"Demon magic!" soone scread.
Mikhailis spun to greet a dagger flashing for his spine. He saw the thug's wild eyes, slled ale on his breath. Cloak swirling, he parried at full extension, then used the blade's montum to hook the man's wrist. A half-turn, a wrist flick—dagger gone. Before panic registered, Mikhailis reversed grip, poml-smacked temple. The thug's eyes rolled white; he sagged.
Three. Keep pace, Volkov, keep pace.
A crossbow clattered on planks above. The disard roof-archer clawed for a backup quarrel; shadows yanked again. He yelped, slid off the beam, and crashed in a ss of arms and curses. He wouldn't be rejoining the fight.
On the courtyard floor two thugs remained, blades wavering as they backed toward the prisoners. Their faces shifted between bravado and terror under uneven torchlight. Serelith's violet eyes tracked them, smoldering with both pain and contempt. Cerys, jaw clenched, fought the runes with raw muscle; veins stood out on her arms.
"Don't move!" the taller man barked, pressing his dagger to Serelith's cheek. The tip drew a bead of crimson. "One more step and—"
Mikhailis halted, sword low but ready. "All right," he said softly, voice bending around iron. "I won't take one more step."
I'll take three.
He lifted his free hand, fingers open—distraction. In the shadow of his boot a Scurabon darted behind the captive trio. Its mandibles clipped the rope holding the runic chain to a stone ring. The hiss of splitting fibers was lost beneath the wind's moan.
Slack snapped through the chain like a whip. Daggers wavered, montarily off balance. Mikhailis lunged.
Step. The blade glead.
Slice—across first manacle. Blue runes popped like dying fireflies.
Return. Pivot. The second cut sheared through the next cuff before it could flare.
The thugs reacted too late. Weapons lifted, wide and desperate. Mikhailis slid inside the taller man's arc, shoulder checking hard. The thug's ribs t cedar post; air whooshed out in a choked grunt. Mikhailis's sword reversed in his palm, flat side smashing knuckles. Dagger rang away.
The shorter one stabbed for Mikhailis's flank. He twisted, letting cloak catch the blade. Silk hissed as steel sliced fabric but slowed. He trapped the dagger arm with his elbow, then smashed his hilt into the man's nose. Blood spattered stone. The thug staggered; Cerys, half-free, kicked her captor's shin. With a roar she caught the man's collar and heaved, throwing him into the fox statue. Stone ears broke off as the thug slid down, unconscious.
Mikhailis turned back to the taller nace, who fumbled for a hidden knife. Too slow. The prince drove a kick—powered by Scurabon talons—into the brute's knee. Ligants popped. A second kick to the jaw laid him flat.
Silence rushed in—a hush full of ragged breathing, guttering torch, Necrolord shadows whispering against roof tiles.
Mikhailis knelt, slicing the turquoise gag from Serelith's mouth. She coughed, breath rasping like torn paper. He felt her shudder, saw the strain etched under her pale skin.
"Stay with , mage," he murmured.
She managed a thin smile. "You—really—know how to ruin a kidnapping."
Behind, Cerys ripped the remnants of her bindings, flexing sore wrists. She found the fallen dagger, flipped it once, then nearly crumpled; adrenaline had hidden how much mana those runes drank from her.
Mikhailis steadied her. "Easy."
The fortune-teller trembled, tears carving tracks through soot on her cheeks. He cut her bonds too; she clasped his hands, whispering thanks in a trembling dialect he barely caught.
Serelith's fingers dug into Mikhailis's sleeve, her voice thin and trembling. "Mikhailis… they… they have sothing else…"
Her words struck like a whisper of thunder, low but heavy. Mikhailis's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening. He didn't need Rodion to confirm the sick twist in his gut. This wasn't just a kidnapping. It was sothing far worse.
Then a low, wheezing laugh rose from the tangled heap of bodies at the shrine's edge. One of the thugs, barely upright, propped himself against a broken beam, his face a mask of bruises and blood. But his smile was sharp, almost triumphant.
"You think it's over, prince?" the thug spat, a dark, ugly grin splitting his swollen lips. "This is just the start."
Mikhailis's fingers tightened around his blade, the point dipping an inch closer. "Talk. Or I make your suffering into a masterpiece."
"Oh, I'm going to talk," the thug wheezed, a wet cough staining his teeth red. "Because you're too smart for your own good. You saved them. Congratulations. But if you so much as breathe wrong now—"
He jerked his chin, and Mikhailis's sharp gaze followed. The dim square, the crumbling shrine, the scattered crates… and then he saw them. Thin, shimring lines etched along the flagstones, barely visible beneath the gri. A delicate lattice of runic symbols, pulsing with a faint, sickly green glow.
Mikhailis's heart sank.
Rodion's voice spoke with a chill Mikhailis rarely heard.
Mikhailis's eyes tracked the pattern, each flicker of the runes leading to a central point—an altar stone cracked and jagged, glowing with an angry violet pulse. At its core, a heartstone—an enchanted crystal the size of his fist—throbbed like a dying ember.
"Rodion. Tell that's not—"
"The entire festival square," Mikhailis whispered, a cold sweat prickling his spine.
The thug's laughter grew, ragged but vicious. "Now you get it, don't you? The heartstone's ready to blow. And all it takes is one signal. One pulse. One touch."
Serelith's breath hitched, panic clawing at the edges of her exhaustion. Cerys's knuckles whitened around the hilt of the stolen dagger. Her glare burned into the thug, but fear glinted beneath the fury.
"You mad bastards," Cerys spat. "There are hundreds of people out there!"
"Thousands," the thug corrected, his voice sick with glee. "Families. Children. All enjoying the festival lights. And just one touch will turn them into ash."
Mikhailis's gaze snapped to the old fortune-teller, still huddled, her hands clasped over her mouth, horror painted on her wrinkled face. Her shop had been the perfect bait—a place where Serelith and Cerys would lower their guard.
He felt cold steel knotting in his chest. "You won't make it out alive either," he said, voice low and even.
"I'm already dead," the thug hissed. "But I die a martyr. And you? You die a fool."
Mikhailis's mind raced. Rodion whispered, voice a rapid stream of calculations.
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