Vanessa Emberlin woke to the scent of smoke.
The heat pressed against her skin before she even opened her eyes. Thick. Suffocating. Wrong. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by something far more violent than the candle she always left burning by her bedside.
Then—the sharp ring of steel.
Clashing. Heavy. Unrelenting.
Someone screamed. A woman's voice, raw with terror.
Her mother?
No—Vanessa would recognize her mother's voice. Wouldn't she?
She shoved the blankets away, bare feet hitting the marble floor as she staggered upright. The air tasted of ash and blood. Her bedroom, once a sanctuary, felt like a prison.
The brass handle of the door scalded her palm when she reached for it. She yanked her hand back, heart hammering. The fire was outside.
Where was Kino?
A sudden crash shook the walls, followed by another spell detonating nearby—not a single burst of power, but a series of sharp, controlled impacts. Precision. Knights.
The realization sank its teeth into her, but there was no time to dwell.
Vanessa braced herself and forced the door open.
The manor was burning.
A hallway she had walked a thousand times now barely resembled itself. The elegant blue and gold carpets had blackened, curling at the edges as flames licked across them. Paintings of long-dead Emberlin's peeled from their frames, faces distorting in the heat.
The corridors groaned like a wounded beast.
She had to move.
She stumbled forward, half-running, half-tripping through the fire-lit halls. Shadows loomed ahead of her, indistinct figures moving through the smoke. Some fought. Some fell.
A flash of steel. A body slumping against the wall. Blood pooling dark across the scorched floor.
Her stomach twisted, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
She barely noticed the shockwave of heat behind her until it was too late.
A spell detonated nearby—a calculated strike, aimed at the walls, the ceilings. The force slammed into her back, sending her sprawling. Her vision blurred. The world tilted.
Her ears rang. The walls twisted.
Then—a sound that cut through everything.
A voice. Deep. Calm. Commanding.
"Burn it all down."
The breath caught in her throat.
Through the smoke and ruin, a figure emerged.
Tall. Cloaked in the flickering orange glow of the inferno. Flames licked at his runeplate, but he didn't burn.
The new Warlord of Jesarin. Lanesh.
He turned his head slightly, as if sensing her through the smoke. Even at a distance, his presence suffocated the space.
Vanessa's chest seized. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to hide, to disappear.
But she didn't move.
Because at his feet, barely breathing—was Kino.
Vanessa's breath hitched. Her feet moved before she could think, instinct alone carrying her forward—
—but she barely made it two steps before Lanesh shifted.
One deliberate motion. A barrier of steel and authority.
Kino vanished behind him, claimed.
The Warlord stood before her now, unmoving, unshaken. A monster carved in steel.
Vanessa took a sharp breath. The heat pressed against her lungs, suffocating. Every instinct in her screamed to act, to do something—
And then—her father stepped into view.
Jericho Emberlin was not a man who knelt to kings.
He moved with practiced ease, stepping between Lanesh and the fallen child. He did not hesitate.
"Get away from my son."
His voice was quiet. Absolute.
Lanesh turned slightly, as if bored by the demand. His blade—a knight's sword, wickedly curved, an old Dragerian design—hung effortlessly at his side.
"You should've left it where it belonged," Lanesh murmured.
Jericho's jaw tightened. Flames curled at his fingertips. A whisper of power. A spark of something far greater than anger.
"This isn't about the stone, is it?" he said. "This is about Ores."
At that, Lanesh finally gave him his full attention.
And then—he smiled.
"Ah," the warlord said. "So you do understand."
Jericho moved first.
A whisper of essence. A single incantation and the fire obeyed.
"Ignis Converto Telum Percute!"
A hundred tongues of flame snapped toward Lanesh, weaving together in an instant. Sharpening. Spearing toward the weak points of his armor.
A perfect, lethal strike.
Lanesh didn't flinch.
The runeplate activated in silence.
The fire hit—then collapsed. Snuffed out like a candle in a storm.
Jericho's eyes widened. The spell hadn't even touched him.
Lanesh tilted his head, the firelight casting long shadows over the ridges of his helm.
"You really think I'd come for the great Jericho Emberlin without protections in place?" His tone was mocking. Amused.
"You taught them to fear your fire," he continued, stepping forward, slow and deliberate.
