The walk across Jesarin was brisk—far brisker than Gael would have preferred, each step sending sharp jolts of pain through the bruises forming on his back. The knight showed no concern for their discomfort; if he felt guilt, it was hidden well beneath his rune-plate mask. Midnight had settled across the city, blanketing the streets in silence, broken only by their footsteps echoing quietly off the cobblestones. Despite the hour, the knight led them through seemingly random detours, looping through alleys and doubling back along shadowed side streets. Gael quickly realized it wasn't aimless wandering—the knight didn't trust them and clearly wanted to prevent them from retracing their path.

  By the third abrupt stop, Vess nearly collapsed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Finally, the knight relented. With an impatient sigh, he lit a small fire in the shelter of a secluded alley, stepping back as if irritated by his own concession. Vess sank down beside the flames, her face ghostly pale, yet determined as she leaned into the warmth. Within moments, color began returning to her cheeks, her breathing steadying.

  Gael reached out, offering his hand. She took it gratefully, letting him pull her to her feet. They fell into step once more, trailing behind the knight who carried Lukas's unconscious form effortlessly over his shoulder.

  Gael studied Vess as they walked, noting the way her eyes gradually sharpened again, her shoulders squared with familiar stubbornness. She was slowly piecing herself back together, layer by fragile layer.

  "What do the withdrawals feel like?" Gael asked softly, the concern in his voice barely concealed.

  Vess let out a humorless laugh, bitter and brief. "Like shit. What do you think?" She kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering into the shadows ahead. "Like whatever makes me who I am has been torn out—like I'm hollow and stretched too thin at the same time."

  Gael considered this quietly, stealing glances at her. He remembered vividly how she'd collapsed earlier—her breath ragged, her body trembling. Essence withdrawals were alien to him; air was always at hand, replenishing his reserves. But for Vess, essence was precious, finite.

  "Does it always hit you like that?" he asked, voice softer still.

  She shook her head slowly, eyes darkening with remembered pain. "No. This was different. When he broke my spell, it wasn't just gone—it felt like he reached inside and tore the rest of my essence away. Every thread of magic, plucked like a string. My body just…gave out."

  A visible shiver passed through her, despite the heavy, oppressive heat pressing in around them. Instinctively, Gael edged closer, just close enough that their arms nearly brushed, offering silent reassurance.

  Vess lowered her voice further, tension threading each word. "Gael...what are we going to do if he changes his mind? If Ores decides we're not worth her time after all?"

  Gael hesitated, the truth heavier than he'd anticipated. He'd considered the possibility, but saying it aloud made it feel dangerously real. So instead, he forced a smile—reckless, easy, the one he wore as armor against harsher truths.

  "If it comes to that, I'll try blowing his sword from his hand before he sees it coming. Might buy us a few seconds. From there, you'll need to blast an escape route. Then we grab Lukas and run like hell."

  It wasn't a great plan. It wasn't even a good plan. But voicing it gave the illusion of control, a slender thread of hope amidst chaos.

  Vess didn't argue, didn't roll her eyes or offer a biting comeback. Her silence felt heavier than any scorn.

  Instead, she nodded slowly, her gaze drifting toward the knight ahead. "If it comes to that," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn't asking about the details—she was asking if he truly believed they stood a chance.

  Gael said nothing, the lie dying in his throat.

  But silently, he tightened his grip at his side, preparing for whatever waited ahead.

  Gael's gaze drifted to the knight ahead, whose stride slowed as they reached a fork in the road. The hesitation lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough for uncertainty to coil in Gael's stomach. Did the knight even know where he was leading them? That thought should've comforted him, a hint of vulnerability in their captor, but it only sharpened his anxiety.

  Gael clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath his careful expression. If only he had understood how to wield the catalyst properly—maybe if he'd drawn more essence when he'd cast his cantrip, they wouldn't be in this mess. But regret wouldn't change their situation. Right now, the priority was making sure they stayed valuable enough that the knight had reason to keep them breathing.

