Nikolai stood on the roof of the hospitarium, watching the chaos unfold. The fight outside the city had been visible for miles, the dark sky lighting up repeatedly with violent blasts of lightning.

  Several buildings burned throughout the city, and Nikolai couldn’t help but smile to himself. The adventurers weren’t holding anything back. Then there was the city guard, and they were out in force, milling through the streets in a confused mess—orders being shouted, people being harshly told to remain in their homes. They obviously had been taken by surprise, and were yet to figure out what the hell was going on.

  The guildmaster had not advised the ruling body of the city about what would happen tonight, which meant that all but a small portion of them knew the full story.

  His grip on the handle of his cane tightened as Sevrin appeared from the darkness, the butler almost invisible in the darkness in his black suit. He bowed to Nikolai and smiled faintly.

  “Charles Keanton is preparing to flee, young master. If we wish to cut him off…”

  Nikolai held up a hand to stop him, his eyes still locked on the vista of the burning city. “Thank you, Sevrin, but going alone would be foolish. We still haven’t found the illusionist.”

  Sevrin walked up to stand beside Nikolai. “Wise. Then what is your command then?”

  Nikolai glanced at his servant… no, at his friend, and smiled faintly. “Do you know any tracking magic?”

  Sevrin’s smile widened. “I am sure I can think something up. So—you wish to let him escape?”

  Nikolai nodded slowly. “Keanton, yes. The illusionist though… It’s personal with him.”

  Sevrin’s expression didn’t change, but Nikolai sensed the quiet disapproval beneath it and grinned slightly. Personal grudges were part and parcel for the fae after all. “I know. It isn’t rational or logical to go after an enemy we have no information on. This is something I want to do though. He is too dangerous to allow to roam free. Also, I really want to kick his teeth in for what he did to me.”

  Sevrin bowed slightly. “He is likely traveling with Charles Keanton, if my guess is correct.”

  “Makes sense. Which means we still need to cut them off somehow… draw him out.” Nikolai said quietly.

  “Kaelith will be returning soon?” Sevrin asked.

  “Yeah. Shouldn’t be long now. Actually—go find her. I’ll go ahead. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid.” He added those last words at Sevrin’s concerned look.

  The butler bowed, and ever the professional, vanished to do his master’s bidding.

  Nikolai stretched his arms over his head, rolled his shoulders once, made sure the mask was securely fastened to his face, then leapt off the roof—turning into a streak of shadow midair before gravity could fully claim him.

  Not long after, he was hidden beside a chimney atop one of the larger and more expensive inns in the city. From his vantage point, he could watch Charles Keanton’s mansion clearly, and Sevrin hadn’t been lying about preparations being made.

  A small army of armed men stood ready in ranks, surrounding a pair of posh carriages.

  As he looked on, the procession began moving. The armed men jogged instead of marching. It would seem that Charles was in a considerable hurry. Fucking snake, slithering away when things get tough.

  The bastard was in the front carriage. He had entered with a lean man in a dark blue suit, while his family rode in the rear carriage—three women and a young boy.

  Nikolai grimaced.

  This was going to be difficult.

  He followed them along the rooftops, making very sure to stay out of sight. His otherwordly grace, which still felt faintly alien to him, allowed him to move silently across the tiles. Each step was secure, balanced, effortless.

  Near the gate, something surprising happened.

  Nikolai had been pondering how to reach Keanton without harming his family, but it would seem someone else had decided to act first.

  A large contingent of armed guardsmen blocked the road, forcing the procession to halt and Charles himself to step out of the carriage.

  He was a small man, but appeared rather fit for his age. The top of his head was bald, the sides grey-white. He wore fine silks and a sword at his hip, but the furious outrage on his face was the most striking feature about him.

  Nikolai was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was painfully clear that the conversation wasn’t going Keanton’s way. He gesticulated violently, shouting, spittle likely flying from his mouth, while the guard captain stood stoic and unmoving, adamant in his refusal. The city was apparently being locked down, and that was causing dear Charles a bit of trouble.

  Nikolai felt his face crease into a grin.

  Keanton suddenly shoved the man in anger.

  On both sides, weapons were drawn instantly.

  The captain said something, his face hidden behind his helmet but his body language clear. Keanton simply drew his own blade and raised it high.

  The street erupted into violence, as all semblance of civility was shed.

  Nikolai found himself momentarily mesmerized.

  Seeing warriors fight against each other was one thing. Watching people with superhuman strength and agility clash in close quarters—it was something else entirely. It was like watching one of those Chinese kung fu movies, controlled chaos exploding across the cobblestones.

