The sight of Gael—feet dangling, throat caught in an armored grip—sent something cold and sharp slicing through his chest. His breath locked in his ribs, his pulse hammering so hard it blurred into instinct. Essence surged through his veins, a volatile mix of storm and shadow, sparking along his knuckles in erratic flickers of black-tinged lightning.
He closed the distance in a blink.
The knight barely shifted, his stance adjusting with the kind of confidence that came from years of knowing his armor could withstand anything a lesser fighter could throw at him. He didn’t even let go of Gael.
Instead, he casually leveled his sword at Lukas’ chest.
"Don’t waste your life, boy." The knight sneered, his grip on Gael tightening just enough to make him choke. "I don’t make it a habit to kill squires if I don’t have to."
Lukas didn’t stop.
His feet skidded across the marble as he twisted past the blade’s edge, slipping into the knight’s blind spot before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.
He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t.
Shadow gathered at his knuckles, coiling in a tight spiral at the very tip, just like he had practiced the night before.
Then he struck.
Crack.
The impact sent a dull shock up Lukas’ arm, his fist sinking into the knight’s jaw with bone-crunching force. At that same instant, the black lightning coiled in his knuckles detonated outward, a jagged arc of energy racing up the man’s skull and searing a smoking line into the ceiling above.
The knight’s body went rigid.
For a split second, he hovered between consciousness and collapse.
Then his sword clattered uselessly onto the marble as his gauntleted grip released Gael.
Lukas moved faster, catching Gael just before he could hit the floor.
Gael collapsed to his knees, his breath rasping, hands clawing weakly at his throat. The world spun. His vision blurred, black spots eating at the edges as his lungs fought to pull in air.
"Just breathe, Gael. We’ve got you—"
Lukas barely got the words out before something massive and unseen struck him in the back like a battering ram.
Crack.
The force sent him hurtling forward, his ribs slamming against the cold marble wall. Pain flared up his spine, stealing his breath in a sharp gasp. He twisted with the momentum, rolling to face his attacker—just in time to see the knight ripping the marble floor apart with sheer force.
The man stood tall, runed gauntlets pulsing with the deep ochre glow of earth essence, his fingers curling like a puppeteer as slabs of stone tore free from the floor in jagged bursts.
A second chunk hurtled toward Lukas. He barely had a second to react.
Storm essence poured over his body.
Lightning coiled in his muscles, sharpening the world into a blur of motion. He dropped into a roll, dodging the stone by a fraction of an inch. It slammed into the wall behind him, splintering on impact.
He hit the floor in a crouch, already preparing to spring forward—
But the marble below him shifted.
The stone itself came alive, surging upward in a liquid, unnatural motion. Lukas barely had time to register what was happening before thick tendrils of marble snapped shut around his wrist like a vice.
He yanked hard, but it was locked tight.
The knight lowered his outstretched hand, his expression a mix of satisfaction and relief. He strode forward, each step deliberate, his armored boots clicking against the marble.
"Stay down, boy." His voice was calm, but his eyes shifted to his companions crumpled form. "I don't know how you took out Tavin, but It’s over."
He never saw Lurras move.
But Lukas did.
A shadow blurred behind the knight—impossibly fast, impossibly quiet.
Lurras’ boot collided with the man’s spine, the force of the blow exploding outward in a shockwave of compressed air.
The runes on his greaves blazed green. The very air around him folded and pulsed, amplifying his strike with the raw power of manipulated wind currents.
The knight didn’t crumple. He flew.
He slammed into the far pillar with a sickening crunch, stone dust billowing from the impact. His body hit the ground hard, and for the first time, he didn’t move.
Lurras straightened, exhaling through his nose. "That was sloppy," he muttered, shaking his head.
Lukas finally sucked in a breath, half in relief, half in lingering pain. He was still stuck. "Yeah, well," he grunted, straining against the marble holding him in place, "maybe give me a second before you start critiquing."
Lurras didn’t even glance at him. He was already turning to the last knight standing—the one Lukas had knocked out cold.
And the man was stirring.
Lurras took a measured step forward, his movements precise, deliberate—the kind of calm that only came from knowing exactly how a fight would end before it even began.
