Kael grabbed Thalor’s body—unconscious, still breathing in a wet, nasally rasp—and began dragging him through the corridors.

  Blood painted a thick, ugly smear across polished marble. Let them scrub it.

  When he reached the grand reception hall, the statue of a naked Thalor loomed like a mockery. That’s getting torn down, Kael thought grimly.

  The elf receptionist, the one with sapphire eyes, had her hand clamped over her mouth in stunned silence. The beaters in suits stood frozen, unsure of what to do—symptoms of a command culture that relied too much on fear and not enough on initiative. Another failure of “Mr. Veylin.”

  Kael didn’t break stride.

  “Two of you—upstairs. Clean up the dead mage. Another crew, clean the office. Someone else mop the floors.”

  He jerked his chin toward Thalor’s bloodied form. “Get a priest. Preferably a brother, not a sister.”

  They stared at him like livestock.

  So he raised his voice, sharp and cold: “Snap to it.”

  That got them moving—fumbling, uncertain, but moving.

  Yuri and his toughs walked in a moment later, their boots clacking on the marble. Yuri’s gaze locked on Thalor’s limp form, his face going pale. Then his eyes widened—drawn to the sheer wealth on display.

  Kael clapped a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think? Nice place?”

  Yuri’s mouth opened and closed. “Very nice, boss. Is… is this real marble? I’ve never seen so much in one place.”

  “Focus,” Kael said with a half-smile. “How are the others? Where are we with the caravans?”

  Yuri shook the awe from his face. “Oliver and Frank’s crews secured their roads. No resistance—just warehouse workers and a couple beaters guarding the supplies. We had numbers. They gave up.”

  Kael nodded. Good. One more step locked into place. “And Kavari? Lucien?”

  “No flares. No runners. But nothing yet means they're still in play.”

  Kael grunted, satisfied—for now.

  “The explosions?”

  Yuri’s voice lowered. “Never heard anything like it. The pikeys are all converging on the royal district. Vanguard’s been called up. Imperial boys are crawling the royal quarter just like you guessed. Middle district’s quiet.”

  Kael nodded again. “We’ve got an hour before they put out the fires.”

  That was time enough to finish the takeover. Frank and Oliver were already briefing the warehouse workers. A polite way of calling it what it was—a hostile merger.

  At that moment, a priest of Solanir entered with a suited beater in tow. The priest was red-faced, balding, wrapped in ceremonial gold and white robes too fine for the district. A man used to talking loud and getting his way.

  Kael walked toward him.

  The priest opened his mouth to bluster.

  Kael laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You look flustered.” A pause. “You not interested in working for me?”

  The priest swallowed hard and fell silent.

  Kael pointed to Thalor’s crumpled form. “Fix him enough to walk. No more.”

  He stepped aside as the priest began the spellwork. Kael’s scars flared at the touch of magic—a healing matrix, middle tier. Warm golden light bloomed across Thalor’s mangled body.

  The elf’s eyes fluttered open, confused and bloodshot.

  Kael turned to Yuri. “You know the plan. I’m heading to the vault. You're in charge here.”

  Yuri straightened up. “Understood.”

  Kael grabbed Thalor again, the elf groaning faintly as his heels scraped across the polished marble.

  The sound echoed through the reception hall—long, high-pitched, and deeply undignified.

  “Where’s the vault?” Kael called over his shoulder, as if asking for directions to the washroom.

  The sapphire-eyed receptionist—still frozen, hand clamped over her mouth like she was trying to keep her soul from fleeing—just raised a trembling finger and pointed down a side hall.

  Kael gave her a crisp nod, like they were sharing a perfectly normal workplace moment.

  “Thanks.” He adjusted his grip on Thalor’s limp body. “Really pulling your weight here, buddy,” he muttered.

  Then, with the same casual tone someone might use to announce lunch plans, he added

  “Let’s go get rich.”

  Kael stared at the vault door.

