Blair nodded slowly, pieces clicking into place. Vesper Ainsley was a magic user and Selene O’Connor was a suspected witch. And now she found her and Rafe Thorne in a precarious situation, overlooking a Thread used by a person of interest. Were they looking for revenge?

  “I’m not asking for trust,” Blair said. “But we’re both here, following the same trail. That’s not coincidence.”

  “No,” Rafe agreed, his frown deepening. “It’s not.”

  Vesper stepped forward, her movement jerky with suppressed emotion. “Cassandra isn’t just some random mage. She’s dangerous. The magic she uses—it’s wrong. Corrupted. A gun won’t help you.”

  Blair’s grandmother’s ring pulsed with warmth, as if confirming Vesper’s words. She lowered her torch but kept it ready. “Tell me everything you know about her.”

  “Why? What are you going to do if you find her?”

  “What are you going to do?” Blair asked, turning Vesper’s question back on her. “Revenge is a messy circle.”

  She studied Vesper’s face, noting the way the younger woman’s hands trembled despite her controlled voice. Not rage then—fear. The kind that came from seeing something you couldn’t unsee.

  “This goes deeper than evidence tampering or revenge.” Vesper’s words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. “Selene—she was part of something.”

  Blair’s watch pulsed steadily, matching the rhythm of her thoughts. “And Cassandra’s involved?”

  “She’s working with a mage named Lucian D’Arco.” Vesper’s voice caught on the name. “They’re systematically dismantling power structures all over Nightreach. But it’s more than that—they’re corrupting the Threads through the Fold.”

  The pieces shifted in Blair’s mind, forming a clearer picture. The increasing reports of magical disturbances, the surge in unexplained disappearances, the growing instability in Nightreach’s political structure—all connected by silver hair and corrupted magic. If she followed this new lead, then maybe she’d find Selene O’Connor’s murderer…and a lot more.

  “Cassandra is a means to an end,” Vesper said. “We need to find her, but we can’t do it alone.”

  Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting we work with her?” He gestured towards Blair. “A cop?”

  “I’m suggesting we work with someone who has resources we don’t.” Vesper met Blair’s gaze. “Someone who understands both sides of London. Rafe…they came to London. What if it’s here?”

  Blair lowered her torch completely, though her hand remained near her weapon. What was here? Her eyes narrowed. Lucian D’Arco…who was that? And what the hell had she just stumbled into?

  “I have conditions,” she said.

  “Of course you do.” Rafe’s tone carried a hint of resignation. “Name them.”

  Blair studied the pair before her, weighing her next words carefully. “Full disclosure. No holding back information that could affect this investigation. If either of you step out of line, I’ll have you both in custody faster than you can blink.”

  “That’s rich.” Rafe’s lips twisted. “Coming from someone who operates outside official channels.”

  “I operate within the law. Both laws.” Blair’s ring had cooled completely now, but her watch continued its steady vibration. “Second condition—everything goes through proper channels. No vigilante justice.”

  “And the third?”

  “You tell me exactly what you think Cassandra’s looking for. Not the sanitised version. Not what you think I can handle. Everything.”

  The warehouse air grew thick with silence. Vesper and Rafe exchanged glances, having one of those wordless conversations that spoke volumes. Blair had seen enough of them in interrogation rooms to read the subtext—they were deciding how much to trust her.

  “She asks a lot,” Rafe drawled. “Does she want the Crown Jewels, too?”

  “No official channels,” Vesper said. “And if you try to arrest either of us, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  Blair scowled. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “They’re looking for a relic called the Echo.” Vesper’s voice cut through the tension. “And if D’Arco gets his hands on it, both London and Nightreach will cease to exist.”

  Blair’s watch pulsed harder at the word ‘Echo’, its rhythm matching the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat. She’d heard whispers of it before, in the darkest corners of Nightreach. Always dismissed as myth, like most things that scared the magical community.

