Three years ago...

  In the dim, smoke-choked corner of the urchin den, a girl in red sat apart from the others, quiet as a blade waiting to be drawn. She was small—too small to intimidate—but something about the way she watched him made Gael's skin prickle. The others barely seemed to notice her, but he felt her gaze, steady and unrelenting, pressing against his back.

  Whenever their eyes met, it was like stepping into a snare. A silent challenge. A warning.

  Gael had met dangerous people before. But he had never met her.

  The others gave him nothing when he asked—just tight mouths and sidelong glances—until he found Lander.

  Lander was wiry and battered, looking older than the rest—maybe sixteen, seventeen. The kind of kid who traded in whispers and half-truths, selling secrets like stolen bread. Tonight, he wore the cost of that trade—a swollen black eye, a split lip that turned his grin into something more like a sneer. Gael couldn’t help but wonder who’d managed to land a hit on someone like Lander.

  Lander sank down beside him, wincing. “Heard you’ve been asking about Vess.”

  So that was her name. Vess. Sharp, quick—like the way she looked at him.

  Gael didn’t bother lying. “I am.”

  Lander’s puffy face stretched into something close to amusement, though the movement clearly hurt. “Lucky for you, I know a thing or two. Lived just past Lenter Lane before... well, before it happened.” He kissed the back of his thumb in a gesture Gael had seen before—half superstition, half street oath.

  “On the Traveler’s fortune,” Lander murmured, with a sincerity that made Gael’s stomach tighten. Invoking the Traveler was no small thing. Luck and freedom were hard-earned in Jesarin.

  Gael leaned in. “Before what happened?”

  “You’re new here, ain’t ya?” Lander’s voice dipped, as if testing him. “Figured. Nasty business with her family. Over in Rakan District. Slaughtered, they were. Little over a year ago.” He exhaled, eyeing Gael’s meager sack of belongings. “Her name was Vanessa Emberlin—before, anyway. She only answers to Vess now.”

  Gael felt his grip tighten around the sack. An orphan, just like him.

  “I’ve got nothing to trade,” he said cautiously.

  “Don’t need coin,” Lander replied, gaze sharp. “I trade in secrets. Like the one you’ve been sittin’ on since you stumbled in here, bloody and screamin’ about magic.” He leaned in, breath sour. “What happened that night?”

  A flash of memory—red rage, a body falling, the taste of fear. Gael forced his expression still.

  “Or,” Lander added quickly, “something else. Your choice.”

  The words were a hook. A challenge.

  Gael swallowed the anger rising in his throat. “No. It’s a fair trade.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

  "I killed that lord—the one who they say fell from his window."

  Silence.

  Lander’s smirk faltered. A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, intrigue. Maybe even a sliver of respect.

  Gael had known the words would set the streets buzzing, whispers carrying his name before the enforcers came knocking. But as his heartbeat steadied, he caught something in Lander’s gaze.

  Not just shock.

  Fear.

  “You?” Lander repeated, a smirk tugging at his busted lip. “A scrawny kid like you? What are you, eleven? Took down a magi?”

  “Twelve,” Gael snapped, straightening his shoulders. It didn’t help. He still felt small under the older boy’s scrutiny. “And I caught him off guard,” he added, quieter this time.

  Lander chuckled, then winced, touching his swollen face. “Kid, if you’re lyin’ to me—”

  “I’m not.” Gael’s voice was firmer now, though his hands trembled. “I held up my end. Believe me or don’t. That’s your choice.”

  Lander studied him for a beat too long, his light brown eyes searching for something Gael couldn’t name. Then he shrugged, slow and deliberate, like even that movement hurt.

  “Alright, kid. Let’s talk about Vess.” He tilted his head, considering. “That bought you two questions. I’ll answer ‘em best I can. Truthfully.”

  Gael hesitated, watching him carefully. When he didn’t respond right away, Lander lifted a hand, his tone suddenly solemn.

  “On the Father’s honor.”

  That gave Gael pause. The Father—not the Traveler. Not a street oath, but a sacred one.

  Two questions. He knew he shouldn’t waste them. Knew he should ask something smart, something useful.