The knight Lukas had struck was still stirring, groggy but not gone. His gauntleted hand flexed weakly, reaching for the sword he had dropped.
He never made it.
Lurras drew his own blade in a single smooth motion, the air itself shivering as its edge left the sheath. No flourish. No wasted movement. Just an executioner unsheathing the tool of his craft.
Fshhhp.
A whisper of wind, so precise it was nearly imperceptible.
The marble gripping Lukas’ wrist split apart in a perfect line, severed cleanly down to the very grain. Lukas yanked his arm free, shaking off the last remnants of dust as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"Martyr’s mercy," he breathed, flexing his hand.
But Lurras wasn’t listening. He was already moving.
The downed knight lifted his head, just in time to see Lurras closing the distance. He scrambled back onto one knee, his breath ragged, his body trying to recover from the devastating strike he had already taken.
"Stay back—"
Lurras thrust his blade forward, but he wasn’t aiming to kill.
He was aiming to suffocate.
A pulse of air shot forward, slamming into the knight’s chest, forcing his breath out in one sharp exhale. The man gasped, his body locking up. The air around him stilled, thickened—as if the very oxygen had been stolen from the space he occupied.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. His lungs fought for breath that no longer existed.
Lurras watched dispassionately, his grip on his sword unwavering. "You knights of Lanesh rely too much on your armor," he muttered, tilting his head slightly. "You forget what the body needs most."
The knight shook, his hands clawing at his throat, his vision blurring from lack of air.
"That’s enough."
Lukas’ voice cut through the tension. The words weren’t soft. They weren’t uncertain. They held an edge—a warning.
Lurras turned slightly, regarding Lukas with something unreadable in his gaze.
The older knight exhaled sharply through his nose, then flicked his wrist.
The air returned.
The downed knight collapsed onto all fours, choking down breath after breath like a drowning man breaking the surface.
Lurras wiped his blade against his glove, indifferent. "He’ll live," he said simply. "Whether he deserves to is another matter."
Lukas watched the knight sputter for air, his face dark with something unreadable.
He had felt it.
For just a moment, watching Lurras steal the very breath from a man’s body, he had seen something—
A reflection.
Lukas walked up to the wheezing knight without a word. The man was still clawing at the air, fighting for breath even after Lurras had released him. His body was slumped, his limbs shaking, the sheer panic of suffocation still lingering in his muscles.
Lukas didn’t hesitate.
He knelt beside him, placing a steady palm against the knight’s helm.
"Goodnight."
A crackling surge of black-tinged lightning pulsed from Lukas’ fingertips, sinking into the metal plating. The knight convulsed, his body stiffening for half a second—before he slumped over, completely unconscious.
Lukas rose, shaking off the last remnants of essence still sparking along his knuckles. The fight was over.
But the moment he turned, he heard the slow clap of gloved hands.
Metal on marble.
Lukas stiffened, his storm-enhanced reflexes already screaming at him to move, to prepare—
A figure stepped forward, not in a rush. Confident. Measured. Like a man walking into a room he already owned.
Barren Lanesh.
Behind him, a knight in full ceremonial runeplate and—
Lukas' stomach dropped.
A boy. No—a squire.
The same squire who had stood at the edge of the auction stage. The same boy who Vess had locked eyes on before she disappeared.
The same boy who looked just enough like her to make Lukas uneasy.
Lanesh smirked. “Well done,” he mused, his voice carrying easily through the stone halls. “I heard you were good, Thorne, but it seems they were underselling you.”
Lukas’ jaw tightened.
Behind him, Lurras shifted.
It wasn’t a big movement. Not a step. Not a sound.
But the air itself seemed to tense.
Lurras stopped pacing. Stopped playing at nonchalance.
Instead, he lowered his stance.
It was different from the fights Lukas had seen before. Not a basic guard, not the way knights typically stood before a duel. This was—calculated. A position meant to control space, meant to dictate the flow of combat before a single blow was exchanged.
Lukas didn’t have a name for it.
But Lanesh did.
The noble’s sharp eyes flicked over Lurras, and for the first time, his expression sobered—just slightly.
"An Air Kahn, is it? I thought you were better known for your shadow affinity"
Lukas felt the weight of the moment settle over them, the space between both men suffocatingly still.