Another step.
"You taught them to fear your fire," Lanesh continued, stepping forward, slow and deliberate.
"But fire can be snuffed out. Just like bloodlines."
Jericho's entire body tensed.
He moved, trying to cast again, but— Lanesh was faster.
A single stroke. A perfect, practiced execution.
The blade buried deep.
Jericho gasped—more in shock than pain.
Then he collapsed.
Vanessa saw the exact moment the light left her father's eyes.
And then, everything inside her shattered.
A scream ripped from her throat, but it wasn't just sound.
It was fire itself.
The burning walls. The collapsing ceilings. The embers eating through the marble floor.
She didn't just unleash her essence. She stole the fire for herself.
Lanesh barely had time to brace.
His knights—his men—never stood a chance.
The explosion tore through Emberlin Manor, a firestorm given unnatural shape.
She saw their bodies turn to dust.
She saw Lanesh stagger, his runeplate absorbing the worst of it—but not all of it.
And then—nothing.
___________________________________________
The world smelled of smoke.
Not the sharp, burning scent of an active fire—but the deep, cloying stench of something long since consumed, reduced to nothing but charred remnants and silence.
Vess stirred.
Her body was curled in on itself, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her frame like a shield that had done nothing to protect her. She barely registered the rough texture beneath her—not marble, not carpet, not wood.
Just ash.
Fine, weightless, endless.
She blinked slowly, vision blurred and unfocused, her lashes sticky with soot and dried tears. Her skin felt raw, feverish, and when she shifted, a faint sound like crumbling paper whispered against her ears—her clothes, burned down to threadbare remnants, blackened at the edges.
She should have been dead.
Everything around her was gone.
The grand halls of Emberlin Manor, the intricate tapestries that lined the walls, the polished floors her mother never let them run across, the velvet curtains her brother used to hide behind.
Gone.
Burned to its foundation. Reduced to shadows and echoes.
And yet—
Vess sat in the center of nothing, untouched.
The ground beneath her was the only thing unscorched—a perfect ring of safety in an ocean of ruin.
She tried to breathe, but the air was thick with soot, clinging to the inside of her throat like a second layer of skin. It hurt. Everything hurt.
She shifted her arms, and something soft, smooth, unnaturally cool slid against her shoulder.
Her hair.
It tumbled around her in a dark silken wave, cascading down her back, across the ash. Long—far longer than it had ever been. It should have burned. Should have curled into nothing but embers like everything else.
But it hadn't.
She swallowed. Her limbs trembled as she pushed herself upright, her fingers brushing over something half-buried in the soot.
A scrap of parchment.
No—a letter.
The edges were burned beyond recognition, the ink smeared by heat and time. Most of the words were lost, faded into the destruction that had taken everything else.
But at the very bottom—
A single name remained.
"Madilyn Ores."
Her breath hitched.
And suddenly—she remembered.
The fire. The screams. The clash of steel and the roar of a name that didn't belong to a Warlord, but to someone she had trusted.
The last thing she saw before her father fell.
Her vision blurred. Her pulse pounded. Her hands curled into fists, crushing the letter in her grasp.
She didn't know how long she sat there, drowning in the silence.
But when the voices came—the sound of magi quelling the last embers, the careful footsteps approaching her fragile circle of untouched ground—she did not move.
Because Vanessa Emberlin died that night.
And all that was left was Vess.
The rooftop was still.
The city of Jesarin sprawled beneath them, its lantern-lit streets weaving like veins through the darkness. The distant hum of life never fully ceased, but up here, it was muted—far away, insignificant.
Vess had barely moved since she'd leaned her head against Gael's shoulder, her body heavy with exhaustion she didn't want to name. She told herself she wasn't tired. That the weight pressing against her chest was just the lingering tension of the week. That the strange pull of the past, the frayed edges of half-buried memories clawing at the corners of her mind, was nothing.
But when her arm brushed against something solid beneath Gael's coat—something small, something thrumming—
The world split open.
The memory didn't creep in. It didn't surface in slow, unraveling waves.
It slammed into her.
Fire. Screams. The scent of burning cloth and skin.
She was back there. Trapped.
Emberlin Manor was burning.
Her father was falling.
Lanesh's blade buried deep in his chest.
