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The walk across the city was brisk—far brisker than Gael would have liked, especially with the bruises forming across his back with every step. If the knight worried about the injuries he caused, he hid it very well. Luckily, it was nearly midnight, and the city had settled into a quieter rhythm, making it easier to keep an eye on the knight''s steady pace ahead of them. Their progress, however, was slowed by the knight''s seemingly random detours, looping through alleys and side streets. Gael was certain they''d circled the same block twice. It didn''t take a genius to figure out the knight didn''t trust them—or want them to remember the way back to wherever he was taking them.
After the third stop, when Vess nearly collapsed, the knight finally relented and started a fire in a nearby alley. Vess sank to the ground beside it, her face pale but determined as she leaned into the warmth despite the sweat already beading down her face. The fire seemed to steady her, and after only a minute, she was back on her feet, breathing easier and her strength returning. Gael offered her his hand, pulling her up to her feet before falling into step together, trailing behind the knight as he carried Lukas''s limp form over his shoulder.
Gael watched Vess carefully, noting the way she moved—the familiar sharpness creeping back into her eyes, the set of her shoulders. She was piecing herself back together, little by little.
"What do the withdrawals feel like?" he asked, keeping his voice light, though concern pooled beneath the surface.
Vess let out a short, humorless laugh. "Like shit. What do you think?" She kicked at a loose stone, sending it skipping down the path. "Like whatever makes me, me has been ripped out—like I''m hollow and stretched too thin all at once."
Gael considered that, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye. He could still picture the way she''d crumpled earlier, breath ragged, fingers trembling. Essence withdrawals weren''t something he''d ever realistically have to worry about—he was always surrounded by air, his reserve constantly replenishing, unless he burned through it all at once. But for Vess, it was different. More finite.
"Does it always hit you like that?"
Vess shook her head. "No. This was different." She hesitated, her expression darkening. "When he broke my spell, it wasn''t just gone—it was like he reached inside me and tore the rest of my essence away. Every thread of magic I had left, plucked like a string. My whole body just... gave out."
A shiver ran through her despite the thick, dry heat pressing in around them. Without thinking, Gael shifted a little closer, just near enough that their arms nearly brushed.
Vess lowered her voice. "Gael... what are we going to do if he changes his mind? or his employer doesn''t find us interesting after all?"
His gaze flicked toward the knight leading them, who had slowed at a fork in the road. The thought had crossed his mind once or twice since they had agreed to follow him, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn''t figure a way out of this one. Just ahead, the knight glanced between the two paths, frowning slightly before finally turning left. For a brief second, Gael wondered if the man even knew where he was going. That should''ve reassured him. It didn''t.
Gael exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "If it comes to that, I''ll try to blow his sword from his hand before he sees it coming. That should buy us a few seconds. From there, I need you blast us an escape route. Then we grab Lukas and run like hell."
It wasn''t a great plan. It wasn''t even a particularly good one. But saying it out loud made it feel real—like they had some grip, however fragile, on the chaos closing in around them. A way to push back against the inevitable, even if only for a moment.
Vess simply nodded, not even bothering to point out the glaring weaknesses in the plan. If it came to another fight, they''d be even worse off, down a man and backed into a corner. But saying that aloud wouldn''t do much for morale.
Gael clenched his jaw. If only he had known how to use the gem—no, the catalyst, as the knight had called it. If he had drawn more essence from it when casting his cantrip, maybe... just maybe. But wishful thinking wouldn''t change the past. He needed to focus on the present—on keeping himself and the others valuable enough that this man had a reason to keep them alive.
When the knight finally led them to their destination, Gael was surprised to find they had ended up in the Rakan district—Jesarin''s heart of industry. Unlike the polished opulence of the Pelumian district or the merchant wealth of Calabast, Rakan was built on sweat and fire. The air here carried the tang of scorched metal, coal dust, and oil, thick enough that Gael could almost taste it. For every cracked stone and soot-streaked wall, there was a forge behind it, belching smoke into the sky. The streets, though uneven and worn, bore deep grooves from decades of heavy carts hauling ore, ingots, and machinery. The people moved with purpose—apprentices lugging supplies, blacksmiths with soot-stained arms, artisans shouting orders over the constant clang of hammer on steel, despite the late hour.
The building they stopped in front of looked no different from its neighbors—weathered red brick, soot-darkened stonework, and iron fixtures rusted at the edges. Some windows were cracked, others patched with cloth or boarded up entirely. Gael frowned. "Are you sure we''re in the right place?"
The words had barely left his mouth before he regretted them. The knight shot him a sharp, annoyed glare, his patience clearly thinning.
"Just get your asses inside. And don''t touch anything. We can always go back on the not killing you thing."
