A firebolt ripped past Lukas' ear, heat licking at his skin as he ducked—more instinct than thought. He twisted the momentum of his punch into a low crouch and launched himself toward the crew. The spell detonated against the wall ahead, flames engulfing the velvet drapery, the fine fabric crackling as it blackened and curled. Someone screamed.

  Gael moved first. He grabbed a stunned Soren by the collar and yanked him toward the window. Vess was already there, wrestling with the locks, shoving the window open as she scrambled onto the ledge. Soren lurched after her. Behind them—steel scraped free. And then—chaos.

  Then he moved. No armor. He didn't need it. Tall, broad-shouldered, framed by firelight—his steps were measured, deliberate. Lukas barely had time to register the movement before his gaze locked onto him, and in that instant, it was clear.

  They weren't being chased.

  They were being hunted.

  The dim glow of torches caught on his features—a sharp, angular face, high cheekbones, a strong jaw set in rigid focus. His auburn hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling across his forehead as he tilted his head, calculating. His eyes, cold and unwavering, locked onto Lukas with absolute certainty.

  It gave him the chills right before he leaped out the window, shattering half the pane as he shielded his face with his arms.

  Jesarin burned beneath them.

  Not with fire, but with life, sound, movement—the pulsing veins of the city stretched below, packed streets and dimly lit alleys swallowed by the deep blue hush of night. The upper district gleamed, lantern-lit terraces casting golden halos over drunken nobles, oblivious to the chaos unraveling just above their heads.

  Lukas hit the rooftop running.

  Gael led them in a dead sprint, twisting through Jesarin's tangled rooftops. Boots slammed against tile, stone, wood—no time for missteps. Below, the city sprawled in flickering torchlight, an indifferent maze to their desperation.

  And the knight was closing in.

  Lukas risked a glance back—and immediately wished he hadn't.

  The knight moved with an impossible grace. Too fast. Too precise. Every leap, every landing, fluid, practiced, inevitable. He wasn't just catching up.

  He was cutting off every escape.

  Then—he raised a hand.

  The air shuddered.

  Lukas felt it in his chest first—a pressure drop, sharp and sudden, like the world had inhaled. A heartbeat of silence—then a roaring gust slammed into his back, knocking him off-balance.

  Dual Affinity.

  That explained how he was moving like a damn ghost across the rooftops.

  Lukas barely had time to process before the knight twisted his fingers—coiling the wind into a spiraling vortex at his palm.

  Not just wind.

  Flames flickered within the swirling air.

  Vess cursed ahead of him, already seeing what was coming. "Scatter—"

  The firestorm lashed forward—a spinning whip of flame and gale-force winds that howled across the rooftop.

  Lukas threw himself sideways as the blast detonated against the tiles, the shockwave tearing through the air. Heat seared his skin, embers showering across his back.

  Then—Soren screamed.

  Lukas turned just in time to see him stumble, his body twisting midair as fire caught his shoulder.

  He hit the ground hard, rolling—but not fast enough.

  His white servant coat was burning.

  Lukas didn't think—he just moved.

  He dropped to his knees beside Soren, ripping off his coat and slamming it over the flames, smothering them before they could spread.

  Soren gasped, his breath ragged, skin blistering beneath the charred fabric.

  Lukas didn't hesitate. He grabbed Soren, hauled him up despite the sharp hiss of pain.

  "Stay with me."

  Another firebolt tore past them, searing the air at Lukas' back.

  Vess whirled, her Essence flaring. "Hilorn Firath!"

  She poured everything into the spell—white-hot flames ripped toward the knight, scorching through the air.

  He barely flinched.

  With a flick of his fingers, wind coiled around him, a swirling wall of flames rising to meet hers. The spells collided midair—then his fire swallowed hers whole, folding it into his Essence like a candle snuffed in the wind.

  Vess staggered back, her breath sharp. Shit.

  "We have to run—NOW!"

  Lukas gritted his teeth.

  Not now.

  But it gnawed at him, that deep-rooted instinct—the need to hit back.

  Ambrose was still breathing. Still smirking in that gaudy manor, probably getting patched up and laughing about how he'd gut another kid tomorrow.

  "Soren," Lukas gritted out, hauling him up. "Tell me you've got something."

  Soren groaned, clearly in agony, but his fingers fumbled at his belt, pulling free a pair of small, round metal spheres.

  Smoke bombs.

  Lukas yanked both spheres from Soren's belt before he could protest, tore the pins free, and hurled them at the knight.

  A sharp pop—then thick, choking black smoke erupted, swallowing the rooftop in a dense haze.

  The knight hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, with a sharp swing of his sword, a fervent gust of wind tore through the smog, scattering tendrils of acrid smoke.

  Lukas snarled, shifting his weight forward.

  They weren’t making it out of this clean. If Gael went up now, the knight would cut him out of the air—the bastard was already reading their movement, stance coiled, waiting for the first flicker of Essence.

