The midnight bells jolted Soren awake, their distant tolling cutting through his sleep.

For a moment, he lay frozen, heart pounding, unsure where he was.

The unfamiliar shadows of the tavern room slowly took shape in the darkness.

He fumbled for the tallow candle on the nightstand and struck the flint. The tiny flame sputtered to life, casting wavering shadows across the cramped room.

Soren dressed with methodical precision. The familiar weight of his Guild tunic settled over his shoulders.

He checked his tools, the smoke bombs, and the last of the treated meat.

His pack came last, its contents a reassuring weight against his back.

He’d prepared everything, planned for every contingency.

Now it was time to prove he could succeed alone.

Taking a breath, he opened the door and made his way down stairs.

The tavern’s common room was thick with the remnants of the evening—stale ale, wood smoke, and the musty smell of tired bodies.

A handful of patrons slouched at their tables, lost in their cups or half-asleep.

Soren moved through the room and placed his key on the bar.

The innkeeper looked up at him. “You done?”

Soren nodded. “I am. Thank you.”

“You want me to keep it for you until morning?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Soren stepped away from the bar and headed to the exit.

Outside, Welttor’s streets stretched empty before him. His breath clouded in the night air as he pressed himself against the nearest wall, listening.

The distant echo of boots on cobblestones told him where the night watch patrolled. He counted their rhythm—three sets of footsteps, moving in predictable patterns through the city.

Wind whispered through the narrow alleys, carrying the salt-tang of the sea.

Soren used the sound to mask his movements as he slipped from shadow to shadow. Each doorway became a temporary haven, each corner a potential threat.

The museum’s silhouette rose before him, its grand facade transformed by moonlight.

Soren’s stomach clenched as he circled to the side entrance, moving in a crouch that made his thighs burn.

The door looked exactly as it had during their previous attempt.

Soren pressed his back against the wall, counting heartbeats as he listened for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Kneeling before the lock, Soren forced his breathing to slow. The picks slipped into the keyway with ease.

A clatter of hooves on cobblestones made him freeze.

A cart rolled past the far end of the street.

The sound faded, leaving only the rasp of metal on metal as Soren worked the lock.

Each pin required perfect pressure, perfect timing. Too much force and the delicate tools might break. Too little and the tumblers would never align.

The lock surrendered with a soft click.

Soren slipped his picks back into his tunic and eased the door open.

The door swung silently inward, revealing absolute darkness.

Soren slipped through the gap, pulling the door closed behind him.

As the latch settled into place, he found himself enveloped in darkness.

He stood motionless, letting his eyes adjust before moving forward through silent halls lit by the occasional gas lamp.

His movements were fluid, each step placed with deliberate care. The night guards would be no doubt be on high alert since his last attempt.

Moonlight filtered through high windows, casting shadows across displays of ancient artifacts.

Soren moved between the exhibits.

He stopped behind a massive statue of some long-dead emperor. He crouched and withdrew a smoke bomb.

He set the device and withdrew his flint and steel. The first spark caught the fuse, a tiny point of light in the darkness.

The fuse would give him the time he needed.

He continued through the museum, setting in the smoke bombs at locations he calculated would create maximum confusion—behind a display case of ceremonial masks, beneath a table laden with geological specimens, in the shadowy corner where two corridors met.

The final smoke bomb remained in his pack, just in case.

A distant cough echoed through the halls.

Soren froze, pressing himself into a deep shadow beside a suit of armour.

The guard’s footsteps grew closer, then faded.

Everything was going according to plan. The bombs were placed, and ready to go off in quick succession. The guards were following their predictable patterns. Even the dogs were absent—perhaps his treated meat had done its job.

The first wisps of smoke curled through the air.

Then more appeared, the tendrils growing thicker, merging together into a fog that began to fill the hallways.

Distant voices raised in alarm. Footsteps, growing more urgent.

“Fire!” Soren shouted. “Fire in the east wing!”

Guards burst into action, their boots thundering on the marble floors.

“Get the buckets!”