Then—
Her head rang.
A dull, pulsing ache, deep in her skull, sending painful ripples down her spine. The taste of copper filled her mouth, sticky and warm.
Her lip was split.
She could feel the slow trickle of blood against her chin as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees.
The marble beneath her was cool—cold, almost soothing compared to the heat already gathering in her chest.
Her vision swam, she saw the scene laid out before her in a light haze.
Lurras. Standing between Lanesh and another knight, his posture different—tense.
Gael. Still on the floor, gasping, clutching at his throat.
Lukas. Fists clenched, shifting his weight, ready to fight.
Then she saw him and her breath stilled.
Kino.
Wearing his colors.
It felt like being backhanded all over again.
She barely felt the essence leaking from her fingers, the heat simmering in the air around her.
But this time—this time, she remembered.
Lanesh had a fire affinity.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
She just had to wait.
Let him try to cast a spell at Lurras, and when he does—
She would take it.
And she would burn him alive with his own fire.
Vess forced herself to breathe.
It was harder than it should have been. Every muscle in her body screamed to move, to act, to do something—but she stayed still, kneeling at the edge of the confrontation, her fingers curled into the silk of her dress, nails pressing against her palms.
This wasn’t her moment. Not yet.
She had to wait. Had to watch.
Across from her, Lurras exhaled slowly, his breath measured, precise. A man who understood tempo—not just in combat, but in presence. His stance never wavered, his footing as steady as stone, as if the grand hall of Lanesh’s estate were no different from a battlefield or a tournament ground. He did not adjust to the space; the space adjusted to him. Even outnumbered, even surrounded, he looked unmoved.
Vess had never seen him fight like this before.
She’d heard the stories, of course—every kid growing up in Jesarin had. Lurras Thorne, the Black Gale. The man whose presence on the tournament grounds forced others to rethink their entire strategy before the match even began.
And here he was, positioned against one of the deadliest men in Jesarin, with that man's personal guard standing at his side.
Lanesh tilted his head, studying Lurras the way a predator sizes up another—one it isn't certain it can kill. His smirk hadn’t faded, but something about his posture had shifted—not outright fear, but caution. Recognition.
"Should I be honored, Thorne?" he mused, lifting one ring-laden hand. "That you came all this way for me?"
Lurras didn’t answer.
He let the silence stretch. Long. Weighted. Heavy enough that even the air itself felt thinner. Lanesh wasn’t controlling this moment anymore—Lurras was. He was setting the tempo, letting the weight of expectation coil around them like a noose before the first blow had even been thrown.
Lanesh’s fingers twitched. One of his knights took a half-step forward, just slightly out of position—
Lurras moved.
Not fast. Not yet.
His weight shifted, gliding over the polished marble like a breeze curling through an open window. Not an attack, not a charge—just movement. A quiet adjustment, a widening of his stance, a roll of his shoulders as though he were testing the air itself. A swordsman measuring the wind before the storm.
Vess sucked in a breath.
Lanesh noticed too. He exhaled through his nose, his smirk sharpening, but his muscles tensed—just barely.
"Ah. You’re playing that game. Fine, old man, let’s make this interesting—"
The knight beside him moved first, stepping into the space Lurras had left wide open.
Before Vess even processed what had happened, the knight was crashing into the far wall.
Lurras hadn't even drawn his sword.
His hand, wrapped in barely visible currents of air, had simply redirected the knight’s momentum, letting the man’s own movement work against him. A sidestep so minimal, so calculated, that the poor bastard never had a chance to recover before he hit stone. His own weight had been his downfall. His own charge had been his undoing.
Lurras didn’t move to follow up. Didn’t even glance at him. He had already dismissed him as a threat.
The impact sent a pulse through the room.
Lanesh barely flicked his gaze over. He didn't look concerned. If anything—he looked amused.
"Well, well," he muttered, his tone slow, deliberate. "You do still have it."
He exhaled sharply.
The air sizzled.
The space around him warped with heat, a visible distortion in the air as fire essence surged to his command.
Vess’ heartbeat slammed against her ribs.
Now.
This was the moment she had been waiting for.
She could feel it radiating from him, pouring from his skin like a slow-building storm—powerful, hot, unrelenting.
