The sun grazed my enchanted jewelry, harmless against my skin, a fleeting reminder that even centuries of power require caution. Julian Ikithon has gone—finally. The streets of Seville are quiet, ignorant of the storm poised at their doorstep.

I step to the library door, feeling the weight of history in its wood, the faint scent of parchment and ink seeping out to greet me. Inside, the hunter’s apprentice moves among the shelves—a pretty, clever girl. Julian trusts her more than he should. That makes her a liability, and a key, if I play my cards right.

“Good afternoon,” I murmur, my voice smooth as polished glass. The words float through the library, deliberate, teasing. She freezes, startled, then recovers with a polite nod. I let my brown eyes linger on her just long enough for the faintest flash of crimson to prick the edges. Nothing overt—merely a whisper of compulsion, enough to gauge her reaction. She flinches ever so slightly.

I smile. “The house is… well-kept. I trust the master is away?”

She hesitates, but nods. She’s wary now, the flicker of instinct betraying her training. Perfect. I don’t rush. I never rush. Every movement, every thought, every glance is a probe.

I step past her, boots silent on the wooden floor, and my fingers trail lightly over the spines of the books. Knowledge is territory. Every shelf is a map. I let my mind wander as I pace between the rows—imagining where Julian hides the grimoire, where traps might linger, where a clever hunter might anticipate me. She is useful… she is naïve. And the master has no idea how close he is to losing everything.

The library hums with the quiet energy of secrets. I can almost feel the blood in the apprentice’s veins, pulsing with fear and loyalty. Not mine… not yet. But soon. All in time.

I pause at the center of the room, surveying. Books, doors, angles.