"Were you followed?"

  Lowe barely had time to blink before Hel had grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this definitely wasn’t it. For starters, he’d never actually been inside Hel’s house before.

  They’d met outside a few times—always neutral ground, always somewhere she could keep an eye on her surroundings—but she’d never invited him in. He hadn’t even been sure of the District in which she lived for the longest time, and it was only after she and Latham were ‘official’ that he’d learned that.

  Some people in Soar liked to make their homes known, marking their doorsteps with runes of status or banners advertising their profession. Which, of course, was very much not Hel’s style. It wasn’t exactly surprising that someone who’d spent most of her life in an Out of Bounds - only to get spectacularly fucked over by the Council - might have a few trust issues with sharing her post code.

  So to be suddenly dragged across her threshold with urgency? As far as Lowe was concerned, that wasn’t nothing.

  The door slammed shut behind them, and Hel stepped past him, glancing out of a curtained window before pulling it shut. Only once she seemed satisfied did she turn to him properly, her expression tense. “Well? Did anyone follow you here?”

  "Not that I noticed. But apparently, my tail-spotting skills aren’t what they used to be."

  Hel gave a short nod, then stepped back, finally giving him a moment to actually look at where she’d brought him.

  It very much wasn’t what he’d expected.

  If he’d had to guess, he’d have put money on the decor of Hel’s inner sanctum being entirely sparse. Cold. A survivalist’s bunker masquerading as a home—something filled with weapons, tactical maps, and just enough furniture to keep the place from looking entirely abandoned.

  But instead…

  There were windmills.

  Hundreds of them.

  Each spinning and swaying in all the way up her maintained front garden, their tiny enchanted turbines turning with a sound so soft it barely registered. They’d lined the path he’d just walked down in neat rows, gleaming silver and bronze. But what was crazy was that the theme continued inside. Countless windmills lined shelves that looked like they’d been purposely built to hold them. Some were old and weathered, others newer and much more polished. A mobile of them hung in the corner of the room, each little figure suspended by near-invisible threads, wind catching the faintest shifts in the air.

  Of all the things he might have expected from Hel, this hadn’t been one of them.

  "You really like windmills, huh?"

  "You going to be a dick about it?"

  "Not at all," he said, raising his hands. "Just… wasn’t expecting it."

  "It’s a Tyrant thing. Or, at least, a me thing. Wind’s the element of freedom, right? And a windmill… it works with it. It doesn’t fight it. It turns because it has to. Because it’s built to. Thought it was a nice idea when I was a kid. Guess I never grew out of it."

  "Honestly, Hel, I like it. I was expecting something more, I don’t know… stabby."

  Hel did smile at that, though it was brief. "Don’t get me wrong, I have a whole dedicated to that."

  "Of course you do."

  She gestured for him to follow her through the house. It was small, Lowe thought, but not cramped. Functional, but not unfeeling. A fireplace sat unlit in one corner of the living room, a few books stacked haphazardly on the mantel. Of course, there was also a heavy punching bag hanging from the rafters, positioned next to a battered wooden table that had seen better days.

  Surprisingly, it struck him that it was a house that was very much lived in.

  His reading of her had always been that Hel was a transient person. A destructive presence that moved through the world without fully settling anywhere. Without ever letting people see too far past the surface. Not unlike a tornado, now he thought of it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever imagined her belonging somewhere. Let alone in a place that felt like… this. He wondered what Latham made of it.

  "Now do you see why I don’t have many guests?" she said dryly, catching his expression.

  "I can certainly see why you wouldn’t want me in here. I have so many questions about the obsessive windmill collecting."

  "Yeah, well. You can save them for when you’re dead. And, incidentally, if you bring them up again, I will kill you."

  "Noted," he said. Then, quieter, almost to himself: "Tilting at windmills, as ever." There was the briefest hitch in her step as she led him through to what looked like a small study. Then a sharp buffet of wind caught him on the side of the head, and he decided against any further jokes.

  This wasn’t just a study. The papers on the wooden desk weren’t scattered, they were sorted—names, routes, debts. Neither was the map of Soar pinned to the wall a travel guide; it was a hunting ground, key locations marked with quiet intent. Knives rested in easy reach, a coil of garrote wire lay beside an oil lamp, and a row of vials sat neatly in a case—liquids thick, dark, or strangely clear.

  Yes. This was much more like he’d expected.

  She grabbed two glasses and a bottle of what looked like milk from a side cabinet, pouring them both a measure before sinking into a chair. “This has been a day."

  Lowe eyed the milk with deep suspicion. He wasn’t the sort to turn down a drink, but he also wasn’t the sort to die foaming at the mouth in some backroom study. Before he could voice this concern, she sighed and gestured vaguely toward the shelves.