“Alert the watch!”

The smoke continued to build, filling the air with its acrid scent.

Through the thickening haze, Soren watched as guards rushed past, some carrying buckets.

One guard skidded to a halt near Soren’s position, coughing as he peered through the smoke. “Where’s it coming from?”

“The restoration room!” another voice called from somewhere in the haze. “No, wait—it’s…it’s everywhere!”

Guards ran in different directions. Some tried to protect valuable artifacts, while others searched for the source of the smoke.

Soren remained still. The smoke had reached the perfect density - thick enough to provide cover, but not so thick as to completely obscure his vision. He could still make out the shapes of guards moving through the haze, their forms distorted and ghostly.

A bell began to toll somewhere in the building.

Soren began to move.

His path to the weapons exhibit was clear now, the usual patrols abandoned.

Smoke drifted around him as he moved.

Behind him, the sounds of confusion continued to build.

Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The guards were scattered, their usual discipline shattered by the apparent crisis.

The dogs were nowhere to be seen.

He reached the corridor leading to the weapons exhibit. Through the swirling smoke, he could just make out the entrance to the room where the ravenglass dagger waited.

Soren slipped into the weapons room.

The ravenglass dagger sat in its display case, a void in the shape of a blade. Even in the dim light, it seemed to bend reality around itself, drinking in what little illumination reached it.

Soren approached the case with measured steps. His breathing was controlled, but his hands betrayed him, trembling slightly as he reached for his lockpicks.

Soren crouched before the case, positioning himself to work the lock while remaining hidden from the door.

His fingers found the keyway, sliding the first pick into position.

Metal scraped against metal, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Sweat beaded on his brow. He could feel time slipping away, each second bringing the guards closer to discovering his presence.

The first pin clicked into place.

Then the second.

The third pin began to yield.

The pick jammed, caught between two pins.

Soren’s hands froze, his breath catching in his throat.

He tried to ease the tool back, to reset and try again, but it wouldn’t budge.

No.

Not now.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, growing steadily louder.

Soren’s pulse quickened, blood rushing in his ears.

The pick remained stuck.

The footsteps drew closer.

Each impact of boot on marble sent vibrations through the floor, through Soren’s bones.

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His mind raced with visions of discovery, of guards flooding the room, of his mission ending in failure and imprisonment.

He fumbled with the lock, his usual finesse deserting him.

The mechanisms felt alien now, nothing like the practice lock he’d mastered.

Every attempt to free the pick only seemed to make things worse.

A curse escaped his lips, barely more than a whisper.

The footsteps were so close now, their rhythm steady and purposeful.

Soren squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

Focus.

Control.

Just like Raz had taught him.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

Soren didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe.

The footsteps resumed, continuing down the corridor, growing fainter with each step.

Soren let out a shaky breath

His hands steadied as he refocused on the lock.

This time, he felt every minute movement within the mechanism, every subtle resistance.

His concentration narrowed to a point, the rest of the world falling away.

The pick eased free, and Soren felt the difference in the lock’s tension.

He worked quickly.

Each pin aligned, the tumblers falling into place one by one.

With a soft click, the lock disengaged.

He cast a quick glance around the room, confirming he was still alone, before opening the display case.

The glass case swung open without a sound.

Inside, the ravenglass dagger lay on its velvet cushion, dark as the void.

Soren hesitated for a second before reaching for it.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt and a chill shot up his arm.

The dagger felt unnaturally cold—too cold.

Not like the cool touch of metal but something deeper, something that gnawed at the warmth of his skin.

He tightened his grip, lifting the blade from its stand.

The weight was perfect, balanced, but as he turned the dagger in his hand, the cold seeped deeper, spreading through his bones.

He could almost hear a faint hum in the silence, a vibration that ran up the length of the blade and into his arm.

This wasn’t just a weapon.

It was alive in some way, pulsing with centuries of bloodshed, betrayal, and death.

The energy that radiated from it felt like a whisper, barely audible, yet unmistakable.