  Lukas knew how to break that rhythm.

  A single clean strike—fast, hard—just enough to stagger him, to give Gael the opening he needed.

  His fingers twitched toward his dagger. One cut. One distraction.

  He moved—

  A hand snapped around his forearm, iron-tight.

  “Not now.”

  Gael’s voice was sharp, urgent. Not a command, not a plea—just cold, unshakable certainty.

  Lukas’ jaw clenched. “Gael—”

  Gael’s grip didn’t loosen. “Not. Now.”

  Their eyes locked—just for a breath—but Lukas saw it.

  The calculation. The inevitability. The fact that if he lunged, he’d die.

  Lukas exhaled sharply, muscles coiled with frustration, but he pulled back. He trusted Gael, even when he hated that he was right.

  Gael wasted no time.

  "Lukas—move!"

  Lukas barely had time to react before a powerful updraft surged beneath them, Gael twisting the air at their feet.

  The updraft launched them forward, sending them hurtling off the edge of the rooftop just as the knight came lunging through the smoke.

  For a moment—the world dropped away.

  They fell. Fast.

  The rooftops below rushed toward them, a mess of slanted tiles and shadowed alleys, nowhere soft to land.

  Gael reacted on instinct.

  He didn't think—he just did.

  A sharp flick of his wrist—a cantrip. A push.

  The air beneath them lurched, twisting, bending to his will. Not enough to stop their fall, but enough to slow it—just barely.

  They crashed hard.

  Lukas rolled, landing in a brutal sprawl. Soren hit worse, his gasp sharp, pained.

  Vess recovered first, scrambling up, grabbing Lukas by the coat. "We have to keep moving—"

  But Lukas wasn't moving. He was staring back.

  The knight wasn't chasing them anymore.

  Because he wasn't on the rooftop anymore. He was buried inside the side of a building.

  Lukas' breath caught.

  Gael had done more than just launch them.

  The moment they left the rooftop—he panicked, he overcorrected.

  The air he'd bent hadn't just carried them—it had snapped back behind them.

  Like a slingshot. Like a fist.

  And the knight had been in the way.

  For a heartbeat, silence.

  Then—a deep, resonant crack.

  Lukas didn't wait.

  "Go!"

  They ran.

  Behind them, something shifted—the scrape of debris, a faint tremor in the stone. The knight was already recovering.

  Lukas knew better than to look back. It wouldn't change anything.

  They couldn't fight him. Not now.

  Hell—even together, they wouldn't stand a chance. Not without his armor, and definitely not with it.

  The rooftops wouldn't hold them much longer. They were fast—but the knight was faster.

  Lukas' mind raced. They needed cover. A place to regroup, to breathe—just for a moment.

  Gael spoke first, breath ragged. "Where—?"

  No one wanted to say it.

  But Vess did. "Ores' estate."

  Lukas nearly stopped in his tracks. "Are you insane?"

  "She's closer than anyone else, and you know it." Vess didn't even look at him. She just kept moving. "We don't have time to debate—unless you want to see what happens when he catches us."

  Lukas swore under his breath, but she was right. Damn it, she was right.

  The streets below were too open, the safehouses too far. Ores was the only option.

  He exchanged a glance with Gael—who, to his frustration, was already veering toward the eastern district.

  Fine.

  Ores it is.

  The streets weren’t supposed to be this quiet.

  Vess felt it like a weight in her gut, a tension coiled too tight to ignore. Jesarin was never silent, not truly. Even at its darkest, the city hummed—murmurs from the taverns, the distant clang of the forges, the shuffle of watchful eyes in the alleys.

  But now? Now, the silence felt wrong.

  They had been running for what felt like miles, darting through back alleys, slipping between shadowed storefronts, weaving their way toward the one place she had dreamt about for years. And now, standing before Ores' estate, she could already feel it pressing against her skin.

  A wound stitched shut in the heart of Jesarin. A place meant to be forgotten.

  The wrought-iron gate groaned as Gael shoved it open. The manor sat behind layers of powerful enchantments, veiled beneath the illusion of decay—crumbling stone, ivy-choked walls, and rotted wood that seemed barely able to stand.

  But Gael knew better.

  They all did.

  Vess reached the door first, slamming a fist against the rune-etched metal. “Open up!” Her voice hit the silence like a blade. “Where is she?”

  No answer.

  Gael was beside her in an instant, his breath sharp from the sprint. He pounded the door next, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Ores! We need you—now!”

  The runes stirred. A flicker of awareness. A hum, low and ancient, as if the door itself were considering them. Then—nothing.

  A shuffling of footsteps inside.

  A smaller entrance cut into the grand door cracked open, revealing a young servant. His eyes flicked between them, already wary. “You can’t just—”

  Vess shoved past him. “Where is she?”

  The servant staggered back, barely catching himself. Behind her, Lukas stormed through, supporting Soren’s half-limp form. The acrid scent of burnt flesh curled into the air, thick enough to choke on.

