The emergency lanterns cast amber silhouettes across the wainscoting as sentries filed through the service door. Their polished obsidian armor gleamed, each man a silent, trained predator. Caligo watched Sefira with a detached amusement that grated more than outright fury.
“The impoundment process is automated,” he murmured, his voice cutting clearly through the room. “A simple ledger transfer, executed at midnight. You have approximately seven minutes to witness the unraveling of your family line, Sefira. A rather fitting end, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jago’s unbandaged left hand pressed against the small of Sefira’s back. She glanced at him, noting the hard set of his mouth and the darkened copper sheen of his irises. Tirso, meanwhile, was already a blur of motion, hunched over the control panel he’d overridden, his fingers a furious dance across the illuminated display.
“Seven minutes,” Tirso muttered, not looking up. “Plenty of time to download a truly offensive playlist.”
A shrill, tinny pop beat suddenly erupted from the acoustic dampening panels. The track—an abrasive, hyper-synthesized dance mix—grated through the hall with brutal volume. The sentries hesitated mid-stride, weapons wavering.
Caligo scowled, the easy curl dropping from his mouth. “What in the—shut that noise off!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Tirso chirped, a mischievous glint in his eye. He cranked the volume, the bass thumping against Sefira’s ribs. The absurdity of it almost made her laugh, a raw, sharp sound that would have been completely inappropriate if the world wasn't already upside down.
Jago, seizing the distraction, moved. His gaze swept the room, discarding the reinforced vault doors and the iron-shutter-sealed windows. He looked up toward the narrow glass aperture set forty feet overhead in the ribbed ceiling. It was reinforced, yes, but not to the same degree as the exterior barriers.
He pulled Sefira close, his lips brushing her ear over the pulsing rhythm. “Got a cufflink for every occasion,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “The bespoke explosion model. Keep your head down when it goes.”
Before Sefira could react, Jago detached a cufflink from his left sleeve, the one on his uninjured arm. It was a simple, elegant thing, onyx and polished chrome, indistinguishable from any other piece of high-society ornamentation. He lobbed it with surprising force, a precise arc towards the center of the skylight.
There was a sharp *crack*, followed by a concussive blast that momentarily drowned out Kore’s warbling. Shards of reinforced crystal rained down, glittering like frozen tears, but the skylight didn’t fully shatter. Fractures spiderwebbed across the pane, leaving a jagged breach open to the rainy dark. Cold wind poured down through the gap, thick with sea salt, wet granite, and distant estate sirens.
“Move!” Jago said, hauling himself onto the long conference table, favoring his bandaged thigh. He pulled Sefira up after him, their boots scraping against the polished mahogany, knocking over antique inkwells and leather-bound ledgers. The squad opened fire, kinetic rounds gouging splintered furrows in the thick timber.
“Tirso!” Sefira called over her shoulder as a bullet snapped past her ear. Tirso, still at the panel, gave a thumbs-up, unplugged a wire, and dove under the console just as the weapons swung toward him.
Jago reached the edge of the table beneath the shattered overhead frame. He braced his good hand on the window frame, testing its stability. “It’s a long drop to the roof, Caldos. And it’s slick.”
Sefira didn't hesitate. Her gaze flickered to the clock on the far wall – barely five minutes left. “I’ve faced worse falls.” She launched herself upward, grabbing the torn edge of the copper casing. The metal was cold and wet, biting into her palms. Her feet found purchase on the ornate carvings of the wall, and she hauled herself through the gap, the rain immediately plastering her hair to her face.
Jago followed, his movements fluid despite his injuries, pulling himself through with a grunt. They hauled themselves onto the slick slate of the pavilion roof, sliding slightly on the wet pitch. The wind howled, whipping their clothes, and the ground was a dizzying distance below, a sea of manicured gardens and dark, looming structures.
“This way!” Jago yelled, pointing towards a lower, flatter section of roof connected to the Conservatory, the place where her exile had truly begun. He began to slide, controlling his descent with a practiced ease, digging his heels into the crevices between the tiles. Sefira, less accustomed to rooftop parkour, moved more cautiously, her fingers trailing along the sharp ridge of the roof to maintain balance.
“Hurry, Caldos! They’ll be on the exterior patrol routes in thirty seconds!”
She saw it then – a gap. The pavilion roof fell three yards short of the adjoining terrace. It was a leap of at least eight feet across a chasm that dropped several stories to a stone courtyard. The rain blurred her vision, the wind snatched at her, but the flashing red lights of approaching patrol drones were undeniable in the distance.
Jago was already on the other side, balanced precariously on the lip of the adjacent roof, his arm outstretched. “Jump! I’ll catch you!”
Her entire life, Sefira had calculated risks, weighed transactions, never trusted a promise that wasn’t backed by collateral. This was different. This was faith, naked and terrifying. But the alternative was Caligo’s cold smile and the finality of midnight.
She looked into Jago’s eyes, saw the unwavering certainty there, and for the first time, she didn’t calculate. She sprinted, her shoes skidding on the wet slate, and launched herself into the void, a silent prayer escaping her lips. The cold air rushed past her, the drop seemed infinite, until Jago’s arms locked around her ribs, his weight dragging them both into the gutter. They stumbled, nearly went over the edge, but Jago somehow righted them, his breath ragged against her ear.
“Always knew you had it in you,” he gasped, his hold still tight.
They didn’t stop. They scrambled across more roofs, ducking under low-hanging eaves, scaling a low wall that separated the central hall from the sprawling Conservatory complex. Jago led her through a labyrinth of private conservatories, their glass ceilings glittering in the driving rain, until they reached a nondescript, disused section. With a grunt, Jago kicked open a maintenance hatch, revealing a darkened, dust-choked space.
“My grandfather’s old bolthole,” he explained, waving her in. “He called it ‘The Velvet Sanctuary.’ No one ever found it.”
Sefira dropped into the cramped space, landing on something soft and musty. Jago followed, pulling the hatch shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, save for the faint green glow of a forgotten power indicator. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and damp velvet. They stood, chests heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins, the quiet echoing after the storm of their escape.
“How much time?” Sefira managed, her voice hoarse, her hand already reaching for the commlink built into her wrist gauntlet. She needed to know. She had to know.
Jago shook his head, already knowing what she was asking. “Under sixty seconds, Caldos.”
She activated the tiny screen, her fingers trembling as she navigated to the secure financial network. The display flickered, then loaded. Her eyes fixated on the digital clock in the corner of the interface. It clicked over, from 23:59 to 00:00. The network refreshed. Her family’s crest, once proudly displayed next to their immense asset portfolio, was gone. Replaced by a single, stark line of text: *Caldos Estate Assets: Status – Impounded. Transfer Complete.*