The others had, turning the streets of Jesarin into their own personal escape route—but she had taken her time.
She moved with easy confidence, balancing on the narrow edge of a rooftop, the city sprawling beneath her in tangled webs of streets and distant, faceless figures. Little moving dots of people, going about their lives, completely unaware of what had just transpired.
Occasionally, she caught sight of a patrol of enforcers or a magi-knight in shining runeplate, but none paid her any mind.
They had done it.
They had won.
The weight of that truth settled into her bones—strange, foreign. She should have been exhausted. She should have felt drained. Instead, an almost giddy lightness settled in her chest. Escaping the Warlord of Jesarin himself with barely a scratch—it didn't feel real.
Her lips twitched, not quite into a smile, but something close.
Yet the back of her neck still itched.
He had been waiting for them.
Lurras had implied paranoia. Maybe it had been. Maybe it was something else. Maybe there had been a rat.
She wasn't sure.
But she would find out.
The rooftops shifted beneath her feet as she left the last remnants of the Pelumian District behind, the city's gilded shine dulling to something grittier, rougher. She had crossed the threshold into the Harrows.
Here, merchant stalls gave way to hawkers pushing stolen wares. The paved roads fractured, turning into uneven stone and packed dirt. Refuse lined the alleys in haphazard piles, the stink of unwashed bodies mixing with the tang of smelted iron from the foundries deeper in the district.
Vess barely noticed.
Her thoughts had wandered elsewhere.
To Kino.
She had watched him, observed the way he had stood at Lanesh's side—not proud, not eager, just... indifferent. Like a blade set in its sheath, waiting to be drawn. How had he lived these past four years? Was he happy? Did he even know what happiness was anymore?
She could still see his face. That split second where his mask cracked.
Shock. Hope. A flicker of recognition.
Then Lanesh's voice. Lies fed straight to his ears. And just like that—his expression had hardened.
Lanesh had taken him. Raised him. Turned him into something else.
But Vess would end those lies.
No matter how long it took.
The last rooftop came too quickly. Vess landed lightly, her breath coming steady as she made her descent. The familiar layout of the hideout was below, just another shadowy corner of the Harrows, tucked away behind a nondescript entrance. Safe. Untouched. Home.
Then she heard it.
A voice—harsh, ragged.
And weeping.
Vess' stomach dropped. A cold prickle ran up her spine, an immediate, visceral warning—but she forced it down. Controlled her breath. Calmed her nerves.
It was fine.
It had to be fine.
She pushed forward, each step careful, measured, until she was close enough to see the entrance.
The ripped sheet.
The streaks of dried blood.
Vess' heart hammered.
Something hot rose up her throat, her essence seeping from her skin, the air distorting in a shimmer of heat. Her fingers twitched, curling slightly as something violent coiled inside her chest.
She stepped forward.
And then—
Vess stepped inside.
Her mind rejected what it saw.
The scene before her did not make sense.
Her eyes registered the bodies, the ruin, the blood—but her brain refused to process it, as if it belonged to another place, another moment in time that wasn't hers. As if the air itself had warped, bending the laws of reality, forcing her to look at something she was never meant to see.
She tried to blink it away, to convince herself that she was seeing wrong—but the smell.
Martyr's blood, the smell.
Thick, metallic, suffocating, clinging to her throat and curling inside her lungs like smoke.
And then—the silence.
No laughter. No jabs from Soren. No grumbling from Lander as he counted coin. No Lukas stretching in the corner, muttering complaints about the old chairs.
Nothing.
Only Gael's ragged, broken breaths.
Her gaze dragged toward him, sluggish, unwilling.
He was on his knees, hunched over Soren, his hands pressing uselessly against the corpse as if that would change anything. His dark navy coat was stained, his fingers smeared with blood that was not his own.
He was shaking. Weeping.
Lukas stood just beyond him, his whole body coiled tight like a blade drawn too far back, a breath away from snapping. He was not moving, not speaking—just standing there, shaking with the force of everything he wanted to do but couldn't.
Vess' breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. Her heart hammered against her ribs, every beat pounding against her skull.
Soren wasn't moving.
Lander wasn't moving.
The hideout—their home—was in shambles. The green sheet torn, the desk overturned, blood smeared across the floorboards like someone had been dragged.
It had been ripped from them.
Ores.
It was Ores.
Who else had the power? The knowledge? The gall? She had known exactly where they were, knew when to strike them at their weakest.
That bitch needs to die.
Vess' body went rigid. And then—her anger breathed for her.
Not grief. Not sadness.
Vindication.
Her nails bit into her palms, the heat inside her roaring awake, rising in waves of uncontrolled, seething essence. The room crackled. The wooden walls groaned, the air warping, twisting around her in shimmering distortion.
Gael didn't move.
Lukas barely flinched.
They didn't understand, how could they?
But Vess understood perfectly.
Ores had taken from her again, it would never stop.
This time, she would take back.
Her gaze snapped to the knapsack near the entrance—the sealing stones.
She lunged for it, snatching it up, slinging it over her shoulder in one fluid motion.
Then—
She ran.
Faster than she ever had before, fire burning in her lungs, rage propelling her forward.
Ores thought she was untouchable.
Vess was about to prove her wrong.
__________________________________________________________
The outer vault door loomed before her.