She let it swell.
And just as the flames curled at his fingertips—
She took it from him.
She pulled it in, greedily, hungrily, letting the fire that should have been his become hers instead. Lines of bright red and orange essence siphoning through the air towards her.
And Lanesh—Lanesh felt it.
His smirk faltered just a little.
Just enough.
Vess rose to her feet.
And she smiled.
"It’s been a while, you piece of trash." She let the words drip from her tongue, slow, deliberate. Then, with a sharp inhale, she added, "This is a gift from Jericho."
Lanesh’s smirk twitched—just for a fraction of a second.
Good. He should be afraid.
Vess lifted her hand, feeling the stolen heat thrumming beneath her skin, raw and waiting. She could barely contain it—it wanted out, it wanted to be shaped.
She shut her eyes. She pictured him.
Her father’s voice.
The cadence.
The flick of his wrist.
The fire in his eyes when he cast.
She didn’t just speak the words—she roared them.
"Ignis Converto Telum Percute!"
The spell burned through her throat, scorching the air around her, and for a breath—nothing happened.
Then the heat exploded.
Tiny glinting daggers of flame burst into existence, swirling around her, shifting like embers caught in a storm wind. Hundreds of them, razor-thin, burning red and gold and furious.
It wasn’t as vast, as grand, as the ones her father had conjured.
But it was hers.
Vess exhaled sharply, thrusting her hand forward. The daggers surged, the space between her and Lanesh filled with a tide of molten blades.
And for the first time—he looked afraid.
Vess liked that.
Then she heard it.
"Aqua Aegis Undarum Custos!"
The air shimmered in front of Lanesh. Then, just before the first dagger struck, a translucent barrier of rippling water burst into existence, curving around him in a perfect arc.
The moment the daggers touched the surface, they didn’t extinguish.
They fed it.
The water burned. The flames curled into the spell, absorbed and redirected, the shield pulsing with newfound energy. Instead of failing—it thrived.
Vess’ breath hitched. That wasn’t Lanesh’s magic.
She followed the path of the spell.
And then she saw him.
Kino.
Standing at Lanesh’s side, his hand outstretched, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
Her brother had just saved their father’s killer.
The heat in her veins turned to ice.
Kino just stared at her, his brows drawn together, his lips slightly parted—as if finally seeing her. Really seeing her. His gaze swept over her face, her stance, the shimmering distortion of heat rippling off her skin.
He looked confused.
"Why the FUCK would you save Lanesh after what he did to Dad, Ki?!"
The words ripped from her throat, raw and furious. Her control slipped—the air around her warped, distorting everything in waves of heat. The walls, the chandeliers, the marble floor—all of it shimmered, curling under the force of her essence.
Kino froze.
His lips parted, his breathing shallow. The barrier between them flickered. The final embers of her fire-forged daggers sank into the pulsing shield of water, hissing and steaming as the spell fought to hold.
His mouth moved.
"Nesa...?"
A whisper. A name she hadn’t heard in years.
He took a step forward.
Then stopped.
An armored arm cut across his path.
"Your sister died that night, boy." Lanesh’s voice was steady, commanding. He didn’t even spare Vess a glance. "Ignore her lies."
Vess’ pulse pounded in her skull. No. No, no, no.
Kino hardened instantly. The hesitation—gone. His jaw locked, his shoulders squared. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Reflexive. Conditioned.
"Yes, Ser."
The words landed like a hammer in her ribs.
He never looked away from her. But he still took a step back.
Lanesh stepped forward.
Vess' fingers twitched. She was going to burn him alive.
Then—wind roared.
A violent torrent of air erupted behind Lanesh, snapping his head forward before slamming him face-first into the ground.
His runeplate screeched against the marble, sparks skidding in his wake as he slid across the floor.
"Only a fool ignores a wolf."
The words cut through the charged silence, measured, effortless.
Lurras stepped forward, blade drawn.
The motion was impossibly fast. The steel rang—a single clear note that hummed through the grand hall.
Lanesh skidded across the polished floor, nearly colliding into Kino.
Kino barely twisted out of the way, his boots scraping over the marble. Sparks flared as runic sigils along his armor clashed against the polished stone, leaving a jagged trail of essence burns in his wake. The sound grated against Vess’ ears, like metal groaning under pressure.
