Echoes in Smoke

The east wing still smoldered.

Men dragged corpses from marble floors, their boots leaving red trails where fire hoses had failed to wash away the blood. The Moretti estate, once a fortress of glass and iron, smelled like a grave.

Leora stood in the courtyard, her hands shaking as she scrubbed soot from the Vessel’s face. The girl sat on the stone steps, silent, eyes fixed on the ruined windows. Her hair clung in damp strands, her lips parted as if she might whisper—but no sound came.

Leora cupped her cheeks, forcing her gaze down. “You did well,” she said softly. “You saved me.”

The girl blinked. Slowly, uncertainly, she asked, “Am I allowed?”

Leora’s throat tightened. She kissed her forehead. “Yes. You’re allowed.”

But the words felt fragile, paper-thin against the night.

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Inside, Allerick’s men worked in grim silence.

Marco stood near his Don, shirt torn and arm bandaged, face pale from blood loss. “Thirty dead, Don. Twenty more wounded. Half the staff gone. The house won’t hold