The heavy iron door of the Anvilrun Works creaked, but it wasn't the wind. A dozen mages in silver-trimmed navy robes flooded the workshop, their obsidian staff glowing with a rhythmic, cold blue light. They moved with military precision, forming a perimeter around Aiven, Virelle, and the pinned Marnie.

  Aiven felt a cold shiver run down his spine as the mages began channeling. The air grew heavy, static-charged, and thick with the scent of ozone.

  Virelle hovered a few inches higher. "Master," she whispered, her voice carrying a terrifying, melodic edge. "These gnats are becoming quite tiresome with their buzzing. Shall I blast them all to smithereens? I could turn this entire warehouse into a very pretty glass crater."

  "No!" Aiven hissed, his brass arm whirring as he gripped his own shoulder. "That would officially make us mass murderers, Virelle. We need to stay calm... even if they aren't in a talking mood."

  The mages finished their rhythmic chants in unison. With a sharp crack of mana, a shimmering blue dome erupted from the floor, encasing Aiven and Virelle in a translucent cage of suppression magic.

  Virelle reached out, poking the inner wall of the dome with a translucent sleeve. "An imprisonment dome," she remarked with a bored, sassy sigh. "It is designed to ground the target, preventing the casting of spells or the activation of enchantments. Quite standard. I could destroy this level of spellwork with a mere snap of my fingers."

  A soldier in polished gold armor—the second-in-command—stepped toward the central figure. "The dome is secure, General Alric. What are your next orders?"

  General Alric, his face a mask of rigid, scarred authority, stepped into the light of the forge. "Aiven Roan and Virelle. Surrender immediately. Walk and the dome will follow. Board the anti-magic carriage waiting outside. There will be no further warnings."

  Virelle let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed inside the dome. "A carriage? How quaint. Do you usually invite guests with such a lack of hospitality? You look like a man who spent his life polishing that tin suit and learning how to lick the boots of your boss. No wonder you have zero tact in inviting guests."

  Marnie, who was still pinned to the soot-stained floor by a heavy shield, let out a sudden, muffled sniffle that turned into a dry laugh.

  The soldier holding the halberd to Marnie’s neck pressed the weapon closer. "Silence, dwarf! Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep your head."

  Aiven stepped toward the edge of the barrier, his heart hammering. He tried to speak, but the moment he opened his mouth, the group of mages instantly pivoted, aiming the glowing tips of their staffs directly at his throat.

  Alric raised a gloved hand, and the mages slowly lowered their weapons. "In the prison dome, they are no threat," Alric stated coldly. "I doubt this would change anything, but I shall give you a chance to speak, Aiven Roan. Make it brief.”

  "General," Aiven said, forced to keep his voice steady. "I would like to know on what basis you are accusing me of possessing a prohibited artifact? We’ve been working for the Guild. We saved people!"

  "Our basis comes from a trusted source," Alric replied. "We searched the Registry. There is no entity under the name Virelle. That suggests she is a summoned creature. Furthermore, we have reports from the mainland. A silver-haired elf was sighted wreaking havoc during the fall of Hearthport. She is the primary suspect in Catastrophe #3. Since you are her constant companion, the logic is simple: she is your summon, and such power can only be channeled through a forbidden artifact."

  Aiven felt the blood drain from his face. Alric’s words were a death knell. A silver-haired elf wreaking havoc on Hearthport. It was no longer a suspicion or a fragmented memory—the government was confirming Virelle's involvement in Catastrophe #3.

  Deep down, Aiven knew Virelle had to be involved in the Catastrophe; the visions she saw hinted at that. Nevertheless, hearing a confirmation that she was the prime suspect made him feel as though the ground beneath him had shifted once more.

  It was one thing to suspect.

  It was another to hear it spoken aloud—cold, official, undeniable.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  If Aiven had heard this for the first time at that moment, he wouldn't know how to process this.But the visions that tore Virelle apart at Aelira's hut had given him some time to understand the situation enough that he did not react blindly this time.

  Still, a more immediate, chilling thought clawed at his mind. How did they find us?

  It was past midnight. The Industrial District was a ghost town of soot and shadows. They hadn't seen a soul on the trek from the downtown alleyway. Marnie’s workshop was a secluded den of grease and scrap metal, tucked away from the main thoroughfares. There was only one person who knew exactly where they were going.

  Rysa.