It wasn't the grand entrance of the estate—the kind meant to impress and intimidate guests—but rather the smaller, more secure passage, built into the side of the manor's reinforced walls. A place for discreet meetings, for business.
Vess exhaled, flexing her fingers once before curling them back around the strap of her knapsack. Steady. Smile.
She knocked.
A pause. Then—shuffling from the other side. The distinct sound of a bar being drawn, followed by the click of a heavy lock.
The door cracked open, revealing Yue.
The servant girl wasn't dressed in the formal attire of the estate's staff. No—her dark tunic and fitted sleeves were for function, not appearance. Ores' personal attendant. A woman trusted with far more than serving wine or arranging meetings.
Her sharp brown eyes flicked over Vess in an instant, taking in her presence with practiced efficiency. The tension in her shoulders was barely visible—but it was there.
Yue shot a glance behind Vess, "Where's Gael?" Yue's voice was even, but edged. "And the fighter?"
Vess let out a small, effortless laugh. The kind of sound she'd seen Gael use so many times before—light, casual, disarming.
"They're taking care of something," she said smoothly. "The sealing stone's right here." She lifted her bag slightly, just enough for Yue to see. "Figured Ores wouldn't want to wait."
Yue didn't move immediately.
Her gaze flicked to the edges of Vess' dress, as if searching for something out of place. Her arms remained stiff at her sides.
A delay. A moment too long.
Suspicion.
Vess kept her posture loose, tilting her head just slightly. "What? You don't trust me now?"
Yue hesitated. Then, finally, she exhaled through her nose and stepped back, gesturing her inside.
"She's expecting you," Yue said, voice still wary. "Follow me."
Vess followed Yue down the dimly lit corridor, the heavy door groaning shut behind them.
She could feel Yue's eyes flick to her periodically, quick, sharp glances. Assessing.
It was infuriating.
Her heartbeat drummed behind her ribs, but her face remained placid.
She wasn't Gael—she didn't have his effortless charm, his ability to weave words like threads into something impenetrable. But she had something else.
Composure. Calculation. A will strong enough to keep herself in check, even when her blood burned hot enough to ignite.
"The job went well, then?" Yue's voice was level, but there was something beneath it—testing.
Vess gave an easy shrug. "Ran into some trouble, but nothing we couldn't handle."
"And Lurras?"
Vess sighed dramatically, rolling her shoulders. "He's Lurras." She let just enough irritation slip into her tone, the kind that felt real—because it was real. "Acts like he's above all of this. He stayed back to clean up a loose end. Gael's keeping watch."
Yue hummed, noncommittal.
But then her steps slowed.
Vess felt it at the same time—a shift in the air. A prickle of awareness.
Yue turned slightly, gaze sharpening. "Your essence is leaking."
"You really don't know how to look the other way do you?" Vess smiled as she said it, fist curling into a fist.
Then she moved.
Yue barely had time to react, she took a small step backwards but it was too late.
Vess didn't explode forward—she compressed. A sudden, sharp twist of motion, her body coiling like a spring before snapping outward.
Her fist struck first—a concentrated burst of heat slamming into Yue's chest.
The impact sent Yue staggering back, eyes widening—only for the real damage to sink in a heartbeat later.
The burning.
A ragged breath escaped Yue's throat, her hand jerking to her shoulder, fingers brushing against the scorched fabric, the raw skin underneath.
Vess didn't wait.
She followed through, gripping Yue's collar and driving her into the wall with enough force to rattle the wooden paneling.
Yue sucked in a sharp breath—then went limp.
Vess let her drop.
The servant girl crumpled to the floor, unconscious but alive.
Vess didn't linger.
She adjusted the strap of her bag, straightened, and continued toward Ores' study—as if nothing had happened.
The air warped as she slowly approached the study.
Not from the summer night's heat, but from her. From the fire laced through her veins, from the raw, simmering rage that pulsed under her skin like a second heartbeat. She barely felt her feet touch the stone steps as she ascended, every muscle wound too tight, every nerve primed for violence.
She could hear her own breath, shallow and sharp, could taste the acrid burn of essence leaking unchecked from her core. The walls of Ores' estate loomed around her, polished stone and imported wood, built on a foundation of stolen lives.
A snarl twisted at the edge of her lips. Essence curled from her fingertips in faint wisps of heat, the glow of it just barely visible.
She could feel it rising—could feel herself slipping.
She wanted to rip the doors from their hinges, burn the walls black, watch Ores scramble as her empire turned to cinders around her.
Her hands flexed.
Not yet.
Gael's words echoed in her mind, unbidden. Patience wins the pot, Vess. She could almost hear the smug grin behind it.
Vess squeezed her eyes shut for a single breath, then forced them open again. Forced her shoulders to loosen, her stance to shift, her fingers to curl around the strap of her knapsack like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She blinked, slow. Tilted her head. Smoothed her expression.
By the time she reached the heavy iron door, her fire had vanished.
All that remained was a pleasant, polite smile.
Then, she knocked.
A few moments later the runes wrapping around the door frame began to light up one by one. A slow, metallic shift and a series of low clicks reverberated from the other side of the door, a hum of magic following each one.
Runic locks.
One. A deep, rolling thrum—old magic, ancient and refined.
Two. The faint sizzle of essence disrupting an unseen barrier.
Three. A final, mechanical snap as the last ward was lifted.
Then the door creaked open.
The woman on the other side barely spared Vess a glance.