Gael swallowed whatever comeback had been forming on his tongue.
The knight produced an intricate brass key, etched with tiny runes that pulsed faintly as he turned it in the lock. The door it opened was out of place—thick, reinforced, more like something guarding a vault than a worn-down home in a working-class district. The seams of the heavy metal frame were lined with delicate rune script, swirling in patterns that meant nothing to Gael. But the moment the key clicked into place, those runes pulsed to life, glowing briefly with a soft, cold light before fading.
Then, with a low, mechanical groan, the door swung outward toward them.
Gael exchanged a wary glance with Vess before stepping inside, the air beyond the threshold thick with the scent of Cinnamon and parchment. Whatever this place was, it was much more than it seemed.
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The interior of the building was unlike anything Gael had ever seen. The walls were alive with color—murals depicting sweeping landscapes, celestial bodies entwined in vibrant arcs, and scenes of battle frozen in exquisitely bloody detail. The paintings themselves seemed to shimmer under the glow of carefully placed lanterns, the flickering light catching on the veins of gold and silver inlaid within their frames. Every inch of the space had been crafted with purpose, from the polished mahogany furniture—each piece an obvious work of master craftsmanship—to the embroidered rugs that softened their footsteps against the stone floor.
It was overwhelming.
Gael had spent most of his life navigating the rougher districts of Jesarin, where this level of wealth was unheard of. Here, wealth wasn''t just displayed—it was woven into the very bones of the place, a quiet and unshakable statement of power. Such a stark contrast too the exterior, which he now realized must be a charm, a powerful one at that.
His fingers twitched.
Then his eyes caught something—a small, delicate figurine on a nearby table. A carved falcon, no bigger than his palm, crafted from what looked like solid silver, its wings outstretched in mid-flight. It was just sitting there, unattended. So lonely.
No one would miss it.
His gaze flicked toward the knight leading them, but the man''s back was to him, his focus locked on the path ahead.
Gael exhaled, his fingers brushing the air as he released a barely audible whistle—a silent command woven into his breath. The stillness around him stirred, disturbed only by the faintest ripple. The falcon quivered on its base, then, with a whisper of wind, it darted towards him, gliding soundlessly into his waiting sleeve.
By the time the knight glanced back, Gael''s hands were clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
They reached the end of the hall, stopping before a set of grand double doors. Carved from deep, dark wood, they were adorned with intricate runework that pulsed faintly with an internal glow. At their center, an ornate brass door knocker shaped like a swan gleamed under the lamplight.
The knight didn''t hesitate. He rapped the knocker three times, the sharp sound cutting through the hush of the corridor. Without another word, he turned on his heel, already lugging Lukas away.
"Find me when she''s finished with you," he called over his shoulder. "I''ll see to this one''s head."
Gael barely had time to process that before the runes along the door''s seams flickered, shifting from a dull glow to a brief, vibrant pulse. Then, with a slow, deliberate creak, the heavy doors unlocked and began to swing open.
Inside his sleeve, his fingers curled around the cold silver falcon.
He allowed himself the ghost of a smirk.
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Lukas drifted toward consciousness, dragged upward by a dull, insistent throbbing behind his temple.
His first instinct was to groan, but his throat was dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Blinking against the light filtering through the room, he took in his surroundings—polished marble floors, elaborate tapestries, a ceiling so high it made the space feel cavernous. This was unlike any dungeon he had ever heard of.
A figure sat beside him, sleeves rolled up, methodically wringing out a bloodied cloth into a basin. The man''s armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic and trousers, but even without the heavy plating, he knew this man was dangerous.
"Welcome back," the man said. He pressed a fresh bandage to Lukas''s head, securing it with a firm tap. "You''ve got a hard skull, kid. I''ll give you that."
Lukas winced, swatting at the man''s hand. "Yeah, well, your sword''s got an even harder pommel clearly.
The man let out the faintest huff of amusement, but his expression didn''t change. "Lurras," he offered. "Figured you''d want to know the name of the man who beat you"
Lukas groaned, rolling his head back against the pillow. "Oh, good. Now I know who to blame when my head explodes." He cracked one eye open, squinting at Lurras as a thought struck him. "Wait. If you''re here, does that mean we''re dead?"
"If you were, I wouldn''t be cleaning you up," Lurras muttered, dipping the cloth into the basin again. He wrung it out with a practiced squeeze, the water turning faintly pink.
Lukas blinked, his thoughts still sluggish. "Where''s—"
"Your friends? With Ores." Lurras didn''t look up. "Talking." He set the cloth aside and reached for a fresh bandage. "I don''t really do talking."
He pressed the bandage to Lukas''s head, securing it with a firm tap—more forceful than necessary.
Lukas winced. "Yeah, got that impression."