  When their wandering route finally came to an end, Gael was surprised to find himself standing at the heart of the Rakan district—Jesarin's core of sweat and industry. It was a stark contrast to the refined luxury of the Pelumian district or Calabast's bustling commerce. Here, the air was thick with soot and iron, a gritty mixture that settled on the tongue like bitter smoke. Every building had cracked bricks and blackened stonework, scarred by generations of industry. Gael watched as workers—even at this late hour—moved with determined purpose, hauling raw metals and stoking forges whose fires never slept.

  The building they halted before was entirely unremarkable: soot-covered brick walls, rust-bitten iron fixtures, windows patched with scraps of cloth or boards nailed haphazardly. Gael glanced skeptically at the knight. "You sure this is the right place?"

  The knight shot him a glare so sharp it felt like a blade. "Get your asses inside. And keep your hands to yourselves. I haven't ruled out killing you yet."

  Gael swallowed back his retort.

  With practiced ease, the knight produced an ornate brass key etched with delicate runes. As he turned it in the lock, the runes flared softly, casting faint, cold light across the heavy metal door. Its appearance was incongruous—a reinforced, intricately warded vault door disguised amid ordinary homes and workshops. With a resonant mechanical groan, it swung outward.

  Stepping through was like crossing into another world.

  The change struck Gael immediately—a soft pressure enveloped him, silken and heavy. The relentless symphony of Rakan's hammers, the acrid scent of coal, the murmurs of late-night artisans, all vanished instantly. They were replaced by a profound silence, warm and smothering, absolute in its completeness.

  Then came the fragrance—sweet cinnamon layered with spiced honey, anise, and cloves. It curled gently around Gael's senses, coaxing him deeper inside with an almost tender insistence.

  Charm magic. The whole damned building was steeped in it.

  Vess caught his eye, her amber gaze sharp but wary. She sensed it too.

  Gael drew in a steadying breath, squaring his shoulders. Whatever lay ahead was designed to strip away their defenses before they even realized what was happening.

  ____________________

  The interior of the building was like stepping into another world. Murals stretched across every wall, vibrant colors weaving scenes of sprawling landscapes, celestial bodies intertwined in arcs of brilliant light, and detailed battles frozen in visceral, exquisite violence. Under the careful placement of lanterns, veins of gold and silver shimmered faintly, casting shifting reflections onto polished mahogany furniture that clearly came from the hands of master craftsmen. Beneath their feet, embroidered rugs muffled their footsteps against the stone floor, each thread meticulously placed to tell stories Gael couldn't begin to decipher.

  It was overwhelming.

  Gael had spent his entire life navigating Jesarin's harsher streets, places where wealth like this existed only in whispered fantasies. Here, wealth wasn't merely displayed—it infused the very bones of the building, a quiet, undeniable statement of power and influence. The modest, soot-covered exterior had been just another charm, another layer of deception. The realization stirred something restless in him.

  His fingers twitched.

  Then he saw it—a small figurine perched casually on a nearby table, a silver falcon with wings spread mid-flight, elegant and fragile. It sat unattended, begging to be noticed.

  No one would miss it.

  His eyes flicked toward the knight walking ahead, Lukas still slung carelessly over his armored shoulder. The man hadn't bothered to glance back, focused entirely on the path before him.

  Gael exhaled gently, weaving a silent whistle into his breath—a subtle, practiced command. The still air around him stirred faintly, bending just enough to draw the figurine forward. The falcon trembled briefly, then drifted into his sleeve with barely a whisper.

  By the time the knight turned, Gael stood with his hands clasped innocently behind his back, face carefully blank.

  For a moment, he wondered if he'd miscalculated.

  The falcon, weightless yet cold in his sleeve, felt strangely resistant, as though offended by his touch. The air had shifted ever so slightly—not enough for a breeze, but enough to feel wrong. The knight had paused, tilting his head as if he'd sensed something amiss, metal fingers flexing slowly.

  Move. Act natural.

  Gael kept his hands loose, pulse pounding in his ears. He cocked his head, letting a familiar grin slip onto his face.

  "You look lost," he said, voice dripping with practiced nonchalance. "Need us to lead the way?"

  The knight scoffed quietly, dismissing him with a shake of his head, then continued forward.