Her heartbeat was thunder.
Lurras exhaled, shifting his stance, blade steady. "And only a dead man underestimates me."
A low groan echoed through the hall as Lanesh pushed himself up, the metal of his gauntlets scraping against marble. His lips twisted into something between amusement and irritation.
"Hmph." He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers, his essence shifting. “Alright, Thorne. You had your free hit.”
Lurras didn’t move.
Didn’t even acknowledge Lanesh’s attempt at bravado.
Which only made it worse.
Lanesh’s smirk twitched. Then, he struck.
The air between them snapped into a blinding streak of motion. Lanesh was fast. Faster than any noble Vess had ever seen fight before. His footwork was sharp, each step landing with purposeful aggression, not just speed. His runeplate flared—fire bursting to life at his heels, propelling him forward.
But Lurras…
Lurras simply wasn’t there.
A flicker. A ripple in the air. Lanesh’s strike cut through an empty space where Lurras had been standing a heartbeat ago.
Then a shift—Lurras reappeared a half-step to the side, pivoting, already inside Lanesh’s guard.
Vess barely processed the movement before Lurras’ blade sliced up—not to cut, but to disrupt. Lanesh’s momentum buckled. His own movement turned against him, his lunge suddenly unstable—
And that’s when Kino moved.
"Aqua Aegis Uruma!"
Kino’s palm struck the air between them, and suddenly the space warped, bending like glass under pressure.
A shield spell. Reactive. Fast.
Lurras’ blade scraped against the translucent barrier, stopped just short of Lanesh’s throat.
The two locked eyes for a fraction of a second.
And Lanesh grinned.
"Attaboy, Kino."
Then he exhaled.
The air around him exploded—a fiery shockwave rolling outward, pushing both Lurras and Kino back. Lurras braced, digging his boots into the marble. But Kino—Kino flew.
"Tch." Lurras flicked his wrist, twisting his blade.
Vess barely caught the shift of wind before a controlled gust burst from his free hand, catching Kino mid-air just enough to alter his trajectory. Instead of colliding with the far wall, he skidded backward on his feet, landing hard but upright.
Kino gasped, wide-eyed. He hadn’t expected to still be standing.
Neither had Lanesh.
Vess didn’t waste time savoring the moment.
She whipped her head around, scanning for Gael, for Lukas—for anything that told her they weren’t about to get cornered.
But they were gone.
A pit formed in her stomach.
"Where—"
Then she heard it.
A single, sharp whistle.
She turned just in time to see Gael standing at the mouth of a side corridor, grinning like a bastard.
Her breath hitched.
Because he opened his coat.
And inside—tucked securely into his inner pocket, glowing faintly beneath the folds of fabric—were both sealing stone fragments.
He had them.
Lukas was beside him, already moving, already motioning to her. A sharp, quick hand gesture—the one they had practiced if things went sideways.
Escape. Now.
That was always the plan. If they got caught, if the heat got too high, they wouldn’t fight. They’d take the prize and run.
Vess felt her teeth grind.
Kino was still on his feet, eyes darting between her and Lanesh. Lanesh himself was adjusting his stance, heat rippling off his form in sharp bursts. Lurras was still in control, but for how long?
She had seconds.
"Vanessa, leave now!" Lurras hissed as he locked blades with Lanesh.
Her hands curled into fists.
She wasn’t done here, not by a long shot.
But she wasn’t stupid, either.
She turned and ran after her crew.
Gael’s heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse a roaring drum that drowned out everything but the pounding of his boots against the marble floor.
They ran.
Vess now ahead of him, her crimson dress torn at the hem, her breath ragged. Lukas behind, heavier footfalls, the occasional curse as he pushed his aching body to keep pace.
Gael grinned, exhilaration crackling through his veins.
They did it. Both sealing stone fragments—right there, tucked inside his coat.
Everything had gone to shit, but they weren’t just alive—they were winning.
The corridors blurred past, towering windows casting long ribbons of golden light across the polished floors.
Behind them, distant shouting. The manor was stirring.
Gael exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on the artifacts. The hum of the sealing stones pulsed through his bones. He wasn’t just carrying them—he could feel them. The essence within, shifting, swirling, reacting to his presence.
