Three days before Ashen Dawn returned from the Celestial Springs, the sky over the high-security prison turned grey and still.

Not the grey of rain—the grey of waiting. Clouds hung low and heavy, pressing against the watchtowers like they wanted to push them over. The guards on the walls pulled their collars tighter. The dogs in their kennels stopped barking.

Something was coming. They could feel it. They just didn’t know what.

Voss sat in her cell, her back against the cold stone wall, her eyes on the door.

She’d been here for weeks. Long enough to memorize the cracks in the ceiling, the pattern of the floor tiles, the way the light shifted when the guards changed shifts. Long enough to learn the rhythms of the prison, the heartbeat of a place designed to hold people like her. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

Her silver hand was cuffed to the wall—not with normal restraints, but with runic binders, thick bands of iron carved with symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. They suppressed her power. Kept her from channeling energy through the prosthetic. Kept her human.

She didn’t struggle against them. She’d tried, the first few days. The binders had burned. She still had the scars.

Now she just waited.

The footsteps came at midnight. Not the heavy boots of the regular guards—these were lighter, quicker, someone who knew where they were going and didn’t want to be heard.

Voss didn’t move.

The door opened.

A guard stood in the frame. Young. Pale. His name tag read "Reeves." His eyes were empty. Not just tired—empty. Like someone had scooped out whatever used to be inside and replaced it with something else.

Something that wasn’t human.

"You took your time," Voss said.

Reeves didn’t answer. He walked to the wall, pulled a key from his belt, and unlocked the runic binders. They hissed as the magic died, the symbols fading one by one. Voss’s silver hand twitched. The power came back slowly, like blood returning to a numb limb.

She stood. Rolled her shoulder. Flexed her fingers.

Reeves watched her. Still empty. Still silent.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He tilted his head.

"The thing inside you. The demon. Does it hurt?"

He blinked. For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—something scared, something that wanted to scream. Then it was gone.

"The host is irrelevant," he said. His voice was flat. Not his. "The mission matters."

Voss nodded. "Good. Then you won’t mind this."

She killed him.

Fast. Clean. Her silver hand closed around his throat before he could react, and the demon inside him had a moment to realize what was happening—too late. The body dropped. The demon’s essence tried to flee, tried to find another vessel, but the prison’s wards held. It screamed as it dissolved, a thin high sound that faded into nothing.

Voss stepped over the body and walked out.

---

The corridor was empty.

The prison had three floors of cells, with a central control room on the ground level and a single exit through the loading bay. Voss had studied the layout during her first week, memorized the patrol routes, the blind spots, the timing of the shift changes.

She moved like she’d never been caged.

The guards she passed didn’t see her—not because she was invisible, but because she was quiet. Years of hunting had taught her how to be nothing. How to slip between the spaces where people weren’t looking.

The control room came into view.

Two guards sat at the monitors, their backs to the door. One was drinking coffee. The other was scrolling through his phone. Neither looked up.

Voss didn’t kill them. She didn’t need to. She just needed the door.

She was through before they knew she was there.

---

The loading bay was cold, the metal doors sealed against the night. A single guard stood by the entrance, his rifle slung across his chest, his eyes heavy with boredom.

He saw her. Opened his mouth.

Her silver hand caught his rifle, crushed the barrel, and threw it aside. Her other hand pressed against his chest—not hard, just enough to let him feel the metal beneath her glove.

"Open the door," she said.

He opened the door.

She walked out into the grey night.

---

The witch was waiting.

She stood at the edge of the tree line, her hood pulled low, her face hidden in shadow. Her robes were dark, patched, stained with things that didn’t wash out. She didn’t speak when Voss approached—just nodded, once, and raised her hand.

The air between them split.

Not a doorway—not a normal one. The witch’s magic was older than that, rougher. A tear in the world, ragged and dark, framed by branches of shadow that twisted like roots.

Voss looked at the tear. Then at the witch.

"You’re late."

"You’re alive."

"Same thing."

The witch almost smiled. Then she stepped through. Voss followed.

The tear closed behind them, and the night was empty again. The prison guards would find the bodies in an hour, the empty cell in two, the escape in three. By then, Voss would be across the city, across the Veil, across the line between hunted and hunter.

She didn’t smile.

Freedom wasn’t a reward. It was just another battlefield.

---

Ashen Keep – Alistair’s Office – The Next Day

Alistair set down the report. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago. He hadn’t noticed.

"She walked out," he said. "Eighteen guards on duty. Three dead. Fifteen who didn’t see a thing."

Margaret sat across from him, her arms crossed. "She had help. Inside and out."

"The guard who opened her cell—Reeves. He was thralled. Demon had him for weeks, maybe months. We didn’t catch it."

"You can’t catch what you’re not looking for."

Alistair looked at her. "And the witch? Any leads?"

"None. She’s not in any of our records. Not Ashen Guard, not rogue registries, not even the coven watchlists." Margaret’s voice was cold. "She’s new. Or she’s been hiding very well."

Alistair stood. Walked to the window. The training yard was empty, the sun just beginning to rise.

"Voss is out there. The pendant is out there. Valentine is out there." He turned. "And we’re sitting here, waiting for the next attack."

Margaret stood. "We’re not waiting. We’re preparing."

"It doesn’t feel like preparing."

"It never does."

She left.

Alistair stood alone in his office, the report still on his desk, the coffee cold, the sun rising over a city that didn’t know how close it was to burning.