The streets were already beginning to stir. Early morning mist clung to the stonework, curling around the edges of the Pelumian District’s pristine avenues. The gilded rooftops of noble estates gleamed faintly in the first light of day, the city waking in slow, measured breaths.

  Gael adjusted the high collar of his coat, tugging at the silver clasp like the weight of it had suddenly grown heavier. His fingers brushed against the folded letter in his pocket—Vess’ letter.

  He shouldn’t have read it.

  But he had.

  It wasn’t Ores.

  Vess had known for weeks.

  He exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. Not now. He couldn’t afford to get lost in it.

  The rendezvous point was just ahead, tucked in the shadow of a quiet alcove where three alleyways met. The others were already gathering. Lurras stood like a statue near the entrance, arms crossed, his runeplate polished to an unsettling gleam in the low light. He looked every bit the Knight of Ores that he was—a man out of place in Jesarin’s underbelly.

  Lukas was pacing, his sharp brown eyes scanning the streets like a caged animal, always watching, always waiting.

  And Vess—

  She was there too.

  Gael hesitated for half a breath before stepping forward.

  Vess leaned casually against the alcove wall, arms folded, her dark crimson dress catching the dim glow of a streetlamp. The rich fabric hugged her frame, gold embroidery glinting at the edges of the sleeves. Her usual shoulder-length black hair had been styled into elaborate coils, lengthened with finely woven extensions to match the Sacyrian court’s fashion—where both men and women prized long, flowing locks as a mark of refinement. The effect was striking, transforming her from the scrappy streetfighter Gael knew into something altogether different. A vision of elegance, of poise—

  And yet, beneath it all, still Vess.

  The set of her jaw. The barely perceptible tension in her posture.

  She was angry, but beneath that she was nervous.

  That was rare.

  He knew what he should do—act normal, crack a joke, shake off the weight pressing against his ribs.

  But the letter was still there.

  The truth was still there.

  And for the first time in a long time, Gael looked at Vess and wondered—what else hadn’t she told him? What secrets lay buried beneath that sharp wit and reckless bravado?

  She caught him staring.

  “Something on my face?” she asked, arching a brow.

  Gael smirked on instinct, slipping into easy charm. “Yeah. That scowl of yours—oh, and more makeup than I’ve ever seen on you.”

  Lukas stifled a laugh as Gael went on, tilting his head in mock appraisal. “Pretty sure it’s illegal to bring a weapon this deadly to a party.”

  Vess rolled her eyes. “If you keep talking, it’ll get a lot worse.”

  Lukas exhaled sharply. “Can we focus? We’re already cutting close on time.”

  Lurras nodded in agreement, speaking for the first time. “The auction starts soon. We should move.”

  Gael flexed his fingers. The tension in his chest hadn’t left, but it didn’t matter.

  He had a job to do.

  Later. He would deal with it later.

  For now, they had a heist to pull off.

  And nothing—not even the truth—was going to stop him.

  The four of them moved in unison, slipping into the streets with the ease of practiced professionals. The air carried the scent of spiced wine and burning torches, the telltale signs of Jesarin’s upper class indulging in another night of excess. Tonight, they weren’t slinking through back alleys or scaling rooftops. No, tonight, they walked with purpose, blending seamlessly into the gilded world they had no rightful place in.

  The estate loomed ahead, an opulent beast of stone and stained glass, its towering walls casting long shadows under the lantern-lit streets. The entrance was flanked by magi-knights in full ceremonial regalia—steel and runeplate gleaming under the warm glow of essence-powered sconces. Their presence wasn’t just for show. Lanesh had spared no expense in ensuring the auction’s security.

  Gael adjusted his coat, tilting his chin up just slightly as they approached. They belonged here. He had spent enough time watching nobles to mimic their casual arrogance, their effortless certainty that the world bent for them.

  Act the part. Own the space.

  The guards barely spared them a glance as they stepped onto the marble path leading up to the main hall. It wasn’t until they reached the grand entrance, where guests were filtered through in pairs and small groups, that Gael caught sight of the true elite in attendance.

  Tall figures draped in flowing tabards marked with guild sigils, knights adorned in gilded armor, their ceremonial blades hanging from their waists like an afterthought. Magi of all affinities walked with an easy grace, their robes subtly enchanted to shimmer under the evening light. A different world, entirely.

  Lurras took the lead, giving the guards a slow, measuring nod. His presence alone was enough to grant them passage.

  “Name and affiliation?” one of the stewards asked, eyes flicking across the group.

  Lurras met his gaze evenly. “Lurras Blackthorne. My charge, Lukas Veyne. My guests, Gael and Vanessa Valenford.”

  Gael barely held back a smirk. Vess had chosen the name quickly—Valenford, a noble family from the southern reaches of Sacyr. Enough pedigree to raise eyebrows but not enough to invite scrutiny.

  The steward gave a curt nod and gestured them inside.

  The moment they stepped past the threshold, the energy shifted. The air was thick with quiet power—low murmurs of conversation, the scent of rare incense burning in wall sconces, the faint hum of wards woven into the very walls.