He felt weightless.
The grand doors loomed ahead. They wouldn’t make it out through the front—Lanesh’s forces would already be moving to block it.
"Left—here!" Gael barked, cutting hard toward a side passage.
A smaller hall, darker, leading toward the back rooms of the estate.
Vess skidded around the corner first, nearly colliding with an enforcer. She didn’t hesitate—one step, two steps, pivot—then her knee slammed into his gut. The man crumpled, gasping for air as she vaulted over his body.
"Shit—we need a way out!" Lukas growled, glancing over his shoulder.
Gael felt the opening before he saw it. A ripple of wind curling beneath a set of shuttered windows. The faintest draft seeping in.
"There!" He thrust a hand forward, blasting the wooden shutters open with a burst of air.
Vess didn't even break stride—she leapt, catching the ledge, scrambling up. Gael reached out, lifting his arm—and suddenly, the wind responded.
A smooth undercurrent, perfectly controlled, surged beneath her feet, lifting her effortlessly onto the rooftop.
For a split second, Gael just stared.
He had meant to help, sure—but not like that.
That wasn't just a lucky gust. That was precision. Strength. A feat that would have been impossible for him just a few months ago.
Something inside him soared.
The sealing stones. The catalyst.
This power—he could feel it sharpening him, drawing out something more.
Gael grinned.
"Not bad, huh?" He planted a foot against the wall, pushed off—and with a controlled burst, he vaulted onto the rooftop beside her.
Lukas grumbled, shaking his head. "Show-off."
"Don’t be jealous just ‘cause I make it look good."
Lukas did not make it look good. He climbed like a half-drowned bear, but once he was up, Gael didn’t wait—they ran.
Jesarin unfolded beneath them, sprawling alleys and winding rooftops bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon.
They moved fast, darting across the city skyline, vaulting over gaps, ducking beneath overhangs. The rooftops weren’t empty—occasional workers, chimney-sweeps, startled pigeons. More than a few enforcers below caught sight of them.
Gael ignored them.
They were free.
Lanesh's men would scramble, but they'd already lost their moment.
Gael had never felt so alive.
He was unstoppable.
Then, because Martyr forbid he ever pass up a chance to be a menace, he spotted something familiar.
A street vendor.
Not just any vendor.
The spiced wine merchant from a few weeks earlier.
Gael’s grin widened.
"One sec." He twisted mid-stride, flicking a burst of wind toward the hanging sign above the stall.
The fabric snapped upward, a perfect flutter of distraction.
The vendor yelped, fumbling with the sign.
Gael snatched three cups from the counter.
By the time the man looked up, Gael was already tossing one to Vess, another to Lukas, and downing his own mid-run.
Lukas nearly choked on his. "You really cant help yourself can you?"
Vess huffed a breathless laugh.
The taste of spice and citrus burned warm in Gael’s throat.
"A toast!" he declared, still sprinting. "To the best damn thieves in Jesarin!"
And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like they’d gotten away with everything.
Like they were untouchable.
Like they hadn't just stolen from one of the most powerful men in the city.
Like there wouldn't be consequences.
But there always were.
_________________________________________________
Vess rolled her eyes, still catching her breath as they sprinted across another rooftop. “You can’t be serious.”
Gael, who was absolutely serious, flashed a grin. “I’m just saying—it’s not a real escape if we don’t make it a race.”
Lukas groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. “Gael, we just ran through half of Jesarin, stole from a warlord, and might be actively getting hunted by enforcers. Maybe we sit this one out?”
Gael slowed for half a heartbeat, turning on his heel to jog backward. The wind caught his curls, pushing against his back as if the city itself wanted him to keep running. He threw his arms out. “Come on! You’re telling me we’re not ending this with a victory lap?”
Vess sighed, shaking her head—but Gael caught the faintest twitch of amusement at the edge of her mouth.
Lukas cracked his knuckles. “Fine.” He rolled his shoulders, pretending like he wasn’t already exhausted. “Loser buys drinks.”
Gael smirked. “Didn’t I already steal us drinks?”
“Then you’re paying next time,” Lukas shot back, shifting into a sprint.
