During the early hours of the morning…

The silence in the Duke's mansion was dense, almost solid. The kind of silence that wasn't just the absence of sound, but the presence of something hidden—something waiting, watching.

The moon filtered through the tall, narrow windows, casting rectangles of pale light on the black marble. Outside, the wind blew softly, just enough to stir the leaves in the garden and rustle among the ancient statues.

Ester slept poorly. Even secluded in the east wing, far from the room she had once shared with Damon, she couldn't shake the uneasy foreboding that had been with her since sunset. The air seemed heavy. The mansion, too alive. The long shadows of the tapestries moved as if breathing.

She turned restlessly in bed.

In the opposite wing, where the Duke had hosted Damon—a vast room, walls covered in burgundy velvet and smelling of old iron—something was moving.

A window, locked hours before, gave way without a sound. The metal latch was lifted from within with a thin, nimble hook. A dark figure, dressed in light-absorbing clothing, slid inside like smoke.

The killer soundlessly set his feet on the carpet. He breathed evenly, as if meditating. His eyes adjusted to the dim light—and there, in the center of the bed, he saw Damon's sleeping form, the covers rising and falling gently with the rhythm of sleep.

A wry smile crept beneath the hood. The mission would be quick.

The dagger gleamed, curved like a silver tongue.

One step. Then another.

The killer leaned in, his face close enough to feel the heat of the supposed body beneath the covers. His fist rose… and then came down.

One, two, three thrusts.

The blade sank deep, the muffled sound of slicing flesh filling the air—but no blood came.

The assassin hesitated. The fourth thrust tore through the fabric, revealing straw. Threads of cloth scattered. A doll.

His eyes widened.

And before he could flinch, a sharp crack echoed. A brief, metallic sound from above—like a bow being drawn.

The spear pierced the darkness and pierced his skull through and through.

The body fell soundlessly, only the slow drip of blood onto the carpet.

From high above the room, in the rafters, Damon watched.

His gray eyes, cold and unforgiving, reflected the moonlight.

He didn't move for a long moment. He simply watched the intruder's motionless body, blood dripping down the spear shaft, the metallic smell filling the air.

With a swift movement, he leaped to the floor.

The spear still vibrated faintly, trapped in the trap he had set hours earlier. Damon pulled the weapon back, wiped the blood off with the sheet, and threw it at the torn doll.

Then he lifted his chin.

From the hallway came another sound. Light footsteps—too quick to belong to a servant.

He knew: this wasn't the only one.

In the east wing, Esther finally stood.

A shiver ran down her spine, and instinctively, she reached for the dagger she kept under her pillow. She walked to the window. The moon was high, but there was movement in the garden—shadows moving between the trees, quick and disciplined.

Her heart raced.

The reflection in the glass showed her pale face, her wide eyes. She whispered to herself, "Damon…"

She left the room.

The hallway seemed longer than it had during the day. The sound of her footsteps echoed off the stone walls. There were tapestries depicting hunting scenes and portraits of ancestors, whose eyes seemed to follow her. Each candle flickered, as if sensing something.

A creak.

Ester stopped.

From a half-open door, a hand emerged—quickly. An arm grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside. She struggled, but the voice whispering in her ear stopped her.

"Esther, make no noise."

It was Damon.

His blood spattered his shoulder, but his eyes were calm.

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling.

"I was attacked," he murmured. "There are at least three."

"Who?"

"Assassins," he replied dryly. "It seems your taunts and threats to the Duke resulted in this."

Ester narrowed her eyes.

Outside, another noise. Something moving in the corridors—the metallic sound of blades being unsheathed. Damon looked around, analyzing. The room they were in was small, a former office, with a bookshelf, an unlit fireplace, and a narrow window.

Esther, with that cold look in her eyes, sighed. "And here I thought I could let the duke live..." she murmured as the room began to grow cold.

"Come on, let's kill him." Ester, the former Imperial general... was finally coming to her senses.

Ester smiled—a short, warmthless smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her breathing was slow, almost calculated. The dagger still silvered in her hand as if it were a natural extension of her arm. Behind that gesture, far deeper than the will to kill, was technique; there were years of orders given and received, of corpses and battle maps. The former Imperial general was waking up.

