With a flick of his wrist, he buried the blade into the battered wooden table. The soft thunk echoed through the cramped hideout, drawing all eyes to him.
Across the room, Lukas scoffed, arms crossed, boot propped lazily on a crate.
"That supposed to be inspiring?"
"That was me warming up to the inspiring part." Gael wrenched the dagger free, flicking it into a slow spin again. "Now shut up and listen."
The crew—Vess, Lukas, and Soren—gathered closer as Gael leaned over the map spread across the table. It was crude, drawn in charcoal and ink, but it outlined everything they needed to know:
The estate of Lord Ambrose Farnum.
Farnum's manor sat at the heart of Jesarin's Pelumian district, a lavish fortress of wealth and excess. Tonight, it would be packed with half the city's nobility, drowning themselves in wine at one of his infamous parties. And while Jesarin's elite reveled in their own indulgence, they would be stealing from under their noses.
Gael tapped a finger against the small, inner chamber marked at the estate's center.
"This is our target." He straightened, pulling a folded parchment from his coat, unfolding it to reveal a surprisingly well-drawn sketch of their prize.
A circular emblem, its edges etched with curling runes. At its center, a gemstone dark as a starless sky.
"The Sealing Stone."
Silence settled over the table. Even Lukas leaned forward slightly, his usual smirk absent.
"How much is it worth?" Soren finally asked, idly flicking a lockpick between his fingers.
"Enough that Ores wants it," Gael replied. "Which means more than any of us combined."
Vess hummed, tilting her head. "What exactly does it do?"
"Doesn't really matter," Gael said smoothly. "All we need to know is that Farnum has it, Ores wants it, and we're going to take it."
"Careful, Gael, you're starting to sound a lot like Lurras," Vess muttered, shooting him a glare.
Gael shot her a withering glance before returning to the map. "Thank you for that terrifying thought, Vess. Anyone have any useful questions?"
A beat of silence. Then Vess exhaled sharply. "So, we're robbing an idiot who doesn't even know what he's hoarding?"
"The most dangerous kind," Lukas muttered.
"That's why we do this quick, quiet, and without any of our usual theatrics," Gael added.
"Now where's the fun in that?" Vess quipped.
Gael ignored him and traced a line along the back corridors. "We're using the party as cover. Farnum's entertaining half the city's nobles tonight, which means the enforcers and house guards will be too busy keeping drunk aristocrats from stabbing each other over spilled wine."
Soren snorted. "Classic Jesarin hospitality."
"The main floor will be packed," Gael continued. "Which works in our favor. Too many people, too much noise. The guards won't be watching the upper levels as closely. That's where we come in."
He tapped the route leading to a servant's stairwell.
"Soren gets us inside."
Soren tipped an imaginary hat. "Because I'm the only one with actual talent here."
"There's an old drainage access beneath the estate," Gael went on, ignoring him. "Leads straight into the cellars. He picks the locks, and from there, we move up to Farnum's study."
Soren twirled a lockpick between his fingers. "Locks are easy. It's getting back out that's the hard part."
"Exactly why we move fast," Gael said. "Farnum's vault is essence-sealed. I'll handle the first layer—pressure wards are usually air-based, and I can disrupt them long enough to get Vess inside. The rune-lock is fire-etched, which means—"
"—which means I can burn it out before it resets," Vess finished, nodding.
"And the stone itself?"
"Farnum keeps it in a glass case. No alarms—because he's an idiot who thinks his study is unbreachable." Gael smirked. "He won't even notice it's gone until morning."
"Alright, but what about the rest of us?" Lukas leaned back, kicking his feet up onto a crate. "What's my grand role in this?"
"You?" Gael tapped his chin thoughtfully, drawing it out. "You just stand there and look pretty."
Lukas snorted. "I hate you."
"Fine, fine," Gael waved a hand, amused. "You're the muscle. If things go bad, you hit people until they stop moving."
"Ah, so business as usual then?" Lukas said, deadpan.
"Vess is our lookout," Gael continued. "She keeps watch from the upper hall while we work."
Vess tilted her head. "And you?"
Gael flashed a grin. "I make sure we don't die."
"So... escape route?"
"If we need one," Gael said lightly.
"We always do." Vess muttered.
Soren stretched, cracking his knuckles. "And what about Lander? Lucky bastard gets to sit this one out?"
"And what about me?" came a voice from the faded couch near the corner.
Lander lay sprawled across it, arms folded behind his head, looking every bit as comfortable as someone who hadn't been volunteered for this job. He barely spared them a glance, eyes half-lidded with feigned boredom.
"You," Gael said dryly, "get to keep your lazy ass here and make sure our hideout doesn't vanish while we're gone."
Lander let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I swear, this operation doesn't appreciate my brilliance."