A scream tore from her lips, but it wasn't just a sound. It was power. It was flame.
The fire consumed everything.
She had stolen the flames. Let them take everything.
Her mother. Kino.
Gone.
A gasp tore from her throat.
Vess jerked away from Gael as if burned, her entire body trembling, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.
She staggered, her hands gripping the rooftop's edge, the stone biting into her palms.
Gael stiffened beside her, caught between concern and confusion. "Vess?"
She couldn't answer.
Her hands burned—not with fire, but with memory.
The Catalyst. It had done this. It had unlocked something she wasn't ready to see.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers digging into the rough stone. "I—" She forced the word out, but it came choked, strangled. Her mother's voice echoed in her head. Kino's laughter. The sound of steel cutting through flesh.
Lanesh's voice. You should've left it where it belonged.
A shudder wracked through her.
She had spent years keeping those memories buried. Letting herself believe the version of the past she had rewritten to survive.
And now—now it was all back.
Her knees buckled. She felt herself sinking, felt the rooftop tilting beneath her.
And then—Gael caught her.
His hands gripped her arms, steady, grounding. "Oh shit, Hey—Vess. Breathe."
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes tighter.
Don't look for what you don't want to find.
Lurras' words came back, cutting through the chaos in her skull.
But it was too late.
She had already found it.
And she didn't know how to live with it.
The training hall was empty.
The lanterns had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, singed air, and the faint, lingering hum of spent essence.
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Lukas rolled his shoulders, shifting his weight, feeling the dull ache settle into his muscles. He was exhausted. His ribs were still sore from Lurras' earlier lesson, and his hands stung where sparks had burned too close. Gael had long since left. Lurras had dismissed them hours ago.
But Lukas stayed.
He always stayed.
He took his stance, planting his feet like Lurras had shown him. Slow breath in. Essence drawn, controlled—not flung wildly like before.
Storm first. Shadow second. No separation. No hesitation.
Crackle.
A flicker of violet essence sparked between his fingers. Lukas clenched his fist, forcing the energy to concentrate, to stay instead of snapping outward uncontrolled. The lightning wove through his knuckles, crawling across his skin in thin, electric veins.
He stepped forward, keeping the energy tight, steady.
Now the hard part.
Shadow curled beneath him, sluggish and thick, resisting the way he tried to move it. He wasn't like Lurras—his affinity wasn't second nature. He didn't become the dark.
But it was there.
A second element, creeping in the corners of his casting. His shadow affinity wasn't flashy. It didn't let him slip between places unseen, didn't let him disappear into the night like a ghost.
But it drained.
That was what shadow did. It took.
It muted.
It smothered.
Lukas focused, letting the energy settle in his core, feeding the crackling storm in his fist with just enough shadow to keep it contained. Not as a separate force—but as a shield. A shroud. A filter.
He drove his fist forward—
The lightning didn't burst outward.
Instead, it snapped straight through the air, an almost silent crack of energy—quieter than before, hidden within the shadow's smothering grasp.
The training dummy shuddered on impact.
Lukas exhaled, staring at his hand.
That...
That actually worked.
Not perfectly. Not clean.
But it was a start.
His heart pounded, the rush of progress dulling the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He rolled his shoulders, shaking the numbness from his fingers, and took his stance again.
Getting it right once wasn't enough.
Not for him.
Lukas shifted his feet, exhaled, and cast again.
Lukas shifted his weight, forcing his body to obey despite the exhaustion clawing at his limbs. The night pressed in, thick and silent, save for the faint crackle of energy sparking between his fingers. The air smelled of burnt ozone and sweat, but he barely noticed.
Again.
He set his stance. Drew essence. Controlled it.
Storm first. Shadow second. No separation. No hesitation.
The violet arcs flickered through his knuckles, but this time, the shadow followed faster. Not just creeping in his peripherals, not resisting him like before. It curled around the charge, dimming it, not killing it outright. Shadow didn't overpower. It consumed. It redirected.
He lunged forward, twisting the energy as he struck.
The storm lashed outward—but quieter. Faster. The force rippled instead of exploding, the impact more precise, more contained. He felt the way it stole from the air, how the crackling release of essence wasn't as sharp, how the magic clung to his fist instead of recoiling wildly.
