I ask Ashlynn to answer the bell. She goes outside while I wait in the foyer, every muscle coiled, every sense alert.
Not long after, Xandar appears, smiling. Ashlynn guides him in.
I extend my hand. He extends his.
"Good Sunday," we say in unison, shaking hands.
His eyes drift behind me, scanning the room. I track the servants and guards moving silently behind him.
He steps past me, letting himself in. "Nice house, Monsieur Thadeo."
"Thank you."
"It's unfortunate the previous owner didn't live long," he adds, studying my expression.
I let out a slight chuckle — the most natural response I can manage.
Xandar's men fan out into the living room and dining room. Vases lifted, blinds turned over. Nothing seems amiss.
He turns to Ashlynn. "You have nice taste. It's fun to dress them up like this."
His words sting, but I hold back. My hand brushes her waist. I kiss her neck lightly. "She's very exotic."
Ashlynn moans softly.
Xandar chuckles. "I could do another auction for one of these," he gestures at her like she's merchandise.
The men finish their search. They don't inspect the kitchen properly. The pantries and larder remain untouched. My mask stays buried under the grains.
Xandar ascends the stairs to the second floor. We follow. His men march ahead, scanning the corridor.
Every bedroom is pristine, especially the master.
"Ah, this is where the action happens," Xandar comments, pausing at the master bedroom door.
"She's very wild," I comment.
"Wild?" he asks, curious. "Why don't I join in sometimes?"
"My body already belongs to Monsieur Thadeo," Ashlynn replies sharply, her tone cutting.
Silence falls. Even the servants freeze, as if she's spoken a taboo aloud.
Xandar narrows his eyes, studying her carefully. Then he taps my shoulder. "You have a devoted servant. Be sure to fill her belly up," he says, winking.
From the master bedroom, we move toward the door at the end of the corridor — the attic, our hidden alchemical room.
Click. The door opens.
But then — a servant rushes toward Xandar, panic written across his face. He leans in, whispering urgently. Xandar's calm shifts to anger in an instant.
We remain close, but not close enough to hear. Then Xandar turns to me.
"I need to excuse myself, Monsieur Thadeo. Something came up."
He and his men depart.
We watch their silhouettes fade through the window. A quiet sigh escapes us both. Relief, brief but palpable.
Just as the evening begins to settle, a tall figure approaches the gate. It opens without permission.
"Hey! This is trespassing!" I shout from inside, every nerve on alert.
I turn to Ashlynn. "Be ready to fight."
She nods, then heads to the kitchen while I open the door.
The tall man already stands in front of me. Nearly two meters. Wearing a very dark long coat, the Gilded Ledger emblem stitched on his chest. A fedora rests low over his eyes.
A taxman.
"We meet again, Monsieur Thadeo Owright," his voice loud and coarse.
"I don't think we have," I reply.
"Funny little guy," he says as he steps inside.
I move in front of him, pressing my hands against his chest to stop him. He halts for half a second.
"This is private property," I protest.
He shoves me aside.
From the foyer he takes in the house at a glance. He notices it has already been searched. He skips the living room. Skips the dining room. Heads straight toward the kitchen.
Ashlynn stands there, pretending to cook.
He watches her for a second, eyes on the pot. He doesn't glance at the knife set beside her.
The Shardfangs and Trackfangs rest among the ordinary blades.
He turns to the pantry.
Grains scatter across the floor as he tears through the sacks. Wheat spills between his fingers.
He doesn't find the mask.
I glance at Ashlynn while his back is turned.
She understands.
She shifts her weight and lifts her skirt slightly.
My mask is hidden underneath.
The taxman finishes downstairs and moves to the second floor. He skips the bedrooms — already searched. He heads straight for the attic door.
He opens it. Steps inside. Nothing.
Ashlynn rearranged the containers to look like makeshift flower pots. The kuor sits bottled like exotic wine. No circles. No tools. No trace of alchemical work.
He grunts.
"Not today," I comment, unable to hide the smugness.
He turns slowly and steps closer. Very close. His breath smells of rot. His teeth are dark as he exhales through them.
We walk back down to the foyer.
I open the door and gesture for him to leave.
Right before stepping out, he pivots toward Ashlynn.