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  It was massive—floor to ceiling—a fortress built from steel and spellwork, etched with glyphs dense enough to make a court mage sweat. Anti-tamper. Anti-magic. Expensive as hell. He’d seen bigger, sure—but nothing this polished outside castle walls. This was a bunker. A throne room for coin.

  And now, it was his.

  Thalor just hadn’t accepted that yet.

  Kael’s eyes settled on the lock—soulbound and bloodbound, laced with mage cores like ornaments on a noble’s collar. Just the locking mechanism alone was worth five, maybe six thousand gold on the low end. Kael knew. He had one himself.

  Thalor, meanwhile, was wobbling like a drunk in a windstorm. Probably concussed. Maybe worse. That was fine. You couldn’t brute-force a soul lock—it had to be willing. But Thalor had just witnessed something that shouldn’t be possible. A mind mage dying mid-cast, to a man with no spellmark, no arcanum robes, no whispered incantations. A myth in real time.

  Kael didn’t intend to let that impression go to waste.

  He crouched in front of the disoriented elf, letting his shadow fall across the vault door’s golden glyphs. Thalor flinched from the movement—still raw from their “conversation”.

  “Nice vault,” Kael said casually. “Soulbound. You’re not very trusting.”

  He smiled.

  “That’s fine. I can open it myself.”

  He snapped his fingers with a sharp crack.

  Thalor recoiled like a whipped dog.

  “But you’ve already seen me do things that don’t fit your tidy little worldview, haven’t you?”

  Kael leaned in close. His voice dropped low. Almost kind.

  “Thalor. Don’t make me open my vault for you. If I have to… your day’s gonna get a whole lot worse.”

  Sweat bloomed on Thalor’s brow. His lip trembled.

  “Who… who are you?”

  Kael didn’t answer. He just dragged the elf toward the lock.

  “Last chance. Open it.”

  Thalor raised a trembling hand and pressed his fingers to the glyph plate. The vault whispered, something ancient and arcane slipping free as the lock accepted him. Kael felt it ripple across the wards—his scars pulsed in answer, like teeth clenching in his nerves.

  Good.

  The glyphs flared once—then unraveled.

  The vault groaned open.

  Kael’s eyes widened despite himself.

  Gold. Gemstones. Sealed tomes. Uncut aetherite. Caches of relics tucked into alcoves like museum pieces. Not just coin—but power. Even for someone who had held real fortunes in his hand, this was… absurd.

  “How the fuck,” he muttered. “All the way out here in the back end of…”

  Questions for later. Mission now.

  He turned back to Thalor, who was still frozen in place, staring into the glittering dark like a man glimpsing his own grave.

  Kael leaned in and smiled.

  “Now get the fuck out of my vault.”

  Thalor ran. Or tried to. He stumbled, slipped in his own panic, crawled, then finally scrambled out like a rat from a burning ship.

  Good.

  Yuri and the others would handle the rest.

  Oliver would catalog the wealth—though with the scale of it, they’d be here till well after Fadefall. That was fine. He’d have help. Thalor and his tidy little ledgers were going to be put to use.

  Kael would work him like a dog. And he’d make damn sure the people Thalor once kept as pets were taken care of.

  And if Thalor ever got ideas? If he ever acted up?

  Kael would make sure he wished he’d died screaming in that office.

  It was a risk—keeping Thalor alive. Kael would need to assign manpower just to keep the elf in check. Couldn’t risk word leaking about what had happened in that office. But it was a calculated risk.

  Kael was betting the bastard had other vaults stashed away, hidden caches and warehouse stockpiles tucked throughout the city. Rainy day reserves. Emergency treasures.

  Brassreach needed that wealth if it was ever going to become truly Ironbound.

  All according to plan.

  But right now?

  He needed to get out of these godsdamned clothes.

  The noble tunic itched like it was woven from regrets. The gold trim scratched at his neck. And the boots? A joke. They were made to be seen, not survived in.