That was it.
That was how his affinities were supposed to work together.
Lukas exhaled, rubbing the back of his wrist across his forehead. It wasn't a perfect execution, but it was a step toward something. Something uniquely his.
He took his stance again.
He would drill it until it was instinct.
Because that was his real power. Not talent. Not some prodigal gift.
Relentlessness.
Lukas was preparing for a fight where no one would be looking at him. When real power entered the room, he wouldn't be a threat. Wouldn't even be an afterthought.
He wasn't the strongest. He wasn't the fastest.
But that never mattered before.
Everything he'd ever gotten, he earned with his own two hands—through sweat, through bruises, through drilling the same strikes until his muscles burned and his bones ached. He wasn't about to stop now.
Work. Effort. Willpower sharpened into something lethal.
He stepped forward, casting again—when a voice cut through the silence.
"You're smothering it too much."
Lukas twisted, his breath catching before he even saw who it was.
Lurras.
The old knight leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable in the dim lantern light. How long had he been watching?
Lukas straightened, pulse still steady from the exertion. "I was controlling it."
"You were killing it," Lurras corrected, stepping into the room. "Shadow isn't just a lid you put over a candle, boy. It's a hand reaching out. It's the pause before the strike."
Lukas swallowed, watching as Lurras approached. He felt the pressure in the air shift—not a spell, not a technique. Just presence.
"Storm is aggressive," Lurras continued, pacing slowly. "It's raw. It demands. Shadow? It doesn't force." He stopped a few paces away, his voice quieter now, edged with something more precise. "It invites."
Lukas frowned, his shoulders tight with the effort of still standing. "You think I should just let it run loose?"
"No." Lurras gave him a look like he'd asked if he should walk into a sword. "I think you should let it do what it was meant to do."
Lukas stared at him.
Lurras sighed. "Shadow doesn't exist to compete with your storm. It's not a separate weapon." He gestured vaguely toward Lukas' stance. "Let it into your movement, not just your spellwork."
Lukas rolled his jaw, considering. He set his feet again, but this time, when he drew, he didn't just force the shadow to sit over the storm like a smothering hand.
He let it weave into the motion. Into the space between.
Lightning curled over his knuckles, but this time, it was quieter. The storm still sparked, still crackled—but it was less hungry. It moved with the shadow instead of against it.
Lurras nodded once, barely more than a flicker of approval. "Better."
Then, without another word, he turned, already walking away.
Lukas hesitated. "That's it? That's all the advice I get?"
Lurras glanced over his shoulder. "You already know the answer." His gaze flickered, assessing. "Figure it out."
Then he was gone, leaving Lukas standing in the dim light, hands still crackling with the quiet storm.
Lukas exhaled sharply, shaking out his arms.
"Figure it out."
He would.
Even if it took all night.
The night stretched long, the training hall silent except for the faint hum of spent essence and Lukas' steady, measured breaths. He drilled each strike into his muscles, layering storm and shadow with each motion until the crackling sparks in his fists bled black. Every impact against the training dummy was quieter now, controlled, his lightning snapping in tight, silent bursts instead of wild, unfocused discharges.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The hours blurred, sweat drenching his back, his arms shaking under the strain. He ignored it. He always did.
By the time he stopped, the lanterns had fully burned out, leaving only the dim glow of dawn creeping through the high training hall windows. His body felt hollowed out, drained of everything but the ache in his bones and the steady hum of essence still lingering in his veins.
Lukas exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
He had maybe five hours before the job.
He should have stopped hours ago.
But now, maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't be useless when it mattered.
_______________________________________________
Lukas let himself sleep just long enough to stop his limbs from locking up.
He woke as he always did—fast, alert, the exhaustion shoved somewhere deep under habit. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it, rolling his shoulders as he sat up. The morning light slanted through the window, painting the cramped walls in faded gold.
The silk suit Gael had shoved into his hands the night before was still folded over the chair. He scowled at it, running his tongue over his teeth.
Gods, he hated these things.
With a sigh, he pulled himself up, stretching each muscle carefully before shoving himself into the ridiculous outfit. The fabric clung in all the wrong places, the high collar stiff against his neck, the buttons too fine and delicate for his calloused hands.