  “The Echo isn’t just power,” Rafe added, his expression grim. “It’s memory. Reality. The space between what was and what could be. If someone like D’Arco wields it, he could change everything.”

  She took a measured step backwards as her watch’s vibration intensified to an almost painful degree. The silver Thread embedded in the concrete floor caught the beam of her torch, its ethereal glow pulsing with otherworldly energy.

  Not waiting for Blair to reply, Vesper dropped into a crouch beside it, her fingers hovering just above its surface. The Thread’s light reflected in her eyes, giving them an opalescent sheen. “This is definitely Cassandra’s work. See how the edges shimmer? That’s her signature.”

  Blair’s grandmother’s ring grew warm against her skin, confirming it. The magical residue matched what she’d tracked from the evidence room—the same corrupted energy that had led her here.

  “She tried to mask it,” Rafe said, his voice tight with concentration. “The instability in the pattern suggests she wanted to hide her trail. But it’s still fresh enough to follow.” He glanced at the thread’s failing light. “For now.”

  Vesper stood, brushing dust from her knees. Her gaze met Blair’s, steady and questioning. “Are you coming with us?”

  Blair’s watch continued its urgent warning against her wrist. Following an unstable thread through the Fold with two strangers wasn’t exactly standard procedure. But the evidence tampering, Selene’s murder, this Cassandra woman, and now this Echo?—it all connected somehow. If she walked away now, this lead might vanish and Selene O’Connor’s murder would forever go unanswered for like so many others in Nightreach.

  “Through a corrupted Thread?” she asked. “Are you mad?”

  “It’s fresh,” Rafe told her. “If we go now, it’s perfectly safe. So, what’ll it be?”

  “Yes,” Blair said, adjusting her grip on the torch. “I’m coming.”

  She straightened, keeping her expression carefully neutral despite the calculations running through her mind. Her enchanted items hummed and pulsed against her skin as Vesper crouched by the Thread, handling the corrupted magical residue with practised ease. The power radiating off the younger woman put her on edge.

  This was the kind of magic Blair could catalogue but never truly understand—raw power that defied the neat categories of her investigation reports. The sort that made her grandmother’s ring burn hot enough to leave marks. Yet here she stood, about to trust her life to it.

  The Thread began to shimmer, its corrupted edges casting strange shadows across the warehouse floor. Vesper’s fingers traced invisible lines in the air. Rafe positioned himself at the edge of the forming portal, his own magic rippling through the space like static before a storm.

  Blair’s hand brushed her weapon, a futile gesture. Her police training, her carefully maintained network of contacts, her years of experience straddling London’s two worlds—none of it would matter where they were going. She needed them, plain and simple…and perhaps they’d need her before this was over.

  Without another word, they stepped into the Fold, leaving the warehouse behind.

  Chapter 2

  The amber glow from Ember Vance’s staff cast long shadows across the rain-slicked cobblestones of Nightreach. Five witches moved behind her in perfect formation, their boots silent against the ancient streets. Above them, the spires of the hidden city pierced the low-hanging clouds, their edges blurred by protective wards that pulsed with gossamer light.

  Another dead end. Ember traced her fingers through the remnants of Marina Sinclair’s magic—nothing more than whispers of power that crumbled at her touch. The witch-path collapsed, its ghostly outline fading into the mist.

  The staff’s crystal core flickered as she probed where the path had ended, picking up traces of familiar energy. Marina’s magical signature lingered here, but something felt off about it.

  “She’s leading us in circles.” Agnes, one of the younger witches, brushed her fingers against a wall where ancient runes glowed faintly. “These are old paths. Predating the Schism.”

  Ember’s jaw clenched. Of course Marina would use the forgotten ways—paths so old they’d been struck from modern maps. The conservative witch had spent decades studying Thornhallow’s oldest texts, likely for this very reason.

  “This path’s gone, but she’s made another,” Ember said. “One of them has to lead out of this circle. Let’s keep moving.”

  The team rounded another corner into a courtyard where three identical alleyways branched off into darkness. Each bore Marina’s magical trace.

