Symond’s pulse quickened, adrenaline kicking in as he surveyed the scene. They had scouted the place yesterday. Violette had let him decide the best entry point and the approach for taking out the guards. She believed in him.
Rell didn’t.
But fuck him. This wasn’t about Rell’s approval. This was Symond’s mission, his chance to show that he was more than just an enchanter or a screw-up with a chip on his shoulder. He wasn’t about to let anyone take that from him.
“We’re here,” Violette said softly, her voice pulling him back into the moment.
He nodded, stepping forward and crouching slightly as they approached the edge of the alley. From here, he could see the guards clearly, their flickering lanterns marking their positions as they made slow, predictable circuits around the property.
Just like I planned,he thought, a swell of pride bolstering his confidence.
“You know what to do,” Violette murmured, glancing at him with a faint smile.
Symond’s chest tightened. Her trust wasn’t a gift—it was a challenge, and he was determined to meet it.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small compact case. Inside was a Silent Step Balm, a glistening balm that, when applied to the soles of their shoes, would render their footsteps nearly silent. He applied it then handed it off to Violette and Rell.
“I’ve got it,” he replied, his voice steady as he pulled a vial from his belt. It glimmered faintly in the low light, the liquid inside a deep, swirling green. A sleeping draught.
He moved quickly, crouching low as he approached the first guard. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he kept his breathing even, his movements deliberate. The guard didn’t notice him until it was too late. Symond slipped behind him, uncorking the vial and spilling its contents onto the cloth in his hand before clamping it over the man’s mouth.
The guard struggled briefly, but the draught worked quickly, and soon he slumped forward. Symond lowered him to the ground, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
One down.
He gestured to Violette and Rell, signaling the next move. They’d take the remaining guards in a similar fashion, avoiding unnecessary noise.
But as Symond approached the second guard, his confidence faltered for the briefest moment. The man shifted suddenly, turning to adjust his lantern, and the movement caught Symond off guard. His grip on the vial wavered, and it slipped from his fingers, shattering against the cobblestones with a sharp, echoing crack.
The sound cut through the quiet like a scream.
The guard whipped around, his hand reaching for the weapon at his side as his lantern swung wildly. “Who’s there?” he barked.
Symond froze, his heart pounding in his chest as his mind raced.
Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to act. He lunged forward, grabbing the guard’s wrist before he could draw his blade. The man struggled, his movements strong and frantic, and Symond realized too late that he’d underestimated him.
A blur of motion to his right.
Rell’s blade sliced cleanly across the guard’s exposed arm, forcing him to drop the lantern. It hit the ground with a dull thud, the flame snuffing out instantly. The man staggered back, clutching his wound, before Rell moved in with an accuracy Symond could only envy, rendering the guard unconscious with a quick strike.
Symond stood there, breathing hard as the adrenaline coursed through him.
“Great job, Rook,” Rell muttered sarcastically as he wiped his blade on the guard’s coat. “Remind me to thank you for making this harder.”
“Rell,” Violette said sharply, stepping forward. She fixed Symond with a look—not of anger, but disappointment. It stung more than he expected.
They crept along the side of the manor. The target was on the second floor. At last, they reached the window Symond had designated as their entry point during the scouting mission. Violette glanced back at them and nodded, signaling for them to stay put.
She unlatched a vial from her harness and carefully pried the window open, sliding it just enough to slip inside and disappear into the shadows.
He dared a glance through the opening. The faintly lit kitchen flickered with the soft glow of a lantern swinging from a hook. A lone cook stood at the counter, his back turned, methodically scraping a pot clean.
In the corner of the room, Violette appeared like a shadow given life. A small vial rested in her hand, she tipped it, letting a fine dust pour into her palm. Dust of Drowsiness.
She inched closer, every movement smooth, deliberate, predatory. The cook paused, his head tilting slightly, sensing something.
Violette didn’t falter. With a swift motion, she blew the shimmering dust into the air. It caught the lantern light for the briefest moment before settling over the cook’s face.
