He watched as the battered guards loaded his uncle into the white van, the runes on the outside glowing a fluorescent blue as they closed the doors. It lurched forward and began slowly driving off through the academy grounds, occasionally stopping to maneuver the raging crowd.

Davion hastily pushed through the crowd, keeping his head low and focusing on the van through his peripheral vision. It pulled out from the crowd and continued driving, picking up considerable speed once it hit the main street; he followed it, only stopping briefly to steal a particularly slick-looking motorcycle from the parking lot.

He sat on the bike, placing his hands on the bike's engine. He let his magic flow through him, talking to the bike, powering its runes. He felt it greedily respond to his magic, so he fed it more. Finally, the engine purred to life beneath him; he flicked the kickstand up and flew down the main street.

The wind roared as he picked up speed; it dried his eyes and silenced his ears; his skin numbed as the wind whipped at him. He made a left at the end of the street, the van only barely in sight because he had imbued magic into his vision. He held a distance back where they wouldn't be suspicious but still close enough that he wouldn't lose it as it entered a more densely packed street.

The van made a right, then another left, and then another right. It wasn't going to the station, that was for sure. Instead, Davion guessed they were going somewhere private – somewhere distinctly no one would look.

A devilish smile cut through his lips; this would be fun.

He followed like this for what felt like hours; until the city was a distant speck on the evening's horizon, and the open road continued into the infinite black hole of the night. He left his lights off to avoid detection on the empty open road; his eyes were better equipped for the dark anyway.

Trees raced by at a dazzling rate; their browned leaves a mere blur as he passed. He felt the blisteringly cold wind bite his face, drying his eyes and freezing his nose; he did not push it away. His magic was made for better things than comfort.

After a few more minutes of mindless driving, the van slowed, pulled into a long unlit driveway, and carefully traversed its way to a farmhouse barely visible at the hill's peak.

Davion jerked the bike to the side of the open road, cutting his connection to its engine and stashing it in some partially large bushes. He calmed his breathing and watched as the van holding his uncle pulled up to the farmhouse, its lights turning off as it ground to a halt.

Slowly, carefully, Davion climbed the hill. He kept low, sticking to the trees where he could and avoiding open space; he heightened his senses, searching for anyone patrolling the perimeter as he climbed – but he only felt the distinctly non-magical presence of mercenaries on the outside of the house.

This was going to be easy.

He circled the house from the tree line, occasionally creeping closer to get a better view of the defences. There were four mercenaries outside the home, probably a few more inside. He circled again, slowly spiralling closer to the backdoor; he couldn't afford to be loud; he couldn't give away too much yet.

A lone orcish man guarded the rear. He was coated head to toe in black Kevlar and carried around what could only be described as a big gun. Yet somehow, this was still the most straightforward way in.

He crept to the house, coursing magic through his body to quieten his movements. His footsteps were as quiet as snow, his breathing dulled to a faint breeze on the wind, and his figure hypnotically blended into the forest behind him. He moved quickly; by the time the man realised someone was there, Davion had already plunged a knife into his neck.

Leaving the gurgling man at the base of the door, Davion turned the handle, quietly slipping into the darkened farmhouse. The inside was disappointingly barren; its interior was stripped of any furniture, so only a single chair sat in the middle of what could only have been a living room. The windows, some of which were broken, had newspapers obscuring their view.

He quietly moved inside; his blood-soaked knife held ready in front of him as he slipped through open doors; still taking care to mask his presence. He briefly stepped on a creaky floorboard and held his breath, waiting for someone to investigate. Then, when the guards raised no alarm and no one rounded the corners, he pressed on through the house.

None of the rooms looked like they had ever seen life, let alone contained recently contained his uncle. The long hallway was thick with recently disturbed dust as if someone had been dragged. Davion followed the disturbance to the final door at the very end of the hallway.

Morons.

He opened it, creating a barrier around the hinges as he did so to mask the creaking. Dust-filled stairs with similar levels of disturbance led to what could only be the most cliché basement he had ever seen. Streams of light from the distant end of the basement snaked their way to the base of the stairs, dimly illuminating his path. He quietly placed one foot in front of the other, carefully listening for any expectant residents; his knife still held ready.