  Gael’s fingers twitched at his sides. He hated places like this.

  Opulence. Power. The illusion of control.

  He forced himself to focus, sweeping his gaze over the massive hall. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, domed and painted in gold leaf, illuminated by an enormous crystalline chandelier. Long banquet tables lined the sides of the room, filled with the finest food and drink money could buy. Beyond that, a raised stage sat at the far end, draped in rich silks—the auction’s main stage.

  The real treasures were kept elsewhere. He had no doubt of that.

  Vess let out a low whistle beside him. “A bit much, don’t you think?”

  Lukas rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, tugging at his stiff collar. “How do people live like this?”

  “They don’t,” Gael muttered. “They survive off other people’s lives.”

  Vess snorted softly, shaking her head. "Careful, Gael. If you sound too bitter, someone might mistake you for a revolutionary."

  Gael smirked, but his focus was elsewhere. He swept his gaze across the room, letting himself absorb the scene—the polished, effortless grace of nobles who had never fought for anything, the slow-dripping tension beneath the surface of their pleasantries. Even in a setting of celebration, power was the only real currency.

  They moved deeper into the hall, threading through the sea of silk and steel. Lukas, ever the soldier, kept his head on a swivel, scanning for exits and blind spots. Vess was more relaxed, or at least she played at being so, plucking a glass of golden wine from a passing servant’s tray and sipping it with the ease of someone born to courtly life.

  Gael didn’t reach for a drink. Not yet.

  Instead, he let himself listen.

  “…the new Knight-Regent was meant to be in attendance tonight.”

  Gael’s ears sharpened at the words, his pace slowing just slightly as he caught the tail end of the conversation.

  Two well-dressed men stood near the banquet table, speaking in low, measured tones. Guilded rings marked them as merchants of high standing, their faces lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from endless negotiations.

  "Supposed to be, but I doubt he'll make it," one of them muttered, swirling his drink. "The man’s been drowning in council meetings since his appointment last year. Can’t afford to be seen rubbing elbows with the warlords of Jesarin, even one as... refined as Lanesh."

  The other scoffed. "Refined? You mean calculated. You don’t rise through Jesarin’s ranks without leaving a few bodies behind."

  Gael forced himself to keep moving, filing the information away. The Knight-Regent. The title carried weight, though he wasn’t sure why it unsettled him.

  He caught up to the others just as Lurras finished exchanging pleasantries with a pair of older knights, their runeplate polished to a mirror sheen. Whatever words had passed between them were brief, but judging by the disapproving glance Lurras received as they walked away, it hadn’t been warm.

  "Making friends already?" Gael murmured.

  Lurras scoffed, adjusting his gauntlets. "They remember me. They remember my ties to Ores."

  Vess rolled her eyes. "Good thing we’re not here to make allies."

  Lukas cleared his throat. "We should spread out, look natural. People are starting to notice us lingering."

  Gael agreed. They weren’t in any immediate danger, but their presence was new—unknown faces in a gathering of established elites. Best to blend in before anyone started asking questions.

  They moved with purpose, drifting through the space. Vess played the part of an intrigued noble, running her fingers along the glass cases that held lesser relics up for display. Lukas hung back, keeping a silent watch, while Gael took note of which guests drew the most eyes.

  Then—a shift.

  The conversations around them hushed.

  Lanesh had taken the stage.

  Gael’s stomach twisted, though he wasn’t sure why.

  The Warlord of Jesarin stood with the effortless command of a man born to rule, his presence as heavy as the steel he wore. He looked like the warriors of old, the kind spoken of in Sacyrian war songs—tanned skin weathered by the sun, long dark hair tied loosely at his back, a strong nose and a jawline carved from stone. His armor, though ceremonial, was no mere ornament; every plate was fitted for function first, decorated only in the subtle engravings of his house. A reminder that his power was not inherited—it was earned.

  His dark eyes swept over the gathered crowd, calm, assessing. When he spoke, his voice carried through the hall, smooth and weighty.

  "Power," he began, "is the only true currency in this world."

  Gael barely heard the rest.

  Because beside him, Vess had gone rigid.

  Her glass trembled in her hand, her breath sharp and uneven.

  Gael followed her gaze—and found it fixed not on Lanesh, but on a figure at the end of the stage.

  A young squire, standing just behind the Warlord’s shoulder.

  Gael didn’t recognize him. But Vess did.

  She was staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.

  And judging by the blood draining from her face, she might as well have.

  The world had shrunk.

  She could still hear Lanesh’s voice, a slow, measured cadence that echoed across the grand chamber. Words of power, of dominion, of the past and its dangers. But they meant nothing. The velvet-clad nobles, the chandeliers gleaming like suspended suns, the polished gold and silk of wealth beyond imagining—none of it existed.

  The past is a prison for those who refuse to understand it. And sometimes, its chains must never be broken." The words echoed through the hall but Vess could barely hear them.

  Because at the far end of the stage, standing like a shade pulled from the embers of her past, was her brother.

