The air in the conference room was thick with tension, the kind that clings to your skin like the fog rolling off the bay on a cold night. Order members bustled around, papers flying, voices murmuring over timelines, maps, and photos pinned to every wall. Evidence containers gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights, the only things in the chaos that seemed to have any sense of order.

  I pushed through the crowd, my coat brushing against the edge of a desk, and slammed my hands on the table at the center of the room. “Alright, listen up,” I barked, my voice cutting through the clamor like a knife through stale bread.

  Heads turned. Conversations died. The room held its breath.

  “We’ve got an update,” I growled, pacing the room like a caged lion. “Our necromancer is calling himself The Last Disciple. We think—no, we know—he’s working under the Father of Death or, at the very least, chasing his twisted mission.”

  I stopped and scanned their faces. Some looked ready to leap into action; others were trying to piece it all together, their brows furrowed under the weight of it all.

  “Here’s what we do,” I continued, the grit in my voice sharpening. “We hit the pavement. Every vampire den. Every were coven. Every back-alley occult dive this city has to offer. If there’s a lead on this Disciple, we find it.”

  But just as the words were leaving my mouth, the room erupted in chaos. The alarm shrieked, loud and piercing, like the city’s heartbeat skipping a beat.

  A junior operative burst through the door, her face pale as a corpse under a streetlamp. “The vault—” she gasped. “The evidence vault’s been broken into!”

  For a moment, the world seemed to slow. The air turned cold, and I felt a weight settle in my gut, heavy and unrelenting. My lips moved before my brain could catch up, whispering a single word.

  “Mattie.”

  And just like that, the storm hit.

  I stormed toward the vault, my aura pulsing with an intensity that made the air around me crackle. Members of the Order scattered like leaves in a gale, their eyes avoiding mine, knowing better than to get in my way. My pace quickened, boots echoing against the cold stone floor as I descended deeper into the bowels of the Order's headquarters. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the sound of Gabriel’s wings slicing through the air, but I didn’t turn back.

  The thought clawed at my mind, raw and relentless: If Mattie is hurt…

  I swore silently, the kind of oath that could damn a soul. If anything happened to her, I’d raze the world to its foundations. I’d turn the earth to ash, leaving it barren, lifeless—a cursed monument to my rage. She was all that mattered.

  When I reached the vault, the sight before me turned my blood to ice. The massive iron doors, reinforced with ancient wards and spells, hung twisted and charred as if torn apart by some unholy force. The once-brilliant glyphs etched into the surface flickered weakly, then died, leaving nothing but scorched runes and a gaping wound in our defenses.

  Inside, the devastation deepened. Evidence containers lay shattered, their contents stolen or strewn across the floor. Vials of enchanted fluids oozed and hissed in pools of toxic colors, eating away at the stone. Forbidden tomes smoldered in one corner, their pages curling into ash as the acrid scent of destruction filled the air.

  And in the center of it all, there she was.

  “Mattie.”

  Her name escaped my lips like a prayer, though no god would dare listen now. She lay curled in the fetal position, her body scarred with the cruel, licking marks of flame. My heart clenched as I dropped to my knees, gathering her fragile form into my arms. Her skin was too hot, her breaths shallow. In her right hand, she clutched a lock of hair, burned at the edges.

  She looked up at me, her voice barely a whisper. “He… he got the Soul Gems, but I got that bastard.”

  I cradled her closer, my hand trembling as I brushed the soot from her face. “Mattie… I’m so sorry. I should have kept you safe. I should’ve been here.” My voice cracked, barely audible over the chaos erupting around us. Order members flooded the vault, shouts and footfalls filling the space, but to me, the world had gone silent. There was only her.

  Someone tried to take her from my arms. Instinct took over, and I bucked like a cornered animal, refusing to let go until I saw it was a healer. Even then, my grip lingered, my arms reluctant to surrender her. Williams approached, his hand heavy on my shoulder, his gaze steady. He nodded once, and I knew I had no choice. Slowly, I let the healer take her, the emptiness in my arms threatening to swallow me whole.