"It really doesn't," Soren muttered.
"Oh, shove off," Lander waved a lazy hand. "I hope you all get caught."
"You are such a charmer, Lander," Vess deadpanned, standing from her seat.
Gael exhaled sharply, straightening. "Alright. We all know our parts. If everything goes right, we'll be in and out before anyone realizes. If things go wrong—"
Gael paused for a second before continuing "then we run like hell, deal?"
Nods around the table told Gael everything he needed to know, they were as ready as they were ever going to be.
Gael smirked "Lets do this."
___________________________________________
The last embers of sunlight stretched long across Jesarin's rooftops as Gael soared between them, the wind tugging at his coat. The rush of air thundered in his ears, a sound as exhilarating as it was familiar.
This—this was what it meant to be alive. No worries, no weight—just momentum. Just freedom.
He landed lightly on the edge of a slanted rooftop, slowing just enough to glance back. Lukas was lagging.
"Are we planning on getting there before the party ends, Lukas?" Gael called over his shoulder, his voice teasing but edged with impatience.
Lukas gritted his teeth and pushed forward, his movements powerful but lacking Gael's effortless rhythm.
From up here, Jesarin looked almost peaceful, its chaos dulled by distance. The last glow of the sun spilled across the rooftops, gilding them in molten gold, while the alleys below drowned in
creeping shadow. Vess and Soren moved through them like whispers, barely visible as they threaded their way forward. Even the enforcers patrolling nearby looked insignificant from this height.
The crunch of Lukas nearly slipping snapped Gael from his reverie.
"You doing alright, champ? You're not afraid of a little height now, are you?" Gael winked, but his smirk faltered when he saw the tight frustration carved into Lukas' face.
Lukas shrugged, barely a response, barely a glance. Gael was used to getting stonewalled when it came to emotional talks, but something about tonight felt different.
"You know, Lukas, you're not the only one with a reason to hate this guy," Gael said, adjusting his pace to match him. "If you remember, he was the one who threw me into that pit with you."
Lukas' jaw tightened, but Gael pushed on. "I need you on your A-game tonight. We're not amateurs anymore. We don't let grudges get in the way of a mission."
Silence. Not even a grunt of acknowledgment. Lukas wasn't in the mood to talk. Looked like tonight was going to be a quiet tryst across the rooftops.
Then, without looking at him, Lukas spoke.
"The first time you killed someone—what did it feel like?"
Gael nearly missed a step. Not the words. The way Lukas said them.
Flat. Measured. Like he'd already made up his mind.
The rooftop wind roared in his ears, but he barely felt it. His grip tightened around his coat, like he could shake the memory loose. The weight of a body falling—Alister's face, twisted in surprise. Then gone.
"This isn't an assassination, Lukas," Gael murmured, voice tight. "We're here to steal a rock."
Lukas' fists clenched, but he kept his gaze forward. "And what if killing him would make it safer for hundreds of kids? Not just me?"
Gael exhaled. "That's between you and the Martyr."
But he slowed to a stop, forcing Lukas to do the same. Both of them stood there, breathing hard, the city stretching beneath them.
Gael finally met Lukas' gaze. "It felt—necessary."
The words came out even, measured. He wasn't trying to convince Lukas of anything—just saying it how it was.
"It was me or him," Gael continued. "And I don't regret the choice I made. But it didn't make me feel any better once it was done. Just safer."
Lukas' fingers curled into a fist, knuckles white as he stared at the last sliver of sun sinking behind the city.
His gaze flicked over Lukas, scanning the rigid stillness in a body built for movement.
"Lukas," Gael said, quieter now. "I need to know. Are you here to steal the Sealing Stone, or are you here for something else?
Tell me right now."
"I'll do my job. Don't worry about me." Lukas said, then took the lead, leaping to the next rooftop.
Gael quickly caught up, falling back into rhythm—but the mood was ruined. The rush, the weightlessness, the freedom of the rooftops—all of it spoiled.
Instead, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Alister Kronus. Again. As they did most nights. The last look on his face as he fell to his death. The way Gael had watched, unable to stop it.
It consumed him, gnawed at the edges of his mind, until the bright lights and music below yanked him back to the present.
The boys crested the final rooftop, perching at the edge—and immediately, Gael knew their job had just gotten a whole lot harder.
Guests poured from the Farnum estate, their laughter spilling into the night. Bards strummed lively tunes just outside the villa, entertaining a crowd far larger than expected.
"Lander said it would be a few hundred people max. Gael's jaw tightened. Once I get my hands on him—"
He cut himself off.
Lukas wasn't looking at him. He was looking down at the estate, at the enforcers stationed at every entrance, at the magi-knights being escorted inside.
Gael knew that look. Excitement warring with anger.
The same look Lukas had right before a fight.