  Kino.

  Vess forgot how to breathe.

  A phantom’s name, carved from fire and grief, echoed through her skull. Her pulse slammed in her ears, deafening, drowning out every sound but that one word—over and over, like a spell she had long since abandoned.

  Kino.

  Her fingers curled, nails pressing into the fabric of her dress as her body warred between instinct and disbelief. Her chest tightened, ribs locking in place as if her own body refused to move forward—refused to bridge the gap between the girl she was and the boy she thought she had lost.

  He’s alive.

  She had not killed him.

  The relief struck first, sudden and wild, like a dam bursting open. It clawed at her, raw and aching, demanding release—demanding she move, that she reach for him, that she tear through the crowd and call his name, seize him by the arms and shake him, demand to know where he had been, why he hadn’t come looking for her. Why he let her believe she was alone.

  But then she saw his stance.

  Not just still—controlled.

  Rigid.

  The loose-limbed boy she remembered—the one who tripped over his own feet, who laughed at all the wrong times, who could never sit still—was gone.

  This boy—no, this young man—stood with the poise of a trained soldier. A squire. His hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared with sharp, precise angles, his face locked into something unreadable. Unrecognizable.

  The Kino she had known would have already seen her by now.

  Would have run to her.

  Would have grinned, called her "Ness" in that teasing way he always did, the way only he was allowed to.

  But his gaze didn’t even flicker.

  And then she saw the colors.

  Deep crimson. House Lanesh.

  The crest, stitched into the sleeve of his fitted coat.

  It hit her like a blade to the gut.

  No.

  The word barely formed in her mind before the truth settled in its place, cold and immovable.

  Lanesh had taken him. Had raised him. Had made him this.

  Her stomach twisted, bile rising to the back of her throat.

  She had spent four years dreaming of vengeance.

  Four years sharpening herself into something that could burn her families enemies to the ground.

  And all this time, Kino had been standing at his side.

  Her knees threatened to buckle. She had to lock them in place, had to force herself to stay standing when every muscle in her body screamed to move, to do something.

  The joy inside her curdled, blackened, twisted into something unrecognizable.

  She barely saw the stage lights anymore. Only the way the shadows cut sharp across Kino’s face, making him look older than his sixteen years. His jaw was set in stone, his expression still, dark eyes locked forward—watching Lanesh speak as if the man’s words were law.

  He didn’t belong to her anymore.

  He belonged to him.

  Her breath came too fast, shallow and uneven, like she was drowning on dry land.

  She had to do something.

  She had to get him back.

  But how?

  How do you save someone who doesn’t know they need saving?

  Her fingers twitched at her sides, burning with the urge to act, but—

  Gael was watching her.

  She felt his gaze, sharp and questioning, felt the weight of it pressing against her like a silent demand.

  She forced herself to breathe.

  To smooth the tension from her face.

  To stand still when every part of her was fracturing.

  She had done this before.

  Buried things deep. Pretended.

  But it had never felt quite like this.

  Never felt like standing in the ashes of a home she hadn’t realized was burning.

  Kino is alive. But do I even know him anymore?

  And worse—

  If it comes down to it… whose side will he choose?

  A weight settled over her chest, heavy as stone.

  Vess barely registered the rest of Lanesh’s speech, barely felt the press of bodies around her, the clinking of glasses, the murmured intrigue of the nobles. Her world had narrowed to a single point—her brother.

  Alive.

  Taken.

  Trained by the man she had sworn to kill.

  She could still see him, standing sharp and poised at the end of the stage, a knight’s squire in every way. His dark eyes stayed fixed on Lanesh, his expression betraying nothing. Not joy. Not sadness. Not recognition.

  Not even when she was right here—a breath away.

  He doesn’t know I’m alive.

  Or worse—he does, and it doesn’t matter.

  A hand touched her shoulder, firm but careful.

  Vess jolted, a flash of heat surging through her limbs before she caught herself.

  Gael.

  His brows were drawn in concern, his usual easy smirk nowhere to be found. He didn’t say anything—didn’t press—but his fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her sleeve, grounding. A silent question.

  She forced herself to breathe.

  Not here. Not now.

  Gael flicked his gaze downward.

  Vess followed his motion—toward the faint glow pulsing from inside his coat.

  The Sealing Stone fragment.

  A barely perceptible hum vibrated against the silence between them, a faint resonance thrumming from the runes embedded in the relic. It was reacting to something.

  Or to where it needed to go.

  Vess exhaled sharply, shoving everything else aside. The job. The job was what mattered.

  Kino and Lanesh could wait, a problem for another night.

  She clenched her jaw, tearing her gaze away from the stage, forcing her mind back into the moment. They had planned for this. If the fragment reacted, it meant the other half of the stone—the Sealing Stone of Uldir—was moving.

  Gael caught her eye, waiting for her call.

  She gave the slightest nod.

  Without hesitation, they slipped from the crowd.

  Moving slow, casual, blending into the shifting bodies of nobles as the auction continued. Their steps purposeful but unhurried. They didn’t need to speak. They had done this before.