Damon frowned. The perception in her gaze was quick, a warning of danger, mechanical. He knew when someone crossed the line between fear and purpose. And in Ester's face, he saw purpose forming—cold, unwavering, cutting.

"We can't stay here," she said, her voice threaded. "They're going to surround the east wing. We need to cut through their line and escape through the courtyard."

Damon nodded. Not because he condoned her violence, but because he knew that when the woman assumed that expression, arguing was a waste of time. He pushed open the door carefully, his eyes scanning the hallway. Candles flickered in niches, and the long, tapestry-lined corridor seemed to swallow sound.

They left.

They crossed two flights of stairs and entered a narrow hallway that led to the central atrium. It was there, where the house breathed most heavily, that the night servants usually passed. Now there were only shadows, and the impression of something moving in the wood. Damon placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger, feeling the short, solid blade beneath the fabric. Esther held the dagger loosely, almost carefree—like someone holding a razor to open a package.

Two steps forward, and the first of them came.

They came swiftly, strangely, as if emerging from the shadows themselves—two short, lithe figures, black masks that reflected the moon like two split moons. Daggers raised, practiced movement; a paired attack to seize flanks. The first touched the end of the corridor and advanced like a viper.

Damon reacted instinctively, stepping back and blocking with his forearm; the blade grazed his sleeve, leaving a cold scratch. But Ester was the surprise. Instead of the expected dagger strike, she let out a breath, as if from the corner of her mouth—a single low sound, almost a command—and the air responded.

For the first second, nothing was visible but nascent ice on the surface of the floor: a silvery line that grew from the sole of her shoe, rose like sap, and licked the leather of her attackers' shoes. Then, in seconds that seemed to stretch forever and snap, the cold exploded.

The impact was audiovisual: air hissing, fabrics creaking, the steel exhaling vapors as if it had been plunged into cold water. The first assassin tried to yank the dagger away, but his hand was locked—not by ties, not by rope, but by something immobilizing from within. His arm became smooth as glass and white as if coated in frost from within. His muscles stiffened; his joints cracked. His body went rigid, his mask shattering into small silver fragments as his head made a small, curving movement. The second man tried to retreat, to turn around, to find space—there was no space. The ground beneath his sole crystallized with intertwining lines that gripped his feet like icy roots.

Ester didn't wait for things to slow down. She took a precise step forward, and her palm met the first man's chest. There was a brief pressure, a touch like the last act of consideration before death.

The sound was dry, concise: a deep crack, like wood cracking under frost. There was no exposed flesh, no gushing blood—only the sound of the inevitable. The killer's body, which had previously advanced in rage, gave way; his limbs, previously stiff, shattered with the fragility of porcelain under a calculated impact. Fragments of ice and fabric fell to the ground, the sound of a waterfall interrupted. The second, still standing, tried a desperate movement, but the frost that had consumed his extremities rose in streaks, like silver veins, until it locked around his neck. He tried to grunt, turned his head, his eyes behind his mask reflecting the moon in an expression of childlike surprise—and then he shattered silently on the floor, like a cracked ivory doll.

Damon watched with bated breath. Not out of horror—there was far less horror than speed and efficiency—but out of surprise.

"I'm always startled by this icy strength," he whispered.

Ester didn't respond with words. She picked up her broken fists—hard, cracked remains—and tossed them aside. The smell that rose was of metal and fabric and damp. Her eyes were calm; her face a mask of firm snow.

"It's just a trick, killing weak people like that is nothing…" Her voice was low, biting. "Well, let's go."

Damon held out his hand. He saw, in her palm, tiny crystals that glittered. They weren't just ice: it seemed as if the cold lived there, lodged in the skin, like a domesticated animal. He felt a shiver, not of fear, but of respect. Teresa—no, Ester—was far more than a former general. She was an instrument calibrated to cut through life.

"Yeah, let's go," Damon said, regaining the control the urgency demanded. "There are still others."

Ester wiped the blade of the dagger on a piece of cloth, like someone wiping dust off an object they haven't used in a while.

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