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“Guards?” I ask when I catch up to him.

“Two at the main entrance, as expected. One patrol circles the lower levels every quarter hour. The passage should bring us out in the kitchens.”

He glances around once, then presses a hand flat against the wall, his fingers splaying in an old, deliberate pattern. Earth magic humsfaintly against my senses, releasing the hidden catch set into the stone decades ago.

The entrance creaks open just wide enough to admit us. Stale air spills out. The walk to the exit takes no more than ten minutes, but every footstep echoes too loudly in the narrow confines.

We emerge from the other end in a pantry adjacent to the main kitchen. The sudden light is blinding. Staff bustle around massive ovens and tables heaped with food for the Day of Order feast. Our uniforms grant us a veneer of invisibility, but the kitchen staff duck their heads, pretending not to see us, moving quicker to avoid drawing attention.

Walking these halls again after so long stirs memories I’ve kept buried. I see them overlaid on the present like echoes.

Strategy sessions around tables now bearing Authority emblems. Drills called out in courtyards now patrolled by those who killed every Veinblood they could find. Faces of soldiers I once trusted flash in my mind, many of them dead, others lost to the enemy's reach in ways worse than death.

We descend deeper into the tower, moving quickly down narrow staircases where sunlight cannot reach. Here, only torchlight flickers along the walls, throwing distorted shadows that ripple as we pass. The walls are rough-hewn stone, the floor worn smooth by generations of feet. The deeper we go, the stronger the pulse in the air becomes. An almost physical pressure against my senses.

The vault lies two levels beneath the main floor. A fortress within a fortress. Built to protect records and artifacts too dangerousto destroy, now used to hoard the Authority’s stolen trophies. And somewhere within, my ring waits.

“There are guards ahead.” Varam slows as two men come into view standing at the hallway which leads down to the vault.

This is where our forged documents will be tested. This is the point where one wrong breath could undo everything.

The Authority’s power lies in process. The endless verifications, the paper walls meant to trap enemies before a blade is even drawn. Any inconsistency here, any hesitation, and the entire plan collapses.

We approach with our heads bowed, presenting our papers.

“State your business,” one demands, voice heavy with boredom, though his hand rests close to his weapon.

“Inventory verification, vault section three,” I reply, keeping my tone as dismissive as his. “Commander Jarel’s orders.”

The first guard barely glances down. The second pays closer attention, his gaze moving over us carefully.

“Haven’t seen you before. New assignment?”

“Recent transfer from the western garrison,” Varam says evenly. “Reassigned following the solstice rotation.”

The second guard frowns. His gaze narrows, assessing us, and for a breath, I feel it. The crack forming. But then he presses a seal onto our papers, grunting his approval, and waves us through.

We continue downward, the hallway narrowing. Each step seems louder here. Each torch sputtering above feels like a heartbeat.

At the last turn before the vault, I pause, extending my senses forward. Two guards are posted at the vault’s entrance. Another one is disappearing down the far hallway, his back to us.

They straighten the moment they see us, hands dropping nearer to their weapons. Their faces shift from inattentive to alert in a single breath. We present our documents again, showing the approval seal already received.

For a moment, it seems enough. Then the senior guard frowns, leaning closer to inspect it.

“Commander Jarel died two months ago.”

They move as one, reaching for weapons.

No time to negotiate. No time to reason.

I move before either can draw. The shadowblade pours from its sheath, my fingers closing around the hilt before it solidifies. It finds the first guard’s throat in a single, mercifully clean stroke. Varam takes the second before the man can shout a warning.

Their bodies collapse into the waiting shadow. No noise. No struggle. Nothing left but the faint shudder of death passing through them. Three heartbeats. That’s all it takes.

Three heartbeats in which the entire mission balanced.

“We don’t have much time,” Varam says, dragging the bodies around the corner. “The other guard will return in less than four minutes.”