  He remembered her fiery red hair and those sharp green eyes. She had been their ally, the one who had shared the floor with him just hours ago. She had risked her life trying to save Virelle from the vampire siblings.

  He did tell Rysa to tell the guild about Oakwood and the vampires, but he also had Rysa's word to not say anything about Virelle.

  He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to think that she had sold them out to the highest bidder. But the logic was as cold as the suppression dome surrounding him.

  "Raise your arms and surrender," Alric commanded, his voice echoing within the blue sphere. "We have gathered the finest mage soldiers of Lowhaven. Do not mistake our patience for weakness."

  Aiven looked at the shimmering blue walls. If they entered that carriage, they would vanish. He wouldn't just be a clerk anymore; he’d be a ghost in a government dungeon, and Virelle... she would be a specimen.

  He looked up at Virelle. She was drifting just above him, her translucent sleeves glowing faintly as she watched the mages with a predatory focus. Aiven caught her eye and gave a single, sharp nod.

  Virelle’s eyes flared with a sudden, brilliant intensity. She didn't look afraid; she looked bored. A small, wicked grin tugged at the corner of her lips.

  "Futile," Alric spat, seeing her raise a porcelain hand. "No one casts magic within the dome of Lowhaven’s elite. You are grounded, little bird."

  "Is that so?" Virelle’s voice was a melodic chime that resonated through the glass. "Then I suppose Lowhaven’s elite have very poor standards for what constitutes a cage."

  A blinding flash of pure, white light erupted from her palm. It wasn't the lavender glow of her usual magic; it was the raw, terrifying radiance of a dying star. The imprisonment dome didn't just flicker—it shattered like cheap crystal, the blue shards dissolving into the air before they could even hit the floor.

  Alric stumbled back, shielding his eyes. "Impossible! The dampening fields—"

  "Master, hold on!" Virelle cried out.

  In an instant, a prismatic barrier formed around them, a geometric cage of shifting colors. The mages, recovering from the shock, unleashed a barrage of elemental spells—bolts of lightning, jagged shards of ice, and licking tongues of flame. But as the spells struck the barrier, they didn't explode; they were simply absorbed, the prism glowing brighter with every impact.

  Virelle didn't stop there. She looked at the far wall of the workshop—the one reinforced with Marnie’s favorite armor plates.

  "Flashy exits are always the most memorable," Virelle remarked.

  She pointed a finger, and a concentrated beam of white mana lanced out. It didn't just break the wall; it vaporized it, leaving a gaping, molten hole that led straight into the midnight air.

  Marnie, still pinned to the floor, went deathly pale as she watched years of her craftsmanship turn to dust.

  Before the soldiers could regroup, Virelle lunged forward. She grabbed Aiven by the waist, her magic surging with a violent, lightning-fast momentum. They shot through the hole in the wall, leaving the Industrial District behind in a blur of gray stone and coal smoke.

  Alric clicked his tongue, his face a mask of simmering rage as he watched the white streak vanish into the clouds. "We underestimated the elf’s output," he muttered to the gold-armored soldier. "Retreat. We cannot give chase in the dark. Detain the dwarf and seize her assets. If the clerk wants his arm maintained, he’ll have to come back for his smith."

  Marnie was speechless, her blunt personality silenced by the sight of her ruined livelihood. She didn't fight back as the soldiers dragged her toward the waiting carriage.

  High above the city, the wind whipped through Aiven’s hair as they soared toward the forest canopy. The adrenaline was starting to fade, replaced by a cold, sinking realization.

  "Did I do a good job, Master?" Virelle asked, her voice light and airy, as if she hadn't just committed an act of high treason.

  Aiven gripped her arms, his heart still hammering. "You... you did. But I thought you were going to teleport us. Why did you have to blow a hole in the workshop? Marnie's going to kill us if the government doesn't."

  Virelle let out a soft, melodic laugh, her silver hair tickling Aiven's face. "Teleportation is so... discrete. I wanted to show those government lapdogs exactly what they were trying to put in a cage. They should know the color of the light that’s going to haunt their dreams."

  "Well," Aiven whispered, his voice caught in the wind. "We did it. We’re officially fugitives. No home, no Guild support, and barely a copper to our names."

  "Don't be so gloomy, Master," Virelle teased, her violet eyes sparkling in the moonlight. "At least the view is spectacular."

  As the city lights shrank behind them, Aiven knew with absolute clarity that the world had just learned their names, and would never stop hunting them.