  What he needed was real gear—dark, reinforced long coat, combat leathers, iron-threaded cloth. Something made to bleed in, not pose.

  Yuri better’ve brought a change.

  When Kael stepped out of the vault room, the central bank was alive with movement. The merger was in full swing. Yuri had taken command with the smooth efficiency Kael had trained into him—giving orders, repositioning beaters, getting the staff in line.

  Kael caught his second’s eye and gave him the look.

  Yuri paled slightly. “Please tell me you have it,” Kael said, deadpan.

  Yuri snapped his fingers at a nearby tough, who sprinted off like his life depended on it. Moments later, he returned with a neatly bundled change of clothes.

  Kael exhaled. “Good man.”

  And then, in the middle of a grand marble reception hall—complete with golden trim, nervous beaters, and a statue Kael still planned to destroy—he stripped off the fancy crap and changed.

  No shame. No hesitation. He’d fought worse half-naked.

  He shrugged into his longcoat. Felt the weighted hem settle against his thighs. The comfort of leather, metal, and purpose wrapped around him like a second skin.

  That’s more like it.

  Kael adjusted the collar, tugged it flat. “Gods, who designs noblewear to choke you and make you sweat? Sadists in silk?”

  No one answered.

  Probably for the best.

  He caught the receptionist staring again—eyes wide, cheeks flushed. He gave her a warm, easy smile.

  She turned crimson.

  Kael rolled his shoulders, the coat settling into place like it belonged there.

  Time to get back to work.

  He stepped out of his bank and paused beneath the twin moons. Their pale glow shone down on a city unraveling. Even here, in the middle districts, people were panicking—voices raised, feet slapping stone, eyes wide with fear.

  Good.

  Panic gave them freedom to move. It kept the pikeys busy. Kept eyes away from Coin Road.

  In the distance, dark smoke coiled above the royal quarter, tinted amber by firelight.

  Grum had done good work.

  Kael had chosen the targets carefully—sites with minimal risk to life, just noise and fire to shake the nobles awake. Yuri had scouted them all two days ago. It should be bloodless. If even one noble got so much as a scratch, the Imperials would come kicking down doors in every district.

  Looking for him.

  That kind of scrutiny would be a problem—but Fadefall was closing in, and the Imperials would be stretched thin. Kael had counted on that too. Beater business was still beater business… unless it spilled blood on their precious cobbles.

  It would make waves.

  That was fine.

  He just needed to steer those waves—toward the Black Ledger, toward the Cold Chain Syndicate. Reshape the board. Counter their counter. Another day’s problem.

  Then he heard it.

  A sharp whistle. The flare.

  Red.

  A mage flare.

  His stomach dropped as the streak of light carved upward into the sky—Lucien’s signal.

  Kael’s eyes narrowed.

  That’s not their zone. It came from farther west. Closer to the central district. Near the main bridge.

  Why the hell were they there?

  He moved.

  First a walk. Then a jog. Then a sprint—faster than he should have. Boots hammering stone.

  Information, then action, he reminded himself. Don’t run half-cocked into a fire.

  But something was wrong.

  And Kael didn’t ignore his gut.

  His boots hammered the cobblestones, each step falling like the beat of a war drum.

  He rounded a corner—nearly collided with one of his own.

  The tough skidded to a stop, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Boss—!”

  Kael grabbed his arm to steady him. “Talk.”

  “One of the caravans… wasn’t what we expected. Heavily guarded. Real professional. Dark leathers, bone knives, short blades—three mages, too.”

  Kael’s blood chilled.

  “They tore through our checkpoint. Blew right past it.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Lucien’s hurt. He and Kavari are in pursuit.”

  Kael’s grip tightened. “Pursuit?”

  The tough nodded. “They’re on the caravan, boss. Moving with it.”

  Kael let go. His mind went cold, calculations spinning. Professionals. Bone knives. Three mages.

  And now his best blades were riding a mystery straight into the dark.