Though Eleanor was often caught up in schemes and plots as of late, she hadn't forgotten her origins. Her instincts as a maid were screaming to her that she shouldn't leave the dusty crawl space as it was.
Fortunately, she was used to ignoring them by now with all the skulking she did, so she only had to clench her jaw to keep lightly stepping forward.
"Would it kill you to slow down? Not everyone can sneak around without disturbing any dust." Sigurd hissed, thankfully low enough that no one would overhear.
"We already had to change route three times. If we take more time, they might think we have failed." She murmured without turning, crouching low under a wooden beam.
Every creak of the planks under her feet felt magnified in her mind, each shift of her weight a potential catastrophe. Beside her, Sigurd followed her steps deliberately, his tall frame ill-suited to the confined space. Yet, despite his size, he moved with surprising quiet, though every now and then she could hear the faint rasp of his breath as they navigated the tight confines.
Eleanor cursed silently to herself. Could they use the cube, this would be a cakewalk, but it was too risky now that they knew several powerful mages were meeting near the study. If they caused even the slightest disturbance in the mana around them, they'd be found out instantly. Instead, they had to rely on old-fashioned stealth and hope the talking would cover their faint movements.
The mission didn't allow for any leeway. They had to be perfect.
The crawlspace stretched until just above their target, but the room next to it—the one below them now and that they had to go through—was their greatest danger. Her heart raced as she inched forward, silently praying nothing would go wrong. More than a dozen noble mages were gathered below, more than enough to deal with the two of them—cube or no cube.
A voice drifted up through the cracks in the floorboards, deep and gruff, sending a shiver down her spine. "The time to act is now. The revolutionary government's grip on Treon is still weak. With the Mistress of Shadows gone and the Hero off on some fool's errand, what better chance could we hope for?"
Sigurd tensed beside her, and Eleanor shot him a glance and received the slightest nod. They stopped.
Only when the next speaker began did she shift forward, matching her movements to the rhythm of the conversation. Every inch was agony, her muscles screaming for release, but she dared not make a sound. Below them, the meeting continued, undisturbed.
"There's still too much we don't know," a more wizened voice argued, sharp with reproach. "The young Archmage is the one we must fear, not the whore. She has casually demonstrated mastery I've rarely seen before. I'd go so far as to put her on par with the Grandmasters of the Capital. Rushing into an assault on the castle now would be suicide. We have successfully infiltrated the academy—it's only a matter of time before the seeds we have planted bear fruit, and once we receive the help we requested, we’ll be able to overwhelm her before she can do too much damage.”
Eleanor ground her teeth together, forcing herself not to react. It was obvious now that these weren't just a group of bellicose nobles but, in fact, a cadre of loyalist mages that had successfully hidden and spread their rot everywhere they could reach. They had taken the goodwill offered to them as a chance to undermine the Revolution from within.
Sigurd's hand brushed her arm gently, bringing her back to the present. They couldn't afford to lose focus now. If they successfully completed the mission, they'd destroy any hope these mages had of getting reinforcements or even coordinating with the outside. Then, the hunt would be on.
The conversation below shifted again, drawing her attention back to the voices. "We have other options," one of the mages said, his voice lower but full of menace. "We could send a message. Strike a lesser target first. Something to rattle the Archmage. Force her to react. She might have the advantage one-on-one, but even she cannot be everywhere, and the army's mages that didn't leave with the Hero are all too busy handling the mess in the Scales."
Sweat beaded at her brow as they reached the final few feet of the crawlspace, positioning themselves just above the warded room containing the communication orb. She risked a glance at Sigurd. His expression was grim, his hand already hovering near the dagger's hilt strapped to his leg. Removing the wooden planks would be the next step.
Behind, the older mage spoke again, and Eleanor listened despite knowing she couldn't afford to be distracted now. "The Archmage is young, yes, but do not underestimate her. I have personally witnessed the ease with which she grasps new magic. I only had to show her the local version of the dredging spell for her to grasp the entirety of our spellcrafting's unique flavor. She possesses a sharp mind. It's a pity she's so dedicated to the cause. It might be better to remove her from the board subtly." A hum of agreement followed. These men saw nothing wrong in poisoning the brightest mind Haylich produced in the last century. They wanted their privileges back, and nothing would make them change their mind.
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Eleanor exhaled slowly. The moment they disabled the communication orb, the mages would know. And she wasn't sure if she and Sigurd would make it out alive once that happened.
"We're outnumbered ten to one," Sigurd mouthed so quietly she barely heard him. "We disable the orb and get out. Fast."
He took out the dagger and flipped it so it'd face down. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slipped the blade beneath the edge of the floorboard. Eleanor watched mutely, holding her breath as he eased the plank up with the utmost care. A single creak would be the end of them.
The board lifted without protest, revealing the study below—empty, just as their initial scouting had suggested. The room was lit only by the moon, with shadows pooling around the ornate furniture and towering bookshelves. Eleanor dropped down without a sound. Sigurd followed her, landing beside her like a predator stalking its prey.
