The cool air thickened as Soren led Alaric deeper into the Vault. The scent of old parchment and leather bindings gave way to the musty tang of mothballs and worn fabric.
Rows of clothing racks stood ahead, garments arranged in a dizzying array of styles and fabrics from across Wiete.
Shelves crowded with hats, gloves, and scarves filled the walls.
“This is perfect.” He made his way to a section filled with finely tailored garments, running his fingers over rich velvets and silks.
Alaric trailed behind. “So, what’s the plan?”
Soren held up a deep blue velvet coat, admiring the intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs. “We blend in.” He slipped the coat on and It fit perfectly. “I’ll be a nobleman—someone with enough status to attend the auction without question.” He turned to Alaric, holding out a plain outfit. “And you’ll be my servant.”
Alaric’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as he stared at the clothes in Soren’s outstretched hand. “A servant? Why can’t I be the merchant or an associate?”
Soren sighed. He set the servant’s clothes aside, fixing Alaric with a steady gaze. “You know I can pull off the noble look. I’ve had dealings with nobles in Kurgan’s workshop. I’ve seen how they act, heard how they speak.”
Alaric’s eyes narrowed. “So what? You think I can’t do it? You think I don’t have the right look or the right manners?”
“It’s not about that. It’s about what’s believable. The auction house is filled with the upper class. They’ll take one look at us and immediately buy into the idea of me as a noble. You…” He hesitated,
“Go on. Say it.”
Soren exhaled. “You’re built for a different role. You’re too rough around the edges. If we want to get inside without anyone asking questions, this is the best chance we have.”
Alaric’s expression hardened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Rough around the edges, huh? Is that what you think of me? I’m just some scruffy thug who doesn’t belong in those circles?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We need to play to our strengths. It’s about the roles, not the reality.”
Alaric snatched the servant’s clothes. “Fine. I’ll play the part. Just like I always do…” He yanked the simple jacket over his head, his movements stiff.
“We can’t afford to let pride get in the way of doing what we need to.”
“Yeah, well…let’s just get this over with.” He grumbled under his breath, avoiding Soren’s gaze as he adjusted his collar.
Soren donned the rest of his attire. He checked his reflection in a nearby mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and ensuring every detail was immaculate.
With each adjustment, he felt himself slipping into the role—his posture straightening, his chin lifting with aristocratic confidence.
Alaric, meanwhile, struggled with the servant’s garb. His discomfort was evident in every movement.
Soren picked up a cloth cap—the final touch for Alaric’s disguise. He held it out, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t actually treat you like a servant.”
Alaric snatched the cap, jamming it onto his head. “You better not.”
Soren took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s go over the plan one more time. I’ll handle the talking. You stay close, silent unless absolutely necessary. Once we’re inside, we need to gather information, and see if there’s a way to get the ravenglass.”
“And if things go sideways?”
“Then we get out fast. But if we play our parts well, no one will suspect a thing.” He took one last look in the mirror. “Ready?”
Alaric nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
Soren flashed him a grin. “As I’ll ever be, my lord.”
“Whatever.”
Soren and Alaric approached the auction house, its windows glowing with warm light.
“This isn’t going to work,” Alaric said. “We should try something else.”
Soren shot him a sharp look. “It will work. I know what I’m doing.”
As they neared the entrance, Soren squared his shoulders, adopting the haughty demeanour he’d observed in Wiete’s upper class. He strode forward, Alaric trailing behind him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” one of the guards said, his voice polite but firm. “May I see your invitation?”
Soren affected a look of mild annoyance, patting his pockets with growing urgency. “Of course, I have it right…hmm.” He frowned, turning to Alaric. “Did I give it to you to hold?”
Alaric’s eyes widened. “No, my lord. I don’t think so.”
Soren turned back to the guard. “I must have misplaced it. Surely you can make an exception? I’m Soren Valden, of the Ostreich Valdens. My family has been doing business with Finch for decades.”
The guard’s expression remained impassive. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in without proper verification.”
“This is ridiculous,” Soren snapped. “Do you have any idea who I am? The amount of business my family brings to this establishment?”
“Sir, please lower your voice. If you don’t have an invitation, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Soren opened his mouth to argue further, but Alaric’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“It’s not worth it, Sor. Let’s go.”
With a final glare at the guard, he allowed Alaric to lead him away from the entrance.
Once they were out of earshot, Soren’s composure crumbled. He slammed his fist against a nearby wall. “Damn it! We were so close!”
Alaric sighed. “I told you this wouldn’t work. We should cut our losses and head back to the Guild.”
Soren scanned the street, searching for any opportunity, any weakness they could exploit. They couldn’t give up now, not when they were this close.
As they lingered in the shadows near the auction house, a well-dressed man came into view, walking with purpose towards the entrance.
Soren struck.
His fist connected with the man’s temple, a precise blow that sent him to the ground.
Before the man’s body hit the cobblestones, Soren dragged him into a nearby alley.
Alaric stood frozen, his eyes wide. “What in the void?”
Ignoring him, Soren rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets, pulling out the invitation. He stood, brushing dust from his jacket. “Problem solved.”
