The Invasion of the Palace [1]

The air in the chamber was heavy, laden with the tension of unspoken fears. The members of the Revenant sat scattered throughout the room, glancing intermittently at the exit as though expecting an uninvited guest to barge in at any moment. Whispers filled the dimly lit amphitheater like the faint rustle of leaves before a storm.

Selene and Kord chatted in clipped tones, their conversation a string of sharp exchanges punctuated by nervous glances. Damion, in stark contrast, lounged in his chair, looking as though he were at a tavern rather than at the center of a room thick with unease. Volim sat in the corner, his weathered fingers flipping a single card over and over again, muttering words too faint to catch. His obsessive focus on the card was unnerving, a testament to the strain Solomon Fell had put on all their nerves.

"Damn it, Volim, I fold," Lock growled, tossing his cards onto the table with a frustrated sigh.

Czenth sat a short distance away, his helmet emitting a faint mechanical hum as he tinkered with his arm, a hybrid of flesh and metal. He tapped the orc-like limb a few times, his brow furrowing at some imperceptible flaw. It was clear, even through his quiet contemplation, that the room's collective anxiety had not spared him.

But all of them—no matter their distractions—waited for the same thing: Lancelot. The leader of the Revenant stood silently on the balcony above, his posture stiff, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. They were waiting for him to speak, to give direction, to cut through the oppressive uncertainty that filled the room.

Mirak's gaze drifted to the card game. Under the table, Lock's fingers danced deftly, subtly swapping cards. The act might have gone unnoticed if Lock's eyes weren't flicking toward Volim's hand, a tell as blatant as a beacon.

"You're not very subtle," Volim said dryly, his voice cutting through the murmur like a blade.

Lock grinned, the picture of unrepentant mischief. "No clue what you're talking about."

Volim snorted, flipping his card again. "Yes, that's exactly what you'd say. You and Kord are insufferable in your scheming."

The tension broke briefly, the banter offering a fleeting reprieve. But the reprieve didn't last.

Lancelot's voice finally cut through the din, commanding attention with a quiet authority that silenced every whisper in the room. "The Revenant mourns a lost brother today," he began. His voice was calm, steady, but it carried the weight of their collective loss. "Menis is dead. And Solomon Fell is hunting us."

A heavy pause followed, his words sinking into the room like stones into water.

"But remember this: we are the Revenant. No matter how many of us fall, the Revenant remains. We are not simply men and women; we are an idea, and that idea will not die. Menis's death is a tragedy, but it is also a reminder of why we fight. We stand on the edge of history. The greatest heist in all of Lorian lies before us. The Crown of the Ages sits within our reach."

Lancelot turned, leaning against the balcony's railing, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. "Reports."

Volim's voice, sharp with derision, broke the silence. "As eloquent as ever, Lancelot. Always the great orator, aren't you? But tell me, do you actually know everything, or are you just pretending?"

Selene bristled, her lips curling into a scowl. "Show some respect, Volim. Lancelot is honoring Menis."

Volim didn't even glance her way. "Respect? Do you think respect is what will save us when Solomon Fell finds us?"

Lock leaned back in his chair, waving a hand dismissively. "The real problem isn't respect. It's that we're pretending we're safe. Has anyone here actually seen those eyes of his? They're not human. Solomon Fell burned an entire building to the ground with a single thought."

Lancelot's voice cut through the murmurs before they could spiral. "Solomon Fell is not a concern."

That earned him a derisive snort from Lock. "Easy for you to say. You're safe here in the Halls of Glass. Solomon's declared war on the thief amphitheaters. He's out there wiping them off the map."

"And that is precisely why he isn't a concern," Lancelot replied smoothly. "Solomon Fell is preoccupied with his crusade. His war on the thief amphitheaters is convenient for us. It creates chaos, weakens the city's control, and clears a path for our real target."

Mirak's voice broke in, sharp and pointed. "And what happens when he realizes we're targeting the Palace? When he finds out we're after the Crown? What happens when he realizes his sister is inside?"

A tense silence followed. The mention of Sanni Fell had a sobering effect on the room. Everyone here knew what Solomon would do to protect her.

Mirak's chest tightened at the thought. He'd seen what Solomon was capable of, had felt the sheer weight of his power. There was no comparison, no scale to measure the gulf between them. Facing Solomon Fell was like an ant attempting to climb the walls of Koona—a fool's errand.

But Lancelot's calm never wavered. "Solomon Fell is accounted for," he said. "Trust me. He will not interfere with the heist."

Mirak wanted to press further, but Lancelot's tone made it clear the subject was closed. The silence hung heavy until Mirak broke it again, his voice devoid of emotion. "The King of Thieves is dead."

Selene gave a sardonic grin, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, look at you two. All grown up. Next thing we know, you'll be tearing down walls. Oh, wait—you already did."

Lancelot ignored her, nodding. "Good. His death will send the thief gangs into chaos. They'll tear each other apart, and Solomon will be forced to intervene. The city watch and the Palace guard are already stretched thin. Riots are breaking out in every district, and the Palace is vulnerable."

Volim's voice cut in, sharp and skeptical. "You keep saying the Palace is vulnerable, but you haven't told us how you plan to get in."

Lancelot smiled, spreading his arms wide. "The sewers. We'll use the old waterways to breach the Palace walls. And Mirak will lead us."

Mirak blinked. "I will?"

Lancelot's gaze pinned him in place. "You can walk on air, can't you?"

"Not well," Mirak muttered. "It takes every ounce of focus to—"

"It will be done, Mirak." Lancelot's tone brooked no argument.

Mirak opened his mouth to protest, but the weight of Lancelot's stare silenced him. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. Lock leaned over, whispering, "You carried me before. A few more people can't be that much harder."

Selene cut in, her voice slicing through the murmur. "What about the Ten? They'll be patrolling the Palace. We all know it."

Kord flicked one of the cards in his hand, grinning. "We're the Revenant. The Ten don't scare us."

"They should," Lancelot said. His voice was firm, his gaze sweeping the room. "If you see one of the Ten, you have two options: win, or run."

Selene arched a brow. "Run?"

Lancelot's tone was colder now. "Only Selene and Volim have unlocked Omphalos. Without it, you cannot hope to defeat a member of the Ten. This is not a fight we can win through sheer force. If you're not sure you can win, you run."

The room fell into silence again, the weight of Lancelot's words settling on their shoulders. The heist had begun, and there would be no turning back.