  But the same words kept bubbling to his lips until he couldn’t resist any longer.

  “Why does everyone act so weird when I ask about her? What’s she done to make them so nervous?”

  Lander leaned back, his expression shifting. He closed his eyes, composing himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

  “Depends on who you ask. Some say she stole fire magic from her parents and burned them alive—along with half the street.”

  Even in the musty warmth of the den, Lander shivered, fingers absently tracing the edge of his busted lip.

  Gael frowned. “And if I asked you? Do you know the truth?”

  Lander’s eyes flicked open, sharp and calculating. “Well, that’s the hard bit. Even me, with all my vast knowledge—” he gestured grandly, though the effect was ruined by his wince, “—only got rumors to go by.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Gael said quickly.

  Lander exhaled through his nose, his amusement fading into something quieter.

  “Then listen close, kid. 'Cause some rumors are deadlier than the truth.”

  Lander nodded to himself, then closed his eyes again, as if summoning the story from some deep, dark place. "Some say her parents were killed by a powerful underground kingpin. The fire was just a cover-up."

  His voice hitched—just for a second—before he swallowed hard and continued. "But I was there that day."

  Gael stilled.

  Lander’s voice dropped lower, the kind of quiet that made Gael’s instincts prickle, like he was afraid someone might overhear. "The flames weren’t normal," he said, his tone slow, deliberate. "They didn’t just burn buildings—they ate them. The air was thick with something worse than smoke, something that screeched when the fire touched it. And the people..."

  He hesitated. Licked his lips. His fingers twitched, as if remembering.

  "The ones caught in it didn’t just die," he finally said. "They burned from the inside out, screaming, until there wasn’t anything left but ash. No bones. No bodies. Just... dust."

  Gael’s stomach twisted. The words painted too clear of a picture. He could almost see it—the charred skeleton of Lenter-Lane, the eerie silence after the inferno, the acrid stench clinging to the rubble.

  And then, at its center: Vess.

  "She survived that?" His voice came out rougher than he meant.

  Lander let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Survived?" He shook his head. "Kid, she walked out of it without a damn scratch."

  Gael’s pulse quickened. That didn’t make sense. None of it did. He swallowed against the strange, uneasy feeling curling in his gut.

  Lander exhaled, shifting back with a slow grin. "That’s one, kid. You’ve got one more."

  Gael hesitated this time. His mind spun with possibilities, but he didn’t just want rumors—he needed something real.

  Lander had sworn an oath on the Father’s name. Maybe, just maybe, he’d honor it with more than half-truths.

  Gael leaned forward, his voice low, deliberate.

  "Does she ever talk about what happened?" He tilted his head toward where Vess sat, wrapped in that ever-present red blanket. "Or does she just sit there, staring daggers at everyone, tight-lipped?"

  Lander scratched the back of his neck, his expression shifting as if weighing how much to say. "I’ve never seen her talk. Not to me, anyway." His voice turned wry. "Tried chatting her up when she first got here. She ignored me for ten minutes straight before I gave up. Got the sense she’s not the... chatty type."

  Gael frowned. That wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  "That’s all I get? Really?"

  Lander smirked, shrugging one shoulder, the movement careful against his bruises. "Hey, not my fault if you ask shit questions, kid."

  He lifted his hands in mock surrender but then sighed, relenting. "Fine. She’s only been here a month, so I don’t know everything. But nobody knows where she’s been since the fire last year. One day, she just showed up—no explanation, no nothing. Just that red blanket of hers and that... blank stare."

  Gael followed his gaze.

  Vess sat in the corner, her frame small but sharp, wrapped in crimson.

  And she was watching him.

  Gael’s stomach tightened. The weight of her stare pressed against him like a blade at his ribs. There was nothing blank about her eyes. They saw too much, cut too deep. Like she could strip him down to every secret he’d ever tried to bury.

  Gael swallowed, forcing himself to look away. But the feeling stayed.

  If he wanted real answers, he’d have to go straight to the source.

  "And with that," Lander declared, cutting through the weight of Gael’s thoughts, "our transaction is complete!"

  With a quick, intricate flourish of his fingers—half showmanship, half ceremony—he dipped into an exaggerated bow, his bruised face twisting into a smug grin. "Pleasure doin’ business with you, kid."

