Shaun stood alone in the city square, cloaked in the stillness of midnight.
The moonlight poured over cobbled stone like liquid silver, but the silence it painted was growing uneasy. He had been waiting there for some time now—far too long, in fact. His accomplice was late.
Again.
His boot tapped lightly against the edge of a cracked tile. He hated waiting. Especially here, in the open. Particularly now.
Then something shifted. The city stirred.
Lights in distant windows flickered on. Shutters creaked. Somewhere far off, a bell rang once—soft and sharp. For reasons, he couldn't yet place, the city was waking up again, rising in the middle of the night as if stirred by some unseen hand.
Shaun's brows drew together as his gaze swept the rooftops.
"What's going on… did something happen?" he murmured under his breath, voice low and tense. "Could he be behind it?"
A pause.
"No… that doesn't make sense. He's too discreet. If it were him, I'd never have noticed."
He weighed his options, eyes narrowing.
Should he investigate? Or stay put, as planned?
Just as the question hung in his mind, a flicker caught his eye—a dark shape darting across the rooftop tiles. A hooded figure, gliding from roof to roof like a shadow come to life. A moment later, the unmistakable rhythm of armored boots echoed faintly from the street beyond. Soldiers. A patrol. And they weren't just wandering—there was urgency in their step.
Shaun's jaw tightened.
"A theft?" he muttered, watching the rooftop blur vanish behind a chimney.
"Not one of ours... Someone else did this."
But why? And more importantly—what did they steal?
His thoughts moved quickly, tracing connections.
"They're coming from the direction of the museum… but that doesn't add up. Our target, the vase Soren's after, it's being stored at a merchant's warehouse across the canal. Not the museum."
He studied the soldiers again—there were more now, and they were sweeping in tight formations, not scrambling in chaos.
"They were prepared… but how?"
He shifted. Movement to the east. More guards converging.
"Damn. If they spot me here, I'll be wrapped up in this mess before I can blink."
He took a breath, ready to vanish—when something stopped him cold.
A presence.
Glaring. Sharp. Not a soldier. Not nearby, either—but watching. Focused. Heavy enough to feel. Like pressure on his bones.
Shaun tensed.
No spell. No trick. Just raw instinct.
He turned away from the square, opting instead for a slower retreat—calm, careful steps, slipping back into the winding alleys toward the outer ring of his residential block.
"Who the hell was that…? Were they watching me? Or was I just caught in their range?"
Probably the latter. That gaze—it wasn't locked on him. But it saw him.
He turned a corner—
"Hey! You there!" a soldier barked, voice sharp and suspicious.
Shaun stopped. Three soldiers emerged from the side street, their expressions tense, sweat on their brows despite the night air.
"What are you doing out at this hour?" one demanded, hand drifting toward his weapon.
"Speak up. We've got enough trouble tonight. Don't make us add you to the list."
Shaun didn't flinch. He let out a soft breath and raised his hand lazily.
"Tempest," he said flatly.
The word wasn't meant for them.
A shimmer pulsed around him—barely visible, like heatwaves over desert sand. It carried a low hum only Shaun could hear, slipping into the minds of the soldiers like fog over glass. Their tension faltered. Their eyes glazed, just for a second.
"Ah... right, you're... the good kid," one of them mumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, you're clear. Just... head on out."
They stepped aside, dazed and blinking, unsure of why they'd stopped him in the first place. One even offered a small nod.
Shaun walked past them without another word, the aura of Tempest fading behind him like a curtain drawn shut.
Shaun entered the residence, his gaze sweeping the room with a casual disinterest that betrayed no expectation of company. He didn't register Soren's presence, confirming the other man was absent. Unfazed by the solitude, Shaun moved with a characteristic lack of urgency and settled into one of the chairs. He pulled out some paper and began to doodle, his mind seemingly occupied with calculations and symbols, as if in preparation for some future endeavor.
Hours drifted by, marked only by the subtle shift of light in the room and the continued scratching of Shaun's pen against the paper. The quiet was undisturbed until, without warning, Soren materialized back into the room. He appeared as swiftly as he had vanished, stepping out of the shadows in a near-instantaneous movement, a speed that would challenge even the most skilled assassins
Shaun: "You're late."
Soren shut the door behind him, shrugged off his coat, and dropped into the seat across from him.
Soren: "Warehouse was guarded. Heavily. Not for the goods—place was cleared out."
Shaun paused mid-doodle.
Shaun: "Empty?"
Soren: "Every crate gone. Building locked tight but hollow. I checked twice."
Shaun: "So what happened?"
