The Announcement

Charles hurried to Joseph, who lay gasping on the ground. Though Charles himself was aching from having his body twisted, he noted at once how grotesquely Joseph's ankle had been bent out of place.

"Hold on…" Charles reached into his coat pocket and took out a small bottle. Within was a thick, golden-red fluid. "Let's get this on you."

Joseph offered a weak nod, clenching his teeth as Charles carefully applied the salve to the ankle twisted in the wrong direction. At once, a wave of penetrating warmth spread through the injured area, dulling the searing pain to a tingling numbness.

"How's that?" Charles asked, worry etched on his face as he glanced at Joseph's badly contorted foot. He wanted to help set the bones straight but lacked the medical knowledge—and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

"A lot better," Joseph rasped, managing a faint smile. He then reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out a syringe.

"Deal with that bastard," he said, motioning to the wiry man lying in a pool of his own blood. "Knock him out with this. No matter how tight we tie him up, he'll just twist free. Right now, the best option is to sedate him."

Charles gave a curt nod and accepted the syringe. Slowly, he forced himself upright. Every muscle in his body still throbbed from the music box's effects, but he gritted his teeth and moved on.

"If he so much as twitches, I'll shoot," Joseph warned, still clutching his gun, fully prepared to pull the trigger if the captive attempted anything.

Charles approached the fallen adversary, treading carefully. The man lay unmoving in his own blood, riddled with bullet wounds. Yet Charles wasn't about to trust appearances—someone with powers like that could easily feign unconsciousness to lure him in.

Kneeling beside the wounded man, syringe in hand, Charles was about to inject him when the man's fingers twitched. Charles jerked back on instinct, and in the same split second, Joseph's pistol snapped up.

A faint groan slipped from the man's lips. His once-shut eyes cracked open, revealing pain and exhaustion. "You… you think—"

Charles wasted no time. He darted in, plunging the needle into the man's neck. The wiry figure tried to twist away, but bullet wounds sapped his agility. The sedative emptied into his bloodstream, and Charles withdrew the syringe just as rapidly.

The man didn't even finish his sentence before the drug took hold, forcing him into limp unconsciousness. His breath steadied into a slow, heavy rhythm.

Charles exhaled sharply in relief, spinning back toward Joseph, who remained slumped against the wall. "All set."

"Good…" Joseph managed, his face pale with pain. "We need the medical team in here—plus the Arcane Science folks to deal with that cursed music box."

Charles agreed, letting his gaze wander to the sinister little contraption lying on the floor. It might appear like an innocent toy, but he knew all too well how dreadful its power truly was.

A sudden thought struck him, and he spun around. "Simon!" he cried, hurrying to check on the large officer who had been guarding the mirror through all of this. Sure enough, Simon stood rigid as ever, eyes locked on the mirror.

"You holding up?" Charles asked, stepping closer.

Without taking his gaze off the glass, Simon gave a curt answer. "Not dead." He paused, voice dry as he dug out the same golden-red salve Charles had used. This self-healing concoction was standard-issue for the Suppression Division.

He dabbed the salve on his own battered limbs, letting the hot tingling spread through tense muscles. "Just… sore everywhere."

"Then I'll go get reinforcements," Charles said once they'd all applied the salve for immediate relief.

"Be careful," Joseph warned. His dislocated ankle prevented him from moving much, let alone following.

Charles nodded. He moved a little, grimacing at the remains of that cruel music box's effect on his body. "Joseph… mind if I use a bit more of that stuff? I'm out—I used all mine on you."

Joseph handed over another vial. Charles rubbed it on the worst of his aches. Warmth coursed through him, dulling the pain. He returned the vial, then started for the stairs.

Ascending to the mansion's main floor, he found chaos. Members of the Script-Decipherers were in full retreat, sprinting through corridors while Special Unit officers pressed them on every side. Gunshots rang out intermittently, the acrid scent of gunpowder filling the air. Some enemies were captured alive; others lay unmoving on the floor. But overall, the authorities seemed to be in control.

Charles had to find a proper medic outside. Telepathy was still useless—Edward was trapped inside that mirror dimension—so Charles had no choice but to deliver the call for help on foot.

But as he dashed along, he halted in shock at the sight unfolding just ahead. The long-haired man who had fled the cellar earlier was holding a young boy hostage, one arm locked around the child's neck in a brutal chokehold.

