The late afternoon light slanted low, gilding the cobbled streets of Old Town in amber and ash. Prague glowed like a memory – all postcard façades and restored stone, the kind of place tourists imagined history slept peacefully. But today, it held its breath.

Alyssa and Chloe walked side by side beneath a quiet row of shuttered windows.

They were identical only in silhouette – height, poise, symmetry. Everything else was deliberate contrast.

Alyssa wore midnight blue, sleeveless, the fabric light and fluid like water clinging to her skin. Her long black hair was loose, glossy as onyx, a dark ribbon down her spine. Her eyes – bright, piercing, almost unnatural – were the kind of blue that didn't belong in this century. Her dress clung in the right places, then tapered down into a slit just above the knee. Combat boots peeked out from beneath. Scuffed. Heavy.

Chloe wore storm-grey. Her dress was backless, high-necked, elegant like smoke curling around a knife. Her silver-grey hair was tied in a low ribbon, the same colour as her dress – deliberate, precise, a ghost's braid. Her eyes were grey too, almost reflective, giving the illusion of always watching, even when cast down.

There was something uncanny about seeing them together. Not just beautiful – wrong-beautiful. Like mirror twins from some forgotten myth. People didn't just look at them. They noticed them. And that was dangerous here.

As they passed through the street, the atmosphere shifted.

Men noticed first. Heads turned. Mouths parted slightly. A few blinked twice, trying to process what they were seeing – and then looked away too fast, like they'd been caught staring at something sacred. Or cursed.

Women lingered longer. Eyes narrowed. A few subtly moved to stand between the twins and their children. One woman mouthed something silently. A warning. A prayer. Then turned her back and pretended to admire the flowers in a shop window.

Children were pulled indoors.

A delivery boy paused at the edge of an alley, watching them with wide eyes. Then he dropped his bag of bread rolls and ran.

A man selling coins on a blanket muttered under his breath, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

"Do you feel that?" Alyssa murmured, just loud enough for Chloe to hear.

Chloe didn't answer at first. Her steps never slowed. But the barest twitch of her hand was answer enough.

Yes. The street had noticed them.

But no one would admit it.

No one would intervene.

Alyssa adjusted the silver clasp at her collar – the only ornament she wore. The way her fingers moved, it looked more like checking a blade than jewellery. Her smirk returned.

"We're not walking into a trap."

Chloe's tone was level. Cool.

"We are the trap."

Alyssa chuckled once, low in her throat. "Let's just hope they bite."

Alyssa's eyes flicked to a passing reflection in a boutique window. "You ever think we wouldn't make it this far?"

Chloe's reply came soft, almost reluctant. "Every day."

"Still do?"

She pause, then: "Only when you talk like that."

Alyssa smirked, but her fingers toyed with the clasp at her collar again. Nervous energy, or something worse.

"We've been through worse," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Japan. The sanctum. Zagan's yokai. Max's—"

"Don't," Chloe said. Not unkind. Just quiet. "We need clean heads for this."

They walked on.

Somewhere behind them, a church bell rang the half-hour. But it was muffled. Almost ashamed.

And ahead, down the narrowing street, the shadows stretched longer than they should have.

…………………

They reached the edge of a narrow intersection, where the stone widened into a small open plaza. An old café took up one side – faded yellow paint, cracked umbrellas, the scent of burnt sugar and oil drifting from the corner stall where a food vendor flipped flatbreads on a rusted grill.

Alyssa slowed.

Chloe didn't.

Not until they reached the stall.

The vendor was mid-flip when he looked up and saw them. His hand jerked. The bread landed half-on, half-off the grill, smoke curling from the edge. He didn't notice. His eyes had gone wide – then down. Too fast.

Chloe gave a nod – polite, detached.

Alyssa leaned in to speak but never got the chance.

A woman in the short line ahead turned to look at them. Older, wearing a floral dress faded from too many washes. She wasn't curious. She wasn't even hostile.

She looked… resigned.

Her eyes flicked once to the palace dome visible beyond the rooftops. Then back to Alyssa.

She shook her head. A subtle movement. Not scolding. Not angry. Just… don't.

Then she clutched her toddler close and walked away without a word.

Alyssa exhaled slowly. The scent of overcooked bread mingled with the smell of hot asphalt.

