The crescent moon provided faint illumination to the streets of Thornvale.
Dagon, Jelím, and Keara moved through the secondary alleys — far from the patrols, far from curious eyes. Their footsteps made no sound. Not even the rustle of clothing.
Three shadows gliding through the sleeping city.
When they reached the alley that offered a direct view of the palace, Dagon stopped. He looked up — high walls, watchtowers, flags fluttering in the night breeze.
Keara studied the patrols. Six guards visible on the walls. Probably twice as many hidden in the shadows.
"Are you sure her parents are in there?" she asked, voice low.
Dagon nodded, pulling a crumpled parchment from his pocket.
"The informant was clear. 'The Thornvale family imprisoned Lord and Lady Vel'Shara in the palace dungeons. False charge of treason.'" He tucked the paper away. "Any still doesn't know. If she did, she would have come straight back here."
"And probably died," Jelím added, voice as cold as ever.
"Exactly," Dagon agreed. "That's why we're the ones going in. We get them out. Then we regroup with Any and Steve."
Keara frowned.
"Do you think it was smart to leave Any alone with Steve? He's… unstable."
Dagon looked at her through the mask he was already holding in his hands.
"The boy has problems. A lot of them. But he's not a bad person." He paused. "And Any isn't stupid. If he tries anything, she knows how to defend herself."
"She's a noble with no powers," Keara insisted. "Against what we saw him do…"
"That's why I gave her the protective veil," Dagon cut in. "And told her not to take it off. And to stay **far** from the palace. The boy will protect her because… well, he likes her. It's obvious."
Jelím made a sound that could have been a laugh or scorn.
"You're betting a lot on other people's goodness."
"It's not goodness," Dagon replied. "It's self-interest. Steve wants allies. Any needs protection. Simple as that."
He took out the mask. Black. No ornaments. Just two eye holes and a strange symbol carved into the forehead — a circle with three lines crossing through it.
"But enough philosophy. We have work to do."
Jelím and Keara took out their own masks. Identical. Identical symbols.
They put them on slowly.
"Ready?" Dagon asked, voice now muffled by the mask.
"No," Jelím answered. "But we're going anyway."
Keara adjusted her mask, making sure it was secure.
"Rules: we don't kill guards unless absolutely necessary. They're just workers."
Dagon nodded.
"Agreed. Knocking them out is enough."
He looked at the palace again. Then at the two women.
"Remember: maximum discretion. We go in. Get the prisoners. Get out. No one knows until dawn."
"And if they find out before?" Jelím asked.
Dagon smiled beneath the mask — they couldn't see it, but they could hear it in his voice.
"Then we improvise."
---
**The Infiltration**
Dagon took three steps back. Flexed his legs slightly.
And jumped.
His body rose — not like a normal human. It rose **a lot**. Ten meters straight up, crossing the distance to the top of the outer wall as if gravity were a mere suggestion.
He landed in absolute silence. Immediately crouched. Observed.
Two guards patrolled the walkway fifteen meters away. Light reinforced-leather armor. Spears. Alert but talking quietly — something about shifts and cheap beer.
Seconds later, Jelím floated up to the top. Effortless. Soundless. She hovered for a moment before gently touching the stone.
Keara came last — hands glowing faintly gold, controlled levitation that set her down beside them as carefully as landing a feather.
Dagon gestured. Two fingers pointing downward, indicating the inner courtyard. Then he traced a wide circular motion.
*Many guards. Predictable patrol pattern but numerous.*
Jelím tilted her head. Watched longer.
She raised her hand. Quickly showed fingers in sequence — ten, then another ten, then two more.
Then pointed to three specific directions: east tower, shadow of the stables, roof of the main hall.
*Twenty-two guards. Three hidden in those positions.*
Dagon looked again, more carefully this time.
Then nodded, impressed.
He raised two more fingers. Pointed to a high window in the north tower.
*Twenty-four. Two archers in that tower.*
Jelím went completely still. The mask slowly turned toward him.
"How did you see…" she whispered, barely audible.
"Reflection off the metal," Dagon answered just as quietly. "Arrow tips caught the moonlight for a second. Look again."
Jelím looked. Took twenty seconds.
She saw it.
A tiny glint. Almost imperceptible. But there.
"Damn it," she muttered. "Three years really do make a difference."
"It's not time," Dagon corrected gently. "It's attention. You have raw power. I learned to **see**."
Keara touched both their shoulders, bringing focus back.
"We can philosophize later. How do we get past?"