  “The cheapest poison I own costs more than your house,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, I’d just—oh, I don’t know—chop your head off.”

  This did not help Lowe relax.

  Lowe took the seat across from her, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering effect of the hot chocolate buff. It had mellowed now, but the whole thing had left him far too comfortable. And he hated that. “You sounded like something had really pissed you off.”

  "Yeah, I’ll get to that.” Hel glared at him. “You any further on what is going on here?”

  “Maybe. I think I remembered something," he said.

  "Something useful?"

  "That’s the problem," he said. "I don’t know."

  She didn’t press, just took a slow sip of her drink, watching him over the rim.

  "I was thinking about the Black Knight. About the first time we were closing in on him. The last case we worked before… well. Before it all went wrong."

  Hel didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

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  Lowe took a tentative sip and, as he didn’t die horribly, took another. "I remembered sitting around in my flat with my old squad. Talking through the case. The way we used to. But, right at the end, I realised that something was wrong."

  "How do you mean?"

  Lowe set the glass down on the table next to him and drummed his fingers against the wood. "One of my team. Coda. He talked about something he shouldn’t have known."

  "Okay. And that’s enough to make you think Coda was working with the Black Knight?"

  "I don’t know," Lowe said. "But it means something, Hel. It has to."

  She was silent for a long moment, swirling the liquid in her glass. Finally, she said "Okay. So what are you planning to do about it?"

  "I honestly don’t know. Figure out what the fuck I missed, I guess. And why I’m only remembering it now."

  Before Hel could say anything else, though, Lowe’s Sending Stone buzzed sharply. He frowned, reaching for it. The rune flared. Hel. Which was impossible, considering she was sitting right in front of him . . .

  He met her gaze, seeing his own confusion reflected back at him. Still, he activated the connection, pressing the stone to his ear. “Lowe! We’ve all been fucking ambushed. Don’t worry, everyone’s still in one piece, but you need to get somewhere with lots of people. Preferably the Temple and Latham, if you can. Whoever they are, these guys are good!”

  A hand snapped across the distance between them as ‘Hel’ plucked the Sending Stone from Lowe’s grasp with the unhurried grace of someone picking up a teacup. The ease of it nearly fooled him as to the power in that grasp. Nearly. But beneath that action lay an unnatural strength.

  Not-Hel lifted the Stone to her lips and spoke— but it was his voice that was coming out.

  "Thanks for the heads-up, Hel! Are you guys sure you're all okay?"

  "Yeah," Hel answered. "Nothing we couldn't handle. Apparently Ortel is an absolute beast! But we can catch you up with what happened later. It’s more important that you get to safety first. We all got absolutely jumped the second we left your house. It looks like someone is trying to wipe you and yours."

  "Fuck! Well, thanks for letting me know. I'll get to Latham as quick as possible," not-Hel said, still wearing his voice like a second skin.

  Lowe pushed himself up, mouth opening to shout a warning, but the backhand came before the words. Then he was flying through the air, his skull cracking against the wall with a crunch. Lowe’s world strobed white, and blood filled his mouth.

  Blood of the Phoenix triggered.

  That blow had one-shotted him. Not Hel had killed him.

  Whoever this was either knew about his Roll with the Punches Skill upgrade, or she'd just casually committed murder. Putting all his gold on the latter - especially as he was now incapable of being healed for the foreseeable - Lowe let himself stay limp as his killer kept chatting to his friend - with his voice - as if nothing at all had happened.

  "Well, I’m sure glad you are all okay. But, now I think about it, I’m not sure about going to the Temple on my own. Might be best if I catch up with you first? Maybe we meet up and then go to Latham together? Just to be sure. Somewhere safe."

  “Sure,” Hel said. “Where do you think you can get you and Mylaf to quickly?”

  “It’ll just be me. I can’t imagine anyone will be too bothered with a Drudge. I’ll leave her here. It’s not like she’s irreplaceable anyway, is it? Any rendezvous suggestions?”

  There was a long pause.“How about the place we first met?”

  "Absolutely. Great call. Just in case my memory is on the fritz - it’s been a long day! - can you just remind me?"

  “It was pretty memorable, Lowe. I cut your arm off.”

  Not-Hel shifted slightly, adjusting the way they held the Sending Stone. "Oh, yeah! It was in Jewel Town, right?"

  Hel laughed—light, easy, but there was a steel wire running through it. “Not even close. Try again.”

  A longer hesitation. Too long. Not-Hel recovered fast, but the warmth in their voice had a manufactured edge now. "Hel, seriously, what’s with the pop quiz? You just said everything’s fine, didn’t you?"

  "Yeah," Hel agreed. "We’re fine. But you don't sound like you believe me."

