The underground chamber still thrummed with the aftershocks of chaos.

  Torches sputtered in iron sconces, their flickering light casting long, quivering shadows across the rough?hewn stone walls. The air smelled of burnt oil and singed cloth, tinged with the faint metallic bite of blood. A forge in the corner crackled low, embers hissing softly, while a pot of stew simmered, forgotten, sending occasional sharp puffs of fragrant steam laced with herbs into the chamber.

  At the center, Caelum stood over a scarred war table, hands planted firmly on the worn wood, knuckles whitening as he surveyed the scattered maps and scrawled notes pinned down by a dented dagger. Behind him, the captured mercenary leader slumped in a chair, wrists bound with leather straps, head tilted as if lost in a dream. A faint glow pulsed weakly from a disabled aurenic gauntlet at his hip, casting ghostly reflections across the floor.

  Kaelen perched atop a crate, boots swinging lazily against the wood. His hair remained ruffled from the fight, streaked with soot, yet the grin on his face betrayed a restless energy, eyes bright and darting. Lys stood near the weapon rack, arms folded, her silver hair catching torchlight in sharp angles, gaze sharp and calculating. Across from them, Luka and Verona leaned against the stone walls, calm but alert, their stances taut with the silent readiness of seasoned predators awaiting the next command.

  Caelum’s voice cut low and steady through the chamber, carrying over the faint hum of simmering stew and whispering embers.

  “Black Jackals… not just any band of thugs. They’re protected,” he said, voice grave. “High-level officials from more than one kingdom keep them fat with coin. They have a monopoly on Auren weapons, and they sell to the highest bidder.”

  He lifted his gaze, eyes glinting with weighty concern.

  “Storming their base,” he continued, “means making enemies of people we can’t afford to anger.”

  Kaelen frowned, running a hand along the back of his neck. “So what, we just sit here and let them take potshots at us? That’s not my style, Master Caelum.” His grin wavered only slightly, replaced by a spark of impatience.

  Luka’s arms crossed over his chest, expression calm but firm, a subtle edge in his eyes. “He’s right about one thing—they struck first. That can’t stand forever.”

  Caelum’s jaw tightened, the torches flickering across the furrow of his brow. “I didn’t say we’d do nothing. We just need a path that doesn’t have every kingdom’s army breathing down our necks.”

  A faint draft whispered through the chamber, tugging at the edges of the maps, fluttering one corner like a restless finger. Lys’s gaze flicked to the slumped mercenary, lingering there for a heartbeat before returning to Caelum, calculating and thoughtful.

  “Then… why not go to the source?” Her voice was calm but carried a cutting clarity. “Those weapons don’t make themselves. If we rescue the engineers they’ve chained up, their whole supply collapses.”

  Verona raised an intrigued brow, the shadow of a smile tugging at her lips. “Not bad. Strike the hand, not just the sword.”

  Caelum paced slowly around the table, fingers stroking through his beard as he considered the suggestion, eyes scanning the worn maps. “We’ve had whispers. A renowned Auren engineer… Marrec Dovail.”

  His tone dropped, heavy with caution and history. “The man designed half the Netharial royal guard’s arsenal before he vanished. Now, he’s in their hands. If we free him, the Jackals’ entire operation might crumble.”

  Kaelen’s eyes lit up, his grin widening. “So we bust him out, wreck their toy shop, and watch the whole Jackal pack cry home. Easy!”

  Lys rolled her eyes, though a faint smile betrayed her amusement. “It won’t be easy. We don’t even know where he is.”

  Verona tilted her chin toward the bound mercenary, her gaze sharp and assessing. “That’s why we ask him.”

  Kaelen blinked, snapping his fingers with exaggerated realization. “Oh right! That guy. Forgot he was even there—he’s been so quiet, napping on Master Caelum’s chair.”

  A low groan slipped from the mercenary’s lips as he shifted in the straps. Caelum’s eyes narrowed, cutting to the man like a blade.

  “I’ll handle the interrogation,” Caelum said, voice grim, iron lining each word. “I have… a personal grudge with him. I’ll be persuasive.”

  Kaelen leaned forward, excitement bubbling. “Can we watch?”

  Lys mirrored him, hopeful but measured. “We can handle it.”

  Caelum’s voice hardened, sharp as steel. “No. This isn’t for kids.”

  Simultaneously, Kaelen and Lys protested, voices pitching in unison: “We’re not kiiiids!”

  Caelum straightened, shadow stretching across the table as his glare pinned both of them in place. “Then take this as an order. Stay put. You’ve already stirred up enough noise today.”

  Verona pushed off the wall, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade. “Understood.”

  Luka gave Kaelen a brief, brotherly smirk. “Behave. Let the grown-ups handle this part.”