“Problem solved?” He grabbed Soren’s arm. “You just assaulted an innocent man!”
Soren shrugged off Alaric’s grip. “I did what needed to be done. This is our only chance. We can’t afford to let it slip away.”
Alaric shook his head. “This isn’t right. We’re supposed to be better than this.”
“Better?” Soren laughed. “We’re training to be assassins. Or have you forgotten that?”
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For a long moment, they stood in tense silence, the unconscious man lying fat their feet.
Alaric seemed to deflate. “What now?”
“Stay here. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t wake up and cause trouble.”
Alaric nodded. “And what about you?”
Soren held up the invitation. “I’m going to get us that orb.”
As he stepped back onto the street, adjusting his suit and composing his features, Soren pushed down the twinge of guilt that threatened to surface.
He’d done what was necessary, nothing more.
And if Alaric couldn’t understand that, well…maybe he wasn’t cut out for this life after all.
Soren approached the auction house entrance once more, the stolen invitation clutched in his hand.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I do apologise for the earlier confusion. It seems my invitation was tucked away in my coat pocket all along.” He produced the invitation with a chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m not quite myself tonight.”
The guards stepped aside, opening the door. “Please, enjoy the auction.”
As he moved to enter, one of the guards cleared his throat.
“Sir, wasn’t there another gentleman with you? Your servant, perhaps?”
Soren turned to him, his lip curled. “I don’t believe I need to explain what orders I give to my servants. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an auction to attend.”
Without waiting for a response, Soren strode into the auction house.
As the doors closed behind him, he allowed himself a small sigh.
He was in.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the gathered crowd, their light glinting off jewels and polished monocles.
The air hummed with the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by the occasional laugh or exclamation as particularly interesting lots were brought forth.
Soren moved through the throng, noting the locations of exits, the positioning of guards, the faces of key players in the room.
Every detail could be crucial.
The auction was already underway, a portly man with an impressive moustache calling out lots in a booming voice.
Soren listened with half an ear as he circulated, picking up snippets of conversation.
“…heard the Asgar collection is up for sale…”
“…outbid that pompous fool…”
“…ravenglass on offer tonight…”
Soren drifted closer to the conversation, feigning interest in a nearby display case.
“A small orb, I’m told. It would be a wonderful addition to my collection.”
“Or mine.”
As the auction progressed, Soren noted which buyers seemed most eager, which lots drew the most attention. A tall woman with a shock of white hair seemed particularly interested in ancient texts. A bearded man with a gold tooth bid aggressively on anything related to weaponry.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer called. “We now move onto lot 37: a pure ravenglass orb of exceptional quality.”
A hush fell over the crowd as an attendant brought forth a small, velvet-lined box. Inside, nestled against dark fabric, sat a sphere of deepest black. It seemed to absorb the light around it, creating a void in the shape of a perfect circle.
Soren’s breath caught. It was smaller than he’d hoped—far too small to be made into a dagger. But perhaps it could form part of a larger piece.
The bidding began, fierce and fast.
Numbers were called out in rapid succession.
Soren noted which buyers seemed most invested.
A nobleman stood near the front, flanked by several burly bodyguards. His face remained impassive as he raised his paddle.
This man wanted the orb, and he was prepared to pay dearly for it.
“Do I hear 5,200 krones?” the auctioneer called. “5,200 to the gentleman in blue. Do I hear 5,500?”
The bidding continued and the nobleman’s competitors dropped out one by one, unable, or unwilling to match his bids.
“Sold! To Lord Aaron Fischer for 7,200 krones!”
A ripple of applause went through the crowd.
The auctioneer beamed down at Lord Fischer. “Another fine addition to your collection, my lord.”
Soren watched as Lord Fischer’s bodyguards retrieved the orb.
The nobleman wore a satisfied smile, accepting congratulations from those around him.
With the ravenglass auction over, Soren made his way towards the exit. Lord Fischer’s collection could be the key to their mission.
The beginnings of a plan began to form in Soren’s mind.
He stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the auction fading behind him.
His footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as he approached the alley where he’d left Alaric. His mind buzzed with the information he’d gleaned from the auction, plans already forming and reforming with each step.
As he rounded the corner, he spotted Alaric crouched next to the still-unconscious form of the man they’d ambushed.
Alaric’s head snapped up at Soren’s approach. “Well? Did you get what we needed?”
Soren shook his head, but a smile played at his lips. “Not exactly. But I found something better.”
Alaric’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? And what are we going to do about him?” He jerked his thumb towards the unconscious man.
“Is he still breathing.”
Alaric nodded.
“Then leave him. He’ll wake up with a headache, nothing more.”
“Leave him? You knocked him out without a second thought. That’s not how we do things.”
Soren’s smile faded, his expression hardening. “We needed that invite “
“We could have found another way. One that didn’t involve assaulting an innocent man.”
Soren scoffed. “Another way? Like what? Begging on the street corner for spare krones? Wake up. We can’t afford to be soft.”
Alaric took a step back. “Soft? Is that what you think I am?”
Soren sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Look, what’s done is done. We got the information we needed, and that’s what matters.”
“Information?” Alaric frowned. “What did you find out?”