  And just like that, Lander was gone, already weaving through the den, setting his sights on his next "transaction." The boy was a creature of movement, slipping through the crowd with the ease of someone who always knew when to disappear.

  Gael, however, remained still.

  The information sat heavy in his chest, a gnawing weight of unease and inevitability. There was only one path forward now, and it led straight to her.

  It took him longer than he’d like to admit to summon the courage.

  Vess hadn’t moved from her corner, draped in red, wrapped in silence. If she noticed him approaching, she didn’t react. Her gaze was distant, unfocused—yet he felt her attention settle on him all the same.

  Gael moved slowly, cautiously. Not out of fear, but out of understanding.

  She reminded him of a wounded animal—one that might bolt, or worse, lash out, at the wrong approach.

  He stopped just short of sitting beside her, testing the air between them before speaking.

  "Mind if I join you?" His voice came out quieter than intended.

  For a moment, the only sound was the hushed rustling of the den.

  Then—finally—she nodded. A small, wordless motion.

  "You know," Gael remarked, leaning back against the wall a few feet away from her, "they say it's rude to stare."

  She didn’t answer.

  The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable, and Gael cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

  Then—

  "Is it true?"

  Her voice, rasped from disuse, barely cut through the air between them.

  Gael blinked. It was the first time he’d heard her speak in the entire week he’d been here. And yet—somehow, she already knew something about him.

  He forced a small smirk, though uncertainty flickered beneath it. "Everything they say about me is always true," he said. "Unless it’s negative—then it’s just hearsay."

  A beat of silence.

  Then came the sound that would stay with him forever—

  A snort. Then a small, unguarded laugh.

  Vess seemed just as startled by it as he was. She clamped her mouth shut, cheeks turning faintly pink as if the sound had escaped against her will.

  Gael grinned, triumphant. "So not only does she talk—she can laugh!"

  The moment passed, fleeting as a breath, as her gaze flickered toward empty air.

  Gael watched as something in her shifted—her fingers tightened around the edges of her red blanket, knuckles turning white, as if anchoring herself to the present.

  "I’d almost forgotten what that sounded like..." she murmured.

  She raised a hand to her lips, testing them, as if the laughter had left an unfamiliar echo on her skin.

  Then—her amber eyes snapped back to his, sharp and burning.

  "Is it true you killed someone?"

  The words landed like a blade between his ribs.

  Gael stilled.

  He had already sold that truth to Lander. By week's end, the rumor would spread like wildfire. Yet somehow, facing Vess—this girl who watched him with such unrelenting focus—it felt different.

  She was studying him now, waiting, searching for something in the answer. And for the first time, he realized she already knew.

  He swallowed.

  "Yes."

  He should explain. Justify. Something.

  But the truth was simple. Too simple.

  He was a killer.

  Born of necessity.

  But a killer, nonetheless.

  Vess studied him for a long moment, her slender fingers idly twisting the tassels of her blanket as her sharp amber eyes seemed to strip him bare.

  "How did it feel when you did it?" she whispered gently, the question barely more than a breath.

  Gael fell into silence, his thoughts pulling him back to that brutal moment. In the heat of it, the act had been consumed by raw adrenaline—the kind of clarity that only comes when life feels like it's hanging by a thread, and every fiber of instinct screams to survive. There had been no room for guilt, no space for reflection; just an unfeeling certainty that he'd done what needed to be done.

  After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low, deliberate, as if the words themselves were more difficult than the memory. "In that moment, it felt as if I was... untouchable. Like I was the one in control of everything." He stared down at his hands, fingers curling slightly as a faint tremor began again.

  "But the moment it was over, it just... flattened out. Like it never mattered. Like the weight of it hit, but I couldn't feel it anymore. "He closed his eyes, the image of the man's eyes flashing in his mind—the fear dancing across his face, the moment he knew Gael had somehow gotten the upper hand.

  Vess sat in the heavy silence, her piercing gaze unwavering as she watched him, the world around them still and tense. Slowly, with an almost deliberate grace, she set the blanket aside—its familiar weight no longer enough to keep her hidden, even from herself.