Ores looked exactly as she always did—poised, composed, untouched by the weight of the world as she sat at her ornate desk.
Her deep crimson robes were loose and elegant, embroidered with golden thread, her graying black hair swept into a practical half-up style, not a single strand out of place. Her fingers, ink-stained from whatever tedious paperwork she had been reviewing, barely hesitated as she flicked them in a careless motion, beckoning Vess inside.
No words of greeting. No questions.
Just an absentminded gesture, as if Vess were nothing more than another errand girl reporting in.
Vess stepped forward, keeping her expression neutral. The moment she crossed the threshold, the heavy door groaned shut behind her, runic locks automatically clicking back into place one by one.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
She glanced past Ores, taking in the lavish office, the dark mahogany desk cluttered with parchment and ledgers. The glint of candlelight on polished stone.
Not yet.
"I see you were successful at the auction, little ember."
Ores lowered her glasses, her dark eyes sweeping over Vess with mild, detached interest. She rose slowly from her desk, the candlelight casting deep shadows along the folds of her crimson robes as she took a measured step forward.
Vess mirrored the motion, adjusting the strap of her bag with an easy, practiced grace—casual, unhurried. But beneath that?
Beneath that, her essence boiled.
Every ounce of rage, grief, and scorching hate coiled deep inside her chest, compressed into something sharp, something lethal. She could feel it radiating from her fingertips, burning just beneath the surface of her skin, demanding release.
She smiled.
"Something you've been waiting a long time for." Her voice was smooth, effortless. "Let's not waste any time."
She slid the bag forward, just enough to part the fabric, letting the glint of the artifact catch the dim light.
Ores stepped closer.
A foot away now.
Closer than she had ever been before.
The weight of the moment pressed down on Vess, her breath steady, measured. One strike. One clean, perfect strike, and it would be over.
Ores reached into the bag, her fingers brushing over the smooth, ancient surface of the Sealing Stone of Uldir. The artifact pulsed in response, its essence rippling outward in slow, heavy waves, filling the room with a deep, magnetic pull.
Vess felt it in her bones.
And she used it.
The moment the artifact's power surged, she unleashed her own.
She stopped holding back.
All of her hatred, all of her sorrow, every ounce of fire she had been swallowing since the moment she saw her friends' bodies—it erupted, rushing through her core like molten steel, consuming everything else.
Her fingers flexed—flame ignited.
Heat blazed along her outstretched hand, condensing, sharpening, until her fingers were no longer fingers at all, but a blade of pure, searing destruction.
She arced her arm back.
And then—
She unleashed it.
Jesarin's wind no longer felt like his own.
Gael pushed himself harder, breath coming fast, his boots skimming the rooftops with a rhythm that had always felt effortless—but now felt like a chase. He wasn't running with the wind. He was fighting it.
Each landing sent a burst of controlled air surging beneath his feet, launching him into the next jump, his momentum carrying him across the city in a blur. Every motion was precise, every movement a calculation honed from years of escaping, running, flying. But now, it wasn't escape that drove him.
Stolen story; please report.
It was fear.
It had been five minutes since he'd lost sight of her.
Vess had vanished.
Gael swallowed hard, his throat raw. The image of her burned behind his eyes—the way her essence had bled out of her, shimmering in waves, the way she had turned without a word, her expression twisted with something deeper than rage.
He had never seen her like this before. Furious sure, but not this.
Gael gritted his teeth and forced more speed into his strides, lungs burning as he closed the distance toward Ores' estate. The rooftops blurred beneath him, but the blood on his hands—Soren's blood—felt louder than the wind rushing in his ears.
Why would Ores do this?
Why would she attack their home, their people?
It didn't make sense. None of it fit.
Gael knew Ores. She was calculated. Cold. She moved with intent, with purpose. If she wanted someone dead, she didn't strike without a reason.
But Vess wasn't thinking about reason.
She was thinking about vengeance.
Gael had to reach her. He had to stop her.
He couldn't lose her too.
His pulse pounded as he leapt one final gap, rolling into a landing on the last rooftop before the manor loomed into view.
The estate sat in eerie stillness, its towering stone walls untouched by the chaos unfolding in Gael's chest. The large iron-wrought entrance sat closed, undisturbed—but the side vault door was barely ajar.
Gael's breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Shit Vess was already inside.
Gael hit the cobblestone hard, his boots scraping as he softened the impact with a sharp burst of air. Momentum carried him forward—a crouched roll, one hand pressing to the ground as he snapped his other palm backward, channeling another gust to propel himself toward the door.
The shimmer of essence veiling the manor warped as he passed through it, the air thickening like unseen fingers trailing over his skin. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Then he saw the body.
A small, slumped figure at the foot of the middle staircase.
His breath hitched—cold panic lanced through his chest, sharp and immediate.
Vess.
No. No, no—
His knees nearly buckled as he stumbled forward, preparing for the worst. His mind ran ahead of him, conjuring horror—Vess cut down, Lurras standing over her, or worse—
Then he saw the burns.
Not Vess. Yue.
Her tunic was scorched, fabric curling away from the raw, blistered skin across her neck and shoulder. The sight of it filled Gael with a second, sharper kind of fear—the kind that coiled low in his gut.
Vess did this.
His fingers hovered over her shoulder, letting his essence flow, cooling the burns. Yue's breathing steadied, her pained expression loosening ever so slightly.
Then—her eyelids flickered.