Dagon analyzed. Patrol patterns. Blind spots. Timing.
"Jelím, can the shadows cover us while we descend?"
"Yes. But not for long. Twenty seconds maximum before it becomes too obvious."
"Enough," Dagon decided. "We go down during the shift change. The guards get distracted for about five seconds when they greet each other. That's our window."
They waited.
Three minutes. Five. Eight.
Then it happened — two guards approached two others coming from the opposite direction. They stopped. Exchanged brief words. Laughed at something.
"Now," Dagon whispered.
Jelím raised both hands.
The shadows around them **responded**.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't explosive. Just a natural extension — existing darkness stretching a few centimeters, flowing like thick liquid, covering the trio as they descended.
Dagon jumped first. Dropped twelve meters. Rolled on landing, absorbing the impact silently. Stayed motionless behind a decorative lion statue.
Jelím floated down. Keara levitated alongside.
The shadows gradually retracted, returning to normal.
The guards kept talking. Saw nothing.
Dagon gestured — open hand, forward motion.
*Advance. Slowly.*
They crossed the outer courtyard using natural cover. Statue to bush. Bush to pillar. Pillar to wall.
Twenty meters of exposed ground turned into ten short, silent movements.
They reached the wall of the main building.
Keara touched the stone. Closed her eyes. Whispered words in an ancient tongue.
"Three guards ten meters to the right," she murmured. "Two more ahead. Stairs going down to… the dungeons. Must be that way."
"Direct entrance is a trap," Dagon assessed. "There must be more guards on the stairs."
Jelím studied the structure. Windows. Balconies. Roofs.
"There," she pointed. "Second-floor window. Slightly ajar. We can enter and descend through the inner corridors."
"Interior guards?" Keara asked.
"Fewer than outside," Jelím replied. "And easier to avoid. Corridors have more hiding spots."
Dagon evaluated. Nodded.
"Let's go that way."
---
**The Ascent**
The wall was smooth. Polished stone with no obvious handholds.
For a normal person, impossible to climb.
For them, a minor inconvenience.
Jelím floated straight up. Rose seven meters to the window effortlessly, body hovering as if supported by water.
She tested the window. Pushed gently.
It opened silently.
She peered inside. Empty room. Beds unmade. Servants' quarters, probably.
She gestured downward. *Clear.*
Dagon looked at Keara.
"Can you take me up?"
"I can," she confirmed. "But it'll burn a lot of mana."
"We have potions."
Keara sighed. Extended her hands. They glowed a stronger gold.
Dagon felt his body become light. He began to rise — not flying, but being **lifted** gently by an invisible force.
He rose the seven meters. Jelím pulled him through the window.
Then Keara levitated herself up, joining them.
She landed. Took a deep breath. Sweat on her forehead.
"Mana at sixty percent," she whispered.
Dagon handed her a small vial. Bright blue liquid.
"Drink half. Save the rest."
Keara obeyed. Felt mana returning — a warm sensation spreading from her stomach outward.
"Eighty percent," she confirmed. "Enough."
Dagon moved to the room's door. Pressed his ear against it.
Footsteps. Distant. Regular. Interior patrol.
He waited until the steps moved completely away.
He opened the door a fraction of an inch. Peered out.
Long corridor. Torches on the walls. Empty for now.
"Let's go," he whispered.
They exited in single file. Jelím floating a few centimeters above the floor to make no sound. Dagon and Keara stepping only on the edges of their feet, distributing weight to avoid creaks.
They passed three closed doors. Heard snoring behind one — sleeping servants.
They reached a junction. Dagon stopped. Looked both ways.
Left: empty.
Right: two guards standing in front of double doors. Motionless. Alert.
Dagon retreated silently. Gestured.
*Two guards. Right. Blocking the path.*
Jelím thought. Then gestured.
*I can distract. You two pass.*
Dagon shook his head.
*Too risky. What if they shout?*
Keara touched both their shoulders. Gestured.
*Leave it to me.*
She closed her eyes. Her hands glowed faintly — not gold this time, but pale green.
She whispered words so soft that even Dagon beside her barely heard.
"*Gentle Sleep.*"
The magic flowed invisibly down the corridor. Reached the two guards.
One yawned. Then the other. Their eyelids grew heavy. Heads nodded.
They tried to resist — shook their heads, slapped their own cheeks.
But the spell was subtle. Not a direct attack they could fight. It was just… tiredness. Natural. Irresistible.