  Gael released a breath he'd barely realized he'd been holding. The falcon sat heavily in his sleeve, cold but now reassuringly still.

  They arrived at the corridor's end, stopping before a set of imposing double doors carved from dark, rich wood. Intricate runework traced their edges, pulsing faintly with inner light. At the center, a brass door knocker shaped like a graceful swan gleamed softly beneath the lantern's glow.

  Without hesitation, the knight rapped the knocker three times, the sharp sounds echoing through the quiet hallway.

  He turned immediately, hoisting Lukas higher onto his shoulder, just as a small serving girl approached the knight.

  "Find me when she's finished with you," he said curtly. "I'll see to this one's head."

  Lurras didn’t so much as pause as he passed the side table, flicking the Catalyst onto a silver tray without ceremony. The servant waiting there barely reacted, only dipping her head as she lifted the tray and turned toward Ores. ‘Master Thorne,’ came the soft acknowledgement before they disappeared into the halls.

  Before Gael could respond, the runes flared, the doors creaking slowly open to reveal a room steeped in shadows.

  Gael's fingers tightened subtly around the silver falcon.

  He allowed himself a faint smirk, stepping forward into whatever awaited beyond.

  Lukas drifted toward consciousness, dragged upward by a dull, insistent throbbing behind his temple.

  His first instinct was to groan, but he fought it back, blinking slowly into awareness. Blurred shapes sharpened into a dimly lit room, shadows dancing on stone walls. The polished luxury of the place felt strangely oppressive—like he was trespassing somewhere he didn't belong.

  Nearby, a figure sat quietly, sleeves rolled to the elbows, methodically wringing out a bloodied cloth into a basin. Gone was the rune-etched armor, replaced instead by a simple tunic, revealing lean muscle and a latticework of scars. Even stripped of the heavy rune-plate, Lukas felt a chill run down his spine.

  This man was still dangerous.

  "Welcome back," the man said without looking up. He dunked the cloth again, the basin's water turning faintly pink. "For a moment there, I thought you'd sleep through the entire night."

  Lukas winced, the dull throb behind his temple flaring with every heartbeat. "Would've been easier," he muttered, testing his jaw carefully.

  The man snorted softly, amused. "Probably."

  Lukas shifted slowly onto his elbows, wincing at the soreness radiating from his chest and ribs. He studied the man for a moment, wary but curious. "You're the knight, right? If you're here patching me up, I assume you're not going to kill me."

  The knight didn’t look up. "Not yet, anyway."

  Lukas hesitated. "Then you're... Lurras."

  The knight paused, gaze flicking up sharply. His blue eyes were piercing, almost unnaturally so. "Seems I didn't hit you too hard after all."

  Lukas pushed himself further upright, ignoring the dizziness that swam through his head. "Does Madam Ores usually hire thieves who steal from her? Or are we a special case?"

  Lurras’s expression shifted subtly, a ghost of amusement flickering across his stern features. "You're quick. Maybe I didn't hit you hard enough after all." He set the cloth aside, leaning forward so that Lukas could clearly see the intensity in his eyes. "Madam Ores respects boldness, but she values talent far more. Consider tonight your audition."

  "And if we fail?" Lukas asked, keeping his voice steady.

  Lurras smiled faintly—but there was no warmth in it, only a quiet threat. "Then you'll wish I'd finished the job in the alley."

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  Lukas swallowed hard, meeting the knight's stare without blinking. "Not exactly reassuring."

  "It wasn't meant to be," Lurras replied softly. He rose smoothly, his movements deceptively graceful for a man who’d effortlessly pummeled him unconscious earlier. "It was meant as a warning."

  Lukas watched in silence as Lurras turned away, heart pounding as he processed the knight’s words. Somehow, he got the distinct feeling they’d stumbled into a much larger game—a game in which losing had consequences far worse than a few bruises.

  Lukas blinked, his thoughts still sluggish. "Where's—"

  "Your friends? With Ores." Lurras didn't look up. "Talking." He set the cloth aside, reached for the basin, and carefully rinsed the blood from his fingers. The water turned a faint pink, swirling briefly before stilling. "They'll be fine. Probably."

