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“Alive,” Sable says. “Also accurate.”

I take Isolde’s note back from her and fold it carefully along its original crease. My palms are still hot enough to soften the wax, so I tuck it into the inner pocket of my coat before I can damage it. The bond keeps pulling toward the estate, but now I let it guide instead of yank.

“I test the perimeter,” I say. “Find the patched weak points from the scorched runes. If he is moving against the ledgers, orders will travel.”

Rhazek’s expression shifts into something that might be approval if he were a kinder creature. “Intercept the orders without revealing interception.”

“Let the messenger run.”

“Precisely.”

Sable exhales through her nose. “You two planning crimes together should worry me more than it does.”

“It should worry Vaerith,” I say.

By dusk, the estate district reeks of rain, scorched ward-stone, and expensive panic.

I keep to the rooftops first, moving low over slick tiles and narrow ledges while the city settles into blue-gray evening beneath me. My glamour clings tighter now, though the horns beneath it ache with every flare of the bond. Sable follows from the lower streets at a distance, not close enough to be caught with me, close enough that if something goes wrong she can make it worse for everyone involved. Rhazek vanishes before we leave and reappears nowhere obvious, which usually means he is closer than comfort allows.

Vaerith’s estate glows ahead behind its walls.

The main gates look intact. That is the first lie.

Wards rarely fail beautifully. They burn, scar, warp, and heal crooked if rushed. Vaerith’s people have patched the outer protections with fresh lattice over damaged bones, layering clean silver script over the blackened stress points my flame exposed during the ritual. To human eyes, the boundary probably looks stronger than before. To mine, it resembles a gentleman wearing a jeweled robe over a stab wound.

I drop from a roof into the shadow of a cypress tree near the west wall and press my palm against the stone.

The ward hums.

It recognizes me as threat, contaminant, anomaly, and several other unpleasant classifications that buzz under my skin like insects. I keep my breathing slow and let the hunger approach the ward-energy with curiosity instead of appetite.

“Small bites,” I whisper.

The phrase sounds absurd, but it works.

I do not tear into the anchor. I do not drink until it screams. I draw one thread of energy free from the secondary lattice, thin as hair, and let it burn against my palm. Ward power tastes nothing like demon essence. It is colder, metallic, structured with dark elf arrogance and the stale pressure of repeated command. I swallow only enough to loosen the knot, then pinch the current shut.

The first secondary anchor dims.

The main gate remains bright.

Good.

I move to the next.

This one fights harder, sending a shock up my arm that would probably drop a human to his knees. I hold steady, teeth set, shoulders pressed against wet stone while the ward tries to classify what I am and fails in increasingly irritated pulses. The hunger wants to take more. The memory of Isolde’s fingers tapping against my sternum answers before I lose shape.

In.

Hold.

Out.

I draw the second anchor down by degrees until the patched seam collapses inward without noise. The estate boundary remains standing, but now the west wall has two blind places hidden under Vaerith’s own repairs.

“Pretty,” a voice murmurs behind me.

I turn fast enough to put one hand around a throat.