  Not-Hel hesitated again, then forced a laugh. "Look, I was just worried. You know me—big worrier."

  "Uh-huh. And that's why you want to meet before going to Latham? Just to check in?"

  "Yeah! I mean, can you blame me?" Not-Hel let out another fake chuckle. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

  “Sure. So, where did we first meet, Jana?”

  “I—why the hell does this matter?”

  "It doesn’t," Hel said, voice still easy, still unreadable. "Unless, of course, you don’t know . . ."

  Not-Hel swore then crushed my Sending Stone to dust.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like ink spreading in water, Not-Hel’s form bled into something else. Arms and legs stretched, her features dissolved and reformed, and where the Wind Tyrant’s stolen face had been, there was now a nondescript man. He was average height, average build, and with a forgettable kind of banalness that would blend into any crowd.

  Without moving, Lowe focused on the space above the man’s head.

  Shimmerskin, Level 62.

  Fuck, Lowe though. A shapeshifter. And a strong one. Well, that explained being one-shotted . . .

  The Shimmerskin reached into his coat and pulled out a Sending Stone of his own. “Drefleck here,” he said. “Yeah, no dice. The fucking Wind Tyrant called him before I got anything good. Wasn't Syncler supposed to have taken care of her?” A pause. Then his expression darkened. “Fuck, really?” More pause. “Okay. Well, add that to the list of colossal screwups this week. No, I had to drop him. Got nothing new.”

  Lowe lay still. Dead men, after all, didn’t move.

  “Okay, well we go to Plan . . . where are we at? D? E? I’ll finish up here and cycle back to base. See if you can get a line on where they all went.” Drefleck said, then muttered something under his breath as he tucked his Sending Stone away. He looked around the study and took one last glance at Lowe’s crumpled body, before reaching into his inventory.

  A dull metal sphere settled into the man’s palm, and by the way his hand dipped, it was heavier than it had any right to be. Lowe did his best to squint at him, brain working through the possibilities. He’d seen things like this before. This was a Scorcher. It was a device that was used when you positively, absolutely did not want to leave any evidence behind. They were actually prohibited in Soar as they didn’t just make fire—no, fire at least had the decency to leave behind a bit of ash and a moral lesson about proper storage. This would erase Hel’d house so thoroughly that, years later, people would swear there had never been anything there to begin with.

  Drefleck rolled it in his fingers, then clicked a small switch on its side. Then he tossed it towards the corner of the room.

  Lowe didn’t see where it landed, but he heard the whump of mana priming, the deep, pressurised hiss as whatever fuel Scorchers used began to spread across the floor. Drefleck didn’t even watch. He was already turning, already walking away and out of the house.

  Almost immediately, a wall of heat slammed through the room, sucking the air from Lowe’s lungs. Fire bloomed, hungry and unchecked, seemingly swallowing everything in seconds. The walls of Hel’s house shuddered as flames licked up them, and smoke billowed thick and choking, turning Lowe’s world into a smothering haze.

  He stayed still. He had to. If Drefleck even suspected he was still alive, he’d be back to finish the job.

  But the fire didn’t care about that detail.

  It spread with terrifying speed, creeping across the floorboards and devouring the furniture in the study. The smoke was as thick as oil, and Lowe’s lungs were already screaming for air. He couldn’t keep playing dead any longer, and his body twitched, coughing, every instinct screaming at him to move.

  It seemed Drefleck was gone.

  His fingers twitched against the charred wood beneath him, his breath coming in gasps. It wasn’t so long ago he’d allowed himself to be burned alive in order to kill a Dungeon monster. It was at times like this that he really saw the value of Roll with the Punches.

  The door out of the study was already filled with fire; there was no way he was getting through there without needing a heal.

  Think. Think.

  He had nothing. No Roll with the Punches. No escape item. There was nothing he could use—

  No. That wasn’t quite true, was it?

  Something curled deep inside him, faint but present. There was a whisper of Pressure around his ribs.

  He grasped at it. His Shackled Grasp. It had held on to something from the attack. Not much—the power of whatever the Shimmerskin had hit him with had mostly bled away. Lowe assumed that was because, to all intents and purposes, it had actually killed him. But there was still the thinnest chain of it there, pulsing weakly in his Core.

  He swallowed against the smoke.

  Could he use it? Not in retaliation; that would be pointless. Likewise, there was no way it would work to heal him up with the Blood of the Phoenix countdown running. However, if he dumped what little Pressure he had into the AoE version of the release, would the concussive blast be enough to blow out the flames?

  Or would it just make everything worse?

  Could things be worse?

  Flames crawled closer, licking at the edges of his vision. His lungs burned. No time to think. Lowe made a choice.

  He let the Pressure go.