  They navigated through the edges of the ballroom, weaving through conversations, feigning interest in artifacts, casting brief glances toward the exits.

  Their eyes found Lukas and Lurras across the chamber.

  Gael lifted his hand, running it smoothly along the lapel of his coat before tapping two fingers against his wrist.

  A signal. The hunt has begun.

  Lukas, standing rigid in his far-too-expensive silk suit, didn’t react outwardly—but he saw. His gaze sharpened just a fraction, his posture shifting.

  Lurras, standing beside him in his full runeplate, didn’t move at all—but Vess knew he had caught the cue.

  They would follow after a few minutes, trailing them if needed.

  Vess swallowed hard.

  One thing at a time.

  She would steal the Sealing Stone.

  She would get out of this alive.

  And then—then she would save Kino.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  But first, they had a vault to find.

  The hum of the auction faded behind them, replaced by the muffled hush of the manor’s deeper halls. The air was cooler here, the scent of candlewax and old stone settling over them like a heavy cloak.

  Then, of course, Gael had to open his mouth.

  "Alright, just follow my lead."

  Vess shot him a sideways look. "Gael—"

  Too late. He was already walking ahead, straight toward the pair of knights stationed at the next hall, slipping so effortlessly into his act that it might as well have been second nature.

  "Finally," he exhaled loudly, waving a hand in feigned exasperation. "You—yes, you. Where in Martyr’s name is the nearest sitting room? My sister is about to have another one of her fits, and I am not listening to her wail about her ‘delicate condition’ all evening."

  Vess nearly missed a step. My what?

  One of the knights, a broad man in ceremonial plate, shifted uncomfortably. "Uh—sitting room?"

  "Yes, sitting room," Gael drawled, rubbing his temple as if this was exhausting for him. "A place for her to lie down, breathe, dramatically contemplate her existence—whatever it is girls like her do when they have the vapors."

  Vess almost turned and left him for dead.

  Instead, she gave the guards a tight, irritated look, crossing her arms as if she were deeply inconvenienced by all of this. "If my dear brother had the barest hint of consideration, I wouldn’t be having an episode in the first place."

  Gael sighed dramatically. "Yes, yes, all my fault, I’m a terrible sibling, now do be useful and point us somewhere, would you?"

  The second knight exchanged a look with the first, clearly weighing whether this was worth their time.

  "Er... Third hall down," one finally muttered, motioning vaguely. "Should be empty."

  Gael clapped him on the shoulder like an old friend. "Saints bless you. If my father hears I let his precious daughter collapse in a hallway, you’ll be doing me a great service in avoiding another lecture."

  Vess forced a sharp exhale, bristling as she stormed past the guards first, like a woman who was truly done with this entire affair. Gael followed, his usual strut in full effect.

  Only when they had turned the corner, out of sight, did she finally mutter under her breath, "I hope you trip."

  Gael grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. "You’d catch me."

  Vess scoffed, shaking her head.

  The halls stretched before them, quiet and dimly lit, the voices from the auction fading into a distant murmur. It was strange—how quickly things had shifted. A few moments ago, she had felt like she was drowning. Like the weight of the past had wrapped around her throat and refused to let go.

  But here, in the hush of these empty corridors, with Gael walking beside her, grinning like they hadn’t just conned their way past two fully armored knights—

  For a second, she could pretend.

  Not forget. Never forget. But push it down. Bury it. Give herself one last moment of fun before everything came crashing down.

  "The vapors?" she muttered, arching a brow. "Really?"

  Gael smirked, tucking his hands behind his head as he walked, utterly pleased with himself. "You could’ve leaned into it a bit more, you know. Maybe thrown yourself onto the ground, started weeping. Really sell it.*"

  "Oh, I’m sorry," Vess shot back dryly. "I didn’t realize we were performing for the city’s grand stage."

  "A tragedy in five acts— 'Oh, my dear brother, I feel my very soul wilting! My heart cannot bear the weight of such betrayal!'" Gael clutched his chest, staggering dramatically against the wall.

  Vess shoved his shoulder. "Shut up."

  Gael grinned, unabashed. "You’d make a terrible noblewoman, you know."

  "And you’d make an insufferable one."

  Gael gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his heart. "I was born for this, Vess. Look at me." He gestured vaguely at himself—the rich navy coat, the high collar, the silver trim catching the candlelight just right. "The very picture of nobility."

  Vess snorted, shaking her head. "You look ridiculous."

  "You wound me."

  They turned down another hallway, their footsteps soft against the polished stone. The air was cooler here, untouched by the heat of too many bodies packed into a lavish room. For a moment, the job felt far away. The auction, the stone, Kino—Lanesh—all of it blurred at the edges.

  For a moment, she wasn’t Emberlin. She wasn’t Vess, the girl who had spent years sharpening herself into something cruel and unrelenting.

  She was just Vanessa, walking with Gael, laughing like none of it mattered.

  But it did.

  And the moment never lasted.

  She slowed, rolling her shoulders, shaking off the lingering warmth of amusement. "Come on," she murmured. "We should keep moving."