  His voice was even, but Lukas caught something hidden beneath it—a faint edge, unreadable but undeniable. Then he noticed the letter near the basin. Its wax seal was broken, and the parchment was creased, as if clenched tightly in a fist.

  "Word came this morning," Lurras said abruptly, jaw clenched. "I'm to compete in the Grand Tournament."

  Lukas hesitated, the significance sinking in. Everyone in Jesarin knew the name Lurras Thorne—ruthless, efficient, and utterly loyal to Madam Ores. But before that he was a Grand Tournament champion.

  "Congratulations," Lukas said, choosing his words carefully.

  Lurras exhaled sharply through his nose, thumb brushing idly across the parchment. "Sure." The word was flat, devoid of pride or enthusiasm—only tension remained, coiled tight beneath the surface.

  "Not exactly thrilled, are you?" Lukas risked pushing, curiosity outweighing caution.

  Lurras shot him a glance, eyes narrowing slightly. "The Tournament isn't always an honor," he replied cryptically. The paper crinkled further in his grip.

  Lukas sat up straighter, testing his bruised ribs with cautious movements. "So why do it?"

  "Because loyalty comes at a cost." Lurras tossed the parchment aside and rose smoothly, his movements effortless despite his imposing frame. He shifted his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders with a faint crack. "Enough talking. You can stand—good. Let’s see if you're as tough as you think."

  "You're not going to wear your fancy armor this time?" Lukas asked, sizing up the man who'd effortlessly dismantled them earlier.

  "Not this time," Lurras said, lips quirking slightly. He raised his fists, loose but ready, waiting.

  Every instinct Lukas had screamed to stay down, to surrender, but something deeper pushed him forward—the same reckless impulse that had always guided him. He rose, forcing himself upright despite the lingering ache in his limbs.

  "Your funeral, big guy," Lukas said, raising his fists. His pulse quickened, adrenaline mixing with apprehension.

  Lurras merely tilted his head slightly, as if curious. "Show me what you've got."

  Lukas moved first, feinting to the left before swinging in low. Lurras barely shifted, deflecting the strike effortlessly. "Predictable. Change it up," he instructed calmly.

  Frustration flared, pushing Lukas to strike faster, harder. But each attack was met with the same calm efficiency, as if Lurras saw each punch coming before Lukas himself knew he'd throw it. Then, with unsettling speed, the larger man pivoted, launching into a precise counterattack that forced Lukas onto his heels.

  "How did you do it?" Lukas gasped, barely dodging a vicious jab. "That trick in the alley—I’ve never seen anyone counter essence like that."

  Lurras paused briefly, his eyes sharpening with something unreadable. "Maybe if you land a hit, I'll tell you."

  Lukas exhaled slowly, settling into the calm, steady rhythm he'd practiced countless nights in the pit. Then he surged forward, his strikes precise and relentless, forcing Lurras to retreat step by measured step until the wall pressed at the knight's back.

  Lurras noticed the predicament at the same moment, the air shimmering faintly around him as he pivoted off the wall, shifting momentum into a devastating hook aimed squarely at Lukas's jaw.

  Essence sparked through Lukas’s legs, crackling storm energy propelling him aside at the last heartbeat. Lurras surged past, momentum unchecked, and Lukas spun quickly, seizing his opening. He channeled his quickest shock cantrip, threading shadow essence through its core, before releasing it in a sharp burst aimed directly at Lurras's back. The spell crackled, struck home—and shattered harmlessly against the fabric of Lurras’s shirt, essence scattering like fragments of dark glass.

  “That counts, right? You didn't say it had to be a punch.” Lukas flashed a cocky smirk.

  Lurras turned slowly, an eyebrow raised, amusement tugging faintly at his lips. "Shadow spell I picked up a while back," he said evenly. "Let's me slip through spells, disrupting them before they take hold. That's part of it, anyway."

  Lukas's eyes narrowed as they resumed circling each other. "Part of it?"

  "The real difference?" Lurras brushed aside Lukas's next strike with effortless precision. "Runeplate."

  Lukas exhaled sharply, stepping back, adjusting his stance. "So all that back in the alley was the armor, not you?"