  Kaelen slumped back, muttering under his breath. “We’re always stuck with the boring parts…”

  Lys shot him a sideways glance, a trace of amusement in her silver eyes despite the tension. “Patience, Kaelen. We’ll get our turn.”

  Caelum’s gaze shifted, sharp and deliberate, toward the bound mercenary. “Verona. Luka. With me.”

  The two senior Dawnbreakers moved like shadows, following him toward the prisoner. Torchlight danced across the Jackal insignia on his shoulder—a golden plate etched with a black jackal biting a dagger—casting the symbol into sharp relief against the dim stone walls.

  Caelum’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a whisper as he traced the mark with careful focus. “…Black Jackals. And you’re going to tell me where you’re keeping Marrec Dovail.”

  The chamber fell into a tense stillness, the weight of his words pressing down like the stone ceiling overhead. Even the faint simmer of stew and the soft crackle of embers seemed to pause in anticipation.

  The corridor outside Caelum’s interrogation chamber was quiet, the stone floor cool and hard beneath Kaelen’s cheek as he sprawled dramatically, arms splayed like a starfish. His boots thudded softly against the floor as he kicked at the air, each motion exaggerated with theatrical frustration.

  “I’m boooooored…” he groaned, letting his voice echo faintly off the stone walls.

  Across from him, Lys sat on a bench beneath a flickering torch. Shadows pooled in the angles of her silver hair, liquid light pooling over her shoulders as she turned another page of a thick, dust?scented tome. The faint rustle of parchment punctuated the corridor’s quiet.

  “Quiet, Kaelen. I’m trying to read,” she said without looking up, her voice a calm contrast to his dramatic flair.

  Kaelen rolled over onto his side, propping his chin in his palm, curiosity sparking in his wide eyes. “What are you reading?”

  “Trade routes of Netharial,” she replied, voice steady, turning the page with careful precision. The scent of old ink and dry parchment drifted toward him.

  “Ugh, boring! Why?” he whined, scrunching his nose.

  “Because it helps to know more about the kingdom we’re operating in,” Lys said coolly. “Some of us study.”

  Kaelen’s eyes lit up with sudden mischief, a grin tugging at his lips. “Hey… what if we—”

  “No,” Lys snapped, shutting the book with a decisive thud.

  “I didn’t even say anything!” he protested, mock horror in his voice.

  “You didn’t have to. I know that look,” she said, her tone sharp yet amused.

  Kaelen leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes glinting with excitement. “Let’s peek at the interrogation.”

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  Lys stiffened, a hand tightening on the spine of her book. “No, Kaelen. You’ll get us in trouble.”

  “Just a peek! We run back, no one knows,” he countered, grinning slyly. “Don’t you want to see Master Caelum pummel that guy?”

  Lys hesitated, and Kaelen noticed the faint twitch of her lips. His grin widened. “Come on, Lys… just a little look…”

  With a groan, she snapped her book shut, resigning with a reluctant shake of her head. “Damn it, Kaelen. I was fine reading. Let’s go.”

  Through the narrow gap of the chamber door, torchlight spilled, painting the room in stark, flickering relief. The air was thick with the acrid tang of burnt Auren metal and the faint coppery scent of blood.

  The mercenary leader sat bound to a chair, wrists lashed tight with leather straps. Sweat streaked his grimy face, his torn sleeve revealing a deep, angry gash along his forearm—dark red against pale skin.

  Caelum loomed over him, broad shoulders casting long, dark shadows. His voice was low, a growl lurking beneath each word. “Where is Marrec Dovail?”

  The mercenary spat on the floor, defiance flickering in his eyes. “Do your worst, Dawnbreaker. I don’t break.”

  Caelum’s expression hardened. From the table, he picked up a delicate glass vial, faintly glowing gold. Inside, fine Auren dust shifted like living fireflies, suspended in the air. Holding it to the torchlight, the particles shimmered, catching every flicker.

  “You know what this is,” Caelum said, voice cold, precise.

  The mercenary’s bravado flickered, jaw tightening as his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.

  Kaelen crouched low, peering through the crack in the door. His eyes went wide at the sight of the glowing vial.

  “Ooh, what’s that?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

  “Auren dust…” Lys murmured over his shoulder, a sharp edge of unease in her tone. “Wait—he’s not actually gonna—”

  Inside, Caelum unstopped the vial. A sharp metallic tang rolled into the corridor, searing and acrid, curling Kaelen’s nose as the first grains of dust drifted toward the mercenary’s wound.

  The leader screamed, a raw, guttural sound bouncing off the stone walls, his body jerking violently against the bindings. The smell of seared flesh filled the room, choking and acrid.

  “One drop. That’s all it took,” Caelum said, cold as iron. “Now, talk.”