  Her fingers, pale and steady, reached into the worn leather pouch at her side, pulling out a half-burned letter. Its elaborate gold script—once pristine now marred by fire—still spoke the name at the bottom with unmistakable clarity: "Madam Ores."

  For a long moment, the crinkling parchment was the only sound either of them heard in the dimly lit room. Vess traced the edges of the letter, the blackened corners of history shifting uneasily between them. The weight of it, of all it represented—her past, her purpose, her future—pressed down on her chest, constricting the space between them.

  Gael's gaze locked onto hers, and in the quiet of the moment, their unspoken understanding passed between them—both bound by past actions, pulled irresistibly toward an ending long set in motion by unknown forces.

  Vess's slender fingers, pale and trembling slightly, placed the letter on her lap. The flickering light from a nearby lantern caught the sharp angles of her face—her high cheekbones, the faint burn mark that traced a jagged path from her left cheek down to her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her threadbare shirt. It was a reminder of the fire that had claimed her past, a scar that seemed to pulse with the weight of her memories.

  Her amber eyes burned with a fire Gael couldn't quite name, and though she was small, almost fragile-looking, there was a hardness to her, like a blade forged in a storm. Her red blanket, now pooled around her, seemed to mirror the intensity of her gaze, as if it too were alive with the weight of her resolve.

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  Gael watched her, his breath shallow, the air thick with unspoken words. He could feel the gravity of the moment pressing down on him, the kind of tension that made the world seem smaller, sharper, as if everything else had faded away.

  Then, so softly it almost went unheard, Vess parted her lips and whispered, "I will end her."

  The words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a knife. Gael's chest tightened, and for a moment, he hesitated. He didn't know this "Ores", didn't know what she'd done to deserve Vess's hatred. But he knew that look in her eyes—the cold, unwavering clarity of someone who had nothing left to lose.

  He had seen that look before.

  The night he killed Alister, it had felt like survival—like a choice forced upon him. But now, sitting across from Vess, he realized something that chilled him: what if it hadn't been just survival? What if a part of him liked holding power over someone who had taken everything from him? What if he wasn't so different from her?

  His pulse pounded in his ears.

  "I'll help you," he said, his voice low but steady. The words surprised him, but once they were out, they felt inevitable, as if they'd been waiting to be spoken all along.

  Vess's eyes flicked to his, and for the first time, he saw something other than anger or pain in her gaze—something like hope, fragile and fleeting. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that familiar intensity. She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, and the world around them seemed to snap back into place.

  In the dim light of the den, surrounded by the shadows of their pasts, the two of them sat in silence, the weight of their shared purpose settling over them like a storm waiting to break.

  Vess clenched her fist harder, the sharp pressure of her nails biting into her palm.

  Not yet.

  The urge to act—to move—to tear the hidden blade from her sleeve and end this before another word was spoken—pressed against her like a storm waiting to break.

  Not yet.

  The sight of the woman across from her sent fire through her veins, raw and consuming. Everything they had built was on the verge of collapse, slipping through their fingers like sand, and yet, all she could think of was striking that frail, too-composed face.

  But no matter how good it would feel, she knew she had to be patient.

  Vess’s thoughts flickered to their positioning—alone with her. Without Lurras standing at her side like an iron-clad shadow.

  If she had truly felt vulnerable, she never would have allowed this.

  That meant something. That meant confidence.

  Confidence in her control. In the weight of her presence. In the knowledge that she could handle two street rats—no Runeplate, no knight, no visible weapons, and still, she wasn’t afraid.

  That realization made Vess’s teeth grind.

  Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling sharp and frantic over one another.

  What if this was their only shot?

  Lurras wasn’t here. His Runeplate wasn’t complicating things. It was just them and her, and who knew when they’d ever get an opening like this again?

  The gnawing urgency clawed at her chest, her heartbeat pressing against her ribs, urging her to move, act, strike. But deep beneath the panic, something heavier curled at the edges of her consciousness—a frustration more suffocating than the moment itself.

  This anger—this burning, relentless fury—was not what she had prepared for.

  She had thought she would be cold. Calculating. The way she had always imagined herself when this moment finally arrived.