  Lurras snorted lightly, eyes focused. "No. But it helps. Strengthens essence flow, enhances reflexes, dampens impact. You'd be surprised how much it tilts a fight."

  Lukas shifted again, lighter on his feet, testing the worn floorboards. With a quick, practiced flick of his fingers, the dim lantern light bent subtly. A sliver of shadow curled up from his palm, dissolving swiftly like ink in water.

  Lurras’s expression didn't change, but Lukas didn't miss the brief spark of interest.

  "Figured that one out as a kid," Lukas said, rolling his shoulders loosely. "Lightning came later."

  Lurras held his gaze for a quiet moment, then advanced—faster this time, decisive. "Again."

  "What?"

  "The shadow trick. Show me again," Lurras repeated, neutral but intent.

  Lukas obliged, this time channeling the spark cantrip first, carefully weaving the shadow essence at the last possible instant. Dark sparks crackled from his fingertips, arcing softly through the air before dissolving into tiny, shadowy wisps.

  Lurras gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Now who taught you how to do that?"

  Lukas hesitated, the pride in his chest tempered by caution. "Taught myself," he finally admitted, watching Lurras warily. "Had to survive somehow. Lightning hits hard, but shadows get you out when things go south."

  Lurras considered him, eyes sharp with appraisal. "Not many can weave two affinities at once. Even fewer without formal training."

  "Formal training wasn’t exactly an option for me," Lukas shot back, keeping his voice steady despite the growing unease in his gut.

  Lurras didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, deliberately invading Lukas's space—not threatening, but testing, gauging his reaction. "Maybe not," he finally said, his voice low. "But you've clearly made do. You could do well at the Academy if you put that hard head of yours to it.”

  Lukas couldn't help it—he laughed, short and bitter. "Us? At the Alabaster Academy? You hit my head harder than I thought."

  "You think too small," Lurras said bluntly, crossing his arms. "The Academy isn't just a stage for nobles and spoiled brats. It’s power. Influence. Freedom."

  Lukas hesitated, eyeing Lurras with cautious curiosity. "And someone like you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

  Lurras’ jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. For a moment, his stoic mask wavered, something haunted flickering behind his eyes before quickly vanishing. "I know enough to recognize potential when I see it. But raw skill isn't enough. You'll need discipline, training—and an opportunity."

  Lukas swallowed the retort on his tongue. Despite his best instincts, he found himself leaning forward. "And Madam Ores is that opportunity?"

  Lurras smiled, a thin, humorless line. "Madam Ores is many things, but generous isn’t one of them. She’s intrigued for now—but interest fades quickly if you disappoint her."

  Lukas straightened, his fists tightening reflexively. "And if we disappoint her?"

  Lurras stared at him for a moment, expression hardening. "Then pray your shadow magic is better at hiding you than it is at fighting me."

  Lukas said nothing, the weight of the warning sinking deep into his bones. Then, with deliberate calm, he fell back into his stance, fists raised. "One more round?"

  A faint smile flickered across Lurras’s lips as he mirrored Lukas’s stance. "Until you land a real punch."

  This time, when Lukas surged forward, it wasn’t out of reckless bravado—it was something sharper, fiercer. A need to prove himself—to Lurras, to Gael, to Vess, but most of all, to the stubborn voice in the back of his head whispering he wasn’t enough.

  Lukas shrugged, slowly circling the larger man. "So," he pressed, stepping in with a quick feint before retreating, "are you gonna teach me that trick, or am I stuck figuring it out the hard way?"

  Lurras’s eyes brightened, a faint edge of approval flickering through them. "The hard way's faster."

  Hard way it is.

  Lukas rolled his shoulders, testing the dull ache that still radiated from his ribs. "Yeah? Well, I've always preferred learning things the fun way."

  Lurras arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you call losing?"

  Lukas smirked, dropping into a ready stance. "Depends. You having fun yet?"

  Lurras didn't answer. He simply lunged.

  Lukas had faced plenty of fighters before—bruisers, street brawlers, even a handful of squires who wandered into underground rings for quick coin. But Lurras moved differently. He was inevitable, precise, and relentless, every step forward stripping away another sliver of Lukas’s space, forcing him backward inch by inch.