  “Go to hell…” the mercenary panted, shaking uncontrollably.

  Caelum tilted the vial again, letting more dust hover above the wound. “Do you think hell feels worse than this?”

  Convulsing, the mercenary screamed again, the sound cracking mid?note before breaking into ragged gasps. Tears streaked the grime on his face, eyes wide and watery.

  “Where. Is. Marrec. Dovail?” Caelum demanded, each word measured and sharp.

  Kaelen clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening in both awe and horror.

  “Damn… that was cold. Didn’t know Master Caelum had that in him,” he whispered.

  Lys’s knuckles whitened around her book, lips pressed in tight lines. “I wouldn’t want to be that guy…”

  Kaelen glanced at her nervously. “How do you think it feels?”

  She shot him a sideways look, lips twitching in suppressed amusement. “Do you want me to pour some into your wounds?”

  “No, you psycho! I was asking!”

  Lys smirked faintly, whispering, “Then maybe you should experience it.”

  “Forget it! Why do you always do this to me, Lys?” he hissed, rolling his eyes.

  She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Let’s go before they catch us.”

  They slipped back down the corridor, boots scuffing softly against the stone. Kaelen flopped onto the floor dramatically again, while Lys reopened her book and forced herself to appear composed.

  Inside the chamber, the mercenary’s defiance began to crack. Gasping between shuddering breaths, he finally spilled the secret.

  “…South… Netharial… old foundry… by the black cliffs…”

  His head slumped, eyes glazed with pain.

  “Good. That wasn’t so hard,” Caelum murmured, low and satisfied, corking the vial and setting it aside.

  Luka stood silent in the corner, arms crossed, while Verona inspected the mercenary’s bindings with clinical precision.

  Moments later, the chamber door creaked open. Caelum, Luka, and Verona emerged. Lys remained calm with her book, Kaelen sprawled theatrically on the floor, feigning sleep.

  Caelum’s sharp gaze swept over them. “Good. You stayed put.”

  “Told you we would,” Kaelen said, stretching with an exaggerated yawn.

  Lys didn’t lift her eyes from her book, but the faint curve of a knowing smile tugged at her lips.

  The cellar still carried the sharp tang of Auren dust, a lingering reminder of the interrogation. Caelum stood at the war table once more, arms folded across his chest, eyes shadowed but steady. A single lantern burned low, flickering over the map of Netharial spread before them—thin charcoal lines tracing streets, jagged red ink circling a cliffside that seemed to leer from the parchment.

  Kaelen slouched on a crate, boots muddy from training, spinning a dagger idly between his fingers. Lys leaned against a stone column, arms crossed, her posture taut and watchful, the silver strands of her hair catching the dim light like liquid metal. On the other side, Luka and Verona waited in near-perfect stillness, statuesque, while faint echoes of the Dawnbreakers’ preparations drifted from the hall—metal clinking, hushed conversations, leather straps creaking as armor was fastened.

  Caelum straightened, letting out a long breath. A rare, satisfied grin creased his weathered face.

  “We got the place,” he announced, voice low but firm.

  Kaelen whistled, tossing his dagger into the air and catching it by the hilt, grin wide. “Well, no surprise if you did that.”

  Lys’s hand shot out, smacking his shoulder with a sharp thwack. “Shut it.”

  Kaelen yelped dramatically, rubbing the sore spot while Caelum’s raised brow briefly met theirs, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. Then he shook his head, letting a faint smirk tug at his lips, and returned his gaze to the map.

  Caelum tapped a calloused finger near the southern edge of Netharial. “Marrec Dovail is at the Old Foundry—south, by the black cliffs. Two guards at every entrance, patrols of two per floor, and four elite men stationed with him at all times.”

  The lantern hissed as he leaned closer, shadows sprawling across the map like creeping fog. “So… how do we get in?”

  Kaelen’s grin was immediate, leaning back on his hands. “Easy. I go in like a lightning bolt, and chaos starts.”

  Caelum didn’t flinch, voice dry and cutting. “No. That’s terrible.”

  Verona, arms crossed, tilted her head slightly, voice calm and decisive. “We go through the sewers and climb up from beneath. Less resistance, fewer eyes.”

  Kaelen’s grin soured instantly into a grimace. “Uuuugh. Nope. Not an option. Wouldn’t your nose—and Master Caelum’s—suffer worse than ours in that stench?”

  Verona’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “We have ways to handle that.”

  Kaelen groaned, slumping dramatically as if physically wounded by the thought. “You’re all monsters…”

  Lys stepped closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her silver hair catching the flickering lantern. “Come on, Kaelen. If you don’t, we’re leaving you behind.”

  Kaelen’s eyes widened in mock betrayal. “Leaving me? What happened to friendship?!”

