The rain had a way of scrubbing the streets of Empyria clean—at least on the surface. In truth, the filth just ran deeper, bleeding into the cracks between stones and dripping through the iron grates that led down into the city’s forgotten veins. That’s where Elysia moved best—below.

She crouched low beneath the cover of a crumbling archway, the dark leather of her tunic slick with rain, her breath steady despite the pounding in her ears. Across the alley, the merchant's house stood silent. Its shutters drawn. Its upper windows lit by candlelight. Below, a single iron door stood framed by damp stone and a rusted lantern that sputtered uselessly in the storm.

Kael knelt beside her, fingers raised to his temple. His face was pale and narrow, with shadows under his eyes that never quite faded. “Illusion’s in place,” he murmured. “Looks like a brick wall to anyone passing by. Won’t fool touch, but you’ll have time.”

“I only need seconds,” Elysia replied with a smirk. Her voice was soft, almost musical, and utterly devoid of fear.

From behind them, a low grumble rose as Bramm approached—broad-shouldered and soaked, beard dripping. He clutched a satchel packed with alchemical flasks. “Door’s got a fire glyph,” he muttered. “Simple one. Not rigged to alert, just burn whatever picks it wrong.”

She glanced at the dwarf. “And you’ll keep it from turning my fingers into ash?”

Bramm rolled his eyes. “I’ll try, twig. You don’t twitch while I work, and maybe you keep all ten.”

They exchanged a quick grin. Routine. Familiar. Clean.

From the rooftop above, a soft whistle cut through the rain—one long, one short. Thira.

Elysia’s grin widened. “All clear. Let’s crack it.”

The door yielded under Bramm’s precision and her gentle fingers. The merchant’s backroom was cluttered, but not guarded. Just as expected. They slipped in—shadows in a house of wealth. Rugs muffled their steps; walls lined with ivory masks and silken tapestries whispered of exotic tastes and excess.

Kael stayed near the entrance, maintaining the illusion. Bramm moved to the office vault, muttering under his breath as he laid his tools. Elysia stalked through the merchant’s gallery, fingers brushing across gilded frames and carved trinkets.

“Same type as always,” she muttered. “Imports, curios. This guy deals in trophies.”

Thira dropped down from a high window, landing with catlike grace. Her black hair clung to her face, wet from the rain. “Guard shift changed late. They’re drunk, not patrolling. We’ve got time.”

Elysia pulled a lacquered case from a shelf and flipped it open. “Opal necklace. Real. Worth more than your house,” she said, tossing it to Thira. “Happy anniversary.”

Thira caught it one-handed, raised a brow. “We’re not dating.”

“You’re right. You wish.”

Bramm chuckled from the vault. “Vault’s open. Coins, ledgers, and—whoa, look at this.” He held up a small, velvet-wrapped bundle. Inside lay a dagger with an emerald hilt, the blade inscribed with faint runes. “You said this was a low-risk job.”

“It is,” Elysia said, stepping closer. “But I don’t say no to shiny surprises.”

Kael tenses up, seeing guards approaching fast towards him.

"I think our fake wall just got exposed."

“Time to vanish!” Elysia laughed, already sprinting.

The alley pulsed with torchlight and noise, a twisting artery in the heart of Empyria's underbelly. They ran like the wind, boots skimming the cobblestones, hoods trailing like smoke behind them. Somewhere behind, the shouts of the guards grew fainter, tangled in the maze of dead ends and narrow walls.

She vaulted a barrel, spun midair, and landed in a crouch, grinning. Gods, she loved this part.

"You're insane!" Thira gasped behind her, panting hard. "I nearly tripped on a fishmonger!"

"Then you should’ve danced instead of ran," Elysia called over her shoulder. "You're too tall for grace."

A gruff voice bellowed from below. "If you two are done flirting, help me get this damn grate open!"

Bramm stood at the base of a narrow stairwell, yanking at the rusted iron gate leading into the old aqueduct tunnels. The dwarf’s thick arms strained as he cursed in Khazari under his breath.

Thira appeared from the shadows, lithe and tired, already halfway down. “Move, Bramm.” She pressed something in the wall—an old latch—and the grate groaned open.

Bramm stared at it, then snorted. “Elves and their secret tricks.”

“Maybe if your ancestors hadn’t buried every secret in stone,” Thira quipped.

Elysia dropped beside them with a laugh, her braid flicking Bramm’s shoulder as she passed. “Let’s move, before our friends upstairs catch their breath.”

Back in the undercity—an old storm chamber long since forgotten, buried beneath the wine cellars of Empyria’s merchant quarter. Flickering lanterns lit the rounded stone walls. Crates and stolen silks doubled as bedding, tables, and chairs. Soot from Kael’s last magical misfire still stained one corner.

They spilled in, breathless and wild-eyed, a crew of misfits and momentum.

“Ha!” Elysia flopped onto a crate, tugging back her hood. “Did you see the look on that merchant’s face?”

“Right before you made off with the wrong satchel?” Kael collapsed beside her, still holding the loot. “You grabbed the decoy, you absolute menace.”

“I meant to.”

Thira raised a brow. “You meant to cause chaos?”

Elysia smirked. “Obviously.”

Bramm dropped onto a barrel with a grunt. “Twig’s got too much air in her skull.”