At the café, a waiter carrying a tray of plates tripped and sent the entire thing crashing to the cobbles. Ceramic shattered. He barely reacted. Just stood there, frozen, staring at them with pale knuckles and glassy eyes.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Across the square, a shopkeeper in a striped apron peeked through his window. The moment he caught sight of the twins, he scrambled to the front, flipped the sign to Closed, and slammed the shutter without even pretending to finish his sentence.

"We're poison," Alyssa murmured.

"No," Chloe said flatly. "We're bait."

Alyssa resisted the urge to crack her knuckles.

She hated this part. The watching. The waiting. Playing soft when her whole body was built for breakage. Let Chloe glide through shadows – that was her sister's gift. Alyssa preferred things simple: hit first, hit harder.

But not today.

Today, the weapon wore perfume.

The tension now moved faster than breath. A strange current, humming beneath the surface of the square. People vanished – not in a panicked rush, but something eerier. A quiet uncoiling. The square emptied.

Alyssa watched a young girl skipping across the stones toward them, bright ribbons in her hair, a smile splitting her face. "Look, look! The girl with the pretty dress—"

A hand yanked her back hard.

Her father.

He scooped her up, muttered apologies, and hurried off, head low, not once meeting the twins' eyes.

"But I just wanted to see—" the girl protested, kicking her feet. "She's so—"

"Quiet," her father snapped. "Quiet now."

Then they were gone too.

Alyssa turned slowly. The plaza was empty. Utterly. Chairs overturned. Drinks left half-finished. The silence was thick.

"Like prey abandoning a kill zone," she muttered. "That's our cue."

Alyssa turned in a slow circle, scanning the emptied plaza. The sun had dimmed behind the rooftops, casting long, crooked shadows across the café chairs.

"It's too quiet," she muttered. "Too neat."

"It's rehearsed," Chloe said. "They've done this before."

Alyssa's jaw tightened. "Then they won't be expecting how this one ends."

Somewhere down the alley, a door creaked open – then shut again, fast.

Chloe didn't nod, but her gaze tilted.

"I hear it."

Alyssa tilted her head.

Far off. At first. Then closer.

A low, rising growl of tires against uneven cobblestone. Not a car. Heavier. Unmarked.

TV screens flickered to life on the café awning. Static, then the beaming face of King Tomas. Eyes too wide. Smile too perfect. A canned voice hummed praises beneath:

"…in the wisdom of the Flame Father, we are made whole. The chosen bring us light. The beautiful uplift the worthy. All praise…"

A shadow slithered across the paving stones.

A black van rolled into view.

It mounted the curb without slowing, tyres groaning, engine purring with unnatural quiet.

It did not stop.

It came straight for them.

…………………

The van screeched to a halt.

Its matte black surface hissed as the engine powered down, too smooth for something that size. The doors cracked open in unison, and four Enforcers stepped out.

They moved like parts of a machine.

Identical armour – lacquered black edged with dried crimson. Visors polished to a mirror sheen. No names. No insignias. Just weapons.

One held a baton, spinning it lazily against his palm like a game. Another was already holding a camera unit, angled at Alyssa and Chloe like they were wildlife on display.

The lead stepped forward.

"You two. Stop right there." His voice was flat. Rehearsed. Almost bored.

They didn't move.

Alyssa tilted her head, innocent confusion painted just right across her expression.

"We're new here," she said softly. "We heard this city was safe under King Tomas."

The Enforcers didn't blink.

Chloe stepped in. Her voice barely above a whisper. "We just came to buy fruit."

That earned a snort from the baton Enforcer. He moved in a slow, deliberate circle around them. The other two adjusted their rifles – not raising them but not lowering them either.

"That right?" he said. "Pretty girls like you. Just wandered in on your own?"

His boots clicked too loud on the stone. A dog sniffing its perimeter.

One of the others stepped closer to Chloe and reached out – two fingers brushing her braid.

She didn't flinch. But her entire posture sharpened. Just slightly. Just enough.

The Enforcer lingered half a second too long, then pulled back.

The lead officer touched the radio at his collar. A brief burst of static.

Then: "King Tomas will want to meet you personally."

He smiled.

It didn't reach his eyes.

"Lucky girls."

…………………

The rear doors creaked open.

Inside: pale leather seats, surgical lighting, a scent like sterilised plastic. Too clean. Too still. A silence that hummed with absence – no straps, no handles, no dust. Just space. Waiting to be filled.

