On the morning before the abrupt conclusion of the meteoric rise of Gianna d'Avec, a group of mercenaries more or less wholly - some would say 'obsessively' - dedicated to her death met for their usual breakfast bap.

Anyone watching this small collective—four women and two men—would have thought them unlikely terrorists. Indeed, it was difficult to rationalise their white-hot hatred for the High Priestess alongside mundane things such as their prodigious consumption of bacon, sausage, and strong white tea. It would be tempting to assume that the threat from this rundown cafe was so insignificant that Gravalk's avatar could never have a moment's concern.

Tempting, but very, very wrong.

Whilst a quick scan of the pinched, tired faces mechanically chewing on their morning repast would find nothing more sinister than the usual rundown residents of this district of the city, a more thorough glance would reveal something far more alarming.

For example, not one of these early morning snackers was below Level 40.

Sure, in and of itself, this was not especially unusual. Live long enough, pray to the right god, and be reasonably lucky and most people - whilst not exactly likely to cross that threshold - could reasonably expect to have a shot at it. For example, a particularly diligent would feel they'd missed out if they retired without at least being within touching distance of that level.

No, it wasn't their levels themselves which marked this little group out for special attention, but rather the significantly combative nature of their Classes.

"She will be sat on the Scarlet Throne by the eighth bell," a short, dark-haired woman with the rather ominous sounding Class of . The possible intimidation factor of her doom-laden Class was somewhat undercut by the spreading ketchup stain on her tunic that she was brushing at, ineffectually, with one hand, whilst trying to consume the rest of her bap with the other.

"That's been her schedule for the last year, Tenia," the taller of the two men replied, slurping his tea. "I think we can take it as fucking read that she's going to be on her throne at that time."

The woman blinked somewhat owlishly and then narrowed her eyes at the man who had spoken. Once upon a time, she'd liked him. There'd been something between them besides a shared interest in the complete and brutal destruction of a certain red-haired High Priestess. But familiarity bred contempt. And what could be more familiar than a daily contact which was stuck forever in the raking over the coals of sorrow and anger. Impotence of revenge led to its own sorrow. "Some of us take our role in endeavour seriously, Charl," she almost spat at him. "Since we uncovered that the bitch doesn't actually stay in the Temple overnight - which I worked out, you will remember? - my job was to track her whereabouts. Which I have done, without error, for nearly five years. It is hardly my fault that the rest of you cannot organise an assassination in a charnel house."

As always happened when the two clashed, Charl found himself on his feet - body inflating to ridiculous proportions as anger triggered the main Skill of his Class.

The second man, a squat wiry figure with a beard that made him look, to his mind, like a pirate and in everyone else's like he had spent a long, hard winter on sleeping rough, tutted. He had made that noise countless times over the years when this confrontation had played itself out, over and over again.

As an it was entirely within his skillset to put a nice thick coating of calm over proceedings and, for the first couple of years, he had given enough of a damn to do so. Then he had realised that neither Tenia nor Charl were really going to do anything to each other and that he was simply wasting mana.

Maybe one of these days, the big guy would lose his shit and tear the snidey mare's head off. Then wouldn't he feel silly? But he doubted it.

He flicked his eyes to their erstwhile leader, sitting silently in the middle of her two sisters, watching the daily drama playing out precisely as it had the day before and doubtless would tomorrow. The blonde woman caught him looking.

"You have something to add, Irek?"

"Not me," the bearded man returned his focus to his breakfast. "This ain't my circus and those two - " he jerked a thumb at the Reaver and the Berserker - "sure ain't my monkeys."

Against her better judgement, which made Hel smile, but the gloom of the situation quickly stole away any sense of humour. "Charl, cool your jets. You don't know when you'll need that mana. And Tenia? Leave him be."

Neither of those addressed acknowledged her words, but she knew they would now settle down—they always did. These daily meetings progressed almost like clockwork—if the particular clock was designed by a madman stuck in a time loop, relentlessly masturbating over an image of his pet turtle.

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First, Tenia would outline the High Priestess' arrival at the Temple. Realising she did this, rather than staying on the Temple's Third Floor, sadly, represented the only significant development they'd achieved in months. They didn't know where she went, or why - of course they didn't. What were they, a highly trained elite, covert intelligence squad well used to operating behind enemy lines? Ahem.

Secondly, Charl would get all pissy he already knew this and then Tenia would bite back at which stage it would all go def-con 1 as her fucking was in too much of a funk to keep a lid on everyone's rage.