  “We don’t have time for this.” Lukas’ patience snapped. His voice cut through the entryway, sharp as the blade strapped to his hip. “Get Ores or get out of the way.”

  The demand carried through the halls, loud enough to stir something deeper inside. Footsteps followed—not rushed, not hesitant. A slow, deliberate rhythm, weighted with authority.

  A figure stepped into view.

  Lurras.

  Even without his runeplate, he filled the space—broad-shouldered, commanding, an unmoving force against the storm that had just blown through his door. His pale blue gaze cut through the room, assessing, deciding. It landed on Soren, and something in his expression shifted.

  A sharp exhale. “Bring him. Now.”

  No more arguments.

  Gael and Lukas hauled Soren between them, their steps uneven, their breath sharp with exhaustion. Lurras led the way, unhurried yet unstoppable, his pace forcing them forward whether they could keep up or not.

  The manor swallowed them whole.

  They passed dustless shelves, floors polished to a mirror’s sheen, gilded tapestries untouched by time. The deeper they went, the less the illusion of decay held. The air itself seemed heavier here, steeped in something old and unshaken.

  By the time they reached the upper levels, the world outside no longer existed.

  She was waiting.

  Ores stood by the window, moonlight threading silver through her hair. She looked as she always did—pristine, unbothered, a woman who had never once let the chaos of the world touch her. But when she turned and saw Soren, something flickered in her gaze.

  Not sympathy. Recognition.

  "You’re making a habit of bringing me half-dead guests," she mused, arching a brow at Gael.

  He didn’t rise to it. “He needs a healer.”

  "I can see that."

  She stepped forward, rolling her sleeves with an elegance that made the movement seem intentional. Her fingers ghosted over the burned fabric, her presence alone enough to still the air. Even Lukas hesitated, watching, as her magic began to stir.

  Water essence gathered at her fingertips—cool, luminous, precise. Not a flood, not a wave, but a deliberate thread of control.

  Ores was no healer.

  But she knew enough to keep him from slipping further.

  "Stay still," she murmured.

  The glow spread beneath her fingers, sinking into Soren’s blistered skin. His breath hitched—not from pain, but from the unnatural stillness that followed. It dulled the worst of it, numbed the raw edges, but it was not a balm.

  It was a temporary reprieve.

  Ores pulled back, dissatisfied. Her frown was small but sharp, the kind that carried the weight of unspoken conclusions. "It won’t hold for long." A glance toward the doorway. "Fetch Tavan. Now."

  The same wisp of a serving girl from earlier vanished down the hall before the words fully settled.

  Silence stretched in the wake of her magic.

  Only then did Ores turn her gaze on the rest of them. A slow assessment, taking in the smoke-streaked faces, the bruises, the lingering scent of burnt flesh and sweat.

  Finally, with the faintest trace of amusement, she murmured—

  "I do hope you succeeded."

  Vess rolled the tension from her shoulders before reaching into her coat, fingers closing around the small leather pouch.

  The weight of it sat heavy in her palm.

  Not just physically. But in what it meant.

  She barely spared it a second glance before tossing it across the room.

  Ores caught it without effort. Without surprise.

  For a moment, she simply turned it over in her hands, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she untied the drawstrings and tipped the contents into her palm.

  A curved slab of darkened rock, its surface etched in faint, ancient runes.

  A gem—black as pitch, swallowing the room’s dim light rather than reflecting it.

  A fragment meant to fit into something greater.

  Ores’ fingers brushed along the runes, thumb tracing the smooth surface. Something flickered behind her gaze. Recognition. Calculation.

  Then, just as quickly, she slipped it back into the pouch and tucked it into her robes.

  If she had thoughts on its return, she didn’t voice them.

  Instead, she looked to Vess.

  "Help him."

  Vess’ fingers curled into fists.

  Orders. From her.

  The woman who sat in this cursed manor, untouched by the ruin she had helped build.

  "I don't take orders from you." The words left her flat, final.

  Ores arched a brow. Not irritated. Not pressed. Just... waiting.

  "Then don’t." She turned away, indifferent. "Let him burn."

  Soren let out a weak, pained noise.

  And Vess hated—hated—how quickly that single sound cracked something in her resolve.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Her exhale was sharp, furious at herself more than anything.

  But she dropped to her knees beside him anyway.

  Fire wanted to spread. It wasn’t meant to be pulled back, to be tamed. But she wasn’t about to let Ores sit there, watching, waiting—as if she already knew how this would play out.

  Vess pressed her palm above the wound, her teeth clenched.

  Essence stirred—too eager, too volatile.

  She grit her teeth and forced it down. Forced it to siphon the heat away instead of taking more. The warmth rushed into her palm, searing against her own skin.

  Soren exhaled.

  The tension in his body lessened.

  A pause. A moment.

  Then, Ores' voice, soft. Steady.

