The Plunge

For the first time, Mirak took the plunge. There were no calculations, no overthinking—just the raw, burning need to prove his friend wrong. The wind howled as it tore through his hair and whipped his cloak around him. His heart thundered in his chest as he fell, exhilaration and terror merging into a single, overwhelming sensation. For a fleeting moment, all his thoughts, fears, and worries vanished, scattered by the rush of the descent.

He reached out and caught the edge of a roof, the force of the stop jolting his body. His hand nearly slipped on the slick shingles, but he held firm, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as he swung himself onto the narrow stone staircase below. He took a moment to steady his breath before slipping into the empty streets of Koona.

Above him, winged figures soared in lazy arcs, their forms silhouetted against the swirling Lunar Storms. The storm's pale light scattered across the city, turning the Saki into ghostly streaks of motion—falling stars that flitted between the towering buildings.

Mirak trudged forward, the streets eerily quiet. The Lunar Storms coiled around him like living mist, their currents curling through the air and pooling in the cobblestone alleys. Here and there, the husks of the unlucky—victims of the city's cruelty—lay sprawled on the ground. They would be cleared away by morning, like discarded remnants of another night's casualties.

The sixth district loomed around him, its structures rising six stories high, carved with intricate glyphs and layered in protective wards. This was the district of knowledge and thought—a place of scholars, architects, and inventors. Balconies jutted out from many of the buildings, their occupants often pausing to scribble down ideas while watching the city below come alive. Each home surrounded a courtyard, where plants, tools, and books blended into quiet sanctuaries of reflection.

Mirak's steps slowed as the familiar feeling of being lost washed over him. It was a strange comfort, this anonymity within the sprawling city. He craved it. But that thought quickly turned bitter as a single word flashed in his mind: Publici.

The Publici were the reason for this. The reason for the broken bodies in the streets. The reason for the weight of his shackles.

A faint clinking noise broke through his thoughts. Mirak turned toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. Something silver glinted in the mist ahead, but when he blinked, it was gone. A trick of the storm, perhaps.

He gripped the edges of his white cloak, its fabric mingling with the misty light of the Lunar Storms. The cloak—and the Publici shackles he still wore—were the only things keeping him from joining the husks in the gutter.

A shift in his hand called forth Atta, the power responding to his unspoken summons. It surged, eager to lash out at the world around him, the roaring tide brushing against his senses and tempting him to let it loose. Mirak paused, steadying his breath as the storm within him threatened to overwhelm. Slowly, he forced the Atta to recede, letting it bleed away until it vanished entirely, leaving behind only an aching hollowness.

Mirak grunted, shaking the lingering pull of the power from his mind as he reached the symbol of the thieves' amphitheater. A crudely etched emblem marked the door, barely visible through the mist. He tugged his hood lower over his face and knocked firmly.

A slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. "Words?" came the gruff voice of the enforcer.

"The pockets are heavy, and the opportunity grand," Mirak replied evenly.

The man grunted in acknowledgment and swung the door open. "No trouble tonight, Revenant. Plenty of guards here as it is."

Mirak nodded, brushing past him. The Publici shackles at his wrists clinked softly, and he tugged his cloak tighter to cover them. "The King of Thieves wouldn't take kindly to a fight breaking out here. Remind the guards of that," he added coolly.

"Aye," the enforcer muttered. "It'd be bad tiding for everyone."

Mirak descended into the dimly lit amphitheater, his eyes quickly scanning the room. The familiar sight of white cloaks caught his attention—Selene and Volim sat at a table near the back, their postures relaxed but their sharp eyes missing nothing. The sixth-district thieves lounged throughout the space, many perched on the nicer furniture reserved for the city's more skilled or dangerous outlaws.

Selene waved him over with a lazy smile, and Mirak joined them, dropping into a seat as Volim gave an exasperated sigh.

"Lock?" Volim asked, his voice as dry as ever.

"He decided to make it back on his own," Mirak said. "Something about 'his own abilities.'"

Selene folded her arms, her expression unimpressed. "That's not how the Revenant operate."

Mirak raised an eyebrow. "You left me just like he did."

Her lips pursed, but she didn't back down. "That was a test."

Volim ignored her, his attention turning toward the door. "Lock will either show up at the Halls of Glass or be found dead in an alley. We should leave soon."

Selene huffed. "You know, Volim, if you weren't so prickly, someone might actually like you."

Volim didn't respond to her jab, tilting his head instead. "Where's Kord? He should be here by now. I swear, we need someone else gathering members—Kord's always late."

Selene smirked. "Can't hear him coming? I thought you could hear everything."

Volim's tone sharpened. "If you keep talking, Selene, I'll tell Czenth what you really think about him."

Mirak cut in before the bickering could escalate further. "What's this book for? And the arm?"

Volim leaned back, his fingers tapping his walking stick. "Who knows? Lancelot's schemes aren't ours to understand. We bring him what he asks, and he pays us well for it. That man has an unparalleled ability to wait—years, even—until the perfect moment to use something. Whatever his plan, it's always bigger than we realize."

Kord appeared like a shadow at Mirak's side, his voice smooth and unhurried. "The boss will explain everything during the meeting. He always does."

Volim rose, shaking his head as he gripped his cane. "Mark my words, Kord—this blind trust will get you burned."

Selene followed with a roll of her eyes, and Kord turned to Mirak with a casual grin. "How was the mission?"

"Strange," Mirak admitted.

Kord chuckled. "Selene and Volim are strange, no question. Dangerous, too. Don't take their barbs to heart. Selene lives to get a rise out of people, and Volim... well, he's fueled by anger. But they're effective."

Mirak grunted. "And Lancelot sent us with them."

"He has his reasons," Kord said lightly. "The mission was a success, wasn't it? And no one died. That's a win."