Torik didn't breathe as he push the panel open.
Just a sliver. Just enough to peer through the slit between the wall's decorative carvings. The chamber beyond lay quiet again. Galrick and Ysara were gone, their wine glasses half-drained, the scent of spiced fruit and heat still lingering in the air. The room had that kind of hush that followed important conversations, like the walls were still chewing on the words spoken within them.
Beside him, Mox stretched his shoulders with a quiet grunt. "Cozy in here," he muttered.
Torik ignored him. He had to. His pulse was still thudding from when Galrick had stood up, stepped toward the hearth, and looked directly, directly, at the painting concealing their hiding place. Torik hadn't dared breathe until the man left.
They couldn't delay. Every moment they remained here was a moment closer to discovery.
Torik pushed the hidden panel open and emerged first, checking the chamber. Mox followed, brushing dust from his sleeves, his disguise still intact. He'd come dressed as a junior scribe, a rust-brown robe with dull embroidery and a House Ysara pin he'd palmed from one of the coat hooks.
"Where to?" Mox asked, stepping lightly after him.
Torik adjusted his own servant's garb, frowning as he moved to the desk and pulled open the drawers once more. "They said the priest brought the crown," he murmured. "And he had a meeting with some artificer. That means he's still in the keep."
"Right," Mox said. "So, we find a priest in a giant black robe with two creepy guards. Shouldn't be too hard."
Torik glanced up. "Did you get a good look at the guards?"
"Yeah. In the courtyard. They didn't blink."
He grimaced. That tracked. The priest, whatever he was, had given Torik the wrong kind of feeling. Like someone had layered salt beneath his skin and it was slowly eating upward. And now they had to get close enough to steal something from him.
Wonderful.
They crept into the hallway, Torik leading with careful steps, retracing Galrick's likely path in reverse. As they passed through the velvet-hung corridors, they kept to the lesser-used servant routes. Torik knew them well by now, Mox had some boy from the kitchens draw a crude but usable map on a napkin. It led them down narrow flights of stairs and behind tapestry-shielded gaps in the stone walls.
Soon the finery gave way to something different. Stone walls. Unadorned torches. Cold air that seeped from the flagstones.
"Dungeons?" Mox guessed.
Torik nodded, touching a patch of the wall. Smooth from centuries of footsteps. "Where else do you hold private meetings with broken royal relics and priests who smell like grave dust?"
They rounded a corner and stopped short.
Two figures stood at the end of the hall… one a woman in scholar's robes, the other a man in full ceremonial armor. Beyond them, a thick iron door stood open a crack. Flickering candlelight spilled out.
Mox nudged him. "That's it."
Torik scanned the alcove. There, a servant's slot, barely two hands wide. He crouched, crawled through the low entry, and dropped down behind a stack of unused barrels. From here, they could see the room through the bars of a secondary entrance.
The Bound priest stood with his back to them, his mask pale like sun-bleached bone. The two guards flanked him in silence, their armor the same strange design. Segmented, no insignia, no visible buckles.
On the table before them lay the Crown.
Even under guttering torchlight, it looked unnatural. The stone was corroded, almost like something you'd see in the sewers, but it was the green jewels along the rim that caught Torik's eye. Or rather, the fracture running through the center one. It split the gemstone like a lightning bolt, warping the light that passed through.
"Since the crack," the artificer was saying, "the surge readings have spiked."
"How high?" Ysara asked from the far side of the chamber, arms crossed.
"Sevenfold. No longer localized."
"Villages?"
"Gone," the priest said. His voice was muffled by the mask, but low and resonant. "Burned from within. Creatures that were once myths are crawling from the earth."
Torik felt his stomach drop. He looked at Mox, who stared, unblinking, through the bars.
"What are we stealing?" Mox whispered.
Torik had no answer.
But he had a job.
"We need a distraction," he whispered.
Mox's mouth twitched. "Split up?"
Torik hesitated.
"You're better with your hands," Mox added. "I'll draw them off."
Torik's eyes flicked to the guards. "They'll kill you."
"Not if they think I'm just a clumsy scribe."
Torik didn't like it. But Mox was already moving.
The boy kicked a barrel down the hallway.
It clanged loudly. The priest turned. So did the guards.
Torik used that moment.
He moved through the bars, quiet as breath, crossing the chamber's rear edge until he crouched behind a robed mannequin in the corner. One guard had stepped out. The other followed, but not the priest. The masked figure remained by the crown, hands steepled, whispering to himself.
Torik inched closer.
His fingers slid along the table's edge, reaching for the artifact. His heartbeat was so loud he was certain the priest could hear it.
The crown was heavier than he expected.
Then he felt something with it in his hand, it whispered to him. Freeme. He almost dropped it at the sound in his head but kept ahold of himself.
He wrapped it in cloth, no shine, no gleam, no sound, and drew back into the shadows.
Then the priest turned.
His masked face tilted toward the table.
A heartbeat passed.