Lukas tugged at the cuffs, scowling at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror.
This was why he hated the upper city.
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back into something that didn't look like he had spent the whole night beating himself into the ground, then slung his coat over his shoulders and headed out.
The Crooked Boot was quieter than usual at this hour, the usual morning drunks passed out in booths, the barkeep wiping down counters with the slow, practiced rhythm of a man who had seen it all before. The scent of stale ale and smoke clung to the air, the creak of old wood filling the space between muffled conversations.
Lukas arrived first, as he always did.
He took the corner booth, back against the wall, gaze sweeping the room out of habit before settling in.
He rolled his aching shoulders, letting himself sink into the silence, the hum of anticipation settling in his chest. The wait didn't bother him.
It was always like this before a job.
The calm before the storm.
His fingers drummed lightly against the table, mind already working through the pieces ahead.
They needed to be sharp today. No room for error.
And yet, despite everything—the weight of the night, the job ahead—Lukas found himself thinking about the last few days. The training. The fights. The strange, sharp edges of his own reflection in the middle of it all.
He'd always known his place. He'd spent years fighting for it. And yet, for the first time in a long time...
He wasn't sure where he stood.
The door creaked open.
Lukas glanced up, watching as the first of them arrived.
Lukas caught the movement before the door even creaked open.
Soren and Lander.
The two of them moved like they always did—together, heads low, eyes sharp, scanning the tavern like they expected trouble. They weren't paranoid, not really. Just careful. The kind of careful that came from knowing Jesarin had teeth and that even the safest places weren't truly safe.
Soren spotted him first.
His shoulders relaxed—not fully, but enough to be noticeable. He muttered something to Lander, who nodded, and together they crossed the room, slipping into the booth opposite Lukas.
"Look at you," Lander said, voice low and amused. "All dressed up like a proper noble."
Lukas snorted, tugging at the stiff collar of his suit. "Don't remind me."
Soren smiled faintly, but there was an edge of tiredness to it, a quiet weight that hadn't been there before. Lukas had watched him change over the months—watched him go from the scrawny, jittery intellectual who second-guessed every move to someone more sure-footed. Still nervous, still thoughtful, but with an edge to him now. A confidence that hadn't been there before.
Lander, on the other hand—Lukas had seen the shift in him just as clearly. He wasn't the reckless kid he'd been when they first met. The past few months had shaped him, carved him into something sharper. He still had his grin, his easy charm, but he'd taken to planning, to strategy. To being more than just a fighter.
The three of them sat in easy silence for a moment, the unspoken weight of the day ahead settling between them.
Lander broke it first, leaning back against the booth with a smirk. "You look tense."
Lukas rolled his shoulders. "Long night."
Soren's gaze flickered over him, knowing. "Training?"
Lukas nodded. No point in lying.
Lander let out a short laugh. "Should've known. You really don't stop, huh?"
Lukas shrugged. "No reason to."
That was all he said.
That was all he needed to say.
Soren and Lander exchanged a look, but neither pushed the topic. They didn't have to.
The job was hours away, the air thick with the kind of quiet tension that only came before something big.
And then—
The door swung open again.
Vess.
She moved through the Crooked Boot with the same confidence she always did, but Lukas caught the subtle stiffness in her shoulders, the sharpness in the way she carried herself. Something was off.
She spotted them, and whatever weight she was carrying, she buried it deep as she strode over.
Lukas leaned back slightly, arms crossed as he regarded her.
Spitfire. That was the word he'd always had for her.
She'd dragged him and Gael out of more situations than he could count, always with that same unshakable fire in her eyes. The same reckless, defiant energy that made her impossible to ignore. She fought like a cornered animal, sharp and fast and willing to bleed for whatever she set her mind on.
But it wasn't just the anger, the need for vengeance that made her dangerous. It was her conviction. The way she pushed herself beyond her limits, not because she had to, but because she refused to do anything less.
Lukas respected that.
He didn't believe in blind revenge, but he understood it. And if nothing else, he understood the weight of carrying something that big, something that heavy, and still choosing to stand tall under it.
She was fire, burning toward something none of them could fully grasp.
And tonight, she looked the part of something else entirely.