  Zefpyre stood nearby, his Flame Elemental form towering and radiant, a rare and imposing sight. That arrogant furball—always so smug—now seemed almost comforting in his true form, a reminder that some things still burned bright.

  Williams led me out of the vault, his presence grounding me as my thoughts spiraled. The moment we stepped into the hallway, it hit me like a freight train. My chest tightened, my lungs refusing to draw breath. Colors swam before my eyes, vivid and nauseating, as my legs buckled. My hands trembled uncontrollably, and the pounding in my head grew deafening.

  The floor rose to meet me, and the world dissolved into darkness.

  The first thing that hit me was the warmth—odd and cloying, like the lingering embrace of a memory you didn’t ask for. Then came the familiar weight around my neck. My hand moved before I could stop it, and pain shot through my body like a jolt of raw magic. I grimaced, but my fingers closed around the ring hanging on the chain. It grounded me, the small, cursed comfort of something I couldn’t let go.

  The warmth seeped into my bones, and I noticed the absence of my leather jacket. My scowl deepened. Great. Someone stripped me down like a damn corpse. The sterile air nipped at my skin, carrying the sharp tang of potions and chemicals. A faint hum filled the room—a rhythmic drone, soothing, layered with enchantments designed to lull even the most stubborn bastard into calm. It pissed me off.

  My eyelids felt like they were bolted shut. When I finally managed to pry them open, the light hit me—not harsh, but soft and golden, glowing from orbs of magic floating midair. They pulsed faintly, adjusting as if they were alive and watching.

  I glanced down. The bed beneath me wasn’t just a bed—it was a damn magical cocoon, molding itself to my body, every thread shimmering faintly with alchemical runes. Every movement brought a faint pulse of comfort, the kind that screamed You’re too weak to argue. It only fueled my irritation. Why the hell was I here?

  A subtle tingling spread through me—a spell unraveling itself, leaving my body in a dull ache as its work finished. I clenched my fists, testing joints and muscles. The faint chime of wards activating echoed around me, detecting every twitch like they were taking notes.

  A monitor floated nearby, its surface shifting with glyphs and glowing runes that mapped out my every weakness: health, mana reserves, vitals. A smug little display, more detailed than any mundane machine. I hated it.

  The scents came next—lavender, chamomile, and that faint metallic tang of blood or copper. Before I could think too hard about it, a figure moved into the room. A healer. Robes lined with glowing sigils of restoration. Their aura radiated calm authority, the kind that made me want to punch something.

  “You’re awake,” the healer said, voice as soft and insufferable as the bed beneath me. “Good. The enchantments are holding steady, and your mana pathways have stabilized. How do you feel?”

  “Like hell,” I growled, shoving myself upright. “Now get me out of this damn bed. I need to see Mattie.” My voice cracked a little, but I didn’t care.

  The healer tisked, the way only healers can—like they were your disapproving grandmother. “Master Wizard, you’re not going anywhere. You’re in withdrawal from Dreamer’s Leaf. And judging by your condition, you’re a heavy smoker.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I snapped. “You figure that out all on your own, or did the floating monitor rat me out?”

  She tisked again, unbothered. “You’re also dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and running on fumes. Immortal or not, your body doesn’t survive on mana alone.”

  I glared at her, the kind of glare that’s made lesser people burst into flames. “I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your lecture. Mattie’s out there, and so is the bastard responsible for all this. I’ve got a city to save, a necromancer to catch, and—”

  “And it’ll all still be there after you recover,” she cut me off, her tone mockingly sweet. “Your body, on the other hand, might appreciate a break.”

  She had the nerve to pat me on the head like I was some mutt. My jaw clenched, teeth grinding, and my aura flared just enough to make the air crackle. She stepped back, tisking yet again like I was a child throwing a tantrum.