Soren: "Someone else hit the city tonight. Not a local crew. Some masked show-off sent a letter to the palace this morning. Said he was going to steal something. Didn't even bother with subtlety."
Shaun raised an eyebrow.
Shaun: "And they bought it?"
Soren: "Enough to move everything high-value to god knows where. Probably split it across multiple safehouses. Nothing we can trace."
Shaun leaned back, quietly absorbing that.
Soren: "Security across the district's already doubled. Civil guards, private detail, even nobles calling in favors. Whole timeline's thrown off. We can't go after the vase until things cool down. Assuming we even find where it is now."
Shaun (dry): "All that from a letter. Alright, I'll bite—what did this guy actually take?"
Soren: "A lamp."
Shaun stared at him for a second.
Shaun: "That's it?"
Soren: "Antique. Some cultural symbol. Looks worthless."
Shaun: "So now we're stuck waiting because someone decided to play Arsène Lupin for a damn lamp."
Soren: "More or less. Whole job's compromised. Timing, access, everything. And now the guy we're actually after is either more protected or already moved out. We're working blind."
Shaun clicked his pen once, then again. Then, with a sigh, tossed his paper across the table.
Shaun: "So what now? You sticking with the same plan?"
Soren (glancing at the paper): "Yeah. Nothing changes, just delayed. Little more risk, that's all."
Shaun: "Alright. Since we're waiting anyway, I've got something I want to handle. Nothing that affects our side of things. Figured I'd ask."
Soren didn't say anything, just kept looking at the paper. Then gave the smallest of nods.
Shaun: "Take a look at that, by the way."
Soren picked it up, read it quietly. A small, amused exhale left him.
Soren: "You're ridiculous."
Shaun: "Yeah, but efficient."
Soren folded the paper and slipped it into his coat.
Soren: "Fine. Handle your thing. Don't draw attention."
Shaun: "I don't."
The air is still hot from the day, but the streets are quiet. Torches flicker in iron sconces. Blood's been cleaned up, but the stench of magic and charred stone lingers. Casualties have been moved, but the wound is fresh.
Frank, the Empire's highest-ranking general and its most dangerous swordsman, stood just beyond the perimeter wall, arms crossed. He wasn't wearing ceremonial armor—just a dark coat, boots, and the unmistakable weight of command. His squad, those few trusted enough to advise him, formed a half-circle around the fire. One of them, Halio, leaned against a wagon, bandaged but alert.
Frank:"One thousand men. Gone. Burned, broken, butchered. In a single night."
He exhaled slowly, as if forcing the rage back down his throat.
"And all he took… was a fucking lamp?"
Halio, his second-in-command, winced as he stepped forward, hand pressed to his ribcage.
Halio:"No. He took our pride. That's what this was. A message."
Frank (cold):"Oh, he left a message, alright. I can still smell it. Piles of it. Still warm."
Ravik, the squad's summoner, crouched near a fallen sigil embedded in the scorched ground. He ran a gloved hand over the charred remains.
Ravik: "He didn't use forbidden magic. That's the part that's terrifying. No necromancy, no reality-bending constructs. Just martial technique… and four summons. All elementals, hybrid types. All with shadow affinity."
Issac, Frank's son, stood nearby, bruised but alert, staring into the dark horizon as if the thief might return any second.
Issac:"The first strike came from the rooftops. He dropped entire squads before they even drew blades. We didn't even see him summon the beasts—they were just suddenly there. A tiger with wind and flame. A lightning wolf. A water-earth turtle. A peacock that bent light and thought. But they all bled shadow."
Frank (tight):"You fought him."
Issac (nodding once):"He toyed with me. Not disrespectfully. Like a teacher would a student. Gave me space to strike… then closed it the moment I committed."
Frank:"Could you have won?"
Issac (quietly):"No."
No hesitation. No shame. That made it land even harder.
Frank's jaw clenched. For a man who'd never feared a battlefield, this was the first time in years his voice dropped to something close to a growl.
Frank:"He killed one thousand men with restraint. Not a single wasted movement. Not a single fatal attack unless necessary. No chaos, no frenzy. Controlled. Efficient. Absolute."
Frank (gritting his teeth): "And we owe that to a man with a lamp."
He chuckled once. It wasn't humor. It was disgust.
Issac: "There's no doubt now. He wasn't after loot. He made a spectacle. He provoked the entire capital—and walked out untouched."
Frank (low): "No. He didn't walk. He disappeared."
A pause.Then
Issac (flat):"What now?"
Frank: "We find him. Then I bury him myself."