The masks didn't move.
Ten of them. Lined up across the narrow street. Identical black suits, hands clasped in front of them like funeral attendees. Their silver faces caught the morning light, casting warped reflections of the world around them. None of them blinked.
Jace didn't know if they could.
Reya stood behind him now, half-awake and tense. Her eyes shimmered faintly with that violet hue, her breath slowing as she watched the figures. She didn't ask who they were. She already knew.
"The Gilded Order," she whispered. "Damn it. I thought we had more time."
"They're not moving," Jace muttered.
"They will."
He glanced at her. "Friends of yours?"
"More like exes who think they still own me."
That got a look. "Seriously?"
She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I told you. I used to be lost. The Order… they found me first."
The one in front raised a hand. Not in greeting this time.
But in invitation.
Then, for the first time, it spoke. The voice didn't come from its mouth—there was no mouth—but from somewhere just behind Jace's eyes.
"Come. You carry a wound too deep for flesh. Let us cleanse you."
Jace flinched. The sound was velvet and steel, threading through his mind like a needle. It didn't feel like speech—it felt like surgery.
He stepped back from the window.
"Nope."
"They want the shard," Reya said. "What's in your leg? It's a key. To them, it's sacred."
"So why not just ask nicely?"
"Because they don't believe in consent."
The room began to chill. Frost crept along the edges of the window. The candle flames flickered violently, then went out all at once.
"Jace," Reya said slowly. "Don't let them speak to you again."
"Why?"
"Because they don't speak words. They speak truths. And some truths can break you."
Then—
A crash. The front door exploded inward, hinges shrieking as it was torn off the frame. A masked figure stood in the doorway, arms outstretched like it was conducting a symphony.
Behind it, two more stepped through.
Jace's body moved before his brain caught up. His blade was in hand, the shard in his thigh burning red-hot.
Reya surged forward first, no weapon—just raw magic, flaring up her arms like veins of molten silver. Her scream lit the air.
But the Order didn't flinch.
The first one raised a single hand—and Reya stopped moving.
Her body froze mid-air, suspended like a puppet on an invisible string. Her magic fizzled out. Her eyes went wide.
Jace swore. "Let her go."
The lead figure turned its head slowly. "You're diseased, child. The Hollow God is not meant for mortals."
"Then come take it," Jace snarled.
He lunged.
Steel met porcelain—and cracked it. His blade tore through the lead mask's shoulder, dark smoke pouring out instead of blood. The creature didn't scream. Just watched him. Unflinching.
The second one moved faster—no footsteps, no stance. Just blur. It was suddenly behind Jace, hand on his throat.
And then—
A gunshot.
Lena.
She stood in the wreckage of the window frame behind them, a revolver in each hand. Sigils carved into the barrels burned orange as she fired again—boom—the shot punching a hole clean through the second figure's head.
This time, the mask shattered.
The thing beneath it wasn't human.
It looked like wet clay twisted into the memory of a man. Half-formed, half-forgotten. Eyeless. Mouthless. Grotesquely calm.
Jace kicked free, spinning around and slicing its torso clean through. It split—slowly. Like it hadn't realized it was dead yet.
Reya dropped to the floor, gasping.
"Thanks for the assist," Jace muttered, chest heaving.
"Don't thank me yet," Lena snapped. "Three more coming from the rooftop across the way."
Another crash.
A third figure leapt through the ceiling.
But this one was different.
Feminine.
Taller than the rest. Moving with a grace that was almost seductive. Her mask was gold, not silver. And it smiled.
"Hello, little vessel," she said, in a voice like warm oil and old silk. "You're stronger than we expected."
Jace tightened his grip. "You're not like the others."
She stepped closer. Didn't attack. Just walked—slowly, hips swaying, every movement designed to unnerve. To entice.
"I'm what comes after the blade. When pain isn't enough. When force fails." She reached out—and Jace froze.
Not by choice.
His body locked up. Muscles rigid. The shard in his thigh burned so hot he tasted copper.
"You've already started to change," she whispered, stroking the side of his jaw. "Your blood sings. Your heart is rotting beautifully."
Lena raised her gun—click.
But the gold-masked woman just flicked a finger, and the gun melted in her hands.
"Don't struggle," she said. "This won't hurt."
Then—
The shard screamed.
It unleashed a pulse of violet light that knocked her back across the room like a rag doll.
Jace collapsed to one knee, coughing, vision swimming.
The gold-masked figure hissed, rising from the rubble.
Her voice wasn't seductive now.
It was hungry.
"You're further gone than I thought. That's not a key inside you."
Jace looked up, eyes glowing faintly with violet fire.
"It's a seed."
The remaining Order members retreated.
The gold-masked one stayed one second longer. Enough to smile.
Then she was gone.
—
They didn't sleep that night.
Jace sat at the window, watching the street, blade across his lap.
The wound on his leg pulsed—not in pain now. In rhythm.
Like a heartbeat.
Reya sat nearby, arms wrapped around her knees. Lena was dismantling the last of her melted guns, muttering about reinforcement sigils and switching to rune-bullets.
Jace didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The war had arrived.
And the Order wasn't trying to kill him.
They were trying to harvest him.