  “You’ll stay here until your body stabilizes. A few hours, at most. Try not to kill anyone in the meantime,” she said, turning on her heel.

  I sat there, fists clenched, seething. If looks could kill, the wards would be scraping her off the walls.

  I tried to move my legs, just enough to swing them off the edge of the bed, but they didn’t listen. They felt like lead weights chained to the depths of the abyss. Frustration bubbled up in my chest, and I flared my aura, letting it ripple out in a show of dominance. But before I could savor the power, a magical force slammed into me like the weight of Atlas himself. My vision blurred, and I felt the bed absorb the impact as though mocking me.

  From somewhere nearby, I heard the sharp, condescending sound of tisk, tisk, tisk. Then a voice followed, calm and dripping with smugness. “Now, now, Master Wizard. They brought me in specifically to handle you—from the Other Realm, no less.”

  I gritted my teeth, forcing out the words. “You’re not stronger than me. I’m a Master Wizard.”

  Another tisk, soft but firm, like a mother scolding a child. “And I’m just a lowly Arch Healer. Guess I’ll have to manage your immeasurable strength somehow, won’t I?”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Before I could retort, a surge of magic hit me like a wild hurricane, and I was thrown back down onto the bed. The enchantments coiled around me, pinning me in place with a grip that left me unable to move a muscle. I tried to reach for my mana, my lifeblood, to cast something—anything—and once again, that tisk cut through the air like a whip.

  “Ah-ah, Master Wizard. We can’t have you casting spells right now.”

  My jaw tightened as I forced my eyes to dart around, desperate to find the smug witch who dared to keep me caged like this. And then she appeared, standing over me, her face framed by an air of authority and amusement.

  She leaned in close, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re just as stubborn as my ex-husband. But I’ll give you this—you’re far cuter.” Her hand brushed my hair, a patronizing pat that made my blood boil. “Now, blink twice if you’re ready to comply and behave like a good boy.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I winked, a deliberate challenge. She laughed, a soft giggle that grated against my pride. “Oh, you are so stubborn,” she said with another tisk. “Fine, stay immobilized. Honestly, it’s no trouble at all for me to keep you like this, young man.”

  Through clenched teeth, I forced out the only thing I could muster, barely a whisper but laced with venom. “Fuck you, bitch.”

  Her smile didn’t falter. She just tisked again and patted my head like I was some disobedient pup. My rage simmered beneath the surface, trapped by the enchantments holding me down, but I swore to myself—once I was free, there’d be hell to pay.

  Time blurred, an endless haze of frustration and helplessness until the sound I had grown to hate broke the silence: tisk, tisk, tisk. She was back, her smugness as sharp as ever, cutting through the room like a blade.

  “Are you going to eat on your own, or will I have to force-feed you, young man?” Her voice dripped with mock patience. “Blink twice if you’re willing to comply.”

  I glared at her, my silence a deliberate act of defiance.

  She sighed, long and theatrical, accompanied by another round of that damned tisking. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way. No bother.”

  With a snap of her fingers, I was jerked upright, my body snapping into a perfect ninety-degree angle as if I were a marionette in her control. She appeared next to me, holding a bowl of steaming soup, her expression a mix of cheerfulness and condescension.

  “Now,” she said, setting the bowl on the side table. “This is my own recipe. I’ve been perfecting it for over six hundred years. Aren’t you a lucky young man?” Her tone was so syrupy sweet it could rot teeth. “Open up for the choo-choo train!”

  Chugga-chugga choo-choo. She made train noises as the spoon moved toward my mouth, steam curling up in thin tendrils. A faint, enchanted whistle sounded as the spoon reached my lips. Before I could protest, she tilted my head back and the soup was forced down my throat.

  The process repeated—chugga-chugga choo-choo, whistle, spoon, swallow—until the bowl was empty. I didn’t know whether to be furious or humiliated. Probably both.

  She set the bowl down with a satisfied smile, brushing her hands together like she’d just conquered some great challenge. “See? That wasn’t so bad. Now,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “you have a visitor. A very nice young man from the Pendragon family.”