Vess peeked around the corner of the last shadowed alley before they reached the Farnum estate. She silently cursed as she took in the scene—lines of enforcers in their tin suits, and party guests mingling—Directly in their path.
She glanced up. Gael and Lukas were hunched at the ledge, barely visible in the dim light. Then—a flicker of storm essence. Gael's signal. Proceed anyway.
"I guess that's that," Soren muttered, triple-checking the lockpicks at his waist. He looked calm on the surface, but Vess knew him too well—his hands were moving more than usual.
She clenched her jaw. "Lukas is going to screw this up, Soren." Her voice was low, tight. "I told Gael the same thing earlier, and he just laughed it off—like he always does."
Vess impatiently tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, crouching lower. "I need to know you'll keep your head. If Lukas pulls something, we need to be ready."
"Vess, you've known Lukas as long as I have. He's stubborn, sure, but he's not an idiot," Soren murmured. He hesitated, then added, "That being said—he's been more on edge since that knight dropped by."
His eyes met hers, steady and sure. He nodded twice. That was all she needed. Soren had always had a good head on his shoulders.
They moved. Casual steps across the street, shoulders loose, eyes ahead—just another pair of stragglers slipping past the last of the party guests. Then, as soon as the moment allowed, they ducked behind a row of manicured hedges, crouching low and quickening their pace along the estate's outer wall.
As they rounded the corner, Soren came to an abrupt halt, letting out a low whistle. "Will you look at that."
Vess followed his gaze.
An elaborate hedge maze sprawled across the estate's backyard, its sculpted walls rising high, the paths within obscured by twisting greenery. It looked out of place against the dense cityscape surrounding it, a decadent relic of nobility—a labyrinth built for amusement, not necessity.
"Please tell me we don't have to go through that thing—to get to the servants' quarters," Soren muttered, eyeing the hedge maze like it might swallow him whole.
"Luckily not," Vess whispered. "I don't know how Gael's map missed a damn hedge labyrinth, but the service entrance should be..." She double-checked the map tucked in her pocket, then pointed.
"There."
A set of stone stairs descended beneath the manor, half-hidden in the dim glow of the estate lanterns.
They moved quickly but carefully, keeping to the estate's manicured shadows. The party's music and chatter faded behind them, swallowed by the quiet hum of cicadas and the distant clatter of porcelain.
Then—
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
A crash.
Vess flinched, nearly tumbling into the hedge as a servant girl burst from a nearby set of double doors, the silver tea set she carried spilling across the trimmed grass in a cacophony of metal and shattered ceramic.
Soren reacted fast, grabbing Vess and pulling her hard against the marble pillar at their side. His hand clamped over her mouth. Not too rough, but firm. A silent command: Don't move. Don't breathe.
The girl huffed in frustration, shaking tea off her apron.
"Hello? Mable, is that you? This isn't funny—if we're not back to the kitchen by din—"
The girl paused, brows furrowing.
She stepped forward, head tilting as if she had felt the air shift.
Vess' pulse hammered against her ribs. She forced herself still, back flush against the stone, every nerve coiled like a spring. The night air pressed against her skin, damp with the lingering warmth of the day, but a cold sweat slicked her palms.
The servant girl took another hesitant step.
Her eyes flicked toward the hedge. Then to the pillar.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
"I swear I'm losing my mind," she muttered, crouching to gather the scattered tea set with hurried hands.
Vess didn't let herself relax until she heard the double doors swing shut behind her.
Only then did she pry Soren's hand off her mouth, shooting him a glare. "Warn me next time, your damn hands always reek of oil."
Soren smirked, but it came out weak, barely a twitch at the corner of his lips. "You're welcome, Vanessa." His voice lacked its usual confidence, the words awkward on his tongue.
Vess rolled her eyes, already tracking movement above them. Gael and Lukas clambered onto the manor's ledge, shadows against stone, making their way toward the servant's entrance. They were on schedule.
She turned back just as they reached the grand staircase, its twin lions looming, their carved fangs bared in silent warning. More theatrics. As if Farnum needed the help.
But as she motioned for them to stop, Soren wouldn't meet her eyes.
His hands flexed at his sides, his breathing still a touch too fast.
"You good?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Uh—yeah," Soren cleared his throat, glancing anywhere but at her. "Just... more people than I'm used to, is all."
Vess frowned slightly but didn't press. Seemed like a weird thing to be nervous about, but Soren wasn't used to this kind of work yet.
She turned forward again, eyes on the next step of the plan.
Behind her, Soren exhaled, barely more than a breath.
Vess gave him a long look but shrugged, turning back to the task at hand. The stone staircase stretched downward into the dimly lit passage, its edges softened by ivy creeping between the cracks. A heavy wooden door awaited them at the base, banded with iron—normal enough at first glance, but Vess caught the faint shimmer of something else.