  But seeing Ores again?

  The smile on that too-pleased face, the subtle amusement in her gaze, the quiet, knowing way she had greeted her—it felt like a game.

  Like she had been expecting this.

  Vess’s stomach turned.

  Her vision blurred at the edges.

  Cold sweat beaded on her brow. Her breath came shallow, catching like glass shards slipping down her throat. The room felt smaller, suffocating, the walls pressing in.

  Her heartbeat was a war drum, thundering out of her control.

  No. Not again.

  Not here.

  Not in front of Gael.

  She forced herself to focus—to anchor herself, to hold onto the facts.

  Gael wasn’t fooled. He knew better than to trust Ores completely. He was playing her. Just like all the others.

  Just another mark.

  Vess exhaled slowly, forcing the tremor from her fingers.

  She wouldn’t break.

  Not here.

  Not yet.

  Vess forced herself inward, retreating to the only sanctuary she had left—a still pond, its surface pristine, reflecting an endless blue sky. She stepped forward. The water rippled, but never broke. Calm. Controlled. Untouched.

  When she opened her eyes again, both Gael and Ores were watching. Expectant. Measuring.

  "Vess, are you okay?" Gael’s whisper barely carried, but she caught the flick of his index finger inward—a silent signal. Are we still on?

  Her fists ached, fingers raw where her nails had dug too deep. A thin trail of blood trickled down her palm. She tucked her hands into her pockets, burying the evidence. When she spoke, her voice was smooth, even. Practiced.

  "Sorry, Madam—I missed what you said. Could you repeat it?"

  Ores shifted her cane, tapping it once against the floor before reclining into her velvet throne. The seat should have dwarfed the frail woman, swallowed her whole—but instead, it made her feel larger.

  "I asked," Ores repeated, voice laced with amusement, "how the heir to the Emberlin trading dynasty ended up picking pockets in the very streets her ancestors paved."

  A test. Everything with Ores was a test.

  Vess swallowed the heat in her throat, keeping her shoulders relaxed. Not too much. Not too little. She needed to walk the line between weak enough to be dismissed, strong enough to be useful.

  "If you recall, the Emberlins suffered a terrible accident a few years back—nasty business," Vess replied, careful to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "The months that followed were... challenging. I needed something more than a burned legacy."

  Off-script now. She felt Gael’s gaze on her, that familiar twinge of concern tightening in the space between them. Always watching, always worrying. It irked her, even though she knew why.

  Focus.

  She let out a small breath and—casually, slowly—drew her hands from her pockets. A slight twitch of her index finger. A signal just for Gael.

  I’m fine. The plan is fine.

  Then, with a deliberate pause, just as Gael had coached her, she let a smirk curl at the edge of her lips.

  "And then," she said, a note of dry amusement in her voice, "I found Gael. And he showed me the joys of thieving."

  She mimicked his signature grin, letting the confidence settle into her posture, tilting her chin ever so slightly. A perfect counterfeit.

  Ores shifted her cane back to her side and leaned further into her throne. Watching. Weighing.

  "I see." The words were mild, but there was something beneath them. Something too knowing. "Well, I do hope your thieving is better than your spellcasting—you remember how poorly that went last time I'm sure."

  Dismissive. Effortless.

  Vess's stomach tightened.

  That BITCH.

  For a split second, the air around her wavered, heat curling at the edges of her fingertips. Essence surged, a familiar hunger coiling in her veins, clawing at the inside of her ribs. Fire. It wanted out.

  Her vision blurred at the edges. Her breath hitched.

  And then—she buried it.

  She forced herself to smile, biting back the sharpness in her voice.

  "How could I forget?" she said smoothly.

  Gael caught it. For just a moment, his gaze flickered with concern, his tension sharp, shoulders tensed like he was ready to intercept. But when she didn’t lunge across the room and strangle Ores where she sat, he relaxed. Only slightly.

  And then, like slipping on a mask, his entire presence shifted—his voice thick with ambition, his grin sharp with greed.

  "Your knight told us you needed our unique 'skillset'—that you'd be willing to employ us," Gael declared, eyes glinting with calculated resolve. To Vess, he looked every bit the audacious thief, eager to prove himself, hungry for a bigger score.