Hel rubbed a hand over her face, reached for her own bacon roll, and wondered - not exactly for the first time - what the point of all this was.

Revenge.

It had all been so much simpler, way back then. When the clean, hard burn of it was at the very centre of their existence. Such drive ensured that they tolerated each other's . . . foibles. But the relentless grind of the years and the constant, undeniable fact that, regardless of how many promises they made, plans set in motion, nor death threats sent, they were approaching their fifth year into this mission and if they had caused Gianna d'Avec as much as a head cold, then there was not a shred of evidence for it.

Hel snorted, causing the rest of her team to glance towards her in concern. As a , she could do some fairly destructive things with a sneeze and none of them wanted to be the focus of that particular storm. She ignored them. She'd got used to doing that too.

What a joke this whole thing had become. It had been such a straightforward endeavour. "We have each been spectacularly wronged by Gianna d'Avec. We will bring her low." All their resources. All their techniques. All their righteous anger and . . . what?

Here they sat in the same cafe, having the same conversations, arguments, and snarks as they had done many times over the years.

It was enough to make Hel weep.

"Fuck it!" Charl shrank back to his normal size and flopped down in his chair. "There's so many better things I could be doing with my life."

"I'm the sure the market for human pufferfish is absolutely frenzied." Tenia had apparently woken up this morning and chosen violence. For all their sakes, Hel hoped that had been the last outburst of the morning.

Irek nodded towards the waitress to refresh their order. If there was one thing an unbroken routing was effective for, it was ensuring prompt service. He had once tried to work out how much money had flowed, annually, from their pockets to that of the owner of the cafe, the titular 'Crazy Xim' of 'Crazy Xim's Place,' and had quickly stopped.

That way madness lay.

"So, she's somehow ended up in the fucking Temple. As usual. Now what?"

In a brighter man, Hel reflected, there would have been a tone of irony to Charl's question. A tongue-in-cheek reflection that he had asked that same question repeatedly, day after day, year after year. Maybe there'd be a raised eyebrow acknowledging the ridiculousness of the inquiry after so long. Perhaps a little smile that said, 'I know we're all in on the gag, but give me a moment whilst I compose myself to wade through this shit one more time."

But no. Charl was genuinely interested on what they were doing next.

Hel couldn't remember if he had always been thick as mince. It was one of the much-remarked issues for the Class - you couldn't inflate and deflate the cranium over and over again without causing some fairly traumatic issues for the brain. It was why most of that Class passed away well before reaching Charl's Level or age.

She doubted the big man would want to hear it, but it was only because he had been hanging around with them so long that he was still alive. Of course, it wasn't only Irek's casting that kept him on the straight and narrow. Having a family to avenge helped too.

Family.

Hel did her best not to glance at her silent sisters sitting either side of her. Arwel and Erwell were all that remained of her own family, and neither had spoken for their entire lives. Seeing your parents cooked from the inside out would do that, apparently. That they had both become was hardly a surprise. That Hel had sufficiently subverted their death wishes to keep them with her to accomplish this task was more of one.

But there were some things you didn't want to dwell on at the eighth bell in a busy working man's cafe. Not when there was bacon to eat.

Hel pushed her brooding thoughts away and stood, moving to the window to gaze up at the giant monolith of the Celestial Temple.

It had all been so simple. All they needed to do was waylay Gianna d'Avec as she entered or exited the Temple each day. The fact she did that, despite being able to reside in there permanently, had seemed such a gift when Tenia brought it to them.

They had the firepower, the Skills, and the kamikaze indifference to their own survival to ensure that they had every chance of overcoming the Level disparity. Dungeon delvers did such things, daily, and as a matter of course. And they had an expectation - nay, a desirable necessity - of coming out of their encounters alive.

All anyone in this little gang wanted was to know that, before they breathed their last, Gianna d'Avec would be following on right behind.

And yet, for all their advantages, they still had not been able to make it happen.

For all their exhaustive surveillance, they had not been able to locate where d'Avec spent her evenings. She clearly used a portal stone when she left her chamber, but none of them had any idea where it went. Nor was anyone on the Third Floor leaking that info - for money or their lives.

They couldn't get into the Temple - even Charl understood that to tangle with the was to die before they even set eyes on the fucking woman - and they had yet to be able to get anywhere near her outside.

It was quite the conundrum.

It would be interesting to find out if, had someone whispered into their ears that, within twenty-four bells, Gianna d'Avec would be a cooling corpse on her own throne, they would have been happy or sad.

Funnily enough, they didn't have long to wait to discover the answer.