  Lukas dodged a sharp jab, flicked out another feint toward Lurras’s ribs, but the man barely flinched. His defense was seamless, movements rooted in ruthless efficiency. It was almost insulting how effortless he made it look.

  The realization struck Lukas like a blow:

  He isn't even trying.

  Yet, rather than discourage him, the thought ignited something in Lukas’s chest, setting his pulse alight.

  A reckless grin spread across his face. Good. If the "hard way" meant taking a few more bruises, he'd welcome every single one.

  The runes flared all at once.

  A pulse of cold light traced the intricate script embedded in the doorframe, washing the corridor in a brief glow before fading. Then, with a slow, deliberate creak, the massive doors groaned inward.

  A servant hurried inside, moving with the precise, fluid steps of someone trained to go unnoticed. They reached Madam Ores’ side without a word, bowing deeply before setting down a silver tray—atop it, cushioned in rich silk, sat the Catalyst. The gemstone pulsed faintly, its dull glow lost beneath the chamber’s golden light. The servant lingered just long enough for Ores to acknowledge them with the faintest tilt of her head before retreating into the shadows, vanishing as though they had never been there.

  Gael barely spared them a glance—his focus was pulled elsewhere.

  If the hallways had been opulent, the room beyond was transcendent—a place removed from reality, meticulously crafted down to its last detail. Silk-draped lanterns bathed the chamber in warm, amber radiance, casting shifting shadows that danced like whispers across richly painted walls. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine curled through the air, delicate yet inescapable, weaving a spell that suspended time itself.

  To one side stretched a koi pond, its presence surreal and extravagant indoors. Golden and crimson fish glided gracefully beneath lily pads, the surface disturbed only by their tranquil movements. Smooth stepping stones threaded through the water, bordered by jade-green bamboo, whose slender leaves swayed gently without a breeze, whispering secrets Gael wished he understood.

  Dominating the far wall was a mural of breathtaking artistry—a golden dragon spiraling through misty skies, its sapphire-blue eyes glinting with a life of their own. It seemed to watch Gael, appraising him silently as he stepped further inside.

  It felt as if he'd crossed into the mythical halls of the Alabaster Academy, sending a shiver down his spine.

  But Vess—Vess was frozen for an entirely different reason. Her skin had paled, eyes wide and locked not on the lavish scenery but upon the woman seated serenely before them. Madam Ores radiated an aura of timeless elegance and subtle authority, ensconced upon a throne of rich velvet and shimmering gold, her presence commanding without effort. The room itself seemed to gently accommodate her every breath.

  "I'm told you are the ones who have ruined my day."

  Her voice was silk-wrapped steel—calm, measured, every word a carefully placed stroke on a canvas of silence.

  Gael had anticipated presence; powerful people carried it naturally. But Ores embodied something different. She didn’t dominate the space like a tempest or blaze through it like fire—she inhabited it with the quiet inevitability of tides shaping a coastline, constant and immutable.

  Everything about her spoke of deliberate precision: the shimmer of her silk robes, shifting subtly with each movement; the gentle tap of her cane against the polished floor, marking a rhythm that belonged solely to her.

  And her eyes—sharp, penetrating, filled with the weight of someone who'd already glimpsed every variation of him before he’d even taken his first breath.

  The amusement dancing subtly at the edges of her voice wasn’t a welcome—it was a quiet, lethal test.

  Gael, never one to back down from a challenge, smirked right back.

  "If it makes you feel any better," he said without missing a beat, "your man ruined ours even worse."

  A ripple of silence followed, the air thickening—not from anger, but from something infinitely more dangerous. Amusement.

  The corners of Ores' lips tilted upward, forming the faintest hint of a smile. Yet it was her eyes that spoke clearly—calculating, measuring, and weighing his worth with each passing second. No flash of offense crossed her face, no visible irritation. Just a quiet shift in her posture, as though she were delicately adjusting pieces in a game already underway.

  Vess, however, was not nearly so composed. Her fingers tightened around Gael's sleeve, gripping urgently, pulling him subtly back as she shook her head. She didn't need words; her wide-eyed look of warning was enough.

