********HARPER
The air felt heavier than usual that morning.
Not the kind of heaviness that came from rain clouds or the humid press of an oncoming storm, but the sort that clung to skin and seeped into bones — the kind born from silence, stifled words, and the collective weight of people who had come not to mourn, but to watch.
The mayor's funeral was exactly what I had expected: extravagant, immaculate, and dripping with false reverence. The black drapes hanging over the carved pillars of the city hall were too perfectly arranged, the flower arrangements too symmetrical, the marble floor too clean for anything about this to feel real.
I wasn't here to pay respects.
I was here to make sure Elora didn't die.
From the moment I'd learned about the funeral, I knew the masked lady would try something. She wouldn't let the mayor's death pass without some sort of retaliation — especially not with Elora walking straight into the open like this. She was a perfect target.
Chris's voice buzzed faintly in my ear, disguised as an idle hum in the back of my mind.
"Keep your eyes on the upper balconies", he said. Three entry points, one blind corner.
My gaze swept over the sea of black suits and dresses, searching for the one face — or rather, mask — I knew I'd find. The problem with her wasn't that she blended in. It was that she didn't. Even in disguise, even in a crowd, she carried this sharpness that cut through the air, a predator wrapped in silk.
Elora stood three rows ahead, wearing a simple black dress, her hair pinned up. She kept her head bowed like a respectful mourner, but I noticed her eyes flicker too often to the right. She was nervous. She knew I was somewhere behind her. She also knew why.
A string quartet began playing, their notes echoing against the stone walls, delicate and controlled. The priest at the front spoke about legacy and service, and every word made my teeth ache. Service. Right. If only these people knew what the mayor had been serving all along.
I caught movement near the side entrance — a figure slipping in, head down. Black gloves. Slight limp. My pulse sharpened. The masked lady had arrived.
She didn't look at Elora directly. That was the smart thing about her — she never went straight for her target. Instead, she moved slowly, weaving through the edges of the crowd like water slipping through cracks. A mourner here, a grieving acquaintance there.
But I'd been waiting for her.
When the priest's voice lifted to announce a moment of silence, I moved. Not toward Elora — that would be too obvious — but toward the hallway leading to the private rooms at the back. I made sure my shoulder brushed Elora's lightly as I passed, a signal we'd rehearsed: Trust me. Don't move.
I stepped into the dim hallway, boots silent against the carpet. A few portraits of former mayors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me. The smell of polished wood and faint incense clung to the air.
The trick was simple. I let the sound of my steps carry, just enough to suggest someone was moving toward a room at the end of the hall. The masked lady would think it was Elora — or at least someone leading her.
And just as expected, a shadow appeared at the far corner, gliding forward like smoke.
"Looking for someone?" I asked.
She stopped. The mask was different this time — sleek, black, without the ornate designs she'd worn before. But I recognized her stance.
"I should've known," she said, voice low and dangerous.
I tilted my head. "Then you should've stayed home."
---
She lunged first.
Her blade flashed silver in the muted light, and I barely twisted aside in time. The strike grazed my arm, slicing through fabric but missing flesh. My own blade was in my hand a heartbeat later, the weight of it grounding me.
We circled each other in the narrow hallway, every step measured, every movement calculated. The muffled sounds of the funeral carried faintly from behind the walls, as if the rest of the world had no idea we were about to spill blood in the mayor's own building.
She struck again, faster this time. I parried, the impact vibrating through my wrist. Her strength was exactly as I remembered — sharp, precise, without wasted motion.
"You think protecting her will change anything?" she hissed, pressing forward.
"It'll change today," I shot back, pushing against her blade until I broke her stance.
She recovered quickly, twisting away before I could land a strike. But I'd been waiting for that move. I feinted left, then spun right, catching her mid-guard. My blade slid just under her collarbone and cut across the lower part of her neck.
It wasn't deep enough to kill her, but blood bloomed instantly, bright against her dark clothing.
Her eyes — the only part of her face I could see — flashed with something I couldn't quite name. Pain, yes. But also… satisfaction?
I raised my blade again, ready to finish it. My breathing was steady, my grip sure.
Then the air changed.
It started as a hum, so low I thought it was Chris again. But then the shadows at the far end of the hallway began to twist, pulling away from the walls like strands of smoke. The temperature dropped, my breath misting faintly in the air.
"What—" I began, but the words died in my throat.
From the darkness, something moved. Not a person. Not in the way people move. This was a presence — a mass of black energy swirling like a storm contained in a human shape. The closer it came, the more wrong it felt, like the space around it bent inward.
The masked lady didn't flinch.
The thing — the presence — swept toward us in a single, soundless rush. I took a step back on instinct, blade still raised. Before I could react further, the black energy wrapped around her, cocooning her in shadows.
Her blood dripped once onto the carpet, and then they were both gone.
Just… gone.
The hallway was empty again, the air slowly warming, the hum fading to silence.
Chris's voice finally broke through. Harper… that wasn't just—
"I know," I said, my grip tightening on the blade. My heart was still pounding, but not from the fight anymore.
Because I recognized that energy now.
Vaelthor.
He'd taken her. And I'd let it happen.
The frustration came in a sharp wave, curling hot in my chest. I'd been seconds away from ending her, from stopping her from hurting anyone else, and he'd stolen that from me. Whatever reason he had, whatever game he was playing, it didn't matter.
She was gone.
And the next time I saw her, it wouldn't be in a hallway.
It would be somewhere I wouldn't let anyone — not even Vaelthor — take her away again.