Soren, already crouching, traced a gloved finger along the keyhole. His lips pressed into a thin line. "No problem, just a nobleman's fancy—" he started, but as he moved to test his picks, his breath hitched. The metal flared with a dull crimson glow. "...Shit."
Vess tensed. "What?"
"It's rune-etched. Fire, by the looks of it."
She hissed a curse under her breath, scanning the area. The faintest shuffle of movement caught her eye above—the boys, descending the wall. Gael hit the ground with practiced ease, Lukas landing beside him a moment later, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the climb.
"Shouldn't this be open already?" Gael asked, brushing past her toward the door.
Vess frowned. "Nothing major—just a massive hedge suddenly appearing in our way. Oh, and a fire-runed lock."
Gael's smirk faltered as he knelt beside Soren, his fingers running over the metal, tilting it toward the nearby torchlight. The engraved runes caught the glow, faint ember-like veins pulsing in the bronze.
"Why would he put something this expensive on a servants' entrance?" Gael murmured, mostly to himself.
Lukas rolled his shoulders, glancing up toward the estate's towering frame. "We checked the windows first," he muttered. "All marked with warding runes. Looked like proximity triggers—one step too close and every enforcer in the estate gets an invite to our party."
Vess clicked her tongue. "He really doesn't want uninvited guests tonight."
She'd cracked one of these locks before—once—but it had been more luck than skill. What she excelled at in essence formation, she lacked in essence control. Threading a spark of her own affinity into a rune lock without overloading it, shorting it, or triggering a failsafe was a delicate dance. And Vess was not in the mood.
Gael motioned her forward, noticing the reluctance in her shoulders. "Think you can crack it?"
She sank to one knee, pressing her gloved fingers against the edge of the lock plate. The script was intricate, curling along the inner casing like veins of molten copper.
Soren exhaled beside her. "Sorry, Vess. I can get the tumblers as close as possible, but without your essence powering those runes, we're not getting in."
Vess rolled her shoulders, exhaling through her nose. She could do this. Probably.
She cradled the lock in her palm, fingers tracing the etched rune script. Too much essence, and the failsafe would trigger. Too little, and nothing would happen. She had to find the balance.
The last time she'd cracked a lock like this, she'd burned through a glove and nearly set off the alarm. But that was the old her. She was better now. She had to be.
She pressed a fingertip to the cold metal, inhaling slow and deep. The first trickle of essence seeped from her, threading into the runework—so faint it barely cast a glow.
One rune at a time. The deepest to the shallowest. No mistakes.
The first rune flared to life with a sharp sizzle, the heat biting at her fingertip even through the glove. Soren shifted beside her, careful, precise, adjusting the tumbler just enough.
Three more.
Her breath slowed. She let the next thread of essence trickle in—not too much, not too fast. The second rune lit up, then the third, the sequence unfolding like clockwork.
Almost there.
The last rune flickered—then caught. The heat in her palm spiked as the metal surged with life, a final pulse of essence locking into place.
Click.
The lock went slack in her hands, its weight shifting as Soren exhaled beside her, quickly hiding the tumbler in his elaborate tool belt.
Vess wiped her palm against her thigh, rolling her shoulders. The job was clean, but something in her gut still felt tight. She glanced over her shoulder—Lukas was already moving, his stance tense, his eyes tracking something unseen.
The lock clicked open with a final, satisfying hiss.
Vess exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping for half a second before she rolled them back, disguising the exhaustion behind that usual air of control. But Lukas saw it. Not my problem.
Gael had already slipped inside, moving like he owned the place, Soren at his heels. Lukas followed, scanning every inch of the dimly lit servant's corridor. It stank of old wood and kitchen grease, thick with the warmth of too many bodies moving in tight spaces. A far cry from the opulence upstairs.
Gael unfolded the map, tracing his finger over the faded ink. "Alright, we're in. Now we just—"
Lukas didn't listen. His eyes flicked to the candle sconces, the too-perfect placement of furniture, the quiet hum of conversation deeper inside. A place like this didn't just run on wealth—it ran on people willing to serve wealth. Bend for it. Crawl for it.
His stomach churned.
They moved deeper in, Gael leading them past scurrying kitchen hands and passing servants, who barely spared them a glance in the dim torchlight. That was the trick. Act like you belonged. Keep moving.
Then Soren stopped short, producing a clipped whistle to get their attention.
A half-open storage door. Inside—three neatly folded uniforms. Lukas didn't have to ask. He already knew.
Gael's grin widened. "Looks like we just found our way up."
Lukas clenched his jaw. Fantastic. Not only do we have to be around these sniveling bootlicks, now he had to become one?
Vess lifted the uniforms, flipping through them with a frown. "They're all idiot-sized. Looks like I'm the odd one out."