Elysia flicked a grape at him. “Careful, shortstack. I’ll climb a shelf and put your tools on the top again.”

“Don’t make me fetch the hammer.”

“Play nice,” Kael said, already unpacking the satchel.

“Easy coin at least,” Bramm said. “Too easy.”

“That’s why I picked it,” Elysia replied, boots propped on the table. “Not every job has to be a death trap.”

Kael raised a brow. “Coming from you?”

Elysia grinned, a spark in her eyes. “Even chaos needs a break sometimes.”

"Damn wildcard" Bramm mumbles.

"Someone please get that fire started." Thira shivered.

Outside, Empyria stirred beneath its golden spires. But in this moment, in this quiet, flickering haven, everything felt right.

Kael flopped onto a faded armchair, already rifling through their take. “Well, for what it’s worth... we pulled it off.”

He tossed a pouch on the table. Coin clinked.

Thira raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“And this,” Kael added, lifting the velvet-sheathed dagger. “Bit fancy for a street merchant.”

Elysia leaned against a crate, watching him inspect it. “It was tucked beneath the carriage. Locked up like it mattered more than the gold.”

Bramm snorted. “Bet it’s cursed.”

“You wish,” she grinned.

As Kael turned the dagger over, Thira leaned beside Elysia, their shoulders brushing. Her voice was quiet. “You were good out there.”

“I usually am.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Thira tilted her head.“You ever miss Aetherium?”

Elysia hesitated—just a blink—and then shrugged. “I got tired of the trees whispering purpose into my ears.”

“Seriously.”

“I am serious,” she said, twirling the dagger. “Everything there had a role. A destiny. A path. Walk here, don’t stray. Pray there, don’t ask why. Breathe the sacred air, wear the sacred robes, speak the sacred tongue.”

Thira smiled faintly. “Sounds familiar.”

“I wanted air that didn’t smell like destiny. I wanted to fall, get dirty, fight back. Here, when you make a mistake, it’s yours.”

Kael nodded. “Welcome to the club. Outcasts rise up.”

Bramm chuckled. “Aye. A twig, a book-burnt softie, a rooftop whisperer, and me—the only one with sense.”

“You mean rocks in your head,” Thira said.

He raised his mug. “Better than sap in your veins. Ironhold threw me out after I ‘accidentally’ leveled a training hall.”

“Accidentally?” Thira asked, amused.

“Well, mostly,” he said. “But it was a damn ugly hall anyway.”

hey laughed, the tension fading into the warmth of shared rebellion.

Kael remained quiet, turning the dagger over again in the lantern light. Something caught his eye. 

“What is it?” Thira asked.

Kael squinted, running his thumb along the underside of the crossguard. A faint shimmer glinted beneath the soot and grime — a symbol etched in fine detail.

A serpent, coiled, its fangs bared in a hungry half-maw.

His fingers froze.

“…Guys?”

Bramm stepped closer, face darkening as he recognized the mark. “Turn that here.”

He squinted. Swore under his breath. “That’s the bloody Serpent. That mark's not just for show.”

Thira stiffened. “You’re sure?”

“I know the mark. You don’t mistake it. Lost a friend to them—back home, Ironhold. His tongue nailed to a pillar. They don’t miss what’s theirs.”

Kael looked between them. “The Serpent Conclave. We just stole from them.”

Silence.

Elysia tilted her head, calm despite the storm rising in the room. “It’s just a dagger. And a pretty one, at that.”

Kael looked at her like she’d grown horns. “You don’t get it. The Conclave doesn’t forget. If we lifted this from one of their hands, they’ll come looking.”

“They don’t just kill you,” Bramm said. “They make examples.”

Thira crossed her arms, tense. “We need to ditch it. Tonight. I don’t want it near me.”

Elysia paced a step, eyes locked on the dagger’s gleam. “We don’t even know who we took it from. For all we know, they stole it first.”

Kael didn’t answer.

“Besides…” She twirled one of her own daggers between her fingers, casual. Dangerous. “I don’t like tossing away something valuable just because someone else might be mad about it.”

Thira’s eyes narrowed. “So you left Aetherium just to get yourself killed in a gutter?”

Elysia froze.

Then, a crooked smile. “I left Aetherium because it was suffocating. All rituals, trees, and ‘higher purpose.’ I wanted more. I still do.”

Kael’s voice was low. “There won’t be any more if the Conclave catches wind of this.”

Silence fell.

The dagger sat between them on the table now, no longer a trophy — but a threat. Its serpent sigil gleamed like an open eye.

Bramm finally muttered, “We’re not ready for a war. Not with them.”

Elysia didn’t speak for a long moment. Her gaze lingered on the dagger. Something cold settled behind her eyes.

She picked it up.

Slid it smoothly back into its sheath.

“We’re not at war.”

A beat.

“…Yet.”

The storm outside had dulled to a steady drizzle, the kind that whispered down alleyways and seeped through stone. Somewhere above, the city exhaled—the restless breath of a beast unaware it had just been pricked.

Kael finally set the dagger down, pushing it away like it might bite. “We need to be careful.”

“We always are,” Elysia said, but her voice had gone quieter.

Thira leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Not careful enough, apparently.”

No one replied.

In the flickering glow of the lantern, the serpent’s mark glinted—silent and watching.