  "Good."

  Vess snatched her hand away like she'd been burned—not by the heat, but by that single, quiet word.

  Good.

  She flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders, shifting her stance—anything to shake the feeling off. But the ghost of it lingered. Something unwanted curling under her skin.

  She refused to look at Ores.

  "Wasn't for you," she muttered.

  Ores said nothing.

  Vess' pulse ticked in her throat. The woman didn't need to answer—her silence dripped with knowing, with ownership.

  "Why don’t you do it yourself?" Vess bit out, shaking off the lingering heat in her palms.

  Ores arched a single, perfectly sculpted brow. "Because you need to learn."

  A flicker of irritation flared hot in Vess’ chest.

  Learn?

  She wasn’t some damn academy acolyte.

  She didn’t owe Ores a thing.

  Gael, leaning near the window, watched the exchange with quiet amusement—but even that had an edge. He saw Ores’ game. He wasn’t entirely outside of it either.

  "Now that you’ve had your fun," he remarked, watching her, "I assume we can talk?"

  Ores didn’t answer right away. She let the silence stretch, calculated, assessing. Then, just as effortlessly, she turned and crossed the room.

  Not hurried. Not rushed.

  She expected them to follow.

  "Walk with me," she said.

  Not a request.

  A command.

  Vess let out a slow breath, shooting Lukas a glance.

  He merely shrugged, as if to say, What choice do we have?

  Soren groaned in protest, but Lurras moved first, lifting him with an ease that made Vess’ stomach tighten.

  Like he weighed nothing.

  Lurras carried him without effort, without thought. An unsettling reminder of just how strong he was.

  Vess, Lukas, and Gael exchanged a glance.

  Then, finally, they followed.

  No telling what Ores wanted.

  But whatever it was, they were already in deep.

  Ores led them through the estate with measured, deliberate steps, her robes trailing behind her in effortless grace. The halls of her manor were eerily silent—the kind of silence that clung to the skin like unseen hands. Not empty, but expectant. The remnants of grandeur still clung to this place, like the last breath of a dying ember.

  Vess had been here before.

  But even now, the estate unsettled her.

  They passed through corridors lined with tapestries so faded they barely held their images, their gold-threaded edges fraying like brittle leaves. Archways loomed above, too grand for a home that had long since stopped being lived in. Dust settled thick in the corners, but the air itself held an unnatural clarity—as if time had moved through this place, but never truly touched it.

  Ores had kept it all standing. Even as Jesarin forgot her.

  Even as her power waned.

  But now, for the first time, Vess felt something else pressing against her senses.

  Something stirring.

  She set her jaw and shoved the thought aside as they reached a set of massive doors, reinforced with dark iron and covered in intricate runic carvings. These weren’t just protective sigils—they were old, the kind of magic that predated the estate itself.

  Ores raised a single hand.

  The runes pulsed in recognition. Then, with a deep, reverberating thunk, the locks unlatched.

  The doors swung open on their own, revealing a chamber bathed in cool blue light.

  It wasn’t just a vault.

  It was a sanctum.

  Stone pedestals lined the chamber, each bearing a relic of another time. Scrolls sealed in glass. Ancient blades half-wrapped in ceremonial cloth. Jewels that hummed with Essence, their glow frozen in time. A graveyard of forgotten power, hoarded and hidden away beneath the weight of the world above.

  Gael let out a low whistle. “And here I thought we were just here for a chat.”

  Lukas stepped past him, eyes scanning the chamber with keen interest. Unlike the illusion of decay masking the rest of the manor, this place felt untouched by time. Every artifact here had a story, a legacy—its weight pressing against the air like an unseen current. He could almost hear them whispering.

  Vess lingered near the threshold, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You hoard all this, but for what? None of it sees the light of day.”

  Ores didn’t even glance at her. She moved toward the center of the chamber, trailing her fingertips along the edge of a pedestal as she walked.

  "Power is a delicate thing, Vanessa. It does not always need to be wielded. Sometimes, its greatest strength is in being withheld.”

  Gael’s brow furrowed. “So you’re saying you keep all this locked away so no one else can use it?”

  Ores finally stopped before an unassuming pedestal at the heart of the room. Unlike the others, this one held no ornamentation—no gold, no elaborate engravings. Only a floating half-circle of rune-etched stones.

  Gael’s breath hitched.

  The Sealing Stones.

  Five in total, now that Ores slotted the newest one into place. The moment it clicked into alignment, the others reacted—soft runelight pulsing across their surfaces, a circuit nearly completed. But one piece was still missing, a jagged gap at the top where the final stone should rest.

  "It’s not about who can use it," Ores said, her fingers ghosting over the stones with the familiarity of someone touching an old wound. "It’s about who will."

  She turned then, facing them fully for the first time since they entered. Her gaze flickered over each of them in turn—Gael, Lukas, Vess, and then Soren, still weak but watching with bleary awareness.