And just like that, they were racing.
They leapt across gaps, weaving between rooftop railings, pushing their aching bodies beyond exhaustion. Gael felt the rush of wind at his back, urging him forward, his heart hammering like a war drum.
For just a moment, there was nothing but sky, rooftops, and laughter.
No stolen artifacts.
No enemies.
No debts.
Just them, running like they always had.
__________________________________________________________
Gael hit the final rooftop with a hard thud, rolling onto his back, gasping for breath.
The city sprawled beneath him, golden light spilling across the skyline. The wind licked at his sweat-damp curls, cooling his flushed skin. He closed his eyes, inhaling deep—
And then he smelled it.
Blood.
The metallic tang cut through the crisp evening air, sharp and unmistakable.
His heart stopped.
The thrill in his veins curdled into something cold and ugly.
No.
Gael shoved himself up, still panting, ears straining. The hideout wasn’t far. Just a rooftop away, down on the street level.
He moved without thinking, adrenaline slamming through his limbs like fire.
Please.
Please let this be nothing.
He vaulted over the last ledge, dropping into a controlled fall, knees bending to absorb the impact. His boots hit the cobblestone—and then he saw it.
Two symbols, drawn on the wall outside their hideout.
A G, sharp and deliberate.
A line straight through the middle.
Gael’s breath hitched. His thrill turned to ice.
This wasn’t random.
And suddenly, he knew—he already knew.
The blood in the air. The silence.
Gael sprinted for the entrance.
The world narrowed.
His breath came fast, ragged, but the rush of wind against his skin felt wrong—cold where it should have been warm, thin where it should have been full. Something in the air had changed.
Then he saw it.
The familiar green sheet that shielded their hideout wasn’t just torn—it was shredded, slashed apart in ribbons that curled at the edges, stained dark. A crude, thoughtless butchering.
His chest clenched.
The smell hit him before his feet even reached the opening. Copper. Ash. Death.
He should turn around.
He should walk away.
But he didn’t.
Gael ducked into the hole and forced himself inside.
And what he saw made his stomach turn inside out.
Soren lay face-down in a pool of his own blood, his body slack, one arm outstretched like he had tried—really tried—to crawl forward before it was over. His brown hair, always a mess of curls and careless waves, was slick with red.
Gael tore his gaze away—he had to.
But his eyes landed on something worse.
Lander was slumped against the large oak desk in the center of the room, his body sprawled, legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Three daggers jutted from his chest, driven deep. One in the ribs. One near his collarbone. One straight through the center.
Lander’s face was frozen in something that wasn’t pain—but something close. His eyes were wide, locked toward the ceiling, mouth slightly open, as if he’d just drawn his last breath trying to say something.
Like if Gael had been just a few minutes faster, he could have whispered his killer’s name.
But no.
There were no last words. No goodbyes.
Now Soren and Lander would never speak again.
And it was all his fault.
Gael staggered forward before he even realized he was moving, legs unsteady, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
He was shaking. Why was he shaking?
Because this isn’t real.
Because this can’t be real.
Lander’s hand dangled off the side of the desk, fingers slack, a single silver ring catching the dim light. The same ring he used to fidget with when he was deep in thought. The same ring he had twisted between his fingers while they planned the heist.
Gael’s stomach lurched. He dropped to his knees.
A sound—a footstep.
Gael’s head snapped up. Too slow.
Lukas landed at the entrance with a heavy thud, having vaulted down from the rooftops, his usual quiet broken by urgency. His boots scraped against the stone as he straightened, brushing dust from his coat.
“I had to take the long way down,” Lukas muttered, stepping inside. “You’re too fast when you’re—”
He stopped.
The words died on his tongue.
His body went completely still.
Gael didn’t need to look to know what he was seeing.
Gael swallowed, but his throat was raw, useless.
Lukas didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Then his fingers curled and his jaw clenched tight.
Gael barely heard the whisper—but he felt it.
“No.”
A breath.
Then louder. “No.”
His shoulders rose and fell in heavy, uneven bursts, his whole frame wound so tight that Gael half expected the floorboards beneath him to crack.
Then Lukas turned.
His voice was low, sharp, ragged.
“Who did this?”
Gael for once didn’t have an answer.