  “Clever.” Ember knelt, pressing her palm against the cobblestones. The stones were cold, but beneath them, she felt the thrum of Marina’s magic splitting into multiple directions. “She’s fractured her signature. Made it impossible to track.”

  A witch to her left shifted uneasily. “Should we split up?”

  “No.” Ember rose, her amber eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly what she wants. These old paths are treacherous enough without walking into an obvious trap.”

  The staff’s light pulsed again, weaker this time. Marina’s trail was growing cold, and with it, any hope of catching her.

  Ember’s boots splashed through puddles that rippled with oily rainbows as they ventured deeper into the forgotten quarter. The cobblestones grew more uneven, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of magical erosion. Her staff’s glow caught the edges of crumbling buildings where nature and magic had merged—ivy that sparkled with frost despite the warm night, windows that showed impossible reflections, and crystals that grew like weeds in dark corners.

  A cat with three tails darted across their path, its eyes gleaming like brass coins. The sight made Ember’s skin prickle. This far from the city’s heart, wild magic ran thick, distorting the very air they breathed, and the creatures that lived undisturbed by people.

  The street narrowed, forcing them into single file. Above, Nightreach’s spires vanished behind a ceiling of twisted architecture—buildings that leaned at physically impossible angles, their windows watching like hollow eyes.

  Gas lamps lined the street, but their flames burned in violent purples and sickly greens. The colours painted grotesque shadows across their path. Ember raised her hand, fingers splayed in the signal for dispersion. the witches melted into doorways and alcoves, their dark robes blending with the shadows.

  The magic here felt wrong. Ember’s eyes tracked the movement of shadows that shouldn’t exist, searching for any trace of Marina’s passage. Even the air tasted different, thick with the metallic tang of old spells and forgotten rituals.

  A flicker of movement caught her attention—a shadow more solid than the rest. Ember pressed herself against a wall, its stones humming against her back with centuries of absorbed magic. Her fingers tightened around her staff as she scanned the twisted street, every sense straining to separate Marina’s trail from the chaos of wild magic surrounding them.

  Ember traced her fingers along the damp stone, Marina’s betrayal burning fresh in her mind. The third trial should have been a moment of triumph—Vesper’s formal recognition as a full member of the Luminous Concordat. Instead, it had descended into chaos, attacked by dark mages. Hearing that Marina had bound Rafe Thorne in dark magic and primed him like a weapon still haunted her. If Vesper hadn’t broken through the binding and embraced her Resonant power, countless witches would be dead.

  We were blind. Ember’s jaw clenched. Marina’s absence during the attack spoke volumes. The wards of Thornhallow hadn’t been breached—they’d been opened from within. Only a senior member of the Concordat could have granted those mages access.

  High Witch Beatrice’s words echoed in her thoughts: “Marina’s ambition has always outweighed her loyalty.”

  Marina Sinclair was manipulative, conniving, and venomous…but outright betrayal? It was a blow that struck deep, destroying the very foundations of their order. How could she?

  The magical residue pulsed faintly, drawing her attention to an archway ahead. Ancient vines twisted around weathered stone, their leaves crystallised with frost despite the summer night. Ember raised her staff, its amber light revealing symbols carved into the arch—old magic, predating even the Great Schism.

  “Here.” Her whisper carried to her team. “Traces of a witch-path.” The temperature plummeted as they stepped through, their breath clouding in the suddenly frigid air. The courtyard beyond lay hidden from Nightreach’s spires, its cobblestones untouched for centuries.

  Marina’s magical signature grew stronger here, mixed with something else—something that made Ember’s skin crawl. This place reeked of old power, the kind the Concordat had sealed away after the Schism tore their world apart.

  The team spread out, their boots crunching on frost-covered stone.

  Whatever the traitor planned, it went beyond mere political manoeuvring. Vesper had believed Marina had been planning a coup to oust Beatrice and take power, but the attack on the trial had been calculated, intended to dismantle the Concordat entirely—and to capture Vesper.

