The first thing the servants heard was buzzing. Faint at first, then louder, rattling through the walls and into their teeth.

  Three shapes slid over the outer wall of the Jhael estate, black against the morning sky. Sleek, angular hulls with no visible wings, just thin bands of light running along their bellies. The air rippled under them as they sank, thrusters whispering, stirring ash and loose petals off the ruined lawn.

  They hovered a handspan above the ground and held there, perfectly level.

  Panels along their sides folded back with the soft sound of good machinery.

  Peacekeepers stepped out.

  They came in tailored dark suits instead of armor, dress shoes instead of boots. Even out here, with half the front garden cratered and the air still carrying the bitter tang of burnt oil, not a single one of them looked dusty.

  Two of them had leashes looped around gloved hands.

  The hounds at the end of those leashes didn’t bother barking. They padded forward in tense, careful steps, claws ticking on broken stone. Their coats were short and dark, more shadow than fur, muscles moving under the skin in smooth waves. Where normal eyes should have been, there was just clean, blank white that glowed faintly in the smoke.

  Their nostrils flared.

  Whatever they smelled here was enough to raise their hackles.

  The Peacekeepers formed a loose line as they advanced. The house guards, already rattled and sweating, backed off without being told, taking the cluster of servants with them. No one tried to give instructions. You didn’t tell Peacekeepers what to do at a scene like this. You waited until they decided you were worth talking to.

  They didn’t, at first.

  They took in the front yard.

  What used to be manicured grass was a mess of impact scars, shallow craters punched into the soil, some of them ringed with char. Stonework paths were shattered, flagstones snapped and tossed aside. The air still held the ghost of heat, the way it did after a kitchen fire.

  The garden beds were ruins. Black stems. Melted patches where something hotter than a simple blaze had touched down.

  Above all that, the house itself loomed, one corner defaced. An entire section of the outer wall on the second floor had been blown outward. Stone blocks hung precariously, cracked and misaligned around a ragged mouth of an opening. Torn curtains flapped weakly in the night air.

  From there, it was an easy line to draw: the gap in the wall, the broken balcony rail, the scorched craters below.

  One of the Peacekeepers whistled under his breath. Quiet. Not impressed, just acknowledging the force it would’ve taken.

  They moved on to the bodies.

  Four sheets. Four shapes.

  The smallest one lay closest to the center of the damage, where the grass was most ruined. The linen over that shape was finer, the embroidery at the edge visible even through soot. Someone had tucked it carefully around the shoulders, like that made any difference now.

  Loric Jhael, heir of the house.

  The other three were laid to rest in a less careful manner. The toes of work shoes stuck out from one, the hem of kitchen whites from another. One sheet was already mottled where blood had soaked through and dried.

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  A hound drew close enough that its nose almost brushed the edge of Loric’s shroud. Its lips pulled back in a slow, voiceless snarl, teeth catching the light. Its handler gave the leash a short, practiced jerk, pulling it back half a pace.

  “Easy,” he said. “You’ll get your turn.”

  Near the front of the group, a man with long, dark hair stopped to take it all in.

  His hair fell past his shoulders in a straight, glossy curtain, tied at the base of his neck with a thin black band. His eyes were a flat, unreflective black; when he looked at the ruined lawn, it was the look of someone examining a painting, not a crime scene.

  His suit was technically the same as the others, but it sat on him differently, like it had been made for him. A sword hung at his waist, the lacquered scabbard and silvered fittings a little too ornate for standard Peacekeeper gear. His right hand rested on the hilt, thumb hooked over the guard in a lazy, proprietary way.

  He let out a quiet breath that could’ve been a sigh.

  “…Been a while since we’ve seen something this bold,” he said. His voice was smooth, bored around the edges. “Walk straight into a noble’s estate, kill one of their heirs, take three staff on the way out…”

  His fingers drummed once, twice on the hilt.

  “The last time anyone tried this was the—”

  “Kazane.”

  The interruption was soft, but it cut clean.

  The man who spoke stood just off his shoulder, shorter, older, hair clipped close. His suit was textbook regulation, his badge polished to a mirror, the only ornament a slim device in his hand glowing faint blue across the glass. A faint scrolling of text reflected in his lenses as he glanced between the wreckage and the reports.

  He didn’t bother hiding the irritation in his tone.

  “Focus,” he said.

  Kazane’s mouth flattened for a heartbeat. His hand eased off the sword a fraction, though he didn’t step back.

  The older Peacekeeper tilted his device toward the house briefly, then toward the ground, like he was drawing the path in the air.

  “Servants say the intruder hit the young master in his bedroom,” he said. “Forced him out through that wall.” A nod toward the hole above them. “They landed here. From there, the young master engaged, attempted to drive the attacker off.”

  He glanced once at the smallest sheet, just long enough to acknowledge it, then moved on.

  “They all insist he fought valiantly.” His tone didn’t quite make it a question, but it didn’t treat it as fact either. “But in the end, he was killed. No negotiation. No attempt to flee. Just…” He flicked his fingers, searching for the right word, then settled with a small shrug. “Execution.”

  Behind him, one of the hounds let out a low growl. Its glowing eyes were fixed on a stretch of charred earth where the soil had fused into glassy clumps. The handler shifted his stance, planting his feet, giving the leash just enough slack to let the creature pull against it.

  “The staff came out,” the older Peacekeeper went on. “Three of them. Tried to avenge him.”

  His gaze moved to the other three sheets.

  “They’re saying the same thing about them too. ‘They died bravely. Doing their duty.’”

  He flicked his thumb over the device, bringing up one last line.

  “And the attacker they describe as…” He squinted. “In their exact words: ‘a monster.’”

  The word hung in the air for a moment.

  Out near the steps, one of the house maids started quietly sobbing again. A guard murmured something to her, but his eyes were on the Peacekeepers, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come.

  Kazane shifted his weight, looking from the hole in the wall to the wrecked garden to the line of bodies. His expression barely moved, but his eyes sharpened, just a little.

  “Monster,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else. “People love that word when they’re scared.”

  One of the hounds suddenly jerked sideways, nose to the ground, dragging its handler toward the far edge of the lawn where broken tiles and scuffed earth marked the start of a trail. Its white eyes flared brighter, breath coming faster now.

  Kazane turned his head, following the line the dog was charting with its body.

  “Well,” he said quietly, almost amused. “Let’s see what kind of ‘monster’ walks away from this.”

  He tilted his chin at the handler.

  “Give it some length. Keep it on the estate, but don’t choke it. If there’s a trail, I want it.”

  The Hounds of the Peacekeepers were special Hounds who could pick up the scent of Grace. Something that’s unique to each person. And once they picked up on it. They’d never forget it.

  The handler nodded and loosened his grip. The hound surged forward, nose skimming just above the burnt ground.

  The Peacekeepers fell in behind it without hurry, suits dark against the wreckage.