  The perfect deception.

  Ores sighed, her fingers gliding over a scroll as she unclasped it. Golden parchment. Crimson ink. She let it unfold as she ran a practiced hand over the delicate script.

  "A skillset you put on full display today when you made a fool of Lord Kiron's elite guards," she murmured. "A grievance, I hear, that forced three of his personal men into early retirement."

  Her hand signed the bottom of the page with a fluid stroke before moving to the next, repeating the process without looking up.

  Gael smirked. "I don’t see the problem. They gave us a good chase, didn’t they? Brought home the gem with proud looks on their faces—"

  "A clear fake."

  Ores cut him off sharply. The weight of her voice stilled the room.

  "Easily discerned under any real scrutiny. But you knew they wouldn't notice, didn't you, Gael?"

  Her piercing gaze lifted, locking onto him.

  "In fact," she continued, her voice carrying a dangerous silken amusement, "if I were a betting woman, I'd say you knew exactly who you were stealing from today."

  A moment’s pause.

  A flicker of something beneath Gael’s mask.

  Vess felt it. That tiny, imperceptible shift—the faintest crack in his composure.

  And then, just as quickly, he smoothed it over, flashing an easy, effortless grin.

  "I assume you'd prefer the very best on your side—not some half-wit pickpocket. We do our research before we strike, and we only take from those who won’t be left destitute when we’re done."

  A well-rehearsed line. One they’d prepared days ago for this exact moment.

  Ores scoffed, unimpressed. "How very noble of you."

  Her lips curled, her tone drenched in derision.

  "I suppose you redistribute the wealth amongst the common folk, then?"

  Gael didn’t miss a beat.

  "If by 'common folk' you mean our crew, then yes—we do quite a bit of that."

  He punctuated the words with a small, theatrical bow, the perfect blend of charm and audacity.

  Ores was done humoring him.

  "Once you work for me," she said, her voice slicing through their banter like a blade, "you'll use those skills for a higher purpose than simply amassing wealth, young man."

  Vess nearly laughed.

  Higher purpose?

  That was rich.

  The woman whose opulent sitting room alone could have fed an entire crew for a year had the gall to judge them for stealing to survive.

  Gael flicked a loose strand of hair from his eyes—a small, unconscious tic. A tell.

  "I'm not sure what calling could be higher than accumulating large sums of wealth," he mused, his tone laced with defiance. "But... I'm open to finding out."

  Ores exhaled, a soft, exasperated sigh.

  And then—she moved.

  Faster than she should have.

  Vess barely tracked it. One moment she was at the desk, the next—standing before them, her cane barely touching the floor, posture immaculate, presence suffocating.

  "What do you know of me, Gael?"

  Her voice was smooth, unhurried.

  "Surely you’ve heard some rumors since arriving in Jesarin."

  Gael cocked his head, unbothered. Playing the game.

  "Well, clearly you’re filthy rich," he said, sweeping a hand around to emphasize the gilded surroundings. "But beyond that? All I know is that you get things done that others either can’t... or won’t."

  The faintest trace of a smile touched Ores’s lips.

  She leaned on her cane once more, shifting back into the familiar disguise of a frail old woman.

  "Walk with me, young man," she said, extending a hand toward the gilded hallway beyond.

  "I’ll show you a bit of what I do."

  She met his gaze—piercing. Expectant. Certain.

  "So that one day, you may find a calling more worthy than coin."

  Without so much as a glance in Vess’s direction, Madam Ores guided Gael forward, her cane tapping lightly against the polished floor.

  Not a dismissal. A statement.

  Gael was the one who mattered here.

  She gestured at various paintings, each piece of art carefully chosen, weaving idle commentary into the air as if she weren’t leading them deeper into her web.

  She pointed to the koi pond, tracing the smooth arc of their movement, singling out a particular golden fish she was especially fond of.

  "See how it glides so effortlessly?" Ores mused, her voice carrying the practiced ease of someone accustomed to admiration. "Even in a pond of many, its presence is undeniable."

  Gael chuckled, an honest, unguarded sound.