  Silence stretched between them. A hush, thick and waiting.

  Ores stepped forward, the weight of her presence commanding the space even in stillness.

  Then, softly, she murmured:

  "Tell me—do you know what it means to steal something meant to never be found?"

  Her voice was soft.

  Vess tensed. Lukas took an uneasy step forward.

  Gael, ever composed, tilted his head. "I think we're about to find out."

  Ores' lips quirked, but there was no real amusement in it. Only something weary. Knowing.

  She exhaled, finally turning to face them fully.

  "You want answers." A pause. Then, she gestured to the incomplete stone.

  "Then listen carefully."

  Because some things, once learned, could never be undone.

  Ores let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle over them like the dust in this forgotten vault.

  Then, finally—she spoke.

  "You're thieves. You take because you want, because you need. Because the world will not give you what you are owed, so you reach out and claim it."

  Her fingers ghosted over the Sealing Stone of Uldir, the dark crystal at its center swallowing the dim light of the chamber. Runes carved into the obsidian surface pulsed faintly, whispering with dormant power.

  "But what if what you stole—was never meant to be found?"

  Her gaze flicked up, pinning them in place.

  Gael remained unreadable, hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed—but watching. Vess folded her arms, her stance rigid, lips pressed into a thin line. Lukas—Lukas looked ready to break something, his frustration barely leashed.

  Ores continued.

  "Your little heists—the vaults you cracked, the artifacts you stole. You thought they were separate jobs. Unrelated. But they weren't."

  She stepped back from the altar, letting them take in the fractured stone.

  "They were stepping stones. Pieces of something larger. And the final piece..." She lifted her hand, tapping a single rune on the surface. It shimmered, Essence humming beneath her touch.

  "...will be up for auction in two months' time."

  Vess stiffened. "An auction?"

  Ores inclined her head. "A private one. One that will gather the kind of people who deal in power—not gold. It’s being sold under a different name, but I assure you, it is the last fragment of this seal. And when it is placed—"

  She let the words hang.

  Lukas narrowed his eyes. "Then what? What does this thing actually do?"

  Ores exhaled softly, fingers tracing the runes as if measuring their weight.

  "The Sealing Stone of Uldir is unlike any other artifact. Most oaths—" her gaze flicked to Gael, just for a moment, before returning to the stone, "—are woven with intricate Affinity spellwork, layered and reinforced through generations of binding magic. The more complex the Oath, the stronger its hold. And most importantly—the harder it is to break."

  She pressed her palm against the stone, and for the first time—it answered her.

  The symbols shifted beneath her touch, Essence threading through them, shifting, unraveling, breaking down in ways even she couldn't fully control.

  "But this stone?" she murmured. "This stone does not break oaths. It reduces them. It strips away every layer of Affinity, every carefully woven thread—until all that remains is the Oath in its most basic form."

  Her fingers curled slightly.

  "And then—the crystal absorbs it. Nullifying it. Breaking it completely."

  Silence.

  Gael’s expression remained impassive, but his fingers flexed at his side. Lukas' jaw clenched, tension coiling through his frame. Vess... Vess stared at the stone like she wanted to rip it from Ores' hands.

  Ores lifted her palm, and the runes settled once more.

  "That is why I need the final piece. Once complete, the Sealing Stone will do what no magi can—it will unbind the unbreakable."

  A slow, measured pause. Then, a faint curve of her lips.

  "And in this case... release me from the one thing still keeping me here."

  She let that sit between them, let them feel the weight of it.

  "You have time to prepare. But when the auction comes, you will have to win it."

  Gael let out a slow breath. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly.

  "Sealed here?" he echoed. "You mean to this place? The entire manor?"

  Ores tilted her head, studying him.

  "The chains are not physical. I can move freely, but the estate is my prison, as surely as if I were shackled."

  Gael hesitated. "And if we don't win the final piece?"

  Ores smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

  "The Sealing Stone of Uldir was shattered for a reason. Some things were never meant to be unbound."

  Vess' voice cut through the quiet. "Like you?"

  Ores inclined her head, utterly unfazed. "Precisely."

  Silence settled over the chamber. Not empty—but expectant.

  The low hum of Essence pulsed from the Sealing Stone, filling the space with something unseen yet felt. Lukas stood rigid, fingers twitching like he wanted to break something. Vess' jaw tightened, her gaze flicking between Ores and the artifact, searching for something—an answer, a lie, an excuse to walk away.

  Gael exhaled through his nose, unreadable. Then—

  "And what if someone else wins it?"

  His tone was light, almost idle, but something sharp lingered beneath it.

  Ores met his gaze. "Then they will have power beyond what they understand."

  "The stone alone isn't enough," she continued, fingers brushing the ancient runes. "Without the other five, it's little more than a whisper of what it once was."