Vess wore a deep red gown, cut to perfection—elegant, but with an edge. The bodice hugged her frame, the gold embroidery catching the low tavern light, shifting with every movement. Slits ran high along both sides, giving her the range she'd need to move if things went south, and the thin black gloves reaching past her elbows gave the illusion of refinement while hiding the calluses that marked her as a fighter.
She looked dangerous.
Like a knife in silk.
Lukas raised a brow. "Didn't take you for someone who'd suffer through a dress for a job."
Vess smirked as she reached their table. "And I didn't take you for someone who'd still be upright after last night's training."
Lukas huffed. Fair.
She pulled out a chair, settling in with the practiced ease of someone who didn't need permission to take up space. Then she lifted her eyes, scanning the table.
"Boys," she greeted.
Lukas caught the glance she shot at the empty seat beside him. Gael still wasn't here.
"Boss man's late," Lander noted.
Vess leaned back, stretching out a leg beneath the table. "What else is new?"
Soren, ever the quiet observer, eyed her for a moment before leaning his elbows on the table. "Think he's still passed out?"
Lukas exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Knowing him? He probably got caught up in something."
Lander raised an eyebrow. "Something, or someone?"
Vess snorted, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Shut up Lander"
Lander grinned, raising his hands in mock innocence.
The banter was light, but Lukas could feel the undercurrent beneath it.
They were waiting.
Waiting for Gael, waiting for the job, waiting for something none of them wanted to name.
And for the first time that night, Lukas wasn't sure if the weight pressing on his chest was anticipation or something else entirely.
Lukas caught the movement near the entrance, his gaze flicking up from the rim of his mug.
Lurras and Gael stepped into the tavern, already deep in conversation.
The contrast between them was almost laughable. Lurras, clad in his full runeplate, looked like a war machine crammed into a common man's bar, his presence as out of place as a noble at a dockworkers' strike. The heavy plating gave off a muted sheen under the low lantern light, its engraved runes pulsing softly with stored essence. He looked exasperated—whether from the conversation or just from existing in this space, Lukas wasn't sure.
Gael, on the other hand, was every bit the knight's noble-born squire at his side.
His deep navy coat, tailored to perfection, hugged his frame in all the right places, silver accents lining the high collar and cuffs. He wore it with an ease that made it look effortless, like he belonged in a place where coin was never a concern. His trousers were just as fine—cut and fitted, a perfect match to the polished boots that barely made a sound against the old wooden floor.
Even his hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, his usual tousled mess tamed into something more refined. He was a man who could blend between worlds—streetwise enough for the likes of them, yet polished enough to walk among knights and nobles without drawing second glances.
Lukas knew the bastard probably had half the women in the room glancing his way already.
Gael barely noticed the crew at first, his focus locked on whatever point Lurras was making, nodding along with that sharp intensity he always had when he was learning something new.
Then, mid-sentence, his gaze lifted.
His eyes landed on the crew, and just like that, the conversation melted from his face.
A grin broke through.
Lukas could practically feel the shift in the air as Gael tore himself from the conversation, stepping toward them with the easy confidence only he could pull off.
The crew was all here.
Gael stepped into the Crooked Boot with Lurras at his side, the scent of ale, roasted meat, and damp wood wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. The place was alive with its usual crowd—dockworkers, gamblers, off-duty enforcers—but the crew stood out instantly, their table tucked into the far corner.
He barely had a chance to acknowledge them before Lurras drew his attention back, muttering something under his breath about the absurdity of this plan. Gael smirked but didn't argue. He was used to that tone by now—the mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement that Lurras always wore around them.
When he finally turned to his friends, he found Lukas watching him. Sharp, assessing.
Always the serious one.
Gael had seen him train for hours last night, pushing himself past exhaustion in that way only Lukas did. If Lukas had an affinity beyond his storm and shadow, it was sheer, unrelenting will. A refusal to be outmatched, even when the odds said otherwise.
Gael didn't have that kind of drive. Not in the same way. He was talented, sure. A natural at weaving wind through movement, dodging when others would block, striking when others hesitated. But he wasn't the kind to grind himself down to the bone for it.
And yet, Lukas was still here. Still looking out for him.
Gael smiled. "You look like hell, buddy, the black and gold suit you though."
Lukas rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink. "And you look like you got lost on your way to a noble's gala."
