The bookcase slid open with a whisper, revealing a door of solid gold that shouldn't have existed. Its surface crawled with glowing runes that pulsed in rhythmic patterns, like the slow breathing of some ancient beast. Kael's fingers trembled as he pressed the lion emblem into its socket—not from fear, but from the sheer pressure of magic in the air. The runes dimmed one by one, and with a sound like a dying sigh, the door split down the middle.
A gust of stale, metallic air rushed out, carrying with it the scent of something old—something powerful. Kael's nose wrinkled at the undertones of decay beneath the sharp tang of enchanted metals. The darkness beyond seemed to push back against the light from the bedroom.
Stepping inside, Kael's boots sank slightly into the plush crimson carpet that lined the floor—an absurd luxury for a room no one was meant to see. His eyes adjusted slowly, widening as the full scope of the Baron's hoard came into view.
To his left, mountains of gold coins rose in careless piles, their surfaces dulled by time but no less valuable. They spilled across the floor like water, collecting in drifts against chests of jewels and silver ingots. To his right, artifacts rested on pedestals of black marble—each one sealed behind glass that shimmered with containment spells. A dagger with a blade of pure shadow. A crown woven from what looked like strands of frozen lightning.
Against the far wall, armor stands displayed suits of gear that could outfit an entire patrol guard. One in particular caught his eye—a sleek, form-fitting suit of blackened steel, its surface etched with silver runes that seemed to shift when he looked away. Assassin's gear. Perfect.
Kael moved with practiced efficiency, his spatial pouch devouring anything of value. The halberd went first—its shaft hollowed for smuggling, its blade sharp enough to part hair. Then the dagger, its edge singing a faint, hungry note as it neared his own bloodstained clothes. The armor followed, its weight negligible as it folded into the pouch's magical confines.
He paused at a case of crystals, each one pulsing with a different hue. Mana crystals the size of his fist. Elemental cores that shimmered with trapped fire and ice. He took three of each, their surfaces warm against his palms.
Then he saw it.
At the room's center, floating above a pedestal of white stone, was the crystal Feng-Yuan had sent him for. It was massive—the size of a human skull—and perfectly cut, its facets throwing prismatic light across the walls. As he reached for it, the air around it hummed with restrained power. The moment his fingers closed around it, a shock ran up his arm.
He turned to leave, his pouch heavy with loot, his mind already racing toward the next phase of his plan. The balcony doors stood open, the night air calling to him. He allowed himself one moment—one single, satisfied grin—before stepping forward.
"You've taken things that don't belong to you."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft as a knife sliding between ribs. Kael's blood turned to ice.
On the rooftop opposite the balcony, a figure stood silhouetted against the moon. Silver hair. Eyes like chips of glacial ice. A katana already drawn, its edge gleaming with a light that had nothing to do with reflection.
Kael didn't hesitate. His hands moved to his belt, scattering smoke pellets across the tiles. The world vanished in a cloud of gray.
The laugh that followed was worse than any curse.
Wind screamed as the katana cut through the smoke, its wake splitting the stone chimney behind him clean in two. Kael lunged blindly, his shortsword thrusting toward where the man had been—
—and met empty air.
The figure stood twenty feet away, already sheathing his blade. "Cute," he said, and took a single step forward.
Pain exploded through Kael's forearms as the man's knee connected. The sound of snapping bone was deafening. He was airborne before he could scream, skidding across the manicured lawn, his mouth filling with the taste of copper and dirt.
A hand fisted in his hair, hauling him upright. The man's eyes bored into his, bright with something that wasn't quite amusement. "Interesting," he murmured.
Then the world became a series of impacts.
His face met the ground once—his nose shattered. Twice—tears of pain blurred his vision. A third time—his skull cracked against stone, and the world went dark.
The last thing he heard was the man's voice, soft as a razor's edge:
"Let's see what you're really made of."