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The bond hits like a blade under my ribs.

One moment I am crouched in the shadow of Vaerith’s west wall, listening to guards mutter below me while rainwater drips from the broken stone beast above my shoulder. The next, Isolde’s pulse tears through the distance, sharp with pain, iron, and deliberate restraint. She is not screaming through the bond. She is doing something worse. She is sending control wrapped around distress, a clean, measured signal that tells me exactly where she is while begging my worst instincts not to answer first.

East tower.

Iron circle.

Alive.

My hands close around the stone ledge hard enough to crack it.

Below me, two guards pass beneath the wall with lanterns held low and spears angled lazily toward the ground. They have no idea how close they are to dying. The hunger surges upward so fast my glamour buckles around the horns beneath it, pressure throbbing behind my eyes. It would be easy to let instinct take over. Easy to drop into the corridor with flame and teeth and prove every elegant accusation Vaerith ever polished for public use.

Then the bond shifts.

Isolde breathes through it.

In.

Hold.

Out.

The rhythm slides into my chest with relentless steadiness.

I force my fingers open.

“Good,” I mutter under my breath, voice rough with heat. “Good. We are going to be clever. We are going to hate every second of being clever, but we are going to do it anyway.”

Then I launch myself over the wall.

I do not take the gates. Gates are for witnesses, petitions, and men stupid enough to believe powerful people build entrances out of fairness instead of vanity. I clear the top stones in one silent movement, land in a crouch on the inner walkway, and move before the impact can echo.

The estate grounds spread beneath me in damp terraces and ward-lit paths, all trimmed hedges, polished statues, and delicate lamps burning over a house that keeps trying to turn ownership into theology. The east tower rises beyond the main hall, narrow and severe against the bruised night sky. A faint red line of wardlight glows near the third level.

There.

The bond pulls toward it like heat through bone.

The first guard hears the whisper of my boot against wet stone and turns sharply, spear lifting.

I reach him before he can shout.

Two fingers strike the nerve beneath his ear while my other hand catches his wrist before the lantern drops. His eyes roll back instantly. I lower him carefully against the wall, controlling the weight so his armor does not scrape.

The second guard stares for one frozen heartbeat, then jerks his spear toward me.

I step inside the point, strike beneath his ribs, and press my palm against the ward charm sewn into his tabard.

The charm flares bright blue.

I drink only the ward-energy.

Cold magic rushes into me tasting of brass, bitter ash, and Vaerith’s command structure. The hunger snaps toward the guard’s pulse underneath it, eager and ugly, but I slam the instinct shut before it reaches him. His breath leaves him in a startled grunt as the charm dies in my hand. I tap the side of his throat with two knuckles, and his knees fold.

I catch him before he hits the stones.

Both guards breathe evenly by the time I ease them down side by side.