Gael smoothed a hand over the lapel of his coat. "Tavern or palace, I dress to impress."
Before Lukas could fire back, the barmaid approached.
She was a curvy woman with a practiced smile, her eyes lingering on Lurras as she set down the drinks. "Haven't seen you in here before, handsome."
Lurras shifted uncomfortably. "I don't drink on the job."
She leaned in, resting an elbow on the table. "That so? Maybe we can find another way to loosen you up."
The crew grinned. Lukas raised an eyebrow. Even Soren, who usually kept his reactions contained, looked amused.
Gael, to his credit, only barely managed to suppress a laugh. Lurras, in all his imposing, rune-plated glory, was genuinely rattled. The knight muttered something under his breath before pointedly reaching for his water.
Vess, finally smirking for the first time that day, leaned forward. "Maiden above, I think he's actually blushing."
Lurras scowled. "Can we get to the part where you all drink and not antagonize your handler?"
Gael grinned, reaching for his dagger. "Agreed."
One by one, they all did the same, drawing their knives and placing them in the center of the table, their steel catching the low lantern light. Lurras watching them with curiosity.
It was tradition. Every heist, every job, every moment before something big.
Gael wrapped his fingers around the hilt, raising his drink with the other hand. The others followed suit.
And as always, they spoke the words together.
"Steel is sworn, luck is borrowed. Let's make sure we return it."
They knocked back their drinks, the warmth of the liquor burning its way down.
Gael set his cup down with a satisfied exhale, the familiar fire in his veins settling.
This felt good, the drinks, the easy laughs. It almost made it easy to forget they were stealing from the a warlord today.
Gael let the warmth of the liquor settle before leaning forward, fingers tapping against the rim of his cup. The Crooked Boot still hummed with life—music drifting from the corner, the steady murmur of drunken conversation, the occasional burst of laughter.
But at this table, the air shifted.
The easy smiles, the jokes—they weren't gone, not yet. But they were fading, giving way to something sharper. Something real.
Gael glanced at Lander and Soren first. "You two are the lucky ones tonight."
Soren raised a brow, his skepticism immediate. "Lucky how?"
"You get to stay here, get drunk, and be our eyes on the outside." Gael smirked. "Try not to complain too much."
Lander scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, sounds like real backbreaking work."
"It is," Gael said seriously, though his grin didn't fade. "Because if anything happens outside—any extra guards, any movement from the villa, anything that feels off—you send word. Immediately."
Soren exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. We'll drink for you, boss."
Gael patted his shoulder. "I knew I could count on you."
With that settled, his gaze shifted to the ones actually walking into the lion's den.
Vess, poised in her dress, her eyes sharp and unreadable.
Lukas, already looking too serious, already running through the plan in his head.
And Lurras, the only one who didn't need a role to play—because he was the only one who was too famous to pretend.
Gael straightened, setting his mug down. "Alright. One last time. What's our story?"
Lukas sighed. "You, me, and Vess are posing as noble-born brats with too much coin and too little sense."
"Which isn't much of a stretch," Vess muttered.
Gael ignored that. "And Lurras?"
Lurras gave him a flat look. "I'm myself."
"Exactly," Gael said. "Ores is an invited guest, which means her knight isn't completely unwelcome—but that doesn't mean they trust you." He glanced at the older man, expression sobering. "They'll be watching you closer than any of us."
Lurras just nodded, unsurprised.
Gael exhaled. "That means the three of us need to make them believe we belong. We drink, we talk, we blend. Vess?"
She didn't hesitate. "I shadow you. We work the room, get a sense of security, mark our exits."
Gael nodded, then turned to Lukas.
Lukas rolled his shoulders, already uncomfortable. "I stick close to the knights. Play the part of an eager squire, listen for anything useful, make sure you two don't get yourselves killed."
"That's the spirit." Gael flashed a grin. "We keep it simple. We don't make a scene. We get in, we get the artifact, we get out."
"There is an element of improvisation this time since we have no clue where this stone will bring us once we are in there, meaning, I need everyone on their toes today." Gael rolled his shoulders before continuing, "Once we get the artifact or we get caught, what do we do?"
"We run like hell." they all said in unison.