  The man in the blue suit exited the carriage, surveyed the scene in a single sweeping glance, then called urgently to Keanton and gestured sharply toward the carriage.

  The old nobleman ran back without hesitation and nimbly jumped inside.

  Then the blue-suited man changed.

  His outfit elongated and reshaped, flowing into robes, and a staff appeared in his hand as if conjured from thin air.

  Nikolai watched as flames erupted from the street itself, licking upward before spreading into the walls on either side. Fighters from both factions recoiled in shock at that development and instinctively kept their distance.

  A corridor of fire formed—an open escape route for Keanton.

  Nikolai cursed under his breath. They were out of time…

  He had to move.

  He had promised Sevrin—but he was out of time.

  The blue-robed man… no.

  The illusionist.

  That one had to die. The time for hesitation and quiet watching was done, it was now or letting them simply disappear into the darkness.

  Nikolai took a running leap, his strength and agility sending him flying over the street far below.

  As he began to fall, he became shadow—and with impossible speed streaked forward.

  Moments later he reappeared behind the illusionist, sword already swinging toward his neck.

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  Just before the blade could reach him, a barrier of translucent purple light materialized around him.

  Nikolai’s sword skidded along it harmlessly, sparks flaring briefly where steel met the magically conjured dome.

  The man spun, surprise flashing across his face—then he snarled in what looked like outrage when he saw only a black-suited, masked figure.

  Despite the failed strike, Nikolai didn’t hesitate. He leapt backward and cast Curse of Torment.

  The spell landed.

  The illusionist hissed sharply in anger.

  He waved his hand and suddenly Nikolai was facing dozens of him. He was surrounded by at least a dozen sneering mages, each identical, each advancing with staff raised.

  Logically, Nikolai knew they were illusions.

  His brain, however, interpreted what it saw as imminent threats, and a suffocating sense of being overwhelmed swept over him. He gritted his teeth, repeating the same thought in the privacy of his own mind. They are just illusions…

  Nikolai dodged and weaved between the attacks, his sword and cane lashing out, cutting through nothing but air. He tried to look in every direction at once, but had no way of knowing who the right target was. A spell like Kaelith’s dark flames would be amazing just then…

  As he was cutting through yet another image, pain exploded through his chest.

  He gasped at the sudden pain, and felt warm blood running down his stomach.

  Nikolai staggered and tried to breathe, but was unable to draw a proper breath.

  A punctured lung?

  Instinctively, he leapt backward, eyes squeezing shut from sudden fear as he recoiled.

  He landed hard, his body refusing to respond properly, his normal grace gone. He tried to look around, but his vision blurred and swam. What the hell had he been hit by!? Where is the bastard!?

  That was when he realized something.

  Or rather—

  He sensed something.

  Mana.

  His mana.

  His curse.

  It wasn’t perfect, but he could feel it—the lingering thread of power connecting him to his target.

  The curse was still active, still working its dark magic on his enemy.

  He could track it.

  Imperfectly, but perhaps it would give him a chance.

  Nikolai cast Healing Grace on himself as he rolled aside. The illusionist seemed surprised, every face surrounding Nikolai had wide eyes, which turned to annoyance as he began to attack again without hesitation.

  Nikolai’s vision began to clear as the healing took hold. He was still in terrible shape, but it was enough to steady his mind. The blood was stemmed at least, he could move.

  He scanned the still large number of illusions around him, but now he had an idea of where to look. He kept from staring directly in the direction he sensed his curse, and began dodging the incoming attacks, feigning desperation, even letting some of his very real fear seem into his courtborne guise skill.

  He felt it coming, his mana, and in a flash he knew. He was coming to finish the job… good.

  He feigned confusion, moving to dodge an attack from one of the illusions.

  The real one fell for it.

  He lunged forward, staff glowing at the tip with a sharp purple spike of condensed mana.

  At the last possible moment, Nikolai ducked—and surged forward in a brutal rugby tackle.

  He felt the satisfying impact.

  He heard the air rush from the man’s lungs as they slammed into the ground.

  The illusions flickered—then vanished entirely.

  Only the choking, furious man beneath him remained.

  Nikolai planted his hand firmly into the illusionist’s face, the sharp crack of the slap audible even over the surrounding clash of steel.

  He activated Essence Drain.

  With his free arm, still holding his cane, he locked down one of the man’s arms.

  The illusionist was still stunned—unused to this kind of direct, physical confrontation. He clearly relied on trickery and distance rather than close combat.

  That didn’t mean he was weak however, in fact he was pretty damn strong, even more so than Nikolai himself. Only Nikolai’s position on top of him, and him actively draining his strength through essence gave him a slight advantage.

