“Her life… for the Heart of Marrowglass.”
The projection flickered, then dissolved, leaving only the oppressive quiet of Rhys’s workshop. Kaelan stood rigid, hands at his sides, his features hardened into marble.
“A masquerade,” Kaelan stated, his voice devoid of its usual arrogant lilt. It was flat, dangerous. “Tonight. The Lord Regent’s annual charity ball at the Aethelburg depository. That’s where his headquarters are.”
Saia eyed him. “You’re certain? He’s brazen, but hosting a Court gathering in plain sight?”
“No better place to hide,” Rhys interjected, wiping grease from his hands with a scrap of cloth. “The depository is the beating heart of the city's elite. Wards against theft, eavesdropping, even common sense. No one would suspect.”
“And the Heart can show us the way,” Saia mused, looking at the intricate device that still pulsed faintly on Rhys’s workbench. Its core glowed with an inner, soft light, tracing faint blue lines across the surface of the scarred wood.
Kaelan turned to her, his gaze intense. “Then we go. Tonight.”
Rhys hesitated. “You can’t just walk in there. Even with the Heart, the Archive’s wards are ancient, designed to repel… anything that smells of the occult. And Vane’s own operatives will be everywhere.”
“We won’t walk in through the front,” Saia said, a plan already forming in her mind. “The artifact doesn’t just map unseen currents. It resonates with them. It can locate the blind spots in their defenses. We just need to give it enough presence.”
Rhys looked between them, a grim understanding dawning. “You’re going to use it to push. To create a temporary disruption.”
“Precisely,” Kaelan confirmed. “A momentary lapse in their vigilance. Long enough for us to get in, locate Elara, and get out.”
They spent the next few hours in a feverish preparation. Rhys proved indispensable, lining a leather satchel with lead-weave baffles to smother the device's radiance. Saia honed three short black-iron knives designed for close, quiet thrusts. Kaelan drew tailored formal dress and lacquered masks from beneath a floorboard, prepared for courtly scrutiny.
As dusk bled into the oil-lamp haze of Marrowglass, they made their way through the winding, damp alleys. The mist, ever present, seemed to cling to their cloaks, muffling their footsteps. The depository loomed ahead, a colossal monolith of soot-stained ashlar and wrought iron, high casements glowing with lantern light.
“The sub-levels,” Saia murmured, consulting the faint, pulsing map the Heart projected onto the back of her palm. “A disused exhaust flue. It drops to the lower boiler vaults, directly under the dance floor.”
They skirted patrol lamps along the alley wall, slipping from buttress to shadow. The Vow hummed in Saia’s blood, sharpening her focus along the outer wards, while the two luminescent brands etched into her forearm throbbed with a dull, steady ache.
They reached the grate, tucked beneath choked ivy in a blind court. The air within was thick with dust and the metallic tang of old rust. Kaelan squeezed inside first, shoulders scraping against cold brick. Saia followed, the Heart’s carrying case strapped securely to her back. Rhys remained outside, a silent guardian, promising to create a more obvious diversion if they weren’t back by the stroke of midnight.
The shaft opened into a cavernous, echoing boiler room, filled with the rhythmic hiss and groan of ancient machinery. A lone attendant, slumped asleep against a pipe, was easily bypassed. Above them, the muffled strains of an orchestra and the murmur of hundreds of voices seeped through the floorboards.
Saia eased open the clasps. Pale azure light pooled out, painting geometric runes across the overhead pipes. “It’s ready,” she whispered to Kaelan. “The central nexus of their wards is directly above us. I’ll open a window for us.”
Kaelan nodded, his mask hiding the tension in his jaw. “Make it quick.”
Saia placed her hand on the Heart, focusing her will, envisioning the web of energy, finding the weak points. She pushed her will inward. A shrill whine tore through the chamber as raw power surged into her wrists. The dual brands blazed white, twisting the air until the brickwork warped like wet parchment.
Above them, a distant alarm blared, then died, abruptly cut short. The orchestral music skipped a beat, then resumed, slightly off-key. A tremor shook the flagstones. A puncture split the metaphysical seal, granting passage directly above.
They slipped past a pantry door into an expanse of silk, lace, and chatter. Hundreds of masked figures swirled across the polished floor, their faces hidden, their intentions obscured. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and expensive perfumes. Kaelan, ever the master of social navigation, led them with practiced ease, blending into the throng, heading toward the dais where velvet armchairs flanked the salon.
There sat his factor. Untethered and uninjured, glass in hand, her domino mask resting on the table. She smiled toward the merchant opposite her, hanging on every word from the man whose projected sneer had taunted them an hour prior.
Kaelan halted. The warmth drained from his posture, replaced by rigid stillness. Behind his mask, his stare turned flint-hard.
“I assure you, my lord,” the factor's voice carried cleanly through the violin strains. “The core is an inconvenience. An heirloom, yes, but Kaelan treats it like poetry. He lacks the stomach to harness the harbor’s occult channels.”
Her companion laughed, low and dry. “And you intend to correct that oversight?”
“My ledger requires stability,” she replied, touching her glass to her lips. “Kaelan’s sentimental attachment was always an obstacle. My capture obliges him to pay, and during the confusion of the handoff, the asset moves to your vaults. He sees me as a victim. He always has.”
Kaelan moved then. Two long strides, his dark robes parting the crowd like a ship’s prow through fog. He stopped inches from the mahogany table, slicing through the music. “Is that your appraisal of me?”
Her chin jerked upward, gaze locking on his exposed face. Across from her, the rival merchant dropped his smile, posture straightening into a guarded stance.
“Kaelan!” Her chair screeched backward, sending stemware crashing against marble. “How are you inside this hall?”
“Shouldn’t I?” His reply dropped low, hard as pig iron. “I brought blood and steel across the lower wards to drag you out. While you sat here brokering the ruin of my house.”
The rival merchant slid one palm toward the carved table edge. “A touching scene, Dremour. But poorly timed.”
She looked between them, pallor overtaking her cheeks. “Kaelan, listen to me. The syndicate held debts over my kin—I had to negotiate terms!”
“Terms,” Kaelan muttered, looking past her as guests began turning toward the commotion. “You chose your price.” He pivoted toward Saia.
Just then, the music faltered. Hissing vapors condensed along the perimeter as translucent shades drifted down from the vaulted ceiling. Guards dressed as revellers drew phosphorus-coated daggers, circling inward.
“Saia!” Kaelan barked, a challenge in his voice.
Saia didn’t hesitate. She ripped the Heart’s case from her back, exposing its pulsing core. Planting both heels, she channeled her binding oath directly into the housing. A blinding detonation of cerulean sparks exploded outward, tearing through the room's defensive seals. Phantoms shrieked as the shockwave shredded their forms into gray mist. Floor tiles split along the grain, and pandemonium seized the crowd as protective enchantments collapsed into static. Grabbing Saia’s sleeve, Kaelan yanked her toward the fractured rift in the masonry. They breached the exit into cold damp fog, the third silver thread searing its mark into her flesh.