Gael drummed his fingers against the table, scanning their faces one last time. The plan was clean. It was solid.
And if everything went perfectly, it would stay that way.
But perfection was a myth.
He exhaled, pushing himself up from his chair. "Finish your drinks. Auction starts in an hour."
Lurras gave a nod, standing with him. Lukas cracked his knuckles, already itching to get moving. Vess lingered a second longer, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers before tipping it back in one smooth motion.
Soren and Lander leaned back, both clearly disappointed to be sitting this one out—but they understood. They'd play their part.
Gael turned toward the door, stretching his arms above his head as if they were heading to another night of easy work, another job like any other.
But it wasn't.
This was the biggest job they'd ever pulled.
The one they couldn't afford to screw up.
Gael exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as they stepped into the sunlight, the scent of incense thick in the air.
The city stretched before them, Jesarin humming with the restless energy of late afternoon. The streets pulsed with life, vendors calling out their wares, the clink of coin echoing between towering marble facades. But beneath the surface—beneath the warmth of golden hour—was the quiet tension of inevitability.
In a few hours, everything would shift.
By the time the sun set again, they would either be legends—
Or they wouldn't be anything at all.
"Shit." Lander clicked his tongue, patting his coat before scowling. "I left the bag with Soren's gadgets at the hideout."
Vess groaned. "Seriously?"
Lander had already turned, striding back toward the Harrows.
"Wait, I got it," Gael called after him. "You know I'm the fastest—even in this getup."
Before anyone could argue, he shot both hands behind him, essence surging through his palms. Twin bursts of air cracked against the ground, launching him forward in a rush of wind and dust.
Jesarin blurred around him, the wind whipping at his coat as he shot down the street.
"See you at the rendezvous in forty-five!" he called over his shoulder.
And then he was gone.
__________________________________________
The marking was fresh.
Gael barely noticed it at first—just another piece of street scrawl, barely visible in the dim lantern light. But something about it felt off.
A G, bisected cleanly by a single horizontal line.
His pace didn't slow, but his fingers twitched at his side.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning the street. Nothing. No movement. Just the usual drunks slumped in the alleys, enforcers marching the main roads, the flickering glow of distant lanterns.
Gael exhaled through his nose. Not the time to get distracted.
Still—he adjusted his approach, keeping his steps light as he slid into the narrow gap beside the tailor's shop. The alley smelled of damp wood and old fruit peels, the crates stacked high enough to shield him from wandering eyes.
The heavy sheet covering their entrance was still there, pinned in place by loose stones.
Untouched. Good.
Gael pressed his fingers to the edge, slipping behind it in one smooth motion.
The scent of faded candles and old leather hit him first. Then the faint, lingering dampness that always crept in through the broken roof panel near Vess' workbench.
He exhaled through his nose.
How long had they lived like this?
Scrounging. Plotting. Dreaming about something bigger.
Gael took a slow step forward, running his fingers over the cluttered surfaces.
Lukas' wanted poster was still tacked up on the post near the entrance—grumpy scowl and all. Someone (probably Lander) had drawn a ridiculous mustache on it in charcoal.
Gael huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head before his fingers drifted over the essence censor on Vess' workbench. The metal was cool under his touch, carved with intricate script meant to focus and refine essence. She had spent weeks tuning it, muttering under her breath about balance and control.
If this job went right, they wouldn't have to live like this anymore.
Gael stepped over scattered books and old training equipment, heading toward the sleeping quarters.
The bag. Focus.
It didn't take long to find—it was shoved half beneath Soren's cot, right where Lander had left it.
Gael bent down, grabbing the worn leather strap—
Then stopped.
A flicker of color caught his eye.
Half-hidden beneath Vess' pillow, barely sticking out—a folded envelope.
Gold and red.
Gael frowned, reaching for it before his mind even registered why.
Vess never left things out like this.
The parchment was thick, the edges singed. He ran his thumb over the wax seal, now broken and half-melted. He shouldn't—
He opened it.
His eyes scanned the page.
Then—he stilled.
The words slammed into him.
Gael's breath caught as he reread the lines, his fingers gripping the paper so tight the edges crinkled.
She knew.
She had known.
Vess had known Ores was innocent.
For weeks—maybe longer.
And she hadn't said a word.