The hills were quiet. The estate still stood. But Giselle didn't walk up the grand staircase like a lady of the manor. She moved through the servants' corridors—barefoot, silent, dressed in cream cashmere and black leggings, her hair twisted into a loose bun that made her look like she was headed to a wine tasting instead of a warpath.
She passed the library. The east guest wing. The kitchen.
No one saw her.
She opened a door behind the wine cellar. It was locked. She broke the lock with a pin from her hair.
Down she went—concrete steps, no lights. She didn't need them. Her hands knew the walls.
The chamber was small, hidden beneath a false foundation. The air was thick with oil and old steel. On the far side, inside a secure case lined with velvet and Kevlar, sat the last thing Morris ever wanted her to find.
The Swan suit—but newer. Custom. Upgraded. Fitted for the woman she'd become.
She changed quickly.
The zipper slid like a blade being drawn.
Black. Tapered. Quiet.
The gloves fit like a second skin. The boots locked. Twin daggers strapped to her thighs, poison-tipped needles hidden beneath her braid, a retractable garrote wired into her belt.
Giselle didn't breathe like a soldier. She breathed like a dancer.
But every line of her body said: hunter.
She checked her wrist.
The watch looked ordinary. It wasn't.
The screen blinked to life, revealing a tracking grid.
A pin. A blip. Moving slowly—southwest.
"Rock," she whispered, activating a channel only three people in the world could hear. One was dead. One was still recovering. The third was listening.
A low buzz. Then static. Then a voice.
"You really want to do this alone?" It was Anthony.
Giselle smiled, but it never touched her eyes. "If I don't, he'll come for the children next."
He didn't argue.
He never could when she used that voice.
She dropped off the ridge just before dusk. No vehicle. No backup. No signature trail.The wind followed her like a witness.The snow made no sound beneath her.
The coordinates led her to a rail yard—abandoned, reeking of soot and wet rust. Half a train car smouldered in the corner. Burned paper fluttered across the asphalt like lost wings.
Inside, she found pieces of what Morris had left behind.
Not bodies—blueprints.
Of Westdentia. Of the Academy. Of her family's estate.
And one photo in particular—Leina. Smiling. Marked with a red X.
Giselle didn't flinch. But something inside her coiled.
She pulled a small vial from her belt and crushed it beneath her boot.
The gas released was odourless.
But Morris would know it.
Across the city, deep inside a high-rise still under construction, Morris froze mid-step. He sniffed once. Twice. Then grinned.
He leaned toward a cracked window.
"So you're finally coming out, little birdie," he murmured.
Behind him, the lights went out.
One by one. Without warning.
He turned slowly. "Clever girl."
Giselle dropped from the rafters like gravity owed her something.
Boot to throat.
She didn't announce herself. Didn't pose. Didn't monologue.
She moved—knife flashing, elbow jabbing, one knee to the ribs with a force that cracked pavement. Morris retaliated, swinging a broken pipe. She ducked beneath it like she was born to break rules and bones.
He hit her once, backhand, too fast to block.
She smiled, blood in her teeth.
"Try harder."
The fight was short. Brutal. Tactical.
He wasn't ready for her anymore. She didn't fight like the assassin he trained.
She fought like the woman who survived him.
When she left him there—unconscious and bound—it wasn't out of mercy. It was the strategy.
She planted a blade beside his ear, deep enough to make him flinch even in sleep.
On the handle was her mark. Not the Swan crest.
A new one:
Mother.
Back at the estate, no one asked where she'd gone.
She entered through the east hallway, showered, changed, and met Logan in the solarium.
She wore white.
Poured tea.
Said nothing.
But when Leina walked in later that evening, kissed her mother on the cheek, and sat beside her with Diane curled at her feet—
Giselle allowed herself the smallest exhale.
The kind you take after pulling the trigger and hitting nothing but truth.