“There was a nobleman at the auction. Lord Ganrick Fischer. He won the bidding on the orb.”
Alaric’s eyebrows rose. “Did you get a look at it? Was there enough for what we need?”
Soren shook his head. “No, it’s too small. But that’s not the important part. The auctioneer made a joke about Fischer’s collection. I think he’s got more ravenglass. “
“You think?”
“It was strongly implied.”
“So this Fischer bloke is our new target?”
“Exactly. If we can get access to his collection, we’ll have all the ravenglass we need.”
Alaric’s gaze drifted back to the unconscious man. “And how exactly do you plan to get that access? More of this?” He gestured to their victim.
Soren’s jaw clenched. “If necessary, yes. That’s what being in the Guild means.”
“Is it? Because I thought we joined the Guild to find out who killed your father. To get justice. Not to become the very thing we’re fighting against.”
“And how do you suggest we do that without getting our hands dirty? This isn’t a game. It’s not one of your sea shanties where the hero always wins and everyone lives happily ever after. This is real life.”
“I know that. But there has to be a line. Something that separates us from the people we’re after. If we cross it, what’s the point of any of this?”
Soren took a deep breath. “We crossed that line in the Threshing.”
“But we didn’t choose that.”
“No. We didn’t, but we succeeded. We won. And as far as I can tell, the point is succeeding where others have failed. And if that means bending a few rules along the way, then so be it.”
Alaric shook his head. “I don’t like what this is doing to you, Sor. You’re changing, and I’m not sure it’s for the better.”
“We’re both changing. That’s what growing up means. We can’t stay children forever.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Finally, Alaric sighed. “So what’s the plan? How do we get to this Fischer bloke’s collection?”
“We’ll need to do some research. Find out where he lives, what kind of security he has. Then we can start planning our approach.”
Alaric nodded. “Alright. But Soren, promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me we’ll try to do this without hurting anyone else. At least…not unless we absolutely have to.”
“I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”
“We should at least move him somewhere more comfortable.” Alaric gestured to the unconscious man. “Maybe prop him up against that crate over there?”
Soren sighed but nodded. “Fine.”
Together, they moved the man to a more sheltered spot in the alley.
“We should head back to the Guild. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
Soren sat cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook balanced on his knees. The scratch of charcoal against paper was the only sound, punctuated by Alaric’s occasional snores from the adjacent bunk.
His hand moved with practiced ease, bringing to life the scenes from the auction house. The opulent room, the eager bidders, the glittering array of artifacts.
But it was the face taking shape beneath his fingers that held his focus now—Lord Fischer, the nobleman who had won the ravenglass orb.
He paused, studying the portrait. Fischer’s sharp eyes seemed to stare back at him from the page, challenging and calculating.
Soren had captured the slight curl of his lip, the imperious tilt of his chin.
As he added the final touches to the sketch, his gaze drifted to Alaric’s sleeping form.
Was Alaric holding him back? The thought rose unbidden, sharp, and uncomfortable.
Soren tried to push it away, but it lingered, whispering doubts into his ear.
Alaric’s reluctance, his constant questioning—were these the actions of a true partner, or of someone who didn’t have the stomach for what needed to be done?
Soren’s charcoal hovered over the page, his hand unsure.
The memory of the man he’d knocked out in the alley flashed through his mind.
Had he done the wrong thing?
No. It had been necessary. They needed that invitation.
But the ease with which he’d made that decision troubled him.
He set the sketchbook aside.
The Guild’s training excited him in a way nothing else ever had. It challenged him, pushed him to his limits, and he found himself thriving under the pressure.
He could be a contractor, an assassin—and not just any assassin, but the best.
The skills he was learning suited him, fit him like a second skin.
But Alaric…Alaric had his doubts. About the Guild, about their methods, about the path they were walking.
Soren had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice.
Where Soren saw opportunity and purpose, Alaric saw danger and compromise.
Soren’s gaze drifted back to his sketchbook, to the face of Lord Fischer staring up at him.
In another life, he mused, he might have been content as a sculptor. Shaping stone instead of shaping fate.
But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn’t true.
He was still an artist. The Guild had simply given him a new medium to work with.
He picked up the charcoal again, adding depth to the shadows around Fischer’s eyes.
The nobleman’s gaze seemed to follow him, judging, assessing.
Soren met that gaze unflinchingly.
He would not be found wanting.
Soren shook his head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. Alaric was his oldest friend, his partner. And yet…
He turned to a fresh page in his sketchbook, his hand moving almost of its own accord. This time, it was Alaric’s face taking shape on the paper.
Not the Alaric sleeping peacefully across the room, but the Alaric he remembered from their childhood in Nebel Hafen.
Young, carefree, his eyes bright with mischief and adventure.
As the portrait came to life, Soren felt a pang of loss.
That boy was gone now, replaced by the man sleeping fitfully on the other bunk.
Soren’s charcoal paused, hovering over the page. Could he help Alaric find that place? Or were their paths destined to diverge?
He closed the sketchbook with a soft snap.
These questions had no easy answers, and the night was growing late.
He snuffed out the candle, lying back on the pillow.
But as weary as he was, his mind refused to rest.