"Plan B then," Gael said, already shrugging off his coat and stuffing it into a nearby sack.
Without hesitation, Vess started stripping off the heavier outer layers of her disguise. Beneath, her frame was lean and coiled with muscle—not the soft, pliant shape of a noblewoman, but a body honed for movement, for slipping through cracks others couldn't. Her gloved fingers flexed as she kicked off her thick boots and pulled a lighter pair from a servant's crate, testing the soles.
"It should take me twenty minutes to reach the eighth floor," she said, tightening the straps on her gloves. "Don't keep me waiting, or it's your fault when they find me splattered across his fancy hedge maze."
And with that, she was gone—a flicker of shadow and purpose disappearing down the hall.
"You heard the lady. Get suited up." Gael kept his voice even, but his hands moved too fast, fumbling with the unsettlingly white servant's uniform. His gaze flicked toward the hallway, unfocused, like he was already thinking three steps ahead.
Lukas held his up with two fingers, scowling. "Why the hell would they make the people who clean and cook wear pure white?"
So they could rub their lessers' faces in their mistakes.
Gael glanced at him. "It's to enforce cleanliness. And to make sure everyone sees when they mess up."
Soren hummed, adjusting his sleeves. "How do you know that?"
Gael hesitated. His fingers slowed on the buttons. "I—" He swallowed the frown forming. "I just do, I guess."
He shook it off and peeked out the door, scanning the corridor. "Let's move."
Lukas brough up the flank as Gael produced his hand drawn map again, tracing the path with his finger as they weaved their way through the dim servant hallways. The uniform felt simultaneously stiff and soft, a confusing mix that left Lukas tugging at his sleeves and pressing down his jacket as he lagged behind the other two.
He could hear Gael droning on about something, followed by the soft response of Soren's voice, but it was all tinged in a low hum that made Lukas squeeze his fists until the hum would subside. By the time he came to, he almost slammed into Soren.
"Focus up Lukas, I know this is going to be tough for you, but I really need you to just smile and serve a few drunk nobles a drink as we figure out a way upstairs."
Of course Gael was calling him out, it was always Lukas who ruined his perfect plans.
"I got it Gael, you talk, I grunt and nod, I remember."
Lukas barely registered Gael's words—just the weight of his hand, the knowing grin, the damn wink.
"I know you do, champ. You always win under pressure, remember?"
Gael turned away before Lukas could find a response, unfolding the map one last time. He traced their route with steady fingers, then neatly folded it away into his coat.
Lukas focused on his breathing as they rounded the final corner. The noise hit him all at once—the clatter of silverware, the quick murmur of servants trading orders, the high-pitched scrape of glass against metal. It all blurred into a single, sharp-edged hum, drilling behind his eyes.
"Where have you three been?"
A sharp voice cut through the din, followed by a man in white rushing toward them, arms outstretched to balance twin platters of glittering champagne flutes. His face was red with exertion, his movements frantic.
"Drinks needed to be out there five minutes ago! Get your asses moving!"
The three of them all muttered out an excuse as they lowered their head, trying their best to seem unnoteworthy.
"Well boys—looks like we've got ourselves an in."
Lukas adjusted his grip on the tray, exhaling slowly. "Then let's get this over with."
________________________________________________
Ambrose lifted his glass, the deep red of his wine catching the chandelier light like freshly spilled blood. His smile—too wide, too knowing—spread across his face as he surveyed his guests, lingering a second too long on the wealthiest among them.
The powdered sheen on his pudgy face was already running with sweat, the thick curls of his elaborate blonde toupee shifting slightly as he wiped his brow. His magi-inspired robes, rich in fabric but gaudy in taste, hung awkwardly over his frame—an imitation of power rather than a possession of it.
"Ah, my esteemed friends, tonight we celebrate another glorious year in our great city of Jesarin." His voice was warm, practiced, the kind of charm that masked the rot underneath.
A light ripple of applause. Ambrose tilted his head, basking in it before continuing.
"Our streets have never been more vibrant, our entertainment unmatched." A slow grin, eyes glittering as he swirled his glass. "Why, the finest combatants in the empire clash beneath our very feet—fueled by grit, ambition, and sheer determination—and what a spectacle they put on, year after year."
Another smattering of polite cheers.
Ambrose chuckled, shaking his head as if reminiscing. "And the most promising fighters? Well, they come from the most unexpected places. Some of them barely old enough to hold a blade—but oh, how they learn!" He raised his glass slightly in mock admiration.
The crowd chuckled appreciatively. Lukas' jaw clenched.
Ambrose sighed, content. "So, my friends, let us drink—to talent discovered, to fortunes made, and to another year of Jesarin thriving on the backs of the bold!"
He lifted his glass. The crowd followed.
