The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows of my London townhouse, gilding the mahogany bookshelves and velvet drapes in molten gold.Yet, the light never reached the corners.Shadows pooled there, untouched, as if the walls refused to relinquish their secrets.
I stood in the study, the scent of aged parchment and ink thick in the air, though beneath it lurked something fouler—something steeped in blood and suffering.The broad oak desk before me bore more than ledgers and maps; it was our war table, our battlefield before the real one began.
“Speak,” I commanded, my voice cleaving through the tense silence.
One by one, my men delivered their reports.The words dripped like poison, painting a twisted portrait of the city I had sworn to purge.
“Abandoned factories, Pasha Hassan—littered with the bodies of Timebornes and Timebounds,” rumbled a hulking figure, his voice tight, his eyes still haunted by what he had seen.“Derelict houses, underground chambers...all soaked in blood.Bones scattered like trophies.A graveyard without names.”
A map was unfurled, its crude lines marked with red circles, each one a site of horror.My fingers traced the inked paths, feeling the malevolence pulsing beneath the paper, a vile heartbeat that throbbed through the very streets of London.
Disgust coiled in my gut like a serpent.
“Destroy them.”The order left no room for hesitation.My voice was steel.“Every last den of those depraved Timehunters.If you find any of the Timebornes or Timebounds alive, save them.But make no mistake—the nests of evil must be scorched.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the room, but one voice rose above it.
“Pasha Hassan, are you certain there will be survivors?”
Doubt.Skepticism.The weight of too many horrors seen.
I fixed him with a stare that brooked no argument.“I doubt it.But if souls are clinging to life amidst the carnage, we will not abandon them.Rescue those who breathe.But let the fires cleanse this blight from our streets.”
A moment of silence, thick and heavy.Then, they saluted—a quiet acknowledgment of the burden I had placed upon them.
The study held its breath as if the walls bore witness to our mission’s gravity.The air crackled with unspoken resolve.
Then Ilyas stepped forward.
His rugged features were lined with exhaustion, his broad frame wound tight with something unreadable.His dark eyes, honed by years of surveying enemy territory, fixed on me with cautious intensity.One hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger, fingers twitching—a rare tell of unease.
“Pasha Hassan...”His gruff voice fractured the stillness.“We found something...strange.”
I lifted an eyebrow.“Strange?”
“A small cottage, five kilometers from the Alexander manor.It looks abandoned, but there are signs of life inside.”
A flicker of intrigue cut through my focus.“Signs of life?Explain.”
“Plants, sir.Too many of them.Growing wild, creeping up the walls, choking every inch of the place.”He hesitated, choosing his words with uneasy reluctance.“And inside… rows of vials and flasks.Glass everywhere.The kind you’d see in an alchemist’s den.”
A sharp intake of breath.Alchemy.
“Did you enter?”
“No, sir.”His grip tightened on the dagger.“We suspected poison.”
Smart.
I nodded.“Very well.Spread out.Burn every last Timehunter den to the ground.”My voice was quiet but absolute.Then, after a beat— “But leave the cottage to me.”
Murmurs of assent rippled through my men as they absorbed the directive.But Ilyas lingered, his gaze locked with mine.
“The cottage is well-hidden, buried deep in the western woods,” he said.“It’s strange—close to the Alexander estate, yet nothing like its outbuildings.”
My fingers drummed against my chin.“Indeed?”
Alexander had always denied any involvement with alchemy.He hadn’t just been evasive—he had lied.And now this?A secret lair tucked away on the fringes of his land?