An Enforcer stood by the door, rifle slung casually over one shoulder. He smiled like someone offering a favour he didn't mean.

"Let's not keep the King waiting."

Chloe and Alyssa stepped forward together.

Their eyes stayed low. Their postures small. It was a performance – fear played like a violin note held just long enough to be believed. Neither too defiant nor too eager. Just delicate. Just vulnerable.

Across the square, someone watched from behind a curtain. A silhouette framed by dirty lace. The figure didn't move. Didn't speak.

Just stared.

Then the curtain dropped.

The Enforcer held the door as they climbed inside. Then slammed it shut.

The plaza vanished behind them.

No one watched. No one intervened.

Inside, the engine murmured to life – a whisper beneath their feet. The windows were opaque from the inside. There was no view of the city. Only the chill of air conditioning and the faint scent of iron in the filtered air.

Alyssa shifted. Her hand brushed Chloe's.

A soft tap. Pinky to pinky.

Target acquired.

Alyssa flexed her jaw. The tension in her spine barely held.

Every instinct screamed to act – to grab the Enforcer's wrist, to drive a heel into his throat, to rip this van apart piece by piece.

But she stayed still. Because the mission mattered more.

Because Max was still out there.

And for once, silence was her weapon.

Alyssa let her head rest back against the seat. "You okay?" she whispered.

Chloe's fingers flexed once. "Not really."

A faint laugh. "Same."

"But I've got you," Chloe added.

"You always do." Alyssa turned her face toward her sister. "If things go sideways—"

"They won't," Chloe cut in.

Alyssa didn't press. But her hand found Chloe's again. This time, not as code. Just contact.

Neither spoke further. Neither smiled.

They just sat still – letting the mask settle over their faces, as the van slid toward the Palace.

…………………

The city blurred past in silver ghosts.

Through the tinted glass, Chloe watched the architecture peel away – the low sprawl of Old Town giving way to twisted alleyways, spires of brutalist concrete, old statues blackened by soot. A cracked mural of King Tomas passed like a flash of teeth. Each turn tightened her focus.

Chloe didn't just track for exits. She mapped the path forward – through the gate, through the guards, through the palace. She wasn't just counting blind spots. She was counting throats.

She traced their path in her head. North for five blocks. Left past the basilica. She marked checkpoints, memorised blind spots, noted the sudden vanishing of pedestrians. Her fingers twitched once, then stilled again on her lap.

Beside her, Alyssa sat with her fists resting loosely on her knees. Her breath was slow. Controlled. Not calm – deliberately measured. Her eyes flicked across the doors, the rivets, the seals on the glass. Every breath was a weigh-in. Every second, a question.

Who do I hit first? What breaks if I kick there?

In the front seat, the Enforcers chuckled.

"Bet the King's gonna love this set," one of them muttered, voice slick with smugness.

Another snorted. "I call the leftovers."

The laughter wasn't loud – it didn't need to be. It was the kind of sound that carried all the way through skin and down to bone.

A third Enforcer turned to look back through the grate. His helmet was off. Pale skin. Pitted eyes.

"Damn," he said, low and gleeful, "never seen that colour before." He reached through the bars, brushing his fingers along Chloe's braid. "You polish this or what?"

He leaned forward. Sniffed.

Chloe didn't move. Didn't open her eyes.

Let them get cocky, she thought.

Chloe kept her breathing steady, but her mind raced.

The layout of the van. The lack of ventilation. No visible emergency release. Two in the front. One camera. No clear sightline to the driver. The route didn't match anything from the public maps.

She hated that.

"I don't know where we are," she mouthed silently.

Alyssa's thigh pressed gently against hers. A gesture of reassurance. Or maybe just shared unease.

The van hit a bump. No one spoke after.

Then came the tunnel.

The light outside dimmed – golden turned to steel grey, then to nothing. The van dipped and turned left. Smooth, deliberate. Into a darkness with no streetlights. Just slow, pulsing lamps overhead. Each one farther apart than the last.

The laughter stopped.

Only the hum of the engine remained, dull and waiting.

Ahead, the mouth of the Old Palace opened like a wound.

And behind them, the city held its breath.

And Alyssa, beneath the stillness, made a promise: Max, we're coming.

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