  Vess’s jaw tightened.

  It grated against her nerves more than she cared to admit.

  This was going to be much harder than she imagined.

  Gael had to admit—Madam Ores was disarmingly charismatic.

  Her wit was razor-sharp, her stories effortlessly engaging, and every question he asked was met with an answer so clever and charming that it felt impossible not to be drawn in.

  Vess had warned him about this.

  Ores didn’t need spells to ensnare people.

  She made you want to listen.

  At the time, he’d assumed Vess was exaggerating.

  Now?

  He wasn’t so sure.

  "I have to ask—what could a woman as rich and powerful as you possibly need a crew like ours for?" Gael mused, keeping his tone light. "I’d imagine you could just buy any trinket you had your eye on."

  Ores came to a stop before a set of mounted scrolls, their delicate parchment stretched taut like an elaborate mural.

  Each one depicted a breathtaking scene from the Four Realms— vast golden deserts, jagged mountains wreathed in mist, sprawling cities teeming with life. The artistry was exquisite—every brushstroke so painstakingly detailed that Gael swore the landscapes might shift if he stared too long.

  "You’d be right," she said, her voice carrying the quiet satisfaction of someone accustomed to getting what she wanted. "I paid nearly four thousand Gin to have this commissioned and transported here. Coin is not the bottleneck of my enterprise, Gael."

  She turned slightly, her sharp gaze locking onto him.

  "Now—why don’t you take a guess at what is?"

  It was a test.

  He recognized it instantly.

  But how was he supposed to answer when he barely understood what she even did to accumulate this kind of wealth?

  Still—he wasn’t about to back down.

  "Well—the obvious answer would be things so valuable they aren’t for sale," he said, tilting his head toward her. "Like that little gem we swiped earlier."

  Gael expected a pleased nod.

  Maybe even a smirk of approval.

  Instead—Ores merely tilted her head, watching him.

  Not like she was impressed.

  Like she was weighing something far greater than his words.

  "An obvious answer," she agreed, smooth as glass. "But not exactly the right one. And yet—not fully wrong either."

  She turned back to the mural, her delicate fingers tracing the winding rivers, the towering spires painted across the scrolls.

  "The things I desire aren’t just rare, Gael. They’re beyond the reach of coin."

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  "Tell me—what is more valuable than wealth? What stands in the way of even the most powerful figures in the Realms?"

  Gael frowned, considering.

  The test continued.

  Was she looking for an abstract answer—a philosophy?

  Or something practical?

  He glanced at Vess, half-hoping for a clue.

  But she wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was locked onto Ores, her amber eyes dark with thinly veiled disdain.

  "Knowledge," he guessed. "Or... maybe influence? The kind of power that gets people to move without coin?"

  A slow smile crept onto Ores’s lips. "Better." She gestured for him to follow, stepping away from the scrolls. "Walk with me."

  Gael hesitated, fingers twitching at his side.

  For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of Vess's gaze pressing into his back, an unspoken warning carried between them. He didn't need to look to know the expression she wore—rigid, watchful, her jaw locked in that way she did when she was trying too hard to keep herself in check.

  A reminder.

  Of the promise they had made.

  Of the night in the urchin den.

  Of the way her voice had cracked when she whispered, I will end her.

  That oath had bound them together, sealed with a silent understanding that neither of them had ever dared break. And yet, standing here—within the opulence of Ores’s domain, surrounded by luxury, power, and a kind of certainty he had never known—it felt less like a shared vow and more like a chain tightening around his chest.

  But there was something about Ores—the cadence of her voice, the way she wove meaning into the smallest of gestures, the absolute certainty in her tone.

  She spoke like someone who had never known doubt.

  She was offering him something greater than survival.

  And Gael had never been able to resist wanting more.

  "Alright," he said finally, quieter than he meant to. He stepped forward, falling into stride beside Ores.

  But even as he walked, the weight of Vess's gaze never left him.

  Ores led him past towering bookshelves and gilded lanterns, the warm glow flickering against the polished marble floors. The scent of parchment and spiced oil lingered in the air, rich and heady, settling over Gael like an invisible net. She moved at an easy, unhurried pace, pausing only when they reached a glass display case near the back of the chamber.

