Boots pounded the cobblestone behind her. Elena's breath came in gasps, her coat whipping behind her. "Not now, not now…" she muttered, clutching her sides. Her head spun from the mix of magic, alcohol, and panic.
Then—she tripped.
Her foot caught on a loose cobblestone. She crashed to the street, skidding across her knees and hands. The pain was sharp. Blood welled up.
Purple sparks crackled faintly around her fingertips.
"There she is, boys! The witch of Rosaria!"
She looked up, wide-eyed.
Their coats bore the unmistakable crest—
The Inquisition.
Her stomach dropped.
She backed up, her palms scraping the stone, but the alley offered no escape. Just stone walls. Just shadows. Just—
Handcuffs clanked.
The men moved in, cruel and confident.
Elena's heart pounded. Her magic buzzed at her fingertips, disoriented and wild. No weapon. No room. No time.
"Please stop."
They got so close, she could smell the incense on them. Her eyes sparked with violet light.
"Don't fucking touch me."
Then—everything snapped.
A flash of purple light. Screams.
The alley exploded with magic, lightning crackling in every direction. The smell of ozone, blood, and burning cloth filled the air. Shadows moved and fell. And when the storm died—
Elena stood alone.
Breathing hard.
Her coat was torn. Her knuckles were raw and bleeding. One eye swollen, her lip cut. Purple light shimmered faintly across her skin like electricity lingering after a storm.
The Inquisitors were dead.
She stumbled away, heart thudding with the terror of what she'd done. She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed to move. She slumped against a curb, gasping.
"Need… mana," she mumbled, and collapsed, barely conscious.
A shadow loomed.
Silent. Watchful.
The figure bent and scooped Elena into their arms.
Her blood stained their coat, but they didn't flinch. They carried her back toward the coast—back to the crumbling house near the docks, through a door that opened before them as if by invitation.
Inside the chapel space, the altar had been cleared.
Only candlelight remained, flickering in reverence.
The figure laid her gently across the stone slab and adjusted her cloak, brushing curls from her battered face.
Then the voice came again—velvet and deep.
"Rest, mija. There is work to be done."