  He punched Nikolai several times—not devastating blows, but strong enough to draw blood.

  Nikolai held on, forcing himself to focus, keeping his spell going through the pain.

  He registered vaguely as another illusion appeared beside them—but ignored it.

  Illusions couldn’t hurt him…

  Oh how wrong he was…

  The illusion kicked him viciously in the stomach.

  The force of the blow lifted Nikolai off the illusionist and hurled him across the street.

  For a moment, Nikolai simply lay there stunned, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  The pain of at least a few broken ribs radiated through him in horrible, pulsing waves.

  He cast Healing Grace again—but broken bones took time, not to mention him actually concentrating on the spell.

  He growled in frustration as the illusionist rose to his feet.

  Unsteadily, but absolutely livid with rage.

  He approached Nikolai slowly, eyes full of promise of a painful death, energy collecting into a crackling purple sphere in his hand.

  Nikolai hastily threw up a mana barrier.

  The two spells collided violently, the resulting shockwave sending Nikolai tumbling again before he crashed through a shop stall, turning it into to nothing but splintered wood and cloth.

  He had definitely lost that exchange…

  He coughed up blood.

  Something inside him was definitely broken.

  Going alone had been stupid, he had been too rash, too sure of himself.

  Sevrin couldn’t help him now—even if he called him. The fucking law of the fae wouldn’t allow it.

  Kaelith…

  He needed Kaelith.

  Pain wracked his body, he couldn’t get up. What made things infinitely worse, the illusionist was still standing.

  The man laughed maniacally.

  “Nocturne, eh!? You little fucks really caused us some problems. Now look at you! Well, good fucking riddance, I say!”

  Another crackling sphere of condensed mana appeared in his hand.

  Nikolai tried desperately to muster the strength to lift his arm. He had to put some kind of defense, he had to!

  The mana was there.

  He even had stolen essence left to draw on.

  But his mind was fogged, the pain too overwhelming.

  Healing Grace was still running, it was the only thing keeping him conscious at this point.

  Then, as the man began aiming his magic at Nikolai, his face full of self-righteous malice, everything changed.

  A scream of absolute fury tore through the night.

  A woman’s voice.

  A massive form of steel and flesh, barreled into the illusionist out of nowhere. There was a sickening crunching squelchy sound, as the man was bashed aside.

  Lurk carried the charge forward, both of them smashing through the stone wall of a nearby building in an explosion of debris.

  Kaelith appeared moments later, her wicked-looking sword stained with blood, a dark aura of fury radiating from her like heat.

  Through the hole in the wall, Lurk re-emerged—preceded by the illusionist’s broken body flying through the air and crashing into the middle of the street like a discarded doll.

  Kaelith stepped forward and stood over him.

  “You can’t hide from me, illusionist. All actions have consequences, and I will be your’s!’’

  She raised her hand and aimed toward the nearby carriage.

  Only one remained. Charles Keanton had apparently fled in the confusion, but Nikolai’s fight had broken the illusionist’s concentration—and the way out was blocked for his family.

  Kaelith laughed darkly.

  “I wonder what your employer would say if you allowed Keanton’s family to burn in an inferno of my soulfire!”

  Black flames erupted in a wave from her hand, rushing toward the carriage.

  Screaming erupted from inside.

  “NO!”

  The illusionist appeared between Kaelith and the carriage, he had somehow found the strength to move.

  Barriers of purple energy materialized, halting the flames in their tracks. The black flames rose higher and higher, growing more intense with Kaelith’s fury.

  It hid Kaelith’s true plan.

  Lurk lunged through the flames, which didn’t so much as touch him. He crashed through the magical barriers, and the illusionist screamed in terror.

  Kaelith closed her hand and the flames winked out instantly.

  Lurk’s massive hand was clamped around the illusionist’s throat now, and the huge Draugr performed a disturbingly accurate Hulk impersonation—slamming the man into the ground repeatedly with brutal force.

  Cobblestones cracked.

  Blood sprayed.

  Nodding in satisfaction, Kaelith rushed over to Nikolai, her hands trembling despite herself.

  “Nikolai! How bad is it? Can you—”

  His face remained concealed by the mask.

  He tried to speak but managed only a rasp. His lungs were shredded, breath tearing painfully through him. Being thrown through the market stall, had left numerous punctures in his back and, he was dying, he knew it with the clarity of someone having gotten used to healing, and feeling the body’s state through his mana and magic.

  He had one chance as he saw, just one. He weakly grabbed her wrist—and slowly pointed toward the illusionist.

  Kaelith looked confused for only a second.

  Then understanding dawned.

  She nodded once, and her voice was ice.

  “Serves the bastard well… Drain him dry.”