The night enveloped Lewis Center in an inky veil, the deserted streets bathed in the pale light of streetlamps.
At the same time.
St. Michael's Church, a gray stone edifice with stained-glass windows depicting austere saints, stood at the heart of the city, its steeple piercing the sky like a sentinel. This was where Jane and Hannah attended services every Sunday.
Yara pushed open the heavy oak door, her combat boots clacking on the marble floor. Her black hair, cut in a sharp bob, framed a stern face, her green eyes scanning the darkness with precision. Dressed in a leather jacket and reinforced pants, she wore poisoned daggers at her belt, ready for action. A mercenary for the Order of Salvation, Yara wasn't here to pray, but for a mission.