"To blood well spilled, and gold well earned."
Glasses clinked. Cheers rose.
Lukas' vision blurred at the edges, breath shallow. His grip tightened around the tray, knuckles turning white, the glasses trembling with the force of it.
Then—a brush of fabric, a whisper at his ear.
"Not yet."
Gael swept past him, effortless, graceful as ever, serving a nearby couple without a second thought. Lukas' hands ached as he tried—tried—to loosen his hold, but every attempt at control sent another surge of pressure clawing up his spine. He wanted to scream. He wanted to breathe.
"Don't I know you, kid?"
The words cut through the incessant hum of conversation, slicing straight to Lukas' gut. His head snapped toward the voice.
The man was an older, dark-skinned enforcer, late forties, his polished black-and-silver uniform gleaming under the chandelier light. A half-dozen medals hung from his chest—an ebony peacock, adorned and self-important. His palm landed heavy on Lukas' shoulder.
"You're shaking. You alright? Gonna spill the drinks."
The words barely registered before the man plucked a glass from Lukas' tray, taking a long, appreciative sip.
Lukas forced himself to really look. Recognition hit like a hammer.
Farley.
One of Ambrose's grunts. An enforcer from the pits.
Lukas forced a smile, the motion stiff. "Maybe. You enforcers have a way of looking the same from below."
Farley let out a low chuckle, swirling his glass before taking another sip. "That so? And where exactly would I have been standing over you, huh?"
Lukas' jaw clenched. He could smell the man's breath—sweet, acrid, thick with wine. No different from the pits, where he always reeked of the same cheap liquor. Half the time, Lukas wondered if he even remembered the kids he herded into their cages, or if it all blurred together in a drunken haze.
He tilted his head, feigning thought. "Could've been anywhere, really. Maybe when you were shoving me into a cage. Or handing me my daily ration of stale bread and thinking you were doing me a favor."
Farley's smirk faltered for half a second, eyes narrowing.
For a brief moment, Lukas thought he had him—that flicker of recognition, that moment where maybe he remembered. But it passed as quickly as it came, lost beneath the haze of wine and years.
Lukas exhaled sharply through his nose, stepping back. "But, thanks for the concern. Wouldn't want to spill a drop of your fine champagne."
His tone was light, but his grip on the tray remained ironclad as he pivoted away, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Lukas scanned the crowd, searching for Gael and Soren. He spotted Soren first, the boy moving through the party like a ghost—silent, unnoticed, offering drinks without ever making eye contact. He was far too good at this.
Lukas weaved toward him, letting a nearby magi-knight pluck a glass from his tray.
Soren's voice was barely a whisper. "Vess should be up by now." He didn't sound panicked—Soren never panicked—but there was an edge of tension in his tone.
Lukas clenched his jaw. "Gael?"
Before Soren could answer Gael walked past them, barely slowing as he jerked his head toward the grand staircase. Lukas followed without thinking, gripping the tray tighter as he slipped into the flow of bodies, navigating the crowded ascent.
The staircase was wide enough for four across, yet it still felt too damn tight. A swirling river of silk, jewels, and drunken laughter pressed in around them, forcing them to match the slow, languid pace of nobility.
They passed the second floor—an expansive landing where guests milled about in lounges and sitting rooms, wine in hand, deep in murmured conversation. Lukas' gaze flicked over them. A group of nobles sat on velvet cushions, watching a lone musician pluck at a delicate stringed instrument. The way they listened—half-bored, half-distracted—set his teeth on edge.
He forced himself forward.
The third and fourth floors shifted in tone. The glow of chandeliers faded into simpler lighting. The furniture was plain, the walls less adorned. Servants passed with quiet efficiency, carrying trays and armfuls of linens, moving with purpose but never haste.
By the time they hit the fifth floor landing, Lukas' jaw ached from clenching it so damn tight.
And then the smell hit him.
The sharp tang of emberweed smoke curled through the air, warm and familiar. Further down the hall, two servants slouched against a wide window, exhaling slow ribbons of orange-tinged smoke into the night. They looked comfortable. Relaxed.
On the far wall, a pair of maids giggled between breathless kisses, pressed close in the dim candlelight.
Soren's pace faltered. He averted his eyes, cheeks darkening as he busied himself adjusting his tray.
Gael, of course, noticed immediately, his grin cutting through the shadows.
"Soren, buddy, you're looking real uptight. Want one of my drinks?" Gael teased before setting down the tray and taking a glass for himself, downing it in one swig.
Soren muttered something under his breath, ignoring him and quickened his pace.
Lukas barely acknowledged any of it. These servants—they lounged. They stole kisses and smoked emberweed and laughed in warm halls with full bellies.
His lips pressed into a tight line. And what had he been doing at their age?