Nearby stood Theodore, who was doing his best to shield a little girl, pistol in hand. Yet he dared not fire for fear of hitting the boy. Others aimed their weapons at the black-haired assailant, but no one dared rush in.

"Stay back!" the man roared, gripping the trembling boy tighter. "Any of you move an inch, and this brat dies!"

Charles stayed off to the side, recognizing a grimly familiar pattern. 'Why does he keep taking children as hostages?' he thought. 'And where do these kids even come from?'

He cursed inwardly, heart pounding. The child's life was balanced on a razor's edge. Charles raced through possible ways to intervene.

'Maybe I can make him let down his guard—' But he swiftly discarded the thought. 'No, even a second or two of inattention isn't enough for someone to close that distance and safely yank the child away. Theodore is closest, but even he might not manage it, and a bullet is far too risky. One slip, and the child might be shot.'

The frustration of not having a telepathic link like Edward's gnawed at Charles. 'It's too complicated to signal them. We need a different plan, fast…'

Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke quietly from his flank. "If you want to save that kid, focus. Don't turn around."

He froze. That voice was somehow familiar.

"You were with Joseph before, right?" she asked.

He realized who she was in that moment. The memory clicked.

"Are you an Ascendant?" she pressed.

Charles, still scanning the hostage standoff, answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"What's your power?"

"I can make people lose focus, or amplify it," he said.

"Perfect," she replied. "If I say the word, distract him—just for a second. I'll take the shot at his arm to make him let go."

"No!" Charles countered, voice tight with alarm. "That's way too risky for the kid."

"Don't worry. I won't miss," she said, self-assured.

He hesitated, but she cut him off. "I'm an Ascendant too. I specialize in accuracy and probability control."

It took Charles a moment to process that. "All right. Ready whenever you are."

"Wait for my signal," she murmured, palming her pistol with calm confidence.

Charles took a slow breath, honing in on the black-haired man who kept the boy pinned. He'd only get one chance at this.

"Now!" the woman snapped.

Instantly, Charles unleashed his ability, flooding the man's senses with a momentary lapse of awareness. A fleeting second of mental blankness.

Bang! Bang!

Two gunshots rang out in quick succession. The first bullet slipped between the child's head and the captor's arm, tearing through the bicep that held the boy. The second punched into the man's left thigh with perfect precision.

"Gah!" he screamed, his arm going limp around the boy's throat. Staggered by the shot to his leg, he crumpled. Freed, the child scrambled away. Theodore scooped the boy up at once, shielding him. Other agents rushed in, swiftly subduing the wounded man.

Charles turned and saw a striking figure: a woman with glossy black hair, deep blue eyes flecked with gold—Miranda Cavendish, Joseph's elder sister. This time, unlike their first brief encounter, she wasn't in a dark cloak. She wore a formal outfit: a navy silk dress with silver embroidery, its fitted bodice and full skirt exuding regal elegance. Lacework adorned the long sleeves, and her hair had been gathered in an elaborate updo threaded with pearls and silver ribbons.

Confronted with the renowned Major General of the Arcane Forces, Charles grew suddenly self-conscious. Any brashness he'd shown earlier vanished at once.

"Where's Joseph?" she demanded quietly, though worry tinged her clipped tone.

"He's in the cellar," Charles answered at once. "His ankle's badly hurt. Needs help immediately."

"Which way?" she pressed.

He pointed to a corridor deeper in the mansion. "Beneath the main staircase, near the central hall."

Miranda nodded sharply, her gaze flicking toward the path that led underground. "Go finish your job," she said curtly, stepping swiftly inside, her posture taut with concern.

Charles watched her stride away, then shook himself from his reverie. There was still work to be done. 'I have to find a doctor for Joseph—and get the Arcane Science team to handle that cursed music box,' he reminded himself, hurrying out to the mansion's front gates, where the support squads had set up operations.

Just then, Edward's voice echoed in Charles's mind, an abrupt mental broadcast: "Mission accomplished. We've neutralized the Script-Decipherers' leader."

Charles stopped mid-step, relief washing over him. At least the fight inside the mirror dimension was over. But no time to rest—he still had to summon medical help for Joseph, and secure the site for the Arcane Science Division to properly seal away that horrifying music box.