His voice was calm, but Lukas caught the brief flicker of something in his expression—something unreadable. And then he noticed it. A folded letter, its seal already broken, set aside near the basin. The wax emblem was unfamiliar, but the quality of the parchment told Lukas enough. It was important.
"You don''t seem too thrilled," Lukas remarked, nodding toward it.
Lurras exhaled through his nose, barely glancing at the letter. "Word came this morning. I''ve been called to compete in the Grand Tournament this year."
Lukas blinked, momentarily forgetting the pain in his skull. "Congratulations."
Lurras didn''t answer right away. He merely looked at Lukas, his silence stretching just long enough to make it awkward. Then, with the slightest shift of his jaw, he added, "Yeah."
That was it. No excitement. No pride. Just that single word.
Lukas frowned, watching him for a beat longer, but Lurras was already moving, already onto something else. A pair of padded gloves landed in Lukas''s lap.
"Up for a rematch?" he asked, rolling his shoulders as he stepped back.
Lukas hesitated, studying the man who had dismantled his crew like it was nothing. Every rational thought told him to refuse. But then there was the other part—the reckless part, the one that never knew when to walk away.
"You''re not gonna wear your fancy armor this time?"
"Not this time," Lurras repeated, shifting into a loose stance. "Figured I''d give you a fighting chance."
Lukas grinned, pushing himself to his feet despite the lingering ache. "You''re gonna regret that."
They began to circle each other, Lukas moving light on his feet, testing the space with small, deliberate shifts in weight. Lurras, in contrast, barely moved at all. He didn''t need to. His presence alone was imposing—rooted, solid, an unmoving wall of flesh and bone. There was no wasted energy in how he moved, no unnecessary shifts in balance.
Lukas darted forward first, feinting left before twisting into a quick jab. Lurras reacted with frightening ease—his arm came up just enough to deflect the strike, his movement so economical it felt like he was barely trying.
"Faster than I expected," Lurras admitted, eyes sharp as he tracked Lukas''s every shift. "But you tried that last time, mix up your attacks a bit."
"You rea—" Lukas started, but Lurras was already moving.
A sharp pivot, a step in, and suddenly Lukas was on the defensive, forced to weave around a flurry of precise, blistering strikes. Too fast for someone that size. Lurras didn''t move like a brawler—he moved like a killer.
Lukas gritted his teeth, adjusting. He had speed, agility—he just needed an opening. Something Lurras wouldn''t see coming.
"You gonna tell me how you did it?" he asked between dodges, slipping just out of range of another sharp blow. "That night, I mean. We''ve been in tight spots before, but never like that."
Lurras dodged a jab, countering with a sharp tap to Lukas''s ribs—precise, controlled. "Shadow affinity," he said simply. "Lets me slip through spells, disrupt them before they take hold. That''s part of it, anyway."
Lukas narrowed his eyes, circling. "Part of it?"
Lurras didn''t slow. "The real difference?" He knocked aside Lukas''s next strike with almost lazy efficiency. "Rune-plate."
Lukas exhaled sharply, stepping back just out of reach. "So, what, all that was the armor, not you?"
Lurras snorted. "No. But it helps. Strengthens essence flow, enhances reflexes, dampens impact. You''d be surprised how much it tilts a fight."
He considered that, then flicked his fingers. A thin shadow stretched from his palm, curling like ink in water before dissolving in the air" Figured out how to do that when I was a kid," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Lightning came later."
Lurras''s expression didn''t shift, but Lukas caught the flicker of interest in his eyes.
"So," Lukas pressed, stepping in with a feint before retreating, "you gonna teach me that trick, or am I stuck figuring it out the hard way?"
Lurras''s eyes brightened at that. "Hard way''s faster."
Hard way it is.
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If the shameless opulence of the hallways had been impressive, the room before him was something else entirely—less a chamber and more a world of its own. The first thing that struck Gael was the sheer harmony of it, as if every element had been placed with deliberate, painstaking care.
Silk-draped lanterns bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, their embroidered patterns casting delicate, shifting shapes across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, a soft, lingering perfume that made the space feel timeless, untouched by the outside world.
A koi pond, far too extravagant to be indoors, curved along one side of the chamber, its waters alive with vibrant fish that danced beneath the surface. Smooth stepping stones wove through the pond like a path to nowhere, their edges kissed by trailing fronds of jade-green bamboo that swayed ever so slightly, despite the absence of wind.
The far wall was a masterpiece of artistry—an enormous, hand-painted mural depicting a golden dragon winding through rolling mist, its eyes of polished lapis seeming almost to follow him as he stepped inside.