Bleeding in the sand. Fighting for scraps. Earning coin with his fists while nobles pissed away more than he ever made in a lifetime.
Lukas shifted his gaze away from the emberweed haze, his fingers curling around the edge of his tray. As he moved past a polished silver serving cart, his reflection caught him off guard.
For a second, he didn't recognize himself.
The dim glow of lanternlight softened the hard lines of his face, but not enough to hide the tension in his jaw, the shadowed hollows under his eyes. He looked older than he should. Sharper. Less like a boy sneaking through a noble's manor, more like a fighter waiting for his next round.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his grip to loosen. He could let this fester—let it chew at him until all he saw were soft hands and lazy smirks, until the heat in his gut boiled over.
Or he could let it go.
Not for them. Not for himself, either. For the job.
Lukas tore his gaze from the silvered glass, fixing his eyes forward. They were almost there.
By the time they reached the eighth and final floor, the party was little more than a distant murmur, muffled beneath layers of gold-trimmed stone and excess. The halls were silent, void of servants, as if even they weren't allowed near Ambrose's inner sanctum.
Gael slowed his pace, his grin fading as he motioned for the others to follow. The hallway reeked of wealth, the air thick with the cloying scent of expensive incense. Gaudy carpets clashed with gaudy paintings, each competing for attention like guests at a party neither wanted to leave.
A closet door stood ajar. Gael nudged it open further, slipping inside first, the other two close behind. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in darkness.
"The door to his private chambers is just ahead," Gael whispered, voice barely above a breath. "Soren, I need you to get us in—fast. Lukas, keep watch."
Lukas nodded once, shifting to the door. No hesitation, no protest. Just focus.
Soren exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he reached into his belt. His fingers sifted through his picks with practiced ease, pausing for a fraction of a second before selecting the ones he needed.
"Ready."
They moved.
a minute later Lukas stood just outside the closet, back pressed against the wall, eyes locked on the dimly lit hallway. Every muscle in his body thrummed with tension, his breath slow and controlled.
Behind him, he heard the faintest click of Soren working the lock. Steady. Careful. Too damn slow.
He flexed his fingers, gaze darting between the empty corridor and the door they were breaking into.
Then, footsteps. Light, quick, coming straight toward him.
Lukas stiffened. The moment the figure rounded the corner, he moved—shoulder squared, weight shifting forward—until he saw her.
A girl. A serving tray clutched tight to her chest, eyes wide with shock as she nearly collided into him.
She froze. Looks of shock and fear warring in her features.
Lukas caught her wrist before she could stumble back, pressing a single finger to his lips. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm enough to make her breath hitch.
"Turn around," he murmured, voice low, controlled. "Forget you saw anything. For the next fifteen minutes, you were never here."
Her mouth opened, maybe to protest, maybe to scream—he'd seen it happen both ways before.
Lukas' grip tightened ever so slightly. "Do you understand?"
A frantic nod. She yanked free and rushed off, half-tripping as she vanished down the corridor.
Lukas exhaled through his nose. His knuckles ached. That could be a problem.
Behind him, a faint click of a final tumbler falling into place.
"Got it," Soren whispered, pushing the door open.
Lukas turned sharply. "We're on a clock. A serving girl saw me—gave her a warning, but she could talk. We need to move."
Gael swore under his breath but nodded, already stepping inside.
Lukas scanned the chamber—plush, gaudy, filled with excess. The walls were draped in deep crimson velvet, gold-framed paintings of Ambrose himself lining the room at various ages, each one less flattering than the last. A chandelier, too large for the space, hung overhead, flickering candlelight catching on a collection of jeweled trinkets littering a massive mahogany desk. But none of it mattered. Not the wealth. Not the pomp.
His focus was on the window.
Unlatching it, he pushed it open. The night air rushed in, cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain. A figure shifted in the darkness outside, then Vess swung herself over the ledge, her boots scraping against the stone as she fought for balance.
"Easy," Lukas muttered, gripping her wrist just as Gael caught her other arm. Together, they pulled her inside, boots scuffing the polished floor as she landed in a crouch.
Vess exhaled, steadying herself. Her grin was sharp despite her heavy breaths. "What took you three so long?" she muttered, brushing stray hair from her face.
"We just really like serving drinks to posh nobles, of course," Gael said, shaking out his sleeves like a true nobleman before motioning them toward the large sealed chamber.
The artifact room door loomed ahead—thick, reinforced, etched with delicate runes barely visible in the dim light. Whatever was inside, Ambrose wasn't taking chances. But that wasn't Lukas' concern.
He turned, placing himself outside the chamber door, back straight, shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides.
Waiting.
Watching.
Because the next one to come down that hall wouldn't be a scared serving girl.
