy bandage, was currently dragging a heavy crate of refined chalk and silver dust into the center of a rotting living room. His two lackeys, Kenta and Shin, followed behind him with the kind of wide-eyed terror usually reserved for people watching their bank accounts hit zero.

  "Careful with that, Shin," I said, leaning against a doorframe that looked like it was held together by hope and wood rot. "That silver dust costs more than your life insurance policy. If you spill it, I’ll have Hana use your shoelaces to trap the ghost."

  Shin squeaked and gripped the bag tighter. Kenta just looked at the floor, which Hana and I had already started mapping out.

  The house was an abandoned shell at the edge of the district. It was perfect. High ceilings, drafty windows, and enough history of misery to keep the ambient mana heavy and thick. We were turning the entire ground floor into a giant, living circuit.

  "The Twilight Seal," Hana muttered, her fingers tracing a line of white chalk across the blackened floorboards. "You’re sure the geometry is right? If the angles are off, the resonance will just shatter the wood."

  "I’m sure," I said, though my chest felt a little tight. The Mana Frostbite was humming under my skin, a cold reminder that I was pushing my luck. "The old texts were specific. The circle doesn't just hold the shadow. It bridges the gap. It makes the Yakshi think it’s back inside your soul for a split second. That’s when we pin it."

  Hana nodded, her focus absolute. She was a natural at this. Every stroke of chalk was precise, every rune inscribed with a steady hand.

  It was manual labor, but I was the brains, which meant I got to delegate the heavy lifting to Jiro and his crew. By the time Roonie showed up, the sun was already starting to dip behind the mountains, bleeding a bruised orange light across the valley.

  Roonie stepped into the house, looking a little less like a stressed owl and more like a man who had finally gotten his coffee fix. He stopped at the threshold, eyeing the complex web of silver and chalk that now covered the floor.

  "I’ve sent the data to the guild," Roonie said, adjusting his glasses. "The specialist said the theory holds water. They’re drafting a permanent containment spell as we speak, but it won’t be ready until morning. We have to hold it until then."

  "We’ve added traps," I said, pointing to the windows where thin, almost invisible wires of mana-conducting silk were strung. "And Hana’s weaponized the very dust on the floor. If that ghost so much as sneezes, it’s going to feel like it walked into a blender."

  Roonie looked impressed, which was a nice change of pace. "Good. The district is cleared. No civilians for three blocks."

  Slowly, the orange light faded into a deep, ink-black night. The kind of night where the shadows feel like they’re breathing.

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  Outside, on the street corner, Jiro, Kenta, and Shin were huddled together, trying to look tough. Jiro was smoking a pipe, the embers glowing in the dark like a small, angry eye.

  "You really think it’s gonna work?" Kenta whispered, his voice shaking. "The Yakshi... it’s not normal."

  "It’s attracted to power," Jiro said, blowing out a cloud of pungent smoke. "That city girl and the ghost-lady, they got a lot of it. The Yakshi found 'em because they were leaking mana like a cracked pot. It’s like a moth to a flame."

  They were standing near a streetlamp, the only light in the pitch-black alley. They spotted Roonie standing a few yards away, checking his watch for the tenth time. To them, Roonie looked like an easy target. A pencil-pusher. A guy who had never seen a real fight in his life.

  Jiro signaled the other two. They started to circle him, their fear of the shadow briefly replaced by the instinct to bully the smallest guy in the room.

  "Hey, four-eyes," Jiro said, leaning against a wall. "You look lost. Maybe you should give us that fancy watch before something bad happens."

  Roonie didn't even look up from his watch. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated disdain. "I am on a very tight schedule, gentlemen. I suggest you find a different hobby before I lose my patience."

  Jiro bristled, but before he could say another word, the air went cold.

  It wasn't just the mountain breeze. It was a deep, soul-sucking chill that made the moisture in the air turn to frost.

  "Did you hear that?" Shin whispered.

  A voice, thin and distorted like a radio signal from a different dimension, echoed down the street. It was a hiss. A scream. A memory of a sound.

  The Yakshi was here.

  She drifted out of the darkness of an alley, her form shifting and flickering. She didn't have a face, just a suggestion of features, but the malice radiating off her was enough to make the thugs drop their pipes.

  "Help!" Kenta yelled, scrambling back.

  The Yakshi lunged. She moved like a blur, her hand flicking through the air. A weaponized gust of wind, sharp as a razor, whipped toward the group.

  Roonie didn't move. He didn't even flinch.

  He snapped his fingers.

  A shimmering blue barrier materialized in front of him. The wind hit the shield and, instead of breaking it, reflected straight back at the Yakshi. The shadow hissed as her own attack tore through her smoky form.

  "Amateurs," Roonie muttered.

  He snapped his fingers again. Four walls of light slammed down around the Yakshi, boxing her in. It was a perfect containment field.

  But the Yakshi wasn't a normal monster. She was a weapon.

  She slammed a fist into the barrier. The light cracked. Instead of dissipating, the Yakshi grabbed a jagged shard of the energy itself. In her hands, the broken mana turned into a dark, glowing sword.

  She charged, the sword whistling as it cut through the air.

  Roonie adjusted his glasses and took a single step back. The sword missed his throat by an inch. He moved with a clinical, practiced grace. He wasn't a brawler. He was a specialist.

  The Yakshi swung again, a vertical slash intended to split him in two.

  Roonie snapped his fingers. The sword, made of his own mana, simply evaporated.

  Before the shadow could react, Roonie snapped again. A circular ring of blue light formed around the Yakshi’s neck like a collar, complete with a handle.

  Roonie reached out, grabbed the handle, and with a grunt of effort, swung his arm in a wide arc. He tossed the shadow through the air like he was throwing out the trash.

  The Yakshi flew. She crashed through the front window of the abandoned house, the glass shattering into a thousand diamonds.

  Hana Ryu was standing in the middle of the living room, silhouetted by the silver runes on the floor.

  The Yakshi scrambled to her feet, let out a piercing scream that shook the floorboards, and lunged.

  Hana didn't stay to fight. She turned and ran deeper into the house, leading the shadow straight into the heart of the trap.

  "She’s in," I whispered from the shadows of the staircase.

  It was time to close the door.