Book One, Act 1, Chapter 4:

The Fourth Tier Treason

They hid in the tunnels, the sewers, and the narrow alleyways where, on a regular day in Shrine, only criminals and their victims dared to venture. Now, the air hung heavy not just with the scent of damp earth and stone but with the fine dust of a city under siege, the aftermath of a day filled with conflict. The narrow alleyways, usually silent witnesses to the city's underbelly dealings, now sighed with the day’s heat, mingling with the distant, almost imperceptible cries of battle—if one listened closely enough. Above, the first stars peeked through the dusky, dust-choked sky, indifferent to the city's brewing turmoil.

Captain Castielle Carne looked across the street to another narrow corridor