_______________________________________________________
The minutes dragged. Lukas exhaled through his nose, shifting his stance slightly, weight settling into the balls of his feet. He kept his eyes on the hall, ears on the others.
Gael's voice was a low murmur behind him, rapid but confident. "Alright, Soren, you crack the mundane locks. Then I've got the failsafe—Ambrose wouldn't leave something like this unguarded, and I'd rather not set off whatever magical trap he's got lined up."
The plan. Lukas ran through it again in his mind, keeping his body still. Gael had drawn it out back at the hideout, tracing the room's rough shape on the wooden table with the side of a knife.
Two locks. One physical, one Essence-bound. First, Soren would handle the mundane lock—quick work for him. Second, I will feed just enough air Essence into the runes to deactivate them without triggering a failsafe. Too much, and the whole thing goes off. Too little, and it wouldn't register.
Lukas inhaled.
Behind him, he could hear the faint scrape of Soren's picks against the metal. The occasional soft curse. A metallic click.
First lock down.
Gael hummed in satisfaction. "Good job, Soren. Looks like it's my turn."
A pause. Then the sound of a slow, measured inhale. The faint whisper of shifting air as Gael shaped his Essence, channeling it through the runes with the precision of a craftsman—adjusting pressure, coaxing the lock to recognize his affinity.
A soft hiss. The runes shimmered, then dimmed.
"Almost too easy," Gael murmured, a grin tugging at his lips.
Lukas' grip tightened at his sides.
The only thing worse than something going wrong inside that room was them not seeing the danger coming first.
So he waited. Listened. Kept his eyes forward. Every distant sound a warning, every shift of shadow a potential threat.
Behind him, Gael let out a low whistle. "Shame to leave all these pretty artifacts behind."
A sharp thud—Vess snapped the container shut and shot him a glare. "Focus."
Gael smirked, unbothered. "I am focused. Just making conversation." He reached inside, fingers brushing against the pitch-black stone. A frown tugged at his lips. "This thing feels wrong."
"Then don't touch it." Vess plucked it from his hands, wrapping it swiftly in cloth before dropping it into a leather pouch at her hip.
Soren, who had been keeping an ear to the hall, exhaled sharply. "Guys, it's been almost forty minutes. We need to move."
And move they did.
Gael led them swiftly, pausing only at each turn to check his map before pressing forward. The ringing in Lukas' ears returned—louder this time, a relentless hum gnawing at the edge of his focus. He flexed his fingers, curling and uncurling them at his sides, forcing himself to match the crew's pace.
"The hatch is just ahead," Gael murmured. "Sixth-floor rooftop, same way Lukas and I came in. We stick together—unless we don't have a choice."
Three nods.
"Good enough for me. Let's get the hell out of here."
As they rounded the next corner, muffled laughter bled through the walls—a low, drunken murmur spilling from the large room to their left.
The laughter grew louder. The scent of spiced meats, overripe fruit, and expensive liquor thickened the air as they neared the open doorway.
Lukas didn't want to look. Didn't need to. He could already picture it—Ambrose lounging, wine in hand, his gut pressed against a table too fine for the bastard who owned it.
Gael motioned for them to move faster, but Lukas' feet slowed. He knew this was the moment. Either he kept walking and left that smug, bloated excuse of a man to bask in his stolen wealth, or—
Laughter rang out again, and Lukas heard the words too clearly this time.
"...soft ones are easiest. You break 'em early, and they learn their place. Why, one of mine—" Ambrose paused, chuckling as he swirled his wine. "Let's just say, by the time I was done with him, he begged to fight. No more kicking, no more screaming. Just a good little mutt, ready to bleed when told."
Fire burned in Lukas' chest, rising fast, pressing against his ribs, scalding the back of his tongue. The words were a blade, twisting deeper with every syllable.
He should walk away. Keep moving.
But then Ambrose smiled.
That was it. The breaking point.
Lukas' body moved before his mind could catch up.
Ambrose barely had time to look up before Lukas' fist drove into his jaw with a crack, snapping his head sideways. The wine glass tumbled from his grip, spilling red across the white tablecloth as his chair tipped, then crashed to the ground.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed in Lukas' ears. His knuckles burned. Powdered makeup smeared red where his skin had split Ambrose's jaw open.
Silence. A breathless, frozen moment.
Then the chair legs scraped against marble as a man stood. Not just any man—the man Lukas least wanted to see.
Darian Cask. Head Enforcer of Jesarin.
Lukas had seen him before—watched him from the pits, watched him oversee the auctions, always clean, always untouchable. His eyes landed on Lukas now, unreadable, heavy as a judge's gavel.
Beside him, a Magi-Knight pushed back his own chair, hand already going for the sword at his hip.
"Get him!"
The words struck like a hammer.
Lukas barely had time to breathe before the world caved in.