  Gael hummed, falling back in step beside her. "If you insist, dear sister."

  She didn’t shove him this time, only sighed.

  For a second, she let herself enjoy it.

  For a second, she let herself believe things were simple.

  But they weren’t, not really.

  Gael walked, hands in his pockets, his grin still playing at the edges of his lips. The warmth of laughter still echoed between them, a rare and delicate thing, fragile as glass.

  But it didn’t quite reach his chest.

  The night had been good, so far. Easy, even. The heist was going well, they were past the worst of it, and Vess—Vess had laughed.

  And that was rare.

  That was precious.

  He wanted to let her have it. Wanted to let himself have it.

  But the weight pressing against his ribs didn’t let up.

  He kept walking, but his fingers twitched, brushing against something soft, something fragile.

  The letter.

  A chill crawled up his spine.

  It was so small. Just an envelope, just parchment, ink, burnt edges. But it sat like a stone in his pocket, heavy with unspoken things, with the weight of a name Vess had known all along.

  His jaw clenched.

  He didn’t want to do this. Not here. Not now.

  She was smiling. Not much, just a ghost of it, just a brief flicker of something unguarded. If he spoke now, if he asked—

  That joy would die.

  But it had to be now.

  If he let it sit, if he let it fester, it would only rot between them, curdling into something worse.

  It wasn’t just the lie. It was what it meant.

  Vess had let him believe. Let him hate for her. He’d followed her rage, let himself be swept in it, let himself trust that what they were doing was right.

  But she had known.

  She had known Ores was innocent.

  His stomach twisted.

  The floor felt unsteady beneath him, like the ground itself had thinned to glass.

  Gael stopped walking.

  Vess took another step before she noticed. She turned, brow furrowing, the ease in her expression dimming just slightly. "What is it?"

  Gael swallowed. His hands curled into fists, then loosened.

  Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the envelope from his coat. The red and gold edges gleamed under the candlelight.

  He saw the moment she recognized it.

  Something in her eyes snapped.

  Gael’s throat was tight. "Vess—"

  He exhaled, shaking his head. He tried to force the words into something easy, something light, something that wouldn’t shatter everything between them.

  But it came out hoarse.

  "I can’t do this anymore. We need to talk about this."

  Vess went still.

  Gael saw it—the flicker of something raw in her eyes, something panicked. But just as quickly, it hardened.

  Her lips parted—then snapped shut.

  She inhaled sharply through her nose, expression smoothing into something sharp, something unreadable. "Not here."

  A warning. A threat.

  And just like that, whatever moment they’d had slipped through his fingers.

  Gael clenched his jaw, the weight of the letter still heavy in his palm.

  "Not here."

  Like she could just shove this aside, tuck it away like another part of her past she refused to face. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

  His fingers curled around the envelope, the edges crumpling slightly. “Vess—”

  Before he could say anything else, she moved.

  Fast. A sharp flick of her wrist, quicker than thought—her fingers snatched the letter from his grasp, pulling it free before he could tighten his hold.

  Gael blinked, caught off guard, watching as she smoothed the creased edges with careful, deliberate hands. Her jaw was tight, her breathing sharp, but her fingers—her fingers were gentle.

  Like it meant something.

  She turned away before he could press further, shoulders squaring, spine rigid. "We have a job to do," she said, voice steady, clipped. A tone that left no room for argument.

  But Gael wasn’t done.

  He had thought this job meant something more than coin. That they were cutting the throat of something rotten. But if Ores wasn’t the enemy, then what were they even doing? What was he fighting for? What was Vess fighting for?

  "You knew." His voice was quiet, but it wasn’t soft. "For how long?"

  Vess’ jaw tightened. “Not here, Gael.”

  "You knew," he said again, the realization sinking into his ribs, pressing against the air in his lungs. "And you didn’t tell me."

  Vess inhaled, slow and controlled, then turned back toward him with that same unreadable expression. “I did what I had to do.”

  The words were simple. Flat. A shield built from indifference, forged sharp and impenetrable.

  Gael scoffed, shaking his head. “Martyr’s breath, Vess, I trusted you.”

  That did it.

  A flicker of something—pain, anger, regret—crossed her face before she forced it back down. She set her shoulders, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, but no less firm.

  "And I trust you to drop this until the job is done.”

  Gael stared at her, frustration clawing at his ribs, at his throat. She’s walling up again. He had seen this before—this exact moment where she shut the door, barred the windows, refused to let anyone see inside.

  He wanted to shake her. To force her to feel something instead of locking it all away.

  But the job.

  The goddamn job.

  He exhaled sharply and looked away first, forcing his breathing steady, forcing himself to push it down. Not forever. Not forever. But for now.

  Vess watched him carefully, tension still coiled in her frame, then turned on her heel and started walking. “We need to find that vault.”

  Gael stared at the back of her head for a long moment before tucking the letter away and following.

  His chest felt tight. His breath uneven.

  Something between them had cracked tonight.

  And for the first time in a long time, Gael wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.