  I didn’t move, but my jaw tightened slightly at the name.

  “I hope you’re not rude to him,” she continued, her smile as sharp as a blade. “Because if you are, I’ll have to come back in here. And neither of us will like that, will we?” Another round of tisk, tisk, tisk followed as she patted my head and walked away.

  I stared after her, my pride shredded, the taste of soup lingering bitterly in my mouth. Whatever that bastard Pendragon wanted, I already knew one thing: I wasn’t in the mood for politeness.

  Gabriel strutted into the room like he owned the place, all radiance and arrogance. His Heaven-glow practically lit up the walls, and his damn wings shimmered like some celestial show-off under the soft magical lights. I was still locked down, immobile, not even able to whisper, let alone rip him apart like I wanted to.

  He smiled that smug, punchable smile of his. “I asked her to keep the immobilization spell, Julius. We’ve got a lot to talk about—or, I should say, you’ve got a lot to listen to.” He chuckled at his own joke, the sound grating enough to make me want to snap his glowing feathers off one by one.

  “Oh, Julius, this is cozy,” he said, patting my leg like we were old pals. “Don’t worry about Mattie—she’s fine. Tough as nails, just like you, but a hell of a lot smarter. She nearly made it out of the hospital before the staff caught on to her little escape plan.” He laughed again, clearly amused at how much smarter everyone else in the room seemed to be compared to me.

  “And you,” he continued, leaning closer, “you had a massive panic attack and fainted. Can you believe it? Even I was worried, and we hate each other.” Another chuckle, this one colder, more calculated. “But here’s the thing—Mattie pulled through, and thanks to the hair she recovered, we’ve tracked the Necromancer. He’s holed up in the Goodman Theater.”

  He paused, his wings flaring slightly as if he couldn’t resist the drama. “That place is more guarded than the Gates of Heaven,” he said, laughing. “And trust me—I’d know.”

  He straightened up, his glow dimming slightly as he grew more serious. “Normally, I’d tell you to drag your sorry ass out of bed and get to work. But your healer—The Fairy Godmother, as they call her—she scares the hell out of me. So, for once, we’re playing by the rules. Rest up, Julius. When she cuts you loose, you can join the hunt.”

  He turned to leave, but not before dropping one last infuriating nugget. “Oh, and Zefpyre will be here soon to keep an eye on you. I know how much you’ll love that.” His smile widened, a final jab before he strode out of the room, leaving a trail of light and smug satisfaction in his wake.

  Rage boiled inside me, a storm that had nowhere to go. I wanted to scream, to destroy, to wipe that smirk off his face forever. But before I could even think of breaking free, I heard it again.

  Tisk, tisk, tisk.

  That sound was going to haunt me.

  She didn’t just walk into the room—she glided, her every step a weightless dance on the air itself. Her wings blurred with an otherworldly hum, moving so fast that even my enhanced wizard’s vision struggled to keep up. For the first time, I got a proper look at her—a petite figure wrapped in soft pink healer robes that contrasted sharply with the steel in her presence.

  And then it came.

  Tisk, tisk, tisk.

  “Ahh, look at how handsome you are,” she cooed, her small hand wrapping gently but firmly around my jaw. Her touch was deceptively tender, like a predator inspecting its prey. Her wings beat a little slower, casting faint shadows against the golden light of the room.

  “We need to talk,” she said, her tone sweet but underpinned with unshakable authority. “I’ll be letting you go very shortly now that you’re fully recovered.” She smiled, but it wasn’t comforting. No, it was laced with malice—a predator’s grin. “But there’s something I need to ask of you, young man.”

  Her fingers lingered for a moment before she stepped back, floating effortlessly. Her eyes locked onto mine, and the air between us grew cold. “I need you to put down this Last Disciple like the rabid dog he is.”