  "I assure you, young man, that isn't the case." Ores rose from her throne with unhurried grace, leaning lightly on a cane of polished ebony, its swan-shaped handle gleaming with gemstone eyes. The soft rustle of silk was the only sound as she stepped forward, each movement deliberate, measured. "Two years, meticulously carving a path as one sharpens a blade—patient, precise, without waste—only for it to be dulled in an instant. And for what?"

  She let the question hang in the air, her gaze shifting slowly between the two of them, her tone carrying a quiet authority that resonated through Gael's bones.

  He felt a prickle at the base of his neck, the weight of her presence settling heavily over him. In that instant, he understood why the knight had seemed so agitated. A sarcastic retort lingered at the tip of his tongue—his usual weapon against tension—but something told him today was different. She was different.

  Instead, Gael took a measured breath, choosing his next words carefully, if only to keep Vess from tearing his sleeve clean off.

  Shifting slightly, his boots scuffed against the polished marble floor as he raised his eyes to meet Madam Ores' gaze directly.

  "Honestly?" He ran a hand through his hair, letting his casual fa?ade slip just a fraction. "I didn't even know what we'd stolen until an hour before the drop—just that it was insanely valuable. By then, we'd planned for weeks. When we learned you were the buyer…" He glanced at Vess, who stood rigid beside him, her expression tight. "Half my crew wanted to back out."

  Gael exhaled sharply, gesturing loosely to the extravagant room around them—the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, heavy tapestries absorbing all sound, the faint hum of magic that set his teeth on edge.

  "Clearly," he muttered, "I should've listened."

  Madam Ores lowered her reading glasses with slow deliberation. The golden chain flashed in the dim light, glinting like a trap quietly snapping shut around them. Her expression gave away nothing, but her eyes—sharp, appraising, dissecting—sent a shiver through Gael's stomach.

  "Don't be so quick to regret," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk, each word precisely measured. "Perhaps by angering me, you've uncovered an opportunity far greater than either of us could've imagined alone."

  "And if it isn't young Vanessa Emberlin." The shift in her tone was subtle—almost fond. "I had thought you long gone after our last... encounter. What has it been, three years now?"

  Vess didn't respond right away. Gael caught the faint movement of her throat as she swallowed, a bead of sweat tracing down her temple. When she finally nodded, it was small and stiff, her gaze flickering to the floor before forcing itself back to Ores.

  "To think I'd find you back here, up to mischief again," Ores continued, her tone firm but not unkind. "It would seem you've learned little from your earlier lesson."

  "I—" Vess started, then faltered. Her hand drifted to her left arm, fingers brushing absently over the old burn scars.

  Gael jumped in, his voice light but calculated. "She was just back at the hideout, working on some bauble while the rest of us did the heavy lifting." He shot Vess a quick glance, winking. "If anything, she tried to talk us out of it. If you're looking for someone to be pissed at, it should be me or Lukas. Preferably Lukas."

  Ores let out a quiet breath that might have been amusement. "How noble of you, standing up for your comrade in crime," she said. "But we both know Vanessa is far from innocent." There was no heat in her words, yet they landed with weight all the same. Vess's cheeks darkened, her gaze fixed to the floor, where anger and shame warred beneath the surface.

  And just like that, the heavy weight of Madam Ores's gaze shifted back to Gael. It wasn't just a look—it was an appraisal, a quiet dismantling, as if she could strip him down to his very bones with a single glance.

  "Your name, boy?"

  Gael straightened, meeting her eyes without hesitation. "Gael. And it's a pleasure to finally meet the infamous Madam Ores."

  For the briefest moment, something flickered across Ores's face.

  Recognition.

  Not of his name. Not of his reputation.

  Of him.

  Like she had known—like she had been waiting for this moment.

  Then, just as swiftly, the expression was gone. Replaced by that same unreadable smile, that same poised amusement, as if she were simply considering whether to buy a particularly interesting trinket.

  "I may just have a proposition for you and your crew after all, Gael."

  Gael exhaled, still holding onto his grin. But something had shifted.

  This wasn't just about the gem.

  She knows something.

  And that made her even more dangerous than he'd thought.