  The two of them walked quietly side by side for awhile until the soft humming in his pocket began to pick up its pace.

  The air shifted.

  The hum of essence thickened, the pulse of the sealing stone growing stronger with each step. Gael barely needed to check his coat pocket to know—the stone was leading them now, its runes flickering like a heartbeat.

  He moved on instinct, boots barely making a sound against the polished floors. Vess matched his pace, her silence a contrast to the sharp words they’d exchanged moments before. No more tension. No more arguments. Now, they were professionals.

  They passed through the main corridor, drifting past groups of murmuring nobles and house attendants too preoccupied with their own dealings to pay them much mind. The energy in the manor was shifting, the buzz of the auction rippling outward, creating blind spots in the security. If they moved now, quickly, cleanly, they had a window.

  Gael cut a glance toward Vess, but she was already ahead of him, eyes flicking from door to door, reading the manor like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

  She caught the shift first.

  “There,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, but he felt it before he saw it.

  A grand hallway, its entrance framed with carved ivory pillars. Lanterns burned low along its walls, casting long shadows against the gold-leafed trim. And at the end, a set of tall, mahogany doors.

  But it wasn’t the doors that stopped them.

  It was the painting.

  A vast, oil-brushed portrait stretched high above the entrance. Lanesh was unmistakable at its center, younger, clad in polished knight’s armor, his expression sharp and proud. He wasn’t alone. Three others stood beside him—siblings, Gael realized. Two brothers, one sister, all bearing the same patrician features, the same look of wealth and power. Behind them, their parents stood in full ceremonial dress, watching from the canvas like specters of the past.

  Gael felt the stone pulse harder.

  He exhaled through his nose. "This is it."

  Vess’ eyes lingered on the painting a second longer before she gave a sharp nod. No words. Just confirmation.

  Gael turned to her. “Head back. Let Lukas and Lurras know we found the vault.”

  She didn’t hesitate this time, pivoting on her heel to go—but something in Gael’s gut twisted.

  Not just instinct. Something else.

  The marble beneath them felt off. A shift. A whisper of something misplaced.

  Vess took a step.

  Gael moved before he could think.

  For once it wasn’t a push—it was a pull. He reached forward with his hand, not outward, but inward, gripping at the very air in front of her with his essence and yanking it toward him. A gust surged past her, dragging her backward mid-step.

  She stumbled—right into his arms.

  The motion wasn’t perfect, a little rougher than he intended, but it worked.

  For a split second, his mind flickered back to a moment in Jesarin’s markets—a young bachelor with his girl on his arm, flicking his wrist with practiced ease. Gael had watched as the man whispered something under his breath, and the air itself had answered, gently pulling the girl toward him, into a playful embrace. A trick of charm, of finesse, control over the wind so light it felt like an invitation rather than a command.

  It had clearly stuck with him.

  Not just the technique—but the ease of it. The sheer grace of it all.

  Gael had never been able to do that before today.

  His wind had always been force, bursts, explosions—never something delicate, never something controlled enough to draw something in rather than send it flying.

  But now?

  Now he had just saved their asses with it.

  “What the fuck—” she hissed, tensing under his grip, ready to fight him off.

  Gael didn’t let go. He just lifted his other hand and pointed.

  The tile she’d nearly stepped on—only an inch past her boot—shifted.

  It depressed, just slightly.

  Gael exhaled through his nose and extended a careful breeze, pushing at the air above it. The tile sank further. Then clicked lightly.

  A trap.

  Not an alarm, not yet, but a deadfall. A trigger that, if pressed fully, would lock them inside the chamber.

  The tile slowly sank back into its usual position after a few seconds.

  Vess’ breathing was sharp, shallow. Gael felt it against his chest as she remained pressed to him. Her hand, gripping his coat, tightened—then she slowly, carefully, stepped back.

  She didn’t say anything.

  She didn’t have to.

  Gael smirked, forcing a casual tone despite his pounding heart. “You’re welcome.”

  Vess’ glare was sharp enough to cut, but she didn’t pull away immediately. Her breathing was still uneven, but she forced it steady, shoulders squaring as she regained control.

  Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she dropped into a crouch.

  Gael watched as her fingers ghosted over the edge of the tile, hovering just above the fine cracks that separated it from the rest of the marble. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as she studied the minute shifts in stone, the faint glimmer of a rune barely visible beneath the surface.

  Lanesh wasn’t just paranoid. He was prepared.

  "Not just a trigger," she muttered under her breath, running a knuckle along the edge. "It’s linked. This whole floor could be rigged."

  Gael clenched his jaw. Of course it was. The portrait hadn’t just been for show—it was a warning. The past held dangers. Buried secrets. That’s what Lanesh had said in his speech.

  He glanced up at the painting again, taking in the way Lanesh’s siblings stood just slightly apart from him. Three siblings.

  Three potential heirs.

  How many were still alive?

  Vess exhaled sharply, drawing his attention back. She rose smoothly, stepping carefully over the tile she had nearly triggered.

  "Stay put," she ordered, voice low but firm.