Gael stilled, expecting her to wince, to demand an explanation. Instead—her lashes parted just enough for her to see him.
Her lips parted, breath shallow. "Gael..." Her voice rasped, fragile, but something about it sent a prickle up his spine.
Then she exhaled, something between a breath and a whisper. "Thank the Stranger... you're alive."
Gael blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd expected but it wasn't that. But there was something else in her voice. Something not quite relief, but close enough to resemble it.
Yue's eyes barely refocused before her lashes drooped again, consciousness slipping from her grasp.
Gael hesitated—then pushed himself back to his feet. He didn't have time to think about what that meant.
Not yet.
Gael exhaled sharply, jaw tight. "Stay put. I'll be back."
Then he was moving again.
His feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted through the halls, each step fueled by something heavier than exhaustion.
Every instinct screamed at him to slow down.
Let it happen. Save yourself.
He shoved them aside.
His essence thrummed beneath his skin, surging through his limbs, pushing him forward. The polished floors blurred beneath him, the walls tightening around his vision as he hurtled toward the study.
He turned the final corner—
And there she was.
The vault door closing behind her slowly.
Vess was already inside.
A single second. That's all he had.
Gael clenched his teeth—and he took it.
Gael barely felt his feet hit the ground as he burst forward, his essence surging in tandem with his pounding heart. The wind roared in his ears, driving him faster, faster—
Too slow, he wasn't going to make it.
The vault door was closing and Vess was already inside.
His breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of her posture—too loose, too casual, the kind of casual that only a liar wore well. She was too close to Ores, her stance coiled with a tension that wasn't visible to the untrained eye but Gael saw it.
A thin wisp of heat shimmered at her fingertips.
Shit.
Gael didn't think.
His hand shot out, fingers twisting in a reflex he'd only half-mastered. He wasn't strong enough to blast the door open.
But he didn't need to blast.
He needed control.
Gael gripped the air around the door itself, pulling it inwards.
A sharp burst of wind snapped against the heavy iron, slamming into the seam before it could fully shut. The mechanism faltered—just enough.
Gael didn't hesitate.
He threw himself through the narrowing gap, twisting sideways, ignoring the bite of stone against his coat as the door locked behind him.
The study loomed before him as he skidded to a stop.
Ores had barely looked up from the Sealing Stone of Uldir cradled in her palm, her expression unreadable as the artifact pulsed with slow, steady light.
But Vess—
Vess was already moving.
Her body snapped forward, her entire essence compressed, focused, lethal.
Gael had seen her fight plenty of times but he had never seen her ready to kill.
The air blurred around her fingertips, the heat igniting, twisting into a razor-thin blade of pure fire as she lunged.
Gael had seconds.
He could have frozen—could have let it happen. Some part of him almost wanted to. He had no love for Ores. But this wasn't about her.
This was about Vess.
She wasn't thinking, wasn't seeing—only feeling, only burning. And if she did this, if she crossed this line, there would be no turning back.
He chose.
His essence surged, a sharp, controlled burst of wind slamming against her wrist.
Vess' strike deviated by barely an inch.
But it was enough.
The blade of fire whipped past Ores' throat, missing by an inch—then erupted, uncontrolled, into the room behind her.
The polished mahogany desk exploded on impact. Heat licked across its surface before the entire thing detonated in a violent inferno, chunks of charred wood and burning parchment blasting outward. Glass shattered, ink vials burst, the very air warping with the sheer intensity of redirected force.
Ores had already moved.
She stepped back—not in a stumble, but with a fluidity so precise, so practiced, it barely looked human. The sealing stone vanished into the sleeve of her robe, her crimson eyes flicking toward Gael.
Amused.
Like she had somehow expected this.
Like she had been waiting for it.
Vess turned on him, her eyes burning hotter than the embers still smoldering at her fingertips.
And for the first time in his life it was aimed directly at him.
"How can you defend her after what she did to Soren and Lander!?"
Gael's breath caught.
He saw it then—not just anger. Not just grief.
Betrayal.
Before he could even form the words—before he could even try to tell her that he didn't know what was real anymore—
Ores moved, incantation whispered gently.
The koi pond behind her rippled, water twisting unnaturally in the air before lashing forward in a vicious, unrelenting torrent. The impact threw Vess off her feet, slamming her back into the far wall with a bone-rattling crack.
Steam hissed on impact.
Gael sucked in a sharp breath, already stepping forward—but Ores barely spared him a glance.
"That should cool her down," she murmured.
She didn't smile. Didn't gloat.
She just looked tired.
Gael turned back just in time to see Vess stir.
The water on her skin turned to vapor instantly, sizzling off her body in furious, rolling waves.
She shook, fingers digging into the soaked floorboards beneath her. Her essence bled unchecked, the air around her warping from the heat of her rage.
"First Kino, and now you?"
Her voice was hoarse, raw, like she had torn it from the depths of her chest.
Gael wanted to say something. He had to say something.
But she was already moving.
The window behind her exploded outward in a violent blast of heat.
Vess moved without hesitation—or almost without it.
Gael saw it. The barest flicker. The briefest pause.
For a single breath, she hesitated at the broken edge of the window frame, shards of glass glittering around her like frozen starlight. The wind rushed in, tousling the ends of her dark, flame-singed hair as she prepared to leap.
Gael's instinct screamed. Pull her back.
