Silas spun around, dagger drawn, eyes scanning the alley like a cornered animal. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, as if silently mocking him.
"Who's there?!" He barked, but there was no response, only the rustle of wind.
He stepped back toward the square—and froze.
The soldiers.
They were gone.
Well, not gone but disappearing.
Their bodies, once sprawled in a grim display of death, were breaking apart… not into blood or bone, but light.
Tiny motes, pale and shimmering, floated upward like fireflies into the sky.
"No," Silas whispered. "No, no, no—this isn't real. I killed them. I killed them."
His hands shook violently. He looked down—his blade was clean. No blood. Not even the scent of iron in the air.
It was like none of it had ever happened.
A perfect illusion.
Not the kind of street performer to fool drunks—but one that touched his nerves, his breath, his senses, and his mind.
"I didn't… I didn't sense a spell. Not even a mana trace... How—!?"