  Gael arched a brow. “Really? You think I’m just gonna—”

  “Yes.” Her stare didn’t waver. “Go slow. If there’s one trap, there are more. I’ll get the cavalry.”

  Gael let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders.

  “Be quick,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the portrait. "These guys give me the creeps."

  Vess gave a curt nod. Then she was gone, disappearing down the corridor with the same careful precision she used in a fight—every step measured, deliberate.

  Gael flexed his fingers, feeling the last remnants of essence still tingling against his skin.

  She was right. He needed to go slow.

  This vault wasn’t just hidden.

  It was guarded.

  Gael exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His usual instinct would have been to press forward, quick and decisive—but he wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Not with traps set this carefully.

  Instead of rushing, he let his essence settle, drawing it back into his core before exhaling again, this time releasing it in a whisper of wind. A controlled stream, barely more than a breeze, but one he could feel.

  He crouched, dragging his fingers lightly through the air, guiding it forward in a slow ripple over the floor. The wind skimmed across the marble, its movements subtle but distinct.

  There—a shift. The way the current bent and dragged at an unnatural angle just beyond the first plate.

  Pressure trap.

  Gael let out a low hum, keeping his touch light, trailing his magic along the edges of the room, feeling for breaks, for hidden triggers. The wind curled around the massive portrait in the center—and caught.

  Not on a frame. Not on a seam. On something thinner—something hidden.

  Gael rose carefully, stepping forward, keeping his movements measured as he ran his palm along the edges of the painting. His fingers grazed a notch.

  A mechanism.

  Of course.

  His eyes traced the massive canvas, now more of a door than a piece of art. The portrait of Lanesh and his siblings stood tall, twenty feet high, the painted figures watching with cold, noble eyes.

  Gael smirked faintly. “No offense, Lanesh, but I like what’s behind this better.”

  He tightened his grip and pulled.

  The entire painting groaned, hinges grinding against decades of dust and secrecy.

  Slowly, inch by inch, the vault revealed itself.

  Lukas swirled his drink absently, letting his gaze sweep across the grand chamber. It felt heavier now.

  Not in the way that a crowded room usually did, not in the way tension built before a fight—but in the weight of the people present. Like their combined essence could flatten mere mortals.

  These weren’t just highborn lords playing at power. These were knights and magi of renown, figures that made even Lurras wary.

  And that was what unsettled Lukas the most.

  He had never seen Lurras fidget before today. He wasn’t the type to hesitate, to scan a room twice—but he was doing it now. His gaze flicked over shoulders, traced guild insignias, lingered on the ceremonial etchings woven into robes and plated armor. He was picking people out. Recognizing them.

  Tournament champions. Veteran duelists. War magi.

  Lurras had probably stood in the arena against half the people here. Fought with or against them in the Grand Tournament, on the proving grounds of their order, in the quiet clashes of those who enforced Sacyr’s law by blade and spell.

  And they were all here.

  Lukas’ fingers twitched against the rim of his glass. “You’re more on edge than usual.”

  Lurras didn’t glance at him. Didn’t even react.

  “Should I be?” Lukas pressed, voice low.

  Lurras exhaled through his nose, slow, measured. His shoulders didn’t tense—but Lukas could see the way he braced himself.

  “You’d be a fool not to be.”

  Lukas let his gaze drift back to the gathering, feeling the weight of it all. Maybe Gael had the right idea, sneaking off to dig through ancient vaults.

  He took a sip of his drink—then stiffened.

  Because someone was coming. Straight for them.

  A man in rich magi robes, lined with delicate golden filigree, the embroidery curling into elaborate sigils. Wealth dripped off him, heavy rings on each finger, a glimmering brooch at his collar. His steps were steady but loose—the sway of someone pleasantly drunk, comfortable in the space he owned.

  Lukas felt Lurras’ posture shift.

  Not hostile. Not defensive. Just braced.

  “Lurras Blackthorne?” the man boomed, voice thick with drink and familiarity. “The ever-elusive bastard himself.”

  Lurras didn’t stiffen. He didn’t bristle. He simply inclined his head slightly in greeting. “Norren.”

  Lukas blinked. The name meant nothing to him, but the way Lurras said it—

  Like it wasn’t just a name. Like it was a weight. A tether to something long past.

  Norren grinned, clapping a hand on Lurras’ armored shoulder. “Martyr’s mercy, it’s been years! I thought you had vanished into legend. Not that you’d suddenly start showing your face at events like this.”

  Lurras said nothing. He simply shifted uncomfortably adjusting his heavy gauntlets.

  Norren’s eyes drifted, finally landing on him.

  “And who is this?” The magi’s lips curled, intrigued. “Didn’t take you for the mentoring type.”

  Lukas hesitated—just a fraction of a second too long.

  Lurras filled the silence for him. “My squire.”

  Norren blinked. Then, to Lukas’ utter shock, he laughed.

  Loud, hearty, disbelieving.

  “The great Lurras Blackthorne,” he said, shaking his head. “You? Taking a squire? After all these years?”