  Lukas let out a slow, humorless chuckle. "So let me get this straight. Some nameless bastard wins the last piece, figures out what it does, and suddenly they’ve got a tool that can break almost any Oath? Undo any binding?" His lips curled, but there was no amusement in it. "And you’re telling us that’s just a coincidence?"

  Ores' expression didn't shift.

  "Nothing in this world happens by coincidence."

  Vess scoffed, shaking her head. "And why should we help you, Ores? We’re thieves, sure, but we’re not your errand boys. What’s stopping us from walking away?"

  Ores turned to her slowly, studying her in that way she always did—like she already knew the answer.

  "You won’t walk away," she murmured. "Because the moment you took that gem from me, you placed yourself in a game far older and far deadlier than you realize."

  Gael, for all his ease, was watching her carefully now.

  "And what game is that?"

  Ores' fingers brushed over the stone once more before she finally turned away, her robes whispering against the floor as she strode past them.

  "The only one that matters."

  With a flick of her wrist, the chamber doors groaned open, the cool blue glow of the vault giving way to the warmer, candlelit corridors of the manor.

  "Stay. Leave. Decide among yourselves." She didn’t stop walking. "But if you plan on surviving the next two months, I suggest you start preparing now."

  Lukas was the first to move, shaking his head as he turned away with a muttered curse. Vess lingered a moment longer, eyes flickering toward the Sealing Stone before she followed.

  Gael didn’t move immediately.

  He stayed, watching Ores’ retreating form, watching the way the flickering candlelight caught the silver streaks in her hair.

  She’s afraid.

  She would never show it. Would never admit it.

  But she was.

  And if she was afraid, then they all should be.

  With one last glance at the fractured stone, Gael turned on his heel and followed the others out into the halls of the manor.

  The night was far from over.

  An hour later, Gael sat slumped in an overstuffed chair, book in hand, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The words blurred together, a dull haze of ink and parchment, but he couldn't bring himself to close it. Not yet.

  Soren lay still on the grand four-poster bed, his face pale and slick with sweat, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was still holding on. His burns had been stabilized, but healing was another matter entirely.

  Across the room, Lukas had long since succumbed to sleep, sprawled across the most expensive couch Gael had ever laid eyes on—emerald silk cushions embroidered with golden thread, reflecting the candlelight in soft, wavering ripples. He snored lightly, one arm thrown over his face, his boots still caked in the filth of the streets.

  Vess was nowhere to be seen, but Gael knew better than to worry. She’d be pacing, working herself into a storm, finding anything—anything—to keep her mind from settling on Soren or Ores.

  Gael exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge between his eyes.

  They’d pulled it off. The biggest job of their lives. Enough coin to buy themselves a villa if they wanted. But instead of celebration, there was only this—Soren half-dead, Vess unraveling in silence, and a final job looming over them like a stormcloud.

  How the hell were they supposed to finish it without Soren?

  Vess knew enough about locks and rune etching to get by, but she was nowhere near as skilled as Soren or Lander. And Lander... Gael frowned, tapping his knuckles absently against the book’s worn spine. Lander was an option, but he was terrible in the field—too slow, too nervous. He cracked under pressure.

  Gael leaned his head back, letting his gaze drift to the darkened ceiling. His limbs felt heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, and sleep was beginning to take hold. Just a few minutes—just long enough to—

  The bedroom door banged shut.

  Gael jolted upright, hand twitching toward the dagger at his belt before his brain caught up.

  A servant girl stood at the entrance, carrying a silver tray with two steaming porcelain cups. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen, her frame small, wrapped in a crisp uniform too big for her shoulders. Twin ebony ponytails draped over her front, her pale face flushed from the heat of the tea.

  She dipped her head slightly, avoiding direct eye contact.

  "I brought you two some tea."

  Her voice was quiet, but steady.

  Gael glanced at Lukas, still dead to the world, then back at the girl.

  For some reason, the hairs on the back of Gael’s neck stood on end.

  The girl’s posture was perfect—too perfect. Her bow was elegant, precise in a way that spoke of training rather than habit. Every movement was measured, deliberate. It was the same intensity Vess carried in her stance before a fight, the same quiet control he had seen in seasoned duelists.

  But why would a servant need that?

  Gael reached for one of the porcelain cups, inhaling the faint floral aroma before taking a small, appreciative sip. The warmth spread through him, soothing, though it did little to shake the strange feeling prickling at his senses.

  “Thank you—”

  The girl smiled, a soft, well-practiced expression. “Yueqin. Or Yue, if it pleases you, my lord.”

  Gael let out a surprised laugh, catching Yueqin off guard. “Trust me, I am no lord. Call me Gael.”

  For the briefest moment, something flickered in her expression—not quite amusement, not quite surprise. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She nodded once, moving with the same graceful efficiency as before, placing the second cup on the low table beside Lukas.