Soren forced himself to breathe, shaking off the growing unease. The dagger was the key to everything—to his place in the Guild, to understanding his father’s fate.

This was his moment, his test.

He slid the dagger into his belt, the cold biting through the layers of his tunic.

A quick glance toward the door confirmed the smoke still swirled in thick clouds outside the room.

For a brief moment, Soren allowed himself to feel the triumph.

He had done it. Alone.

Without Alaric’s recklessness to compromise the mission.

Without anyone’s help or interference.

This victory was his alone.

Voices cut through the silence, sharp and clear.

Multiple guards, and close.

He had to escape.

Soren melted into the shadows. His senses bristled at every distant shout, every echo of boots on marble. Smoke churned through the halls

He retraced his path to the side exit, the smoke thinning with each passing moment.

The guards’ shouts sharpened.

Heavy boots thundered through distant corridors.

Any moment now, they would discover the empty display case.

Soren ducked behind a stone pedestal as voices approached. Two guards rushed past.

“Check the east wing again,” one called over his shoulder. “The smoke’s thickest there.”

“What about the artifacts? Should we—”

“Leave them. Captain’s orders. Finding the source comes first.”

Their voices faded. Soren’s fingers brushed the dagger through his tunic. Soon they’d realise there was no fire to find. Soon they’d discover a far greater emergency.

He crept forward, hugging the walls where the shadows ran deepest.

The smoke swirled around him, acrid and thick.

His eyes watered.

His throat burned.

But the discomfort meant his diversion still worked.

A crash echoed from somewhere ahead, followed by cursing.

Soren pressed himself into an alcove as more guards rushed past.

He counted to ten after their footsteps faded, then slipped from his hiding spot.

Twenty paces to the next junction.

Fifteen to the service corridor that would lead him to his exit.

He could make it.

The scuff of claws on stone froze him mid-step.

A low growl rumbled through the smoke-filled hall.

Soren turned.

Through the haze, a massive shape emerged. One of the museum’s dogs prowled toward him, hackles raised.

The sleeping powder hadn’t reached this one.

The beast’s lips peeled back, revealing yellowed fangs. Its muscles bunched, preparing to spring.

Soren’s hand found the last piece of treated meat in his pocket. He pulled it free, fingers trembling.

The dog lunged.

Soren hurled the meat and dove sideways.

Jaws snapped.

Soren rolled, came up running.

The dog’s barking echoed through the halls.

“This way!” a shout came. “The dog’s found something!”

Soren ran. His boots skidded on the polished floor as he rounded a corner.

The dog’s claws clicked against stone, growing closer.

Guards shouted directions to each other, coordinating to cut him off.

He burst through a door into the Sieshin wing. Ancient statues loomed in the darkness.

He weaved between display cases, knocking over a stand of informational plaques. They clattered to the floor behind him.

The dog burst from behind a sarcophagus, cutting off his path.

Soren changed direction mid-stride.

His shoulder clipped a glass case.

Pain flared down his arm.

He spotted a narrow gap between two display platforms. Too small for the dog.

He dove through it, rolling to his feet on the other side.

The beast slammed against the platforms, snapping, and snarling as it tried to reach Soren.

Guards converged from both ends of the hall.

Torchlight painted the walls with wild shadows.

The smoke grew thin, offering less cover.

Soren sprinted for a side door, lungs burning.

The ravenglass dagger bounced against his ribs with each step.

He shouldered through the door into a narrow corridor.

The passage ended in a heavy iron gate—this wasn’t on the floorplan.

He was trapped.

Boots thundered behind him.

The dog’s barking grew louder.

They had him cornered.

Soren yanked open the nearest door.

Cleaning supplies crammed the tiny space.

He wedged himself inside, pulling the door shut just as the first guards reached the corridor.

“Spread out! Check every room!”

“The dog’s going crazy— he must be here somewhere!”

Soren pressed deeper into the cramped space.

A mop handle dug into his back.

The smell of soap and polish filled his nose.

Don’t sneeze.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t move.

The dog’s claws clicked past his hiding spot.