Vess must have been just as stunned, though for a different reason. Her face had gone stark white, but her wide-eyed stare wasn’t on the koi pond or the carefully cultivated bamboo grove. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the woman seated before them—a regal, grandmotherly figure poised in a throne of plush velvet and gleaming gold. She watched them with quiet amusement, her presence effortless yet imposing, as if the room itself bent to accommodate her.
"I''m told you are the ones who ruined my day."
Ores’s voice was smooth, deliberate—each word measured in a slow, almost melodic cadence.
Without thinking, Gael shot back, "If it makes you feel any better, your man ruined ours even worse."
A ripple of silence followed, the air thickening—not from anger, but something far more dangerous. Amusement.
The corners of Ores’s lips curved ever so slightly, the barest trace of a smile forming. But it was her eyes that spoke louder than anything else—calculating, assessing, weighing his worth with every beath. There was no flash of offense, no visible irritation, only a quiet shift in her posture, as if she were adjusting the pieces of a game already in motion.
Vess, however, was not nearly as composed. Her fingers clamped onto Gael’s sleeve in a tight, urgent grip, yanking him back as she shook her head. No words were needed—the look in her eyes said enough.
"I assure you, young man, that is not the case." Ores rose from her throne with unhurried grace, leaning on a cane of polished ebony, its handle sculpted into the elegant curve of a swan, inlaid with gleaming gemstones. The soft rustle of her silk robes was the only sound in the vast chamber as she took a measured step forward. "For two years, I carved a path as one sharpens a blade—patient, precise, and without waste—only for it to be dulled in an instant, for what?" She let the words settle, her gaze shifting between them, her tone carrying the weight of something absolute.
Gael felt a prickle at the back of his neck. The weight of her presence settled over him, and in that moment, he understood the knight’s temper. He could try another quip, stall for time, and hope luck carried him through like it always did. But something told him today was different—she was different.
Instead, he took a measured breath and chose his words carefully, if only to keep Vess from tearing his sleeve off. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the polished floor as he met Madam Ores’s gaze.
"Honestly?" he said, running a hand through his hair. "I didn’t know what it really was until an hour before the drop. Just that it was insanely valuable. By then, we were weeks into planning. Once we found out you were the buyer..." He hesitated, glancing at Vess, who stood stiffly beside him. "Half my crew told me to walk away."
He exhaled sharply, gesturing loosely at their surroundings—the dim glow of enchanted lanterns, the heavy tapestries that seemed to swallow sound, the faint hum of magic that set his teeth on edge.
"Clearly," he muttered. "I should’ve listened."
Madam Ores leaned back in her ornate chair, lowering her reading glasses with a slow, deliberate motion. The golden chain caught the light, glinting like a snare tightening around them. Her expression remained unreadable, but her eyes—sharp, weighing, dissecting—made Gael’s stomach twist.
She studied him for a lingering moment before shifting her attention to Vess, her lips curling into something just shy of a smile.
"Don’t be so hasty," she mused, her voice smooth, measured. "Perhaps in angering me, you''ve unlocked a greater opportunity than either of us could have conceived alone." Ores’s gaze lingered.
"And if it isn’t young Vanessa Emberlin." The shift in her tone was subtle—almost fond. "I had thought you long gone after our last… encounter. What has it been, three years now?"
Vess didn’t respond right away. Gael caught the faint movement of her throat as she swallowed, a bead of sweat tracing down her temple. When she finally nodded, it was small and stiff, her gaze flickering to the floor before forcing itself back to Ores.
"To think I’d find you back here, up to mischief again," Ores continued, her tone firm but not unkind. "It would seem you’ve learned little from your earlier lesson."
"I—" Vess started, then faltered. Her hand drifted to her left arm, fingers brushing absently over the old burn scars.
Gael jumped in, his voice light but calculated. "She was just back at the hideout, working on some bauble while the rest of us did the heavy lifting." He shot Vess a quick glance, winking. "If anything, she tried to talk us out of it. If you’re looking for someone to be pissed at, it should be me or Lukas. Preferably Lukas."
Ores let out a quiet breath that might have been amusement. "How noble of you, standing up for your comrade in crime," she said. "But we both know Vanessa is far from innocent." There was no heat in her words, yet they landed with weight all the same. Vess’s cheeks darkened, her gaze fixed to the floor, where anger and shame warred beneath the surface.
And just like that, the heavy weight of Madam Ores’s gaze shifted back to Gael. It wasn’t just a look—it was an appraisal, a quiet dismantling, as if she could strip him down to his very bones with a single glance.
"Your name, boy?"
Gael straightened, meeting her eyes without hesitation. "Gael. And it’s a pleasure to finally meet the infamous Madam Ores."
For the briefest moment, something flickered across Ores’s face—something quick, unreadable. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a small, genuine smile.
"I may just have a proposition for you and your crew after all, Gael."