  Lukas glanced at Lurras, waiting for any flicker of a tell.

  There was none.

  Lurras simply met Norren’s gaze, unwavering. “Even I can change, Norren.”

  Norren let out another chuckle, shaking his head, raising his drink in a loose toast. “Then seven hells, maybe the world really is ending.”

  Lukas forced a polite smile.

  It wasn’t a bad cover, but he was finding out just how much he hated being the one playing the role for once.

  Norren swirled his glass with lazy amusement, watching Lukas like he was some fascinating curiosity. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you, boy?”

  Lukas straightened, keeping his expression carefully neutral. He didn’t like being looked at like that.

  Norren chuckled at his silence, shaking his head before shifting his attention back to Lurras. “A squire, Thorne? You really have changed. What’s next? A bloody noble title?”

  Lurras gave the barest flicker of a smirk, but there was no warmth in it.

  “Doubtful.”

  Norren laughed, raising his glass in mock toast. “That’s more like it.” He turned back to Lukas, grinning wide. “You should’ve seen him in his prime, boy. Hell, maybe you have. The stories still go around, don’t they? Impossible to get a damn spell off with Thorne focusing on you”

  Lukas tilted his head, careful. Curious, but not too curious.

  Norren didn’t wait for an answer. He was enjoying himself too much.

  “I fought against your master, you know,” he said, like it was some grand revelation. “Years ago, back when the Grand Tournament still had teeth.”

  Lurras exhaled sharply. “You lost.”

  Norren barked a laugh, loud and unbothered. “Barely.”

  Lurras didn’t correct him.

  Lukas felt the pulse of something unsaid between them.

  Norren waved a hand dramatically. “It was a hell of a match, though. Thorne’s squad was brutal—straightforward, efficient, the kind that didn’t waste time on flourishes or spectacle. Mine? We were clever. Played the angles, used every trick we could to shake them up.”

  He leaned in slightly, as if revealing some grand secret.

  “Didn’t work, obviously.”

  Lukas smirked despite himself.

  Norren gestured loosely at Lurras, grinning. “Thorne was a nightmare. You’d think you had him on the ropes—then he’d hit you so damn hard you’d wake up three days later wondering if it was all a dream.”

  Lukas flicked a glance at Lurras. “Sounds about right.”

  Lurras didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

  Norren chuckled, taking another sip of his drink. “And he—” He pointed at Lurras, wagging a finger. “—never took a damn squire. Not once. Refused. Didn’t trust anyone to keep up with him. Didn’t believe anyone was worth the time.”

  He grinned at Lukas.

  “So you must be something.”

  Lukas met his gaze, unwavering. “Guess we’ll see.”

  Norren laughed again. “Damn right we will.”

  Lurras shifted, straightening slightly. A subtle but clear tell.

  Enough.

  Lukas caught it immediately.

  Norren, still caught up in his own storytelling, didn’t.

  “We should move,” Lurras said, voice firm but not sharp.

  Norren blinked, then smirked knowingly. “Ah, don’t tell me you’ve lost your patience in old age, Thorne.”

  Lurras didn’t take the bait.

  “Enjoy your evening, Norren.”

  Norren snorted, lifting his glass in mock farewell. “Aye, aye. Go do whatever it is you’re skulking around for.” He flashed Lukas a final grin. “Hope you survive your apprenticeship, boy. You’re in for hell.”

  Lukas held his smirk, but didn’t reply.

  And with that, they turned, moving away through the gilded halls.

  Toward Gael and Vess.

  ___________________________________________________

  Lurras moved first.

  Not a word, not a signal—just a shift in his stance, the faintest twitch of his fingers. Lukas barely had time to register the change before they were both moving, slipping through the grand hallways with silent, precise steps.

  The warmth of the manor’s lanterns seemed colder now. The laughter and idle conversation from the auction floor faded behind them, swallowed by the growing weight in Lukas’ chest.

  Something was wrong.

  They followed the path Gael and Vess had taken, their movements measured, restrained—until they smelt it.

  Smoke curled at the edges of the hallway, the scent sharp and acrid. The marble floor still pulsed with residual heat, the outline of a fireblast scorched into its pristine surface. Then—a sharp crack of metal against flesh.

  Vess.

  Lukas bolted.

  His boots barely touched the polished floors, storm essence coiling in his limbs as he surged forward. Lurras was beside him, moving with the kind of lethal grace that made him impossible to track.

  They turned the corner just in time to see her fall.

  A flash of motion—a knight’s gauntlet slamming into Vess’ face.

  Her body crumpled, hitting the ground in a heap, the last embers of her flame flickering out against the marble.

  Lukas’ stomach twisted.

  Another figure emerged from the portrait room.

  A second knight. Fully armored. Moving with practiced ease.

  And in his grip—

  Gael.

  His feet dangled inches from the ground, his coat bunched in the knight’s fist, fingers clawing at the steel gauntlet locked around his throat.

  He wasn’t struggling anymore.

  Just dangling.

  Helpless.

  Lukas saw red.