  The malice in her smile deepened, sharp and gleaming like a blade just before it strikes. “We can’t have anyone out here serving the Father of Death. Not after what I’ve done to ensure that madman stays banished.”

  She tilted her head, wings fluttering faster, and for a moment, her gaze carried a flicker of something ancient and dangerous. “You see, I was one of the practitioners who helped banish him the first time. And let me tell you, it wasn’t a task for the faint of heart.”

  Her expression softened just a hair, but her voice remained as commanding as ever. “I would get involved myself, but... I’m afraid such matters are now beneath me.” She let out a mock sigh, the kind you’d hear from someone laying a heavy burden on another’s shoulders. “This is for your generation to take care of.”

  She turned to leave, but not before giving me one last look, her eyes alight with expectation. “Don’t disappoint me, young man.” And with that, she glided out, the faint hum of her wings lingering long after she was gone.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, I thought I caught one last tisk, tisk, tisk. It sent an involuntary shudder down my spine. That damned Fairy Godmother.

  I wasted no time pulling my clothes back on, the familiar weight of my leather trench coat settling around me like a second skin. The smell of worn leather mixed with lingering hospital potions was oddly comforting. As I rummaged through the countless hidden pockets, ensuring everything was still in place, Zefpyre waddled into the room in his feline form, his golden eyes brimming with judgment.

  “Hmm... I see you’re alive and well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with dry disdain.

  I grunted in response, pulling out my mithril cigar case. Wrapped around it was a note, written in the most condescending script I’d ever seen: You really should stop smoking these. Dreamer’s Leaf is dangerous, and I’ve never seen a stronger strain packed into such a large quantity.

  I crumpled the note in my hand and threw it to the floor without a second thought.

  Zefpyre let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You know there’s a formal complaint against you.”

  I glanced at him sideways. “One of those Scribe fucks?”

  “Yes,” he replied, his tone heavy with disapproval. “One of Gus’s old employees. Dante McComb.”

  The name didn’t register immediately. “Eh. Doesn’t ring any bells,” I muttered, rifling through another pocket.

  Zefpyre’s eyes narrowed. “You strangled his mana core and made him piss his pants.”

  That brought a bark of laughter from me. “Oh, that fucker! Yeah, he deserved it.”

  Zefpyre’s tail flicked in irritation. “Julius, that’s beside the point. There are rules.”

  “Don’t quote the damn accords to me,” I snapped. “I’ve still got a headache.”

  Zefpyre padded closer, his small form exuding authority despite his size. “You realize this won’t be swept under the rug. The way you’ve been acting on this case has people worried—on top of the panic attack and passing out.”

  I felt my blood boil. “Look, you furry bastard,” I growled, “people are dying out there! I’m trying to catch this bastard before more bodies hit the ground!”

  “As you should,” Zefpyre replied, his voice steady, measured. “But maybe you should sit the rest of this out. Get your head straight. Watch over Mattie until she recovers. Let the rest of the Order handle the Necromancer. They’ve got him cornered.”

  I glared daggers at him. “You think I’m going to let those washouts screw this up? They’ll bungle it, and we’ll have a dozen more bodies to show for it.”

  Zefpyre’s ears flattened, and he let out a low, irritated hrmph. “Julius, we were catching bad guys before you were even born, and we’ll still be doing it long after you’re gone. But you can’t afford another major infraction against the accords. Too many people would love to send you to the Underworld—or worse. Lower.”

  That last word seemed to echo in the room, stretching out into a heavy silence. The burden around my neck—the ring that hung from the chain—grew heavier, pulling at me like it knew the weight of my sins.

  I muttered, “Whatever,” and pushed past him. “Let’s get to the theater.”

  We walked out into the parking lot in tense silence. From one of my coat’s inner pockets, I pulled out a miniature version of my car, whispered the activation spell, and watched as it expanded to its full size.

  Zefpyre hopped into the passenger seat with a feline grace that annoyed me more than it should. We drove off, the only sound between us the low rumble of the engine and the storm brewing in my chest.