She stands near the kitchen doorway, her back pressed against the wall. The fabric of her skirt tightens slightly—
A faint silhouette of my mask.
I close my eyes once and exhale.
The taxman grins at me.
He already knows.
"It is today, Monsieur."
His right hand swings wide.
I slide left, the punch tearing through the space where my head had been a breath ago.
As his coat flares open, I catch it—
A revolver, holstered on his left side.
Ashlynn rushes to the kitchen without waiting for instruction.
He swings again, those massive hands cutting the air as I give ground.
Left.
Right.
The floor trembles under his steps.
On the third swing I drop low and roll toward his left flank, my shoulder scraping wood. My hand shoots under his coat and closes around the revolver's grip.
Cold iron.
I wrench it free.
He pivots with unnatural speed for a man his size and laughs. Amused.
Then—
Ashlynn emerges from the kitchen.
Swoosh.
A Trackfang slices through the air and buries itself deep into the taxman's shoulder.
Liquid spills out. Not blood.
Black kuor — thick, viscous, gleaming like oil in low light.
He grips the embedded blade, muscles flexing, and rips it out without hesitation. Kuor splatters across the wall.
He throws it at me.
The blade spins fast, humming.
I snap my coat and let the fabric swallow the rotation, catching the Trackfang in the folds before it reaches my face.
He scoffs. Then shrugs off his coat.
The fabric drops.
His frame underneath tightens. He grips his shirt and tears it apart in one violent motion, buttons snapping, seams ripping.
Heavy, defined muscles roll beneath his skin.
Dark veins pulse across his chest and arms, swollen with black kuor. Each pulse visible. Each pulse wrong.
His stance shifts.
Lower and predatory.
His eyes lock on Ashlynn.
"Ash, run!" I shout.
She retreats into the kitchen just as he charges.
Crash.
He smashes through the brick wall like it's layered biscuit. Bricks explode inward, mortar powdering into dust.
Ashlynn is already clear.
I rush him from the side, Trackfang in hand, using it as a melee blade.
Slash.
I drive the edge into the back of his knee joint.
The steel bites—
But not deep enough.
He spins faster than expected and slams his knee into my stomach.
The impact folds me.
Air bursts from my lungs. Blood surges up my throat. I skid backward across the polished marble and collapse onto all fours, spitting red onto the floor.
He doesn't hesitate and rushes me again.
His kick sends me flying toward the base of the stairs.
The impact cracks something inside my chest. A sharp fracture that radiates outward.
I look up at him.
He grins. Just that wide, stretched grin — like he's enjoying a competitive match, not a fight for survival.
He walks toward me slowly.
Stab.
Ashlynn's rapier pierces cleanly through his knee joint from behind.
His body drops to one knee with a heavy thud.
Ashlynn circles with her rapier still embedded, then withdraws it in one smooth motion. She moves to my side and pulls me up by the arm.
"Why don't you just shoot him?" she asks.
I glance at her. "I don't want to alert the neighbors. I don't want anyone assuming there's a fight inside our house."
"Fair enough."
We turn back to him.
He's breathing fast. Not from pain. From exhilaration. As if agony is stimulation, not damage.
He tries to stand, but his ruined knee buckles. The other leg trembles under the weight. His body is still enormous — still dangerous — but now fixed in place.
"We should approach him together," Ashlynn says. "One of us creates the blind spot. The other attacks through it."
I nod.
I steady the Trackfang. She steadies her rapier.
Our grips firm.
We advance.
Slow. Measured.
Each time the taxman turns his head toward one of us, the other closes in — inch by inch — searching for the opening he cannot guard twice.
It doesn't take long to end a crippled beast.
I lunge forward deliberately. Not to strike but to be caught.
His massive hand clamps around my throat midair, fingers digging in, lifting me just enough to crush my windpipe.
For a split second, triumph flashes across his face.
Stab.
Ashlynn's rapier drives cleanly through the back of his skull.
The steel punches through bone, through thought, through whatever twisted joy lived inside him.
The grin freezes. His grip loosens.
I drop from his hand as his body tilts forward, heavy and final.
The taxman dies before he can crush me.
Black kuor seeps from the wound at the back of his head, thick and slow, pooling beneath him like spilled ink.
Silence follows.
The physical threat has ended.
But Xandar's threat remains.