  Gael studied her movements, the way she barely made a sound as she walked, how her hands never trembled even as she handled delicate porcelain. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen—small in stature, her frame slender beneath the simple servant’s attire. Her dark hair was pulled into two long ponytails that draped over her shoulders, framing a face that was pale yet touched with the soft glow of warmth in her cheeks.

  “Yue…” Gael murmured, his brow furrowing slightly. The name tugged at something in his memory. “Doesn’t that mean ‘moon’? Or—sky?”

  Yueqin blinked, startled, before a genuine smile broke through the carefully constructed poise. “Yes. It means ‘moon’ in my tongue.”

  The warmth in her expression felt real. But then again, so did everything else about her.

  And that was the part that bothered him most.

  Yueqin’s lips curved slightly, the expression practiced yet not insincere. “I did not expect a Sacyrian to know that.”

  Gael shrugged, shifting slightly in his chair. “I didn’t either.” The words had come to him instinctively, slipping past his lips before he had even thought to question them. His past was a tangle of missing threads, and sometimes things like this unraveled without warning—memories he didn’t know he had, knowledge that surfaced without explanation.

  He took another sip of the tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. It was delicate, floral, with a faint undercurrent of something unfamiliar. Not a blend he recognized. “This is good,” he murmured, eyeing the cup.

  Yueqin inclined her head, her posture still impeccably straight. “It is from Luen. A calming mixture of lotus and silver jasmine, meant to soothe the nerves.”

  “Did Ores send you?” Gael asked, studying her.

  A flicker of something passed through her expression, so fleeting he almost missed it. “It is my duty to ensure her guests are cared for.”

  A careful answer.

  Gael watched her for a moment longer before leaning back against the plush chair. His body ached from the night’s events, the adrenaline finally fading into exhaustion. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something beneath this exchange—something just out of reach.

  Lukas stirred, grumbling as he turned over on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes. The tea beside him remained untouched.

  Yueqin followed Gael’s gaze, then glanced back at him. “You are all so very close.”

  Gael exhaled, rolling the cup between his palms. “Something like that.”

  She nodded, seeming to accept the answer for what it was. Then, after a brief pause, she asked, “Do you plan to stay long?”

  Gael’s fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain.

  “Depends,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Ores isn’t exactly the most predictable host.”

  A small chuckle. “No, she is not.”

  Something about the way she said it felt genuine, and for a moment, Gael let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, Yueqin was exactly what she seemed—a quiet, well-mannered servant trained to be invisible, existing only in the periphery of powerful people.

  But then she met his eyes again, and he saw it—the same sharpness that lived in Vess, the same awareness he had seen in Lukas when they walked into a room and measured every possible threat.

  A girl like this shouldn’t have eyes like that.

  Gael set his cup down, suddenly very awake.

  Yueqin, for her part, didn’t falter. She simply tilted her head slightly, the soft candlelight catching the edges of her dark eyes. The warmth of her earlier smile was still there, but now, it felt… measured.

  "Something wrong, Gael?" she asked lightly, reaching for the teapot to refill his cup.

  He almost smiled at the familiarity of it—how many times had he played this exact game? Measuring a mark without letting them know they were being measured. Playing at casual conversation while mapping out the exits in his head.

  "Not at all," he said, leaning back slightly. "Just didn't expect to meet someone with such a sharp gaze working as a servant."

  Yueqin paused for half a second before pouring his tea.

  "I like to pay attention," she said simply, setting the pot down again. "Lady Ores prefers staff who listen more than they speak."

  That, Gael could believe.

  "You from Luen?"

  Her fingers curled ever so slightly around the porcelain handle of the pot. A subtle tell.

  "I am," she admitted after a pause. "Born in Ketsu, near the southern provinces."

  Gael nodded, tapping a finger absently against his cup. "Ketsu, huh? Heard they’ve got the best silk weavers in the world."

  A smile flickered across her lips. "And the worst liquor."

  Gael huffed a quiet laugh, though he kept his eyes on her. She was good—better than most at keeping her face carefully blank, her words precise. But there was something just beneath the surface, something trained but not fully mastered.

  The same thing he saw in himself, in Vess, in Lukas.

  A survivor.

  "You ever been?" she asked, meeting his gaze again.

  Gael shook his head. "Can't say I have. Never left Sacyr until this year."

  That wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Yueqin made a small sound of acknowledgment before folding her hands neatly in front of her, ever the image of composure.

  "You should visit sometime," she murmured. "Luen is nothing like Jesarin."

  "I bet," Gael said, watching her carefully.

  She smiled again, but this time, it felt like something had closed between them. As if she had measured him just as much as he had her and decided to say nothing more.

  Gael let the silence stretch, then exhaled and pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders.

  "Think I need some air," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  Yueqin stepped back, bowing slightly. "Shall I fetch you anything?"

  Gael shook his head. "Just keep an eye on Soren from time to time. If he wakes up, make sure he doesn't try to move yet."

  She nodded once, and with that, he slipped past her, making his way down the quiet hall.

