Naeve woke up with a jolt. Her hand, instinctively rising to nurse her sudden migraine, froze when it came into contact with a strange fluid. She slowly retracted her hand only to find that each of her fingers was coated in a dark red liquid.

  She shifted, attempting to push herself into an upright position. But the moment her arms took on weight, a sharp pain lanced through her skull. The world tilted violently. Her balance betrayed her.

  With a gasp, she collapsed back onto the ground. The impact sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over her, and in the struggle to orient herself, her cheek landed in something warm and slick.

  Her stomach twisted. A slow, dreadful realization dawned as she pulled away, only to feel the unmistakable wetness smear across her skin.

  A jolt of pain caused her to jerk her head to the side, where she saw more of the crimson liquid splattered all over the floor. The same liquid now coated her face, flooding her nostrils with the heavy scent of iron.

  Memories crashed down on her.

  Dread coiled tight in her chest.

  She scrambled over to the edge of the building. Naeve didn't know exactly how long she was out for, but she assumed that it was probably more than enough time for her aunt and her kidnapper to escape.

  She peered over the ledge at the ground below. A jump from that height would certainly hurt, but she'd prefer that over having to explain to who ever owned the house why and how she'd got on their roof.

  Naeve stepped onto the ledge.

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  -

  The tent was quiet. Too quiet.

  Lennard sat on a wooden stool, his posture stiff and rigid, hands resting on his lap. He was waiting—and, as of now, still was—for a very long time. For what exactly, he wasn't sure anymore. His initial hope that Serena would soon come had—much like the feeling in his legs—quickly faded. His gift—wrapped neatly in brown paper—remained untouched at its position beside him. The lamp hanging overhead cast restless shadows against the tent walls.

  Lennard's faith in the acceptance of his painting remained steadfast. Rather, what troubled him was whether his presence would be welcome at all. He had rehearsed how the meeting would go multiple times already in his head. He would show her the painting. She would laugh—maybe even be impressed. They would talk. They would connect. He would have his date.

  Yet here he was, sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and beginning to wonder if coming here was a mistake. Lennard reached out with his ability, probing gently at the edges of the world beyond his consciousness. He awaited the familiar warmth of a nearby mind, yet there was nothing. He increased his range—twenty metres, fifty, one-hundred—still nothing. Just the dull hum of the festival in the distance. Lennard retracted his Mind-Sense. There was no point in keeping it active any longer—it had already drained most of his Quintessence.

  He resolved that, in the next four minutes, he would leave if Serena did not arrive.

  The first three minutes flew by quickly, with no sign of Serena’s arrival.

  He exhaled deeply.

  It seems I must go.

  Yet, just as he was about to rise, a presence brushed against the edges of his awareness—faint, cautious, and unfamiliar. Someone was outside the tent, moving with deliberate care, their steps too light for an ordinary passerby.

  Lennard stilled. This wasn’t aimless wandering. Whoever it was, they were sneaking. They got to the back of the tent, right where Lennard currently sat. If their intentions weren't clear before, they certainly were now. There was a sudden flash of resolve, and a hand burst through the seams of the tent wall. Lennard ducked downwards as it whizzed above his head with startling speed, grasping uselessly at the air before withdrawing. A small hole was left behind, and through that hole appeared an eye, glaring down at him.

  "Who the hell are you?"