The old storeroom was quiet now.
Mara had been gone for hours.
The others waited—nervous, stiff, unable to fully rest. Talwyn sat with his back to the door, eyelids fluttering every time the hallway creaked. Lina remained close to the back wall, her hands wrapped in cloth, one ankle propped up awkwardly—still tender from the last fall.
Julian was pacing.
Caelum sat apart from them, legs folded beneath him, eyes half-lidded, not sleeping—but listening.
Every heartbeat in the room echoed like a countdown.
The blood he'd consumed still churned inside him—real blood, alive with magic and memory. It had healed him, partially, but more than that it had awakened something. His spellcasting was sharper now. Cleaner. The strain of wandless magic no longer left his limbs trembling, and the connection to the wand he held in his palm—taken from a corpse—was stronger than it had any right to be.
Even now, he could feel the rhythm of dueling techniques playing out in his head.
Step. Deflect. Disrupt. Cut.
The way magic was used in battle, it could be more than something forced into obedience—it could dance, if you knew the rhythm.
Caelum let out a slow breath. That was the agent's instinct, speaking through him. Or what remained of it.
Julian broke the silence first. "She's taking too long."
"No one sprints across London," Talwyn muttered. "Especially not with all of us flagged."
"Assuming she even got out…" Julian started, then stopped himself.
Caelum opened his eyes. "She did."
All three of them looked at him.
Julian frowned. "You don't know that."
"I know enough," Caelum replied.
He shifted slightly, aligning his senses with what lay beyond the room—magic, heartbeats, faint but unmistakable.
"They're spread thinner now," he continued. "Not just inside. Some of them have moved beyond the perimeter."
Talwyn's gaze sharpened. "You're sure?"
Caelum nodded once. "They're looking for something outside."
Julian's expression darkened. "…Her."
"Most likely."
A pause.
Then Caelum added, quieter, "Which means she made it far enough to matter."
The tension in the room shifted—not gone, but redirected.
Hope, thin and fragile, slipped in where certainty had not existed before.
Julian exhaled slowly, though the tightness in his shoulders remained. "And if she reaches St. Mungo's?"
"If she finds Mirren," Caelum said, "and if Mirren passes the message to Kingsley—"
"That's a lot of 'ifs,'" Julian cut in, sharper now.
Caelum met his gaze without flinching. "It's all we have."
The words didn't carry force.
They didn't need to.
Julian looked away first.
"We move at nightfall," Caelum continued, his tone steady. "Find a new position. If they locate us before she returns…"
He let the sentence hang for half a breath.
"…we don't go quietly."
Talwyn gave a small, grim nod.
No one argued.
They were past that point.
The room settled again, though not into rest—only into waiting.
Minutes passed.
Or longer.
Then—
Caelum went still.
His head tilted slightly, as if catching something just beyond hearing. The faint glow in his eyes sharpened, focus narrowing to something distant and precise.
A shift.
But unmistakable.
"They're moving," he said.
Talwyn straightened despite the strain in his body. "Where?"
"Closer."
Caelum pushed himself upright in one smooth motion, the earlier fatigue no longer slowing him. His gaze moved toward the door, though he wasn't looking at it—he was looking through it.
"They've stopped searching blindly," he continued. "They're tightening the net."
Julian's voice dropped. "So this is it."
Caelum didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly:
"They're done waiting."
…
{North of London, Outer Borough}
The wind cut sharply through the narrow alleys, cold enough to sting against exposed skin.
Mara didn't slow.
She couldn't.
Each step jarred through her body, the pain in her wrist flaring every time her grip shifted on the wand. Her breathing came uneven, lungs burning from hours of running without pause. More than once, her footing slipped against damp stone, but she forced herself forward before the stumble could become a fall.
Stopping wasn't an option.
Not yet.
She had discarded her cloak hours earlier—burned it in a back alley when the smell of smoke and blood became too strong to ignore. Now she moved in borrowed layers that didn't quite fit, her steps uneven but relentless.
Her pursuers didn't know where she was going.
That didn't make her safe.
Every shadow pressed too close. Every sound felt like it was chasing her.
She didn't turn.
If they were there, hesitation would only slow her down.
So she kept moving. She had one goal.
Find Mirren.
She rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt in front of the glowing green sigil of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
The automatic warded doors resisted her entrance—then clicked open.
Inside, the welcome witch looked up, startled at the sight of a soot-streaked girl, wand raised only slightly in signal, eyes wide with urgency.
Mara stumbled forward and slammed her palms on the counter.
"I need to speak to Healer Mirren. Now."
The witch blinked. "Miss, if you're injured—"
"No. Not for me." Mara's voice was breathless but sharp with purpose.
"It's for Caelum Sanguine. From Greystone House. He needs her help—it's a matter of life and death."
The welcome witch hesitated only a second more before flicking her wand sharply. A green flame danced in the air—an emergency call.
"Wait here," she said quickly. "She's on her way."
Mara exhaled and leaned heavily against the wall.
For the first time in hours, she didn't have to run.