The air was already moving, rushing inward from the night beyond, drawn by the vacuum of the broken window. It surged around him, eager, waiting for his command. He could do it. A single shift, a well-placed current, and she'd be back in the room, feet on solid ground, forced to listen. Forced to stay.
But what would that make him?
Gael's hands twitched at his sides, knuckles white as he let the wind pass.
It wasn't his choice to make.
Vess looked at him then—really looked at him.
A glance, sharp as a dagger. A question unspoken, an answer unknown.
Then—
She jumped.
Gael's fingers snapped closed around empty air.
Then she was gone, vanishing into the dusk like a dying ember, leaving only cinders and silence behind.
His breath hitched as he lunged to the edge, staring after her. For a heartbeat, he thought he caught the flicker of her form, a silhouette against the moonlit cityscape, firelight clinging to her like a second skin. But she was already gone, vanishing into the tangled maze of the Rakan District below.
The night swallowing her whole.
He exhaled sharply. His pulse hammered against his ribs, a sharp contrast to the weight of his hands—open, empty, useless.
Behind him, the room smelled of scorched parchment and damp stone, the koi pond still rippling from displaced water. Then—
A rustle.
Gael turned to see Ores, already gathering the scattered papers from her desk, her movements unhurried despite the wreckage around her. She ran a gloved hand over the charred edges of a document, exhaling softly as she brushed away the soot.
Like this was business as usual for her.
She didn't look at him when she spoke.
"Tell me Gael. Why did you stop her?"
Gael flexed his fingers, still feeling the ghost of the wind he'd almost commanded.
He reached into his coat, pulling out the folded red and gold letter—the one Vess had been carrying, the one Lurras had given her in the quiet of a night not long ago. Without a word, he extended it toward Ores.
Her gaze flicked to it, then to him. A single brow lifted before she plucked the letter from his hand, unfolding it with the same careful precision she applied to everything.
"I know you didn't do it." Gael's voice was firm, steady, even as his heartbeat had yet to settle. "Vess's family weren't killed on your orders, and neither were Soren and Lander."
Gael scanned her face for any sign of a tell but only found a careful expression of surprise as her eyebrows moved just slightly.
Ores scanned the letter, her expression unreadable.
Gael continued. "Vess thinks you took them all from her. But she's wrong. Her revenge was never meant for you was it?"
A pause.
Ores' fingers lingered on the edge of the parchment, her crimson eyes tracing the familiar wax seal. Her mask, the ever-present veil of cool composure, held—but only just.
Then, softly, almost to herself—
"Not wholly misguided, I'm afraid." Ores continued as she flattened the hem of her dress with her hand in a smooth, practiced motion. "I had nothing to do with your friends deaths Gael, I swear it to the Stranger and Mother above."
"And yet I suspect I know who is behind it."
Her gaze lifted, drifting toward the jagged hole in the window, where the night air still carried the faintest embers of Vess' departure.
For the first time since Gael had met her, Madam Ores looked truly tired.
Her voice, always sharp, always measured, softened just slightly. Not quite warm, but not cold either. Something else.
Resignation.
"I told him of an ancient order of assassins and hunters," Ores said, folding the letter between her fingers. "A faction that had caught wind of something he had procured—something they would kill to reclaim."
Gael's breath stilled.
"I warned him. I told him they were coming for it. For him."
Her voice did not waver. Not defensive. Not regretful. Simply stating the facts.
"I offered to take it into my vault. He refused."
Her lips pressed together, her eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Pride, I suspect. His family helped build the pathways of Jesarin. He was not the kind of man to abandon his home."
Gael swallowed, his throat dry. "But the attack—"
Ores' gaze flickered, just barely. "Jericho expected assassins in the night. Something manageable for a Magi of his level."
She lifted her chin slightly. "Instead, he was met with something else entirely. A force. Multiple magi, magi-knights, assassins—and the enforcers who turned on him."
Gael stiffened. "The enforcers?"
Ores inclined her head. "Lanesh led them personally. It was he who felled Jericho and 'ended' the Emberlin line even if he denies it publicly."
She sighed, finally setting the letter down, letting it rest among the scattered, fire-damaged documents.
"By the time I had heard and sent Lurras to intervene, the manor was already cinders. Nothing remained of the Emberlins."
Her gaze met Gael's.
"Nothing, except Vanessa."
The silence between them stretched.
Gael's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Ores exhaled softly, finally pulling her gloves off and setting them aside. "Lurras took her from the wreckage. He brought her here. I let her stay."
The corner of her lips twitched—something almost bitter. "For a time."
Vess had lived here. Under Ores' roof. And she ran.
The weight of it settled between them, the truth of it hanging in the air like the last remnants of smoke from Vess' attack.
Gael turned toward the shattered window hoping that by some miracle Vess would return to him, that everything could return to how it was.
Ores watched him carefully.
Then, after a long moment—"Come."
She turned from the wreckage, heading toward the hidden passage near her desk.
"There's something you need to see."
____________________________________________________
The air in Ores' manor still smelled of scorched silk and damp stone. Gael's boots left faint imprints on the polished floor as he followed her through the dimly lit corridors, the warm glow of enchanted lanterns flickering overhead.
It was too quiet now.
A few minutes ago, Yue had been lying here—burned, unconscious.
His gaze flicked to the faint smear of blood near the base of the staircase. Yue's. He had done what he could to soothe the worst of her burns, but the damage had already been done.