It snuffled at the base of the door.

The dog whined.

A dull thud hit the floor.

“Come on, you big lump,” a guard said. “Not you too.”

Soren strained to hear to shuffling sounds.

“He’s not here!” a guard called. “Check the next section!”

The footsteps receded.

Soren counted to fifty before easing the door open.

He found the dog lying on his belly, asleep.

Otherwise, the corridor stood empty.

He crept out, every nerve screaming for him to run.

But speed meant noise.

Noise meant capture.

He retraced his steps, taking a different route this time.

The smoke grew thicker again as he neared the side exit.

His throat constricted.

His eyes burned.

The door appeared ahead.

As he drew close, he stopped.

A heavy bar sealed the door from the inside, no doubt added during the chaos he’d created. His lockpicks were useless against such an obstacle.

Soren’s gaze snapped to a window near the ceiling.

Small, but maybe large enough.

He dragged a plinth across the floor, wood scraping on stone.

The noise would draw attention, but he had no choice.

He scrambled up the makeshift ladder, muscles straining as he reached for the window.

His fingers found the latch. It resisted, then yielded with a sharp crack.

Cold air rushed in as Soren heaved himself up.

The window frame bit into his ribs. He twisted, forcing his shoulders through the narrow gap.

His feet scrabbled against the wall for purchase.

“The window!”

Soren thrashed, pushing himself through the opening.

Pain flared across his chest as stone scraped flesh. His legs kicked empty air.

Something snagged his boot.

A guard’s hand.

Soren kicked hard. His foot connected with something solid.

The grip loosened.

He squeezed through the gap.

The ground rushed up.

Soren hit the cobblestones hard.

The impact drove the air from his lungs.

He rolled, letting momentum carry him away from the wall.

Shouts erupted from the window above.

Blood trickled down his palms where they’d scraped the ground.

His chest heaved as he fought to breathe.

He had to move.

He patted his tunic down as he staggered to his feet. He touched the ravenglass dagger, reassuring himself it hadn’t been lost.

Torchlight spilled from the museum’s windows.

Guards shouted to each other.

The night watch would be alerted soon.

He melted into the darkness between buildings, letting the familiar cloak of shadow embrace him.

His boots found dry patches between puddles, leaving no tracks to follow.

Whistles blew in the distance, shrill and insistent.

The night watch had joined the hunt.

He slipped through a narrow passage between two buildings, his shoulders brushing the rough stone walls.

The path was barely wide enough for him, but it was better than the open streets.

Behind him, the clatter of footsteps grew louder.

The guards were close, too close.

Soren pushed himself harder, darting across an open courtyard and into another alley.

He stayed low, letting the shadows swallow him.

His breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest tight.

The alley opened onto a broader street.

Soren halted, pressing himself flat against the wall.

Across the way, two watchmen stood at the far end of the street, their backs to him.

One of them held a lantern, casting a pool of light at their feet.

There was no way around without being seen.

Soren scanned the nearby buildings, his gaze falling on a row of wooden crates stacked outside a merchant’s shop.

He bolted for the crates, the wood creaking beneath his weight as he climbed.

His fingers found purchase on the roof’s edge, and with a grunt, he hauled himself up.

The crates clattered to the cobbles and a sharp whistle pierced the night.

“There! On the roof!”

Soren didn’t look back as he scrambled across the rooftop, his boots slipping on the damp tiles.

Ahead, the roof sloped down towards another alley.

A crossbow bolt whizzed past his head, striking the tiles with a loud crack.

Soren ducked, his legs burning as he pushed himself faster.

He leapt and sailed over the gap, arms flailing for balance.

His boots hit the opposite rooftop with a bone-jarring thud.

He stumbled, nearly losing his footing.

Another bolt zipped over his shoulder.

“Get him!”

Soren’s mind raced as he skidded to a stop at the edge of the new roof.

Below him, the alley stretched out, empty and dark.

He had no choice.

He dropped to the street, landing in a crouch.

The Guild was close now. Just a few more streets.

