The Bank of Arcadia had been blessed with a quiet morning. Commerce flowed in and out steadily, the madmen and beggars were chased from the steps early on that morning, and the customers had been entirely pleasant to deal with.

  For Langstrom Tame, a senior clerk, this was an ill omen. If things were quiet and peaceful in the morning, it meant that the afternoon would herald some kind of atrocity.

  His worst fears were confirmed true just past noon, when Chancellor Fiodor stormed into the bank lobby like a thundercloud. Clad in black, the dark-skinned elf bore a scowl that could have curdled milk. And, much to Langstrom’s terror, the elf was coming right for his counter. He fumbled in vain for his ‘closed for lunch’ plaque under the counter, freezing when Fiodor stopped only a few inches across from him.

  “You,” the elf said, brusque and gruff. “I would like to see my vault. Now.”

  “A-aha... of course chancellor,” the balding man said, nervous beads of sweat dappling his brow. “A-and which vault would that be?”

  Fiodor’s eyes narrowed like a hawk sighting prey. “I surely hope you’re no admitting to not knowing what number my vault is.”

  Langstrom paled. He darted under the counter and came back up with a piece of parchment clutched in his hands, detailing the names and numbers of the VIP vaults. “A-ah, number eight. Of course! Aha, s-slipped my mind for a moment there.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He scurried and led Fiodor deeper into the back, their footsteps echoing off the tiled floor and into the vaulted ceiling that stretched high above them. Any other clerks or tellers in the area were quick to duck out of sight. Fiodor was bad news, they all knew. Some of them mouthed a prayer for Langstrom, but that was all they did.

  And they were so quick to get away that they didn’t stop to think how odd it was that Fiodor had come without any guards.

  The darkened corridor of the private vaults welcomed the two, the silence broken only by the echoes of their footsteps. It was perhaps the second most secure place in Sentinel, if not all Arcadia, surpassed only by the fortifications of the Obelisk.

  “Here we are,” Langstrom said, forcing a smile as they reached the eighth vault. He reached into his breast pocket, produced a ring of keys, and settled on the one labelled eight. Fiodor stared intently at the distinct shape of it. Then, suddenly, his face set in a glare and settled on a spot a few paces away from the shorter man.

  “Good grief man, what is that?!” He pointed fiercely to a blank section of the floor.

  “M-Milord, I’m afraid I don’t see anythi-”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “There is a stain on the floor, right there!” he hissed. “What kind of institution are you fools running here?! Do you expect me to do business in a dirty bank?!”

  Langstrom fidgeted. “Chancellor I assure you, we have cleaners every day, once before we open and once as we get set to close. They would never-”

  “Do you?!” he repeated.

  Wincing, Langstrom ventured over to the marked spot. I was the banker’s oath to always bend over backward for wealthy customers, after all.

  With the clerk focused on a phantom stain, Fiodor pressed a palm to the keyhole. A chunk of flesh melted and flowed from his hand. In the span of seconds it had moved to fill each groove and cranny, hardening then into a counterfeit key identical to Langstrom’s. Changing the texture to look more metallic was the hard part. But, with enough focus, Coin made it look somewhat convincing.

  “I... I really can’t see any stain, sir-”

  “Oh never mind! Just get over here and help me unlock this, and be quick about it.” The two men did just that, inserting their keys and unlocking in unison. The door, heavy and sturdy, groaned in protest as it was pulled open. Chancellor Fiodor kept his vault neatly maintained.

  A myriad of chests lined one wall, while the floor had a stack of oil paintings that depicted major moments of elvish history. A statue of black marble, carved to resemble a prowling jaguar, dominated the middle of the vault. And, held in a large glass case, one could see an assortment of old magical texts written in elvish script.

  Fiodor straightened up. “Very good. Now leave me.”

  “Sir-”

  “Do as you are told, man. I would like my privacy for this!”

  Langstrom turned and bolted, and was ever so glad to be out of the elf’s presence. Many people at the Bank of Arcadia had stories to tell about Fiodor. Almost all of them involved calling him ‘a right prick’ at least twice.

  Alone, the elf smirked. His face morphed just a tad, looking just a bit more like Coin’s normal features. “Oh,” he whispered under his breath. “That worked way better than I thought it would.”

  He moved quickly, returning his face back into a replica of Fiodor’s, well aware that someone could interrupt him at any moment. The last thing he wanted to do was eat somebody for seeing something they weren’t supposed to. After all, he wanted this to be a nice... surprise for the elf.

  Coin popped each chest open and examined the contents. Piles of currency greeted him, interspersed with jewels and the occasional trinket of precious metal. Fiodor, evidently, was a man who had hoarded a nice backlog of wealth over the years.

  It was a decent sum. Not in the same league as Elijah’s vast inheritance, but it was the kind of wealth many would crave. And Coin was sure he could put it to better use than Fiodor ever would.

  One by one he scoured each chest, tendrils of groping flesh budding from his hands to hoover up every coin. He sucked them deep into a myriad of pockets spread throughout his biomass, his storage space exceptionally vast despite his unassuming stature.

  He didn’t take the time to count exactly how much he was ‘liberating’ from Fiodor. That didn’t matter too much to Coin. All that mattered, really, was that the other bastard would be lacking the funds.

  By the time he finished dealing with the last chest, his body feeling marginally heavier, he had already concocted a good idea of how he would use Fiodor’s money. He had not forgotten his conversation with Colony, and the act that he had to meet the island in a limited time frame. If he was to get a ship out that way, it would need to be one that even a novice like himself could operate. And cut across the sea at speed.

  LeBon, Coin mused, was the man to see. The man was a genius inventor, even if his inventions had been disastrous in some respects. And even if he couldn’t build a functional boat for Coin, perhaps he knew an artisan who could. And Fiodor would pay the fee for building it.

  Coin left the vault and pulled the door closed behind him. Langstrom returned at that moment, anxiously peering around the corner at the approaching elf.

  “Er.. all well, sir?” he asked.

  “Very. I’ve done what I needed to do. And kindly make sure there are no records of my visit today,” he brusquely replied.

  Langstrom stared at him. “S-sir?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. I hate doing that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a boat.”