Vess hadn't hesitated.
Gael exhaled through his nose, willing the tightness in his chest to loosen. He had stopped her from making a mistake—but that hadn't changed the way she had looked at him before she fled.
Like he had been the one to plunge the dagger.
He shook the thought away as Ores led him through the side hall, her pace unhurried but deliberate. The long crimson sleeves of her robe barely shifted as she moved, her expression composed as ever.
She hadn't spoken since he handed her the letter. She still held it, though her fingers tapped idly against the parchment, like she was measuring its weight.
Gael broke the silence first.
"Is she alright?"
Ores didn't slow, though her gaze flicked toward him.
"Yue is sturdier than she looks," she murmured. "She'll live."
Gael swallowed.
It wasn't quite an answer.
Ores wasn't a cruel woman—not in the way Vess saw her—but Gael knew better than to think she was kind, either.
They reached the farthest end of the hall, where the light from the lanterns dimmed, casting the stone walls into shadow. The temperature cooled as they descended a set of wide marble steps, the air thick with something old.
Essence.
The vault was below.
Ores finally spoke again, her tone unreadable.
"You'll be sixteen soon, won't you?"
Gael blinked at the abrupt shift in conversation.
"That's right."
"Which means you'll be eligible to attend the Academy next season."
Gael hesitated.
Why is she asking this?
The Alabaster Academy. The most prestigious institution in the realm. The first stepping stone toward knighthood, toward something real.
But the cost...
"I was saving for it," Gael admitted. "For all of us. The crew."
Ores gave a quiet hum, her fingers still idly tapping against the letter.
"Expensive endeavor for a street crew. And now?"
Gael's throat tightened.
Now, there was no crew.
Soren and Lander were gone. Vess had left. Lukas was still here, but for how long?
The future he had been working toward—the one where they all made it—had shattered at his feet.
And yet...
That small ember of ambition still smoldered beneath the grief, beneath the guilt.
"I still want it," Gael said, voice quieter. "More than anything."
Ores glanced at him, a flicker of something in her gaze—amusement? Curiosity?
Or maybe just recognition.
"Good," she said simply, stepping toward the final set of doors. "Then let's see if you're ready."
With a slow, deliberate motion, she placed her palm against the runes etched into the stone frame.
The air crackled.
The vault began to open.
The vault was colder than the rest of the manor.
Gael had been here once before, but the weight of it felt different now. More oppressive. More final.
The walls stretched high, carved from ancient stone, their surfaces lined with golden runework that pulsed faintly with stored essence. Artifacts, relics, and remnants of forgotten ages rested in glass cases along the perimeter, locked away from time itself.
And at the center—floating just above a raised dais—was the Sealing Stone of Uldir.
Or rather, most of it.
The fragments hovered in midair, suspended by invisible threads of energy, their edges glowing faintly where they yearned to be whole once more. The pieces formed an almost complete circle, save for the gaps that still remained.
Ores approached it unhurriedly, the hem of her crimson robes whispering against the stone floor. Gael followed, his boots making no such effort to be silent.
As she reached into the bag, her voice was smooth, unhurried.
"Did you know I once studied at the Alabaster Academy?"
Gael glanced at her, brow furrowing.
"No," he admitted.
Ores gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, fingers brushing against the worn fabric of the bag as she pulled it open.
"Even I was an acolyte once," she said, her tone almost idle, as if recalling an old dream. "Back then, I had the naive belief that knowledge alone could keep the world in balance."
Her fingers curled around the largest fragment of the Sealing Stone.
With a slow, measured movement, she lifted it from the bag and extended it toward the dais.
The moment it neared the other pieces, the air shuddered.
Essence pulsed outward, invisible but tangible, like the hum of an unsheathed blade. The fragment snapped into place, merging seamlessly with the others in a pulse of golden light.
Gael exhaled, watching as the circle grew just a little more complete.
But Ores' fingers didn't release the bag, instead her grip stilled.
Then tightened.
Her gaze flicked downward.
Gael noticed the shift in her stance before he saw the reason why. Slowly, she reached inside again. Her fingers coming back empty, the last fragment—the one they had used to gain entry into the auction—was gone.
A quiet pause.
Then, Ores' expression barely changed, but Gael caught the slightest flicker of something in her crimson eyes.
Displeasure. Calculation. A realization settling into place. She exhaled through her nose, closing the bag with a decisive motion.
"Vess," Gael murmured, already knowing the answer.
Ores didn't look at him.
"She must have grabbed it before my spell hit her," she said, her voice calm—too calm. Not angry. Not surprised. Simply... acknowledging.
Gael shifted uneasily.
"She doesn't know what it is," he reasoned. "Not really."
"No." Ores' lips pressed into a thin line. "But she knows I want it, and that is enough for Vanessa."
She reached out, brushing her fingertips along the now-larger Sealing Stone, watching as the golden essence traced along the cracks. The artifact pulsed faintly at her touch, responding.
Gael wasn't sure what it meant.
He wasn't sure what any of this meant. Now when Ores always spoke in riddles and half-truths.
Vess was out there. Alone. And now, she had a piece of something far bigger than any of them understood.
Ores finally turned to him, her expression composed once more, though there was a weight behind her gaze that hadn't been there before.
"The tides are shifting," Ores said quietly. "And we are already caught in the current."
Gael didn't respond.