  ____________________________________________________

  The estate was too quiet.

  Gael had never liked silence much—not real silence, at least. The kind that felt heavy, pressing, like something waiting just out of sight. Jesarin was never quiet. Even in the dead of night, you could hear the ocean rolling against the docks, the distant echo of laughter from the Rosewood District, the sharp whistle of an enforcer patrol making its rounds.

  But here?

  Here, the silence stretched too far.

  Gael found his way to a balcony, pushing open the heavy wooden doors and stepping into the cool night air.

  The estate loomed behind him, a monument of forgotten grandeur, while Jesarin stretched out before him—lanterns flickering in the distant merchant districts, the glow of the Iron Ward casting long shadows over the streets below. Even now, in the dead of night, the city still pulsed with life.

  Gael rested his forearms on the stone railing, exhaling slowly. It should have felt freeing, being up here, above it all. But the silence pressed too hard against his skin.

  Jesarin was never quiet.

  "Couldn't sleep?"

  Gael turned, instinctively relaxing his stance as Yueqin stepped onto the balcony, her steps light as falling snow. In her hands, she carried a small wooden tray with a single ceramic cup resting atop it.

  "I thought you might want more tea," she said, holding it out to him with both hands, her posture as poised as ever. "Something to keep you warm."

  Gael arched a brow, but took the cup anyway. The porcelain was smooth against his fingers, and the faint scent of herbs curled in the cool night air.

  "You always this thoughtful?" he asked, taking a slow sip.

  Yueqin tilted her head slightly. "Only when it suits me."

  Gael huffed a quiet laugh, watching as she stepped beside him, hands folded neatly in front of her.

  For a moment, they simply stood there, overlooking the city together.

  "You’ve seen a lot of places, haven’t you?" Gael murmured, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

  Yueqin hesitated, but then nodded. "Some."

  "Luenese servants don’t usually end up in Jesarin."

  "No," she agreed. "But Lady Ores values loyalty over blood."

  Something about the way she said it made Gael study her more closely. He had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t talking about just the servants.

  Before he could ask anything else, Yueqin stepped back, bowing slightly.

  "I should return to my duties," she said smoothly. "Lady Ores will be expecting me."

  Gael nodded once, watching as she disappeared back inside.

  His fingers curled around the cup, feeling the warmth seep into his palms.

  Jesarin was never quiet.

  But something about tonight felt different.

  He didn't have long to think about it before another presence joined him.

  "You like her."

  Gael didn’t jump—he’d heard Ores' footsteps long before she spoke.

  Still, he smirked, turning slightly as she approached. "That’s an assumption."

  Ores hummed, stepping beside him at the railing. "She’s sharp. It’s good to be wary."

  Gael took another sip of tea. "I assume you didn’t come out here to give me dating advice."

  Ores' lips quirked in amusement, but her gaze was knowing. "No. I came to give you something else."

  She pulled a small velvet pouch from the folds of her robes, setting it on the stone railing between them.

  Gael frowned.

  "Is this what I think it is?"

  Ores said nothing.

  Slowly, he set down the tea and reached for the pouch, loosening the drawstrings.

  The Catalyst slipped into his palm, its emerald glow flickering in the dim candlelight spilling from the balcony doors. It was smooth, unnaturally cool to the touch, and as soon as his fingers curled around it, he felt it—a pulse, like a second heartbeat in his palm.

  For a moment, Gael just stared at it.

  "You’re giving me the very thing that got us into this mess in the first place," he muttered.

  Ores studied him carefully. "You’ll need it."

  Gael exhaled sharply, rolling the gemstone between his fingers. "What’s the catch?"

  "Only that you live long enough to use it properly."

  Gael huffed a humorless laugh, closing his fist around the Catalyst. "Not exactly reassuring."

  Ores merely smiled, gazing out over Jesarin as if she could see something he couldn’t.

  "Consider it an advance," she murmured. "For the final job."

  Gael let the words settle between them, weighing the stone in his palm.

  "Final job," he echoed.

  Neither of them believed it.

  Ores exhaled softly, turning her gaze over the city. “You’ve always had talent,” she murmured. “More than you realize. But talent alone isn’t enough.”

  Gael frowned, glancing at the Catalyst again.

  “This city is full of people who take power because they can,” Ores continued. “They hoard it, twist it, use it to chain others beneath them. I prefer to give power to those who deserve it.”

  Gael scoffed, rolling the gemstone between his fingers. “And you think that’s me?”

  Gael had spent most of his life watching people like Ambrose take power because they could—not because they deserved it. And yet, here she was, offering it like a gift.

  Ores simply smiled, her eyes sharp with something unreadable. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  She left him with that, the night wind tugging at her robes as she disappeared back inside.

  Gael turned the Catalyst over in his hand, its cold pulse pressing into his skin.

  Jesarin was never quiet.

  But tonight, the silence felt measured. Like something—or someone—was still listening.