  It didn’t make sense, though this hidden courtyard might hold the key to understanding the why of it all.

  Ember’s boots slid on the cobblestones, the dark liquid beneath coating the ancient stone in an oily sheen. Her staff’s light caught rainbow patterns on its surface, but the substance wasn’t water—it moved wrong, crawling across the ground as if alive.

  The whispers started soft, barely noticeable above the sound of careful footsteps. But they grew, echoing off the twisted walls until they filled the narrow street with a cacophony of unintelligible voices.

  “Shield your minds,” Ember commanded, raising her mental barriers against the assault. The voices clawed at her defences, trying to worm their way into her thoughts.

  Agnes stumbled, her face pale. “These aren’t normal spirits.”

  “No.” Ember steadied the younger witch. “Marina’s corrupted the old wards. Changed their purpose.”

  The liquid on the ground rippled, forming patterns that mimicked the ancient runes carved into the walls. Ember recognised fragments of protection spells, but they’d been twisted, altered to serve a darker purpose.

  Her fingers tightened around her staff. Marina’s witch-path pulsed stronger here, mixed with something else—something that felt wrong in a way that made her head ache. The conservative witch had always been brilliant, but this level of ward manipulation went beyond her known abilities.

  “She’s had help.” Ember traced a protective sigil in the air, watching it flare gold before settling into a barrier around their group. “Someone’s been teaching her forgotten magic.”

  The same someone who’d orchestrated Selene’s death, who’d breached Thornhallow’s defences during the third trial. The pieces were there, but the pattern remained maddeningly unclear.

  The whispers crescendoed, and shadows writhed along the walls. Ember pushed forward, her staff’s light cutting through the darkness. Marina’s trail led deeper into the forgotten quarter, where the very stones hummed with old power, but it had already begun to weaken.

  They couldn’t let her escape. Not again. Not when they were finally close enough to taste the truth behind her betrayal.

  Ember’s fingers traced the dissolving threads of Marina’s witch-path, watching them unravel like smoke in the wind. “Bloody hell.” The curse slipped past her lips before she could catch it, her usual composure cracking under the weight of failure.

  The air shimmered, and Agnes collapsed with a sharp cry. Magical interference rippled through the courtyard—a disorientation hex. The young witch clutched her head, eyes unfocused.

  “Stay still.” Ember knelt beside Agnes, her staff raised. The crystal core pulsed as she untangled the hex, her own magic burning through Marina’s like fire through cobwebs. The air cleared, though the taste of copper lingered on her tongue.

  Agnes blinked, colour returning to her cheeks. “I didn’t even sense it.”

  “She’s got better at masking her spells.” Ember helped the witch to her feet, scanning the courtyard. The witch-path grew weaker with each passing moment, trailing off toward a set of worn stone steps that descended into darkness.

  “Form up.” Her voice cut through the whispers that still echoed off the walls. The team drew closer, boots scraping against frost-covered stone. “She’s heading for the tunnels.”

  The entrance gaped before them like an open wound in the earth. Ancient wards flickered along the walls, their power dulled by centuries of neglect. Marina’s magic wound deeper into the shadows, a fading thread that threatened to snap at any moment.

  Ember raised her staff, its amber light catching the first few steps of the descent. “Shields up. Stay close.” She gestured toward the darkness, and her team moved into position, their own staffs raised to form a protective circle.

  The tunnels beneath Nightreach were a maze of forgotten passages and dead ends—the perfect place for a trap. But they couldn’t let Marina slip away, not when they’d come so close.

  Marina Sinclair must answer for her crimes.

  The entrance to the Fold rippled like heat haze as Vesper stepped through, the air shifting from the cool night into an oppressive, otherworldly weight. The ground beneath her boots seemed solid at first but ruffled faintly, as if she was walking on liquid glass. Shadows clung to the edges of her vision, flickering and stretching unnaturally, and the distant hum of reality slipping away made her stomach lurch.