The weight of her words pressed against him, heavier than the air in the room. He should have been thinking about the Sealing Stone, about the job, about what came next—but all he could think about was Vess.
The way she had looked at him before she jumped.
The rage. The betrayal.
He swallowed hard, his pulse steady but too loud in his ears. This wasn't over.
"Please, Ores," he said, forcing his voice to steady. "Let me find her and the stone—you don't need to send Lurras after her."
Ores shot him a look—not dismissive, not calculating—something dangerously close to warmth.
"You do seem to care about Vanessa and the others quite a bit," she murmured. "You have a good heart for a rogue, Gael."
Gael forced a grin. "I originally wanted to be a knight, believe it or not. Less daggers and lockpicks, more swords and fancy spells."
"You know, I might just have taken you up on that offer if you were going to be in Jesarin much longer." Ores reached her hand over running her fingertips along the glass case nearby. "Your destiny does not end in this city, does it Gael?"
She turned away from him, moving toward the large glass case at the far end of the vault.
Gael followed, his gaze settling on the long, slender blade resting within, draped in flowing green and gold silk.
It looked old. Ancient. But pristine—as if no time had touched it at all.
Ores discarded the bag, the sealing stone forgotten for now as her fingers brushed against the edges of the case. The air seemed to hush around them, as if the blade itself was aware of its own importance.
With a quiet flick of her wrist, the runes along the case pulsed, the locks releasing with a barely audible click.
Ores lifted the silk, folding it back with careful precision before reaching inside.
She didn't grip it like a warrior.
She didn't lift it as if she intended to wield it.
No—she handled it the way a historian might lift an artifact, with reverence, with knowledge of the power in her hands.
Caladthir.
That was its name. Gael didn't need to be told—he could feel it.
As Ores turned, the sword gleamed beneath the soft glow of the vault's rune-lights.
Its silver blade was long and thin, honed to a razor edge, etchings of runes tracing the metal in delicate, near-invisible script.
The hilt was a masterpiece—swirling silver-white metal, carved and adorned to resemble rolling clouds, the craftsmanship so seamless it looked as if it had been sculpted from the wind itself.
The grip was wrapped in green and brown leather, stitched so perfectly that Gael could have sworn Ores had just crafted it herself before he arrived.
And at the pommel—an empty slot. A space left waiting.
Ores studied him for a long moment.
Then, she spoke—softly, but without hesitation.
"Take it."
Ores held it for a moment longer, considering. Then, with a quiet exhale, she extended it toward him.
Gael hesitated—but only for a moment.
When his fingers closed around the grip, it was like the sword weighed nothing at all. Not in the way that daggers or rapiers were light—but in the way wind itself had no weight, only presence.
"That was your father's blade."
Gael blinked. The words catching him off guard.
Ores turned the blade in her hands, letting the rune-etched silver catch the low vault lights. "He gave it to me years ago. For this very moment I believe."
Gael's mouth had gone dry. His pulse thumped loud in his ears.
"My father," he repeated slowly, carefully, as if saying it aloud would make it more real.
Ores didn't answer.
"Who was he?" The question left his lips before he could stop it. Then more. "Do you know where he is? Is he alive?"
Ores let out a soft breath, eyes dropping briefly to the sword before flicking back to him. "I did know him, once, long ago." A pause. A shift. "He is very much alive, but I do not know where he is now."
Something in her voice made Gael hesitate.
She wasn't lying. But she clearly wasn't telling him everything.
"How did you know him?" he pressed.
Ores' fingers trailed along the edge of the silk where the sword had been wrapped. "We had... similar goals, at one time."
Gael searched her expression. Nothing. The mask was firmly in place, as unreadable as ever.
Frustration stirred in his chest.
But then his gaze dropped to the blade again. His father's blade.
He exhaled, forcing himself to focus on the weight of it in his palm, the feel of it—the only real, tangible thing he had ever held of his past.
Caladthir wasn't heavy because it wasn't meant to be wielded with brute force.
It was meant to move.
Then—a hum.
Gael stiffened as something vibrated against his chest. A resonance, faint but undeniable.
His hand instinctively went to his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the Catalyst.
Ores' eyes flicked to him, to the movement. She had noticed it too.
Something was happening.
Gael barely breathed, keeping his grip firm on the hilt of the Oathblade as the hum grew, as if the sword itself recognized what he carried.
Ores tilted her head, her crimson gaze flickering with something unreadable.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Gael barely heard her.
Because in that moment—he wasn't thinking about Ores, or the crew, or the Sealing Stone, or the job that had led them here.
He wasn't even thinking about Vess.
He was thinking about the Academy. His own future.
Standing in the heart of the vault, Gael tightened his grip around the hilt—not a stolen blade, not a borrowed one, but his own.
A weapon not bound by contracts or fleeting ownership.
A weapon that had chosen him.
The dream that had once felt unreachable now sat, solid and weighty, in his hands.
Ores stood beside him, watching. "The blade is missing its soul, Gael," she murmured. "Reunite them."
Gael swallowed.
His fingers twitched at his side before he reached into his coat, drawing out the Catalyst.
The small, emerald-hued gem thrummed against his fingertips, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. As he lifted it toward the blade, the resonance grew stronger—a pull, a need, a calling.
Then—
It leapt from his fingers.
The Catalyst locked into the empty pommel slot with a sharp, crystalline click.