Then he staggered forward, hands groping for the empty space.
"…It's gone," he breathed.
Another beat.
"It's gone."
His voice cracked into something shrill and unnatural.
"It's gone!" he roared. "The crown was stolen!"
The two guards spun around, startled as the priest backed away from the table, wild with fury. His hands trembled.
"No one entered. No one left. That means…"
He turned, mask swiveling with a jolt toward the shadows.
"The thief is still here!" he howled.
Steel sang free of scabbards. The guards lunged into motion.
"Find them!" the priest screamed. "Seal the doors! Tear this room apart if you must!"
Torik ducked behind the shelves. The chamber plunged into chaos.
They moved like savages, not men. The first guard checked every corner. The second upended the table. Torik crouched in a crevice behind an old rack of scrolls, barely breathing.
Footsteps. Closer. Torchlight gleamed off metal.
A sword pierced the cloth beside his head.
He rolled, kicked the base of the shelf, and darted for the side corridor.
A yell behind him.
He ran.
Footsteps thundered after him. Voices rose in alarm. Torik took corner after corner, his legs burning, his lungs heaving. He was no warrior he knew that. And in this shape, he wouldn't make it far.
He needed a plan. An exit. Anything.
The sounds behind him multiplied.
More guards.
They were multiplying now.
Up ahead, an archway. One of the side exits from the servant's stair. He rushed toward it-
A hand snatched him.
He twisted, snarling, ready to lash out.
"Easy!" Mox's voice. "It's me."
Torik staggered back. "How did-"
"No time." Mox's eyes were sharp now, the playfulness gone. "Hand it over."
"What?"
"I'm still in disguise. I can walk right out. You can't. They've seen you."
Torik clutched the crown tighter. His instincts rebelled. Never trust anyone. Never.
But behind him, the footsteps were growing louder.
He looked at Mox.
And handed it over.
Mox wrapped it in a roll of parchment and tucked it into his sleeve. "Go east. Find the cisterns. I'll meet you after nightfall."
Then he turned and walked, just like a bored scribe with nothing to hide.
Torik watched him vanish through the archway.
Then he ran.
Torik skidded to a stop. Stone wall. No door. Just a narrow window, far too high to reach.
Behind him were footsteps. Steel. Shouting.
He turned. Dagger raised.
Two shadows approached from the corridor. The guards. The ones that didn't blink. Their steps were steady. Deliberate. Not urgent, just inevitable.
Cornered.
He didn't breathe. Just let the tension settle in his muscles. His dagger felt much too small.
One stepped forward.
Torik struck. A quick slice at the head.
Metal rang. The helmet tumbled off.
He recoiled.
The thing's face was wrong. Skin gray, stretched like leather. Veins like dark threads pulsing beneath. The eyes... weren't human. And the smile that followed…
That wasn't human either.
They moved in unison, blades raised.
He wouldn't survive this.
Then-
"Hold!" a voice snapped from the hall.
Captain Kell. His crimson cloak swirled behind him as he entered, flanked by soldiers. His blade was drawn.
"Take him alive!" the captain barked. "We need to interrogate him!"
The guards froze.
Torik didn't move. His mind was racing.
They'd trap him. Cage him. Rip the truth from his skull.
Unless…
Unless he gave them something worse to fear.
He reached inward. No words. Just instinct. Raw, desperate need. The thread of power within him answered.
Bend their sight. Twist it. Make them see.
Pain lanced through his skull. Like a spike driven behind his eye. But the illusion bloomed.
Chains. Fire. Blackened horns rising from a skull face. Towering. Ancient. Impossible.
Tharoghul.
They all saw it.
The air grew still.
The grey-faced guard dropped to a knee, whispering in some forgotten tongue.
The captain took a step back. "What in the First King's name…"
The room filled with the scent of scorched stone.
Torik nearly blacked out. His nose bled. His knees shook.
But it worked.
He turned and ran. Straight for the wall.
The bricks weren't smooth. Old stone. Cracks. Imperfections. He found one with his foot, then another.
Climb. Now.
Someone screamed. "He's getting away!"
A spear whistled past his ear.
Another slammed into the wall inches from his leg.
As he thought, they didn't load their crossbows. He could hear them cranking them now though.
Below, one of the unnatural guards shouted something guttural. The other responded with his fists.
He punched the wall.
Stone cracked. The whole thing shook.
Torik scrambled higher. His boots slipped. Dust rained down.
Almost there.
The wall shook again, what kind of force was that thing hitting it with?
There was one more gap to make, he leaped as a crossbow bolt whizzed past nearly hitting his back but it deflected off the bricks next to him.
He reached the window. Drew his dagger. Slammed it into the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Crack.
The pane shattered. Cold air rushed in.
No time to think. No time to doubt.
Torik leapt.
The wind caught him. His heart surged.
Below, shouts turned to echoes. The crumbling wall gave one final groan.
But Torik…
Torik was gone.
And for the first time in his life, he felt relieved to be out in the open.