He darted through another alley, this one even narrower, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

His vision blurred from the effort, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.

The guards closed in, their whistles growing louder, their shouts more desperate.

Soren skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley.

The Guild’s entrance lay just ahead, but half a dozen watchmen filled the street, their lanterns casting overlapping pools of light.

No shadows to hide in.

No way to slip past unseen.

His chest heaved as he pressed against the wall, mind racing.

The guards behind him were closing in, their footfalls growing louder.

“Check the alleys! He’s here somewhere!”

Soren’s eyes darted around the narrow space.

Crates. Barrels. A half-rotted door.

Nothing useful.

His gaze fixed on a storm drain set into the wall.

Heavy iron bars blocked the opening, but one was loose, the mortar crumbling around it.

Footsteps approached from both directions.

Lantern light crept into the alley.

Soren dropped to his knees, fingers scrabbling at the loose bar.

The rusted metal bit into his hands as he pulled.

Nothing.

He braced his feet against the wall and heaved again.

The bar gave way with a sharp crack.

Soren squeezed through the gap headfirst, rough stone scraping his shoulders.

The drain stank of rot and stagnant water.

Soren crawled forward on his elbows, fighting the urge to gag.

Behind him, boots thundered past the opening.

Voices argued about which way he’d gone.

He kept moving until the voices faded, then waited in the darkness, counting his heartbeats.

One hundred.

Two hundred.

When he was certain they’d moved on, he backtracked to the opening.

The street had cleared.

Most of the guards had moved on.

But three watchmen remained, positioned not too far from the Guild’s entrance.

Soren pulled a smoke bomb from his pack.

The fuse caught at the first spark.

He lobbed it high, over the buildings, aiming for the far end of the street.

Thick smoke billowed up, drawing shouts from the watchmen.

They rushed toward the smoke, weapons drawn.

Soren sprinted for the Guild’s entrance.

He raced up the steps and slammed against the door, fingers finding the catch.

Soren dove through the gap, pulling the door shut behind him.

He sagged against the wall, heart pounding, chest heaving.

Every muscle trembled from exhaustion.

But he’d done it.

There was no way the watch would enter the Guild.

He was safe, and the ravenglass dagger was his.

His footsteps whispered across the stone floors as he made his way to his quarters. Each step brought fresh aches—bruises, scrapes, strained muscles.

He paused outside his door, listening.

Alaric’s soft snores drifted through the wood.

Soren stepped inside, set his pack down, and kicked off his boots.

Alaric stirred, rolling over with a grunt. His eyes shot open, squinting in the darkness. “Sor? Where’ve you been all day?”

Soren said nothing as drew the dagger from his tunic.

He crossed to the small table by the window and laid the dagger down.

Alaric sat up. “Is that?”

Soren nodded.

“You did it. You actually got it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Alaric cross the room and gazed down at the dagger. He turned to Soren, a deep line etching his brow. “When did you…why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I needed to do it right.” The words came out sharper than Soren intended. “No rushing in. No improvising. No mistakes.”

Alaric flinched. “You don’t trust me anymore. Is that it?”

“Trust isn’t the issue. Recklessness cost us too many times. I couldn’t risk failure. Not again.”

“So you went alone. After everything we’ve been through together, you didn’t even tell me what you were planning.”

“I used smoke bombs. Created a distraction. Studied the guard rotations. Planned every detail.” He met Alaric’s gaze. “It worked perfectly.”

“Of course it did.” Bitterness crept into Alaric’s tone. “Because you didn’t have me there to ruin everything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” Alaric moved closer to examine the dagger. “Look at it, Sor. It’s incredible. And you got it yourself. Proved you don’t need me slowing you down.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

They stood on either side of the table, the ravenglass dagger between them. Its dark surface reflected nothing, gave nothing back.

“What happens now?” Alaric asked.

Soren shook his head. “I don’t know. We have what Raz asked for.”

“We?” Alaric’s eyebrow rose. “So now it’s we again?”

Soren’s hands clenched at his sides. But he had no answer.