Anargrin knelt on the roof of a ten-story habitat building, watching the Rule Enforcer precinct across the street. It was almost midnight, and most of the Enforcers had gone home. Only five auras moved through the structure.

  The precinct was six stories tall, with orange tile roofing and small, wooden windows painted the same colour. The walls were yellow sandstone. It was the architecture of the day, warm and comforting. With soft corners and rough surfaces. Ironic: being a Rule Enforcer precinct.

  Anargrin shivered and pulled the blanket around him tighter, his breath exhaling as steam. The cavern was a sauna compared to the desert, but even the thick mountain walls couldn't block the sub-zero temperature outside.

  He didn't know the building's layout, but he was familiar with the official protocol of the Hamarian Enforcers. After midnight, they always had a skeleton crew of four, including one of the morticians. From studying the auras and the way they moved, Anargrin guessed that the mortician was located in the north-west wing on the fifth floor. He also knew they kept the bodies of murder victims for a minimum of two days in the chiller, so the victim was still there.

  The large, oak doors of the precinct's main entrance opened, and a man stepped out. He descended the short marble staircase onto the sidewalk and started north.

  Anargrin looked at his wrist timepiece; it was five minutes past midnight.

  Again, he checked the position of the auras. It was all clear, and Anargrin sidled back and launched into a sprint. He jumped. His guts dropped as he fell. He allowed himself to fall as far as the fifth floor.

  Then he blinked.

  Anargrin found himself in a room composed of large offices, each cordoned off by short, varnished wooden walls and windows. The stink of tobacco smoke assailed his eyes and nose.

  The 'blink' ability was exclusive to Hunters. Its exact origins and why only Hunters could do it were a mystery. What was known was that it allowed Hunters instantaneous teleportation over short distances. Five metres to be exact, but there was a 'cool down' of ten minutes before it could be used again. Anargrin had mastered Blink beyond any other Hunter. During his decades of retirement, he'd practised and practised it. This constant repetition allowed him to Blink a maximum of ten metres and reduced the cooldown to five minutes. He could also blink with pinpoint accuracy and timing.

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  Anargrin extended his senses again, finding the auras of the remaining inhabitants.

  Moving in instinctive silence, Anargrin worked his way through the building. Even without his aura sense, he would've been unmolested.

  It took him about six minutes to find the room with the lone aura, and Anargrin couldn't help but grin; his prediction proved correct. The sign on the door said: 'Mortician' in bold letters.

  Anargrin pushed his back against the wall, racking his brains on how he should handle this. At times like this, he wished he could use magic. All Hunters were born with magical potential; they needed it to be able to go through the Ritual to become a Hunter. But ever since he was young, Anargrin had struggled with magic; he couldn't use even the most simple of spells. So he'd focused on the arts of swordplay, hand-to-hand combat and infiltration so he could outperform most other neophytes.

  His Blink had cooled down, but what would he do once he blinked inside? And even then, he didn't know the layout of the room beyond. He grimaced and decided he could no longer be a ghost. He had to take a risk.

  Anargrin knocked on the door.

  'Hello?' called a voice, and Anargrin clenched his teeth. He'd hoped the mortician would open the door.

  Anargrin knocked again.

  'Hello?' it said.

  On a whim, Anargrin grabbed the doorknob and twisted it as if it were locked.

  'I don't remember locking it. Hold on; I'll be there in a second.'

  The aura seemed to stand and start toward the entrance.

  Anargrin waited until the mortician was right behind the door, then Blinked inside, behind the man.

  He was much taller than Anargrin, so the elf struggled somewhat to wrap his arm around his neck. The man didn't have time to jump or cry out before Anargrin dragged him to the floor, and choked him into unconsciousness.

  'I'm sorry,' Anargrin hissed countless times as the mortician struggled, but he was weak, his hands as soft as cotton balls as he tried to prise Anargrin's arm from his throat.

  While wiping the sweat off his brow, Anargrin got to his feet. He looked down at the man. He didn't deserve this; he was just doing his job, but what choice did Anargrin have? Let him trigger the alarm klaxons?

  He had four minutes before the mortician regained consciousness. Anargrin had made sure the man's unconsciousness wouldn't last a second longer, as any longer it could cause brain damage due to lack of oxygen.

  Anargrin turned and found the big, thick lead-lined door into the chiller.

  He pulled it open and stepped inside. There were six bodies set on steel gurneys in the large, unlit room — each hidden underneath a white sheet.

  Shivering in the cold, he began pulling back the cloths from the faces of the cadavers.

  The third was who he was looking for, according to the clipboard at the end of the gurney; his name was Danvel Kylt. He was a plain young human, with long blond hair and the typical pale complexion of Hamar's people. Two small black holes punched into his neck.

  Anargrin slipped out his multi-tool pocket knife and flicked out the smallest blade. He took out a small sample flask, slipped the sheet off the corpse's feet and with careful precision, took a skin scraping off the back of the heel.

  He placed the sample into the flask, screwed it closed, then darted for the door.