  Luka, silent until now, chuckled under his breath—a warm, amused sound. “All you have to do is survive the tunnels. You’re a Dawnbreaker. You’ll survive.”

  Kaelen threw his hands in the air. “Survive, huh? Maybe… but my nose won’t.”

  Luka’s smirk deepened. Verona shook her head, trying to hide her own amusement.

  Caelum’s hand came down on the table with a solid thunk, drawing everyone’s attention back. His voice carried the iron authority they all knew.

  “If you’re done, Kaelen, we move before dawn.”

  His gaze swept across the group, each Dawnbreaker meeting it in turn. “Everyone, get ready. This will be a long mission. The Black Jackals won’t make it easy. Prepare everything you can—gear, weapons, focus.”

  The lantern’s flame flickered as the weight of his words settled. Outside the chamber, preparations quickened—the scrape of blades against whetstones, the soft thud of packs being filled, the scent of oiled leather rising as armor was strapped on.

  Kaelen hopped off his crate with a theatrical sigh, twirling his dagger one last time. Lys moved past him, thoughtful as ever, her eyes glinting with anticipation. Luka and Verona exchanged a glance, unspoken resolve passing between them like a current.

  The cellar, once heavy with Auren dust and tension, now hummed with anticipation, the Dawnbreakers readying themselves for the storm that awaited beyond Netharial’s walls.

  The chamber lay deep beneath Netharial, far removed from the city’s bustling streets. Torchlight burned low in sconces shaped like snarling beasts, casting jittering shadows across the blackened stone walls. Shelves lined the room, heaped with aurenic weapon parts—crystal cores humming faintly, brass fittings etched with intricate glyphs, and coils of dark cabling coiled like dormant serpents. The air was sharp with the tang of molten metal and acrid oil, stinging the throat with every inhale.

  A long table dominated the center, draped in maps and ledgers, the papers curling at the edges from heat and neglect. Behind it, a tall figure lounged in a high-backed chair carved with jackal motifs. His lacquered black armor glimmered faintly in the torchlight, each joint etched with fine lines that hinted at deadly precision. A silver?ringed goblet of wine spun lazily in his gloved hand. His mask—bronze, shaped into the snarling face of a jackal—hid any expression, yet his voice dripped with disdain.

  “So… our hunter failed,” he intoned, smooth as oil over steel.

  Two figures knelt before him. One was the mercenary officer Kaelen had fought, battered but alive thanks to his armor’s emergency recall. The other, a scribe, clutched a trembling quill, ink smudging under shaking hands.

  “My lord,” the officer rasped, voice hoarse, “they were… prepared. Dawnbreakers—two of their veterans arrived. I was outnumbered.”

  The Overseer’s hand stilled on the goblet. The faint hum of the weapons on the shelves seemed unnaturally loud, as if the air itself held its breath.

  “Prepared?” The words were silk over steel. “You went with a full squad and came back alone… without the shard.”

  The officer flinched, sweat beading at his brow despite the chill that clung to the stone.

  “They fight like demons, my lord,” he admitted, voice cracking. “The boy with the storm shard—he shattered our formation before we could adapt—”

  The Overseer rose, slow and deliberate, his black armor creaking like a predator stretching after a long slumber. Each step echoed through the chamber as he crossed to the kneeling officer, stopping just behind him.

  “Excuses…” The word was soft, venomous.

  A gloved hand settled on the officer’s shoulder—and squeezed. A pulse of aurenic light flared from the gauntlet, shooting through the man’s body. He gasped, choking back a scream as pain lanced through him.

  “The Jackals do not fail,” the Overseer whispered, voice cold as iron. “Not without consequence.”

  He released the officer, letting him slump to the floor, gasping for air. Returning to the table, the Overseer placed a brass key atop a map of Netharial, fingers lingering over the jagged streets and black cliffs as if marking the next move in a deadly game.

  “Marrec Dovail remains our prize,” he said, voice sharpening. “The Dawnbreakers won’t stop… and neither will we.”

  His gloved fingers tapped the map. “Double the guards at the Foundry. Fortify the sewer routes. Deploy the sentinels.”

  The scribe scrawled frantically, ink blotting the parchment as his hands trembled to keep pace. The Overseer’s gaze shifted toward him, unyielding even behind bronze and shadow.

  “And send word to the higher chairs: if these Dawnbreakers meddle again… I want their heads.”

  A low growl of agreement echoed from the darkness as more silhouettes—Jackal lieutenants—emerged from the shadows, eyes glinting in the torchlight. The Overseer raised his goblet in a silent toast, tilting it toward the unseen.

  “The hunt begins.”

  The torches flickered as if the darkness itself leaned closer, thick and expectant, ready to swallow any who dared stand in the Jackals’ path.