The vault erupted in unfiltered, raw air essence.
A gale howled through the chamber, spiraling outwards in unseen currents. Gael clenched his teeth, bracing against the sudden force as his coat snapped around him. His knuckles burned from the sheer energy flooding through the metal.
Ores' crimson robes whipped around her, caught in the storm, but she didn't move. She simply closed her eyes and breathed deep.
And for a moment—just a moment—she looked young again.
Lighter.
Like a woman remembering a dream she had long since abandoned.
"Fascinating..." Ores exhaled, opening her eyes slowly. A flicker of something crossed her face—nostalgia, perhaps, or something deeper.
"I had almost forgotten what that felt like."
Gael barely heard her.
His entire body hummed with the lingering resonance of the weapon in his hands. The very air around him felt sharper, purer, endless.
A sword of sky, of breath, of movement.
For the first time since setting foot in Jesarin—he felt weightless.
But no matter how weightless he felt, he was still bound.
No blade, no essence, no momentary rush of freedom could erase the one chain that had always held him back.
The tuition.
The Academy wasn't just a dream—it was a gate with a toll, one he'd spent years trying to scrape together enough coin to cross.
Some students earned scholarships—true prodigies, hand-picked for their raw, undeniable skill.
Gael knew he wasn't one of them.
And even if he pooled everything he had—the jobs, the hidden stashes, even the spoils from tonight—it would barely cover a year.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of Caladthir, its weight deceptively light.
"Unless you want me to pawn this thing," Gael muttered, voice edged with dry amusement, "I don't see how I make it past the entrance ceremony."
Ores barely seemed to be listening. If anything, she looked entirely too pleased for someone who had just narrowly survived an assassination attempt.
"Didn't I tell you already?" she said lightly. "Coin is not the bottleneck of my operation."
Before Gael could process the meaning behind her words, Ores reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a small, weighty pouch.
She tossed it through the air without ceremony.
Gael caught it on instinct, the familiar clink of heavy metal meeting his ears—except it wasn't familiar at all.
The moment he loosened the drawstring, his pulse faltered.
Inside, neat stacks of pure gold coins gleamed against the low vault light.
And at the very bottom, resting in perfect symmetry, sat three Atherium coins.
Gael's breath caught.
Each of those was worth a hundred gold alone.
Enough to pay for years.
Enough to wipe away every worry, every sleepless night spent counting coin and rationing dreams.
Gael had never even dreamt of holding this kind of wealth in his hands.
Even split between him and Lukas, it would get them well through the first year's tuition.
Maybe even longer.
And there might still be enough left for armor, lodging—for a real start.
"And that," Ores said, amusement curling at the edge of her voice, "is not even the best part."
She reached into the folds of her crimson robe and produced a small, black and gold envelope.
Akeron's seal glinted in the vault's dim light, pressed deep into the wax.
"This will grant you access to the Academy grounds and entrance to this year's trials."
Gael barely breathed.
His fingers curled around the bag of coin, securing it inside his coat before reaching for the envelope.
Slowly. Carefully.
He didn't crease it. Didn't risk damaging it.
It was everything he had ever wanted.
And yet...
The weight of it settled differently than he had imagined.
Not the weight of victory. Not even relief.
The weight of something final.
"Look, I get it, Gael," Ores said, her tone measured, but steady. "You want to stay. You want to help Vanessa."
He flinched at the name.
"But she would not want you wasting your potential—" she exhaled slowly, like she was scolding a child, "—chasing after her little game of revenge."
Of course Ores didn't understand. How could she?
She wasn't out there, in the streets. She didn't have friends, that put their life on the line for her day in an day out. Friends who expected the same.
Not sequestered away in this estate, in this tower of wealth and power and isolation.
And yet.
Her words felt heavy.
Maybe because, deep down, he feared she might be right.
"But first," she continued, stepping toward the glass case, "I recommend you keep that blade sheathed for now."
She reached for a long, elegant green scabbard, silver accents lining the edges like the soft swirl of storm clouds.
A perfect fit.
"That sword is a powerful tool, Gael." Ores turned, offering it to him. "And it will require a powerful will to wield it."
Gael exhaled as he slid Caladthir into its sheath.
The moment the metal clicked into place—The air fell still. No more rushing currents. No hum of energy beneath his fingertips. Just silence.
Just him.
Gael adjusted his grip on the hilt.
"That's going to take some getting used to."
Lukas stood in the wreckage of what had once been their home.
The air was stale, thick with the lingering scent of blood and burnt essence. The faintest traces of Vess’ heat still clung to the walls, the smudged remnants of her rage fading into the wood. Gael had gone. There was nothing left to be done here.
But Lukas wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.
His boots scraped against the floor as he moved, slow, methodical. The adrenaline had burned out of him, leaving behind something hollow and heavy. His mind wasn’t racing—it was cold, sharp, focused.
Someone had done this.
Someone had taken Lander and Soren from them.
And Lukas was going to find out who.
His fingers traced the edge of the overturned table, blood still wet in the deep grooves of the wood. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening.
Then—he saw it.
A smear of red, barely visible against the grain. Not just a stain. A message.
A name.
Uldir.
The word had been carved in desperation, scrawled with the last of Lander’s strength. His final act. His final breath.
Lukas stared.
The silence of the hideout pressed in, thick and suffocating.
Then, finally—his voice, low, ragged.
"Who the fuck is Uldir?"