The first one slid down the wall into a sitting position. "Just… just a second…"
The second followed. "I'm… exhausted too…"
Thirty seconds later, both were deeply asleep. Steady breathing. Unconscious.
Dagon looked at Keara, impressed.
She just shrugged.
"Healing magic isn't only for wounds," she whispered. "Sleep is a form of healing too."
They slipped past the sleeping guards. Dagon checked pulses — strong, regular. They'd be fine.
They continued.
Two more corridors. Another staircase — this one going down.
They reached a heavy iron door. Locked.
"Dungeons," Keara whispered, sensing through the stone. "I feel three weak presences just below. And… four guards."
"Four is too many to put to sleep without raising suspicion," Dagon assessed. "If all the dungeon guards pass out at once, someone will investigate."
Jelím studied the lock. Then the hinges. Then the ceiling above the door.
"There's another way," she said. "There always is."
She pointed upward — air vent. Metal grate. Narrow but passable.
Dagon looked. Frowned.
"I won't fit through there."
"I will," Jelím said simply.
She floated up. Touched the grate. Focused.
The grate began to **vibrate**. Very low sound, almost inaudible. Then the screws silently loosened — precise, millimeter-accurate telekinesis.
The grate came free. Jelím caught it before it fell. Gently lowered it.
She looked inside. Dark. Tight. But doable.
"I'll go down through here," she whispered. "I'll open the door from the inside. You come in."
Dagon hesitated.
"What if there are guards right on the other side?"
"Then I improvise," Jelím replied. "Like you said."
Before they could argue, she had already slipped into the duct. Her body slid silently inside, disappearing into the darkness.
Dagon and Keara waited.
Twenty seconds. Forty. One minute.
Then they heard — very muffled — dull thuds. Bodies falling.
Silence.
The door's lock **clicked**.
It opened slowly.
Jelím stood on the other side. Mask in place. Spotless.
Behind her, four guards slept deeply — not injured, just unconscious.
"Telekinesis on the right pressure points," she explained simply. "Instant blackout. No pain. No marks."
Dagon stepped in, inspecting the work.
"Impressive," he admitted.
The dungeons stretched ahead — damp stone corridor, rusted iron cells on both sides. Smell of mold and despair.
Keara focused again.
"Third cell on the left," she whispered. "Two people. Weak but alive."
They moved quickly and silently. Passed empty cells. Passed one with a common prisoner — a man who ignored them completely, lost in his own despair.
They reached the third cell.
Inside, two figures. Man and woman. Noble clothing, now torn and filthy. Disheveled hair. Gaunt faces.
But their eyes — when they saw the three masked figures — shone with something between hope and terror.
The woman rose unsteadily.
"Who… who are you?" Her voice was hoarse from too much shouting.
Dagon approached the bars. Gripped them. Tested.
"People who owe a favor to your daughter," he answered simply.
The woman's eyes widened.
"Any… Any sent you? Is she alright? Where—"
"Safe and far from here," Dagon cut in gently. "But not for long if we don't hurry."
He looked at Jelím.
"Can you?"
Jelím studied the lock. Then simply **destroyed** it — concentrated telekinesis crushed the internal mechanism completely. Metal twisted. Snapped.
The door swung open.
Keara stepped in immediately. Hands already glowing.
"They need healing before they can move. Malnourished and injured."
She began working. Golden light enveloped the two prisoners. Small cuts closed. Bruises faded. Strength returned to their muscles.
Not full healing — that would take time. But enough for them to walk.
The man touched Dagon's arm.
"Thank you… whoever you are."
"Save the thanks for later," Dagon replied. "When you're safe."
Keara finished. Breathing heavily. Sweat dripping.
"Done. They can walk. But they need real food and rest soon."
Dagon nodded.
"Let's go. Same route back. Absolute silence."
They began to ascend.
That was when they heard it.
A bell. Distant. But unmistakable.
**Alarm.**
Dagon froze.
"Shit."
Voices echoed from above — guards shouting, boots running, metal clanging.
"They found us," Jelím said, voice tense for the first time.
Keara looked at the prisoners — too weak to run fast.
Dagon made an instant decision.
"Plan change. We're fighting our way out."
He drew his sword. For the first time that night, the blade gleamed — not with magic, but with pure intent.
He looked back. At Jelím. At Keara. At the two frightened nobles.
"Get ready. Things are about to get loud."
The first door above exploded open.
Six guards charged down, shouting.
And beneath the mask, Dagon smiled.
"Finally," he murmured. "It was starting to get boring."