  Inside, resting atop dark velvet, was a collection of relics—objects that felt like they belonged to another age. Intricate runed ornaments, a half-cracked sigil plate, scrolls bound in fine-threaded silk. Each piece was deliberate, placed with the care of someone who understood their worth.

  "These," she gestured at the case, "are not just artifacts. They are keys."

  Her fingers brushed across an elaborate silver amulet, its edges inscribed with symbols Gael didn’t recognize.

  "Some open doors to places long forgotten. Others—to knowledge buried by time."

  Then, with an effortless precision, she reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew the Catalyst.

  She tapped it once.

  The gemstone hummed to life.

  A faint vibration rippled through the air, not loud, but felt, like a sound that had never fully left the realm of silence.

  "But the most precious among them—" Ores continued, her voice softer now, "unlock people."

  Gael raised a brow, his attention locked onto the Catalyst’s glow. "People?"

  Ores turned to him, her expression unreadable.

  "You misunderstand what power truly is, boy."

  Her voice was measured, almost gentle, yet it settled over him like a weight.

  "It is not simply magic. It is not wealth. It is not even control."

  She closed her hand around the Catalyst.

  The glow vanished.

  "It is knowing where to place your faith."

  Her fingers curled tightly around the gem before slipping it back into the folds of her robe, as if sealing away something far greater than mere essence.

  "Knowing who to empower."

  A pause.

  "And when."

  Gael had no response to that.

  But the weight in his chest told him he wanted one.

  He had spent years believing power belonged to those who took it.

  That survival was a game of wit and risk.

  That wealth was just a way of keeping score.

  But here stood a woman who had already won that game.

  And she spoke as if the rules had never mattered at all.

  Gael swallowed hard, his gaze flicking toward Vess—but she was already looking away.

  "Coin can buy a great many things, Gael," Ores continued, stepping closer. "And yet, you will find it cannot buy trust. Nor can it buy loyalty. And it certainly cannot ensure that those with the strength to change this world will ever have the chance to do so."

  She shook her head, her grip tightening around the cane. "Coin is a tool. A useful one, yes, but a tool nonetheless."

  Gael exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle over him like a shroud. He didn’t fully understand what she was getting at, but he knew enough to recognize a shift in the conversation.

  Ores was no mere hoarder of magical artifacts.

  She was something more.

  And, more importantly, she seemed to think he had a role to play in it.

  "So tell me, Gael," Ores said, her voice quiet but unyielding. "What is your ambition?"

  She stepped past him, her cane tapping softly against the polished floor.

  "You and your crew—you scrape by, taking jobs, making enemies. But for what?" She tilted her head slightly. "Gold? Survival?" A hint of disappointment colored her tone. "You're better than that. And I think you know it."

  Gael clenched his jaw, a sudden discomfort settling in his chest.

  "You want to know why I need a crew like yours?" Ores continued, moving toward a set of doors leading to a moonlit balcony. "Because history does not favor the strongest or the richest, Gael. It favors those who dare to take the first step. Those who recognize their gifts and do not squander them."

  Her words struck something deep within him.

  A flicker of something he wasn’t ready to name.

  Gael shot a glance at Vess, but she still wasn’t looking at him.

  Her arms were crossed, her expression neutral—too neutral.

  But her eyes burned with something raw, something almost unreadable.

  For the first time, he wondered if power really belonged to those who knew where to place it.

  Ores stepped onto the balcony, her silhouette framed in silver light, her presence as effortless as the moon above. A woman who had already decided how history would remember her.

  Gael hesitated.

  For all his clever words and well-rehearsed bravado, he felt something slip—a crack in the foundation of everything he thought he knew.

  And then Ores’s voice cut through the stillness.

  "Tell me, Gael—"

  She turned back, meeting his gaze with piercing certainty.

  "Do you believe in destiny?"

  The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

  Gael hesitated.

  His gaze flicked between Ores and Vess.

  One offered purpose.

  The other had given him a promise.

  Whatever answer he gave—whatever decision he made—

  He was failing someone.

  Martyr's mercy.

  This was going to be harder than he thought.