They had no time to waste.
She looked around, taking in every detail, every open book, every ledger that promised to hold so many secrets. She forced herself to ignore them all and look for the target for which they were risking their lives.
"There," Sigurd whispered, nodding toward a large portrait hanging on the far wall. A young King Vasily looked down imperiously at them. It was a vain piece of art, made with paint derived from crushed gems and gold—ostentatious even by royal standards, but that wasn't what mattered. Behind it lay the real prize.
Eleanor approached the painting, brushing her fingers along the edge of the frame. Her senses as a maid quickly identified where there was less dust, leading her to the mechanism that kept it stuck to the wall. With a subtle twist of her wrist, the portrait swung open like a door, revealing a small, magically sealed safe embedded in the stone. Numerous wards shimmered around it, warning off anyone who might try to tamper with it.
I doubt even a Master would get through these without being noticed. Light, even Lady Jean, might have trouble doing it so subtly. It's a good thing we have the cube.
Sigurd stepped forward, a low hum rising in his throat. The sound was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried weight, a resonance that seemed to shake the air. The cube appeared again at the call, floating soundlessly in response to his song. It hovered there for a moment, then drifted toward the safe as Sigurd's melody shifted into a new, more intricate rhythm.
The cube pulsed with power, its edges shimmering as it interacted with the wards around the safe. Eleanor held her breath as she watched it work, the wards flickering faintly, then dissipating one by one, like candle flames snuffed out in the wind. The safe's defenses crumbled under the subtle pressure of Sigurd's song, and the last of the magic faded away.
Behind them, Eleanor's sharp ears caught the sound of chairs scraping on the floor in the meeting room. The mages were stirring. They had felt the mana fluctuations—Sigurd's cube was subtle but not undetectable to seasoned mages, and while one ward might have been ignored, removing all of them was too much to dismiss. Time was running out.
"We need to move," Eleanor whispered urgently.
Sigurd nodded, his song continuing in a low, focused hum as he guided the cube toward the last lock. The final barrier melted away, and with a soft click, the safe popped open. Eleanor wasted no time, reaching inside and pulling out the orb—a golden, shimmering sphere that seemed to pulse with life in her hands.
The mission was almost complete.
Sigurd's song shifted once more, and the cube moved to hover above the orb. It pulsed faintly, its magic working to disable the orb's power, ensuring that no countermeasure would be triggered as they took it and that it couldn't be tracked. Within moments, the orb's glow dimmed, and the dangerous magic within was neutralized.
But just as it faded to black, an explosion shattered the tense silence. The door to the study blew off its hinges, crashing against the wall next to Eleanor with a deafening thud. Furious mages stormed in.
The eldest among them, a man with sharp, calculating eyes, stepped forward, gaze locking onto Eleanor and Sigurd. "Thieves," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "I should have known. Lord Winder's incompetence knows no bounds."
Eleanor's heart pounded in her chest. There was no time to think, no time to plan. The mages were already drawing power, preparing to strike.
"Sigurd—"
But before she could finish, Sigurd grabbed the hand that wasn’t holding the orb. Without a word, he leaped toward the window, pulling her with him. The glass shattered as they crashed through it, the cold night air rushing past them as they fell. Eleanor's heart lurched, but Sigurd was already singing again, his voice rising in a powerful, commanding note.
The cube followed them, and in an instant, they were surrounded by a cocoon of protective magic, slowing their descent and momentarily shielding them from the storm of spells that erupted from the mages behind them.
Touching down, Eleanor scrambled toward the exit, but two mages appeared there before she could take the first step. On the other side, on top of the passage that led to the sewers, she found three more, and behind them, she felt the elder and the larger group float down the window.
"That was unnecessarily dramatic. Now hand over the orb, and I won't have you skinned alive." The old man commanded, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd do just that.
That was when five spears of crackling lighting crashed next to them.
The garden erupted in chaos. Electricity slammed into the earth with a thunderous roar, sending fountains of dirt and stone flying into the air. The shockwave rippled through the mages, scattering them like leaves caught in a storm. Eleanor's eyes widened as she saw the path clear before them.
"Run!" Sigurd barked, pulling her forward.
They bolted through the opening, their feet pounding against the shattered earth, racing toward the safety of the outer wall. Behind them, the garden was ablaze with energy, and the mages scrambled to recover, but the raw, untamed power crashing down from the skies disrupted any spell from reaching them.
Eleanor risked a glance over her shoulder as they ran, her breath catching in her throat at the sight.
Descending from the sky, bathed in a halo of crackling electricity, was Lady Jean. Her face was set in a cold, determined expression, her arms outstretched like an avenging angel of judgment. Above her, a hundred more spears of lightning hovered, each vibrating with deadly potential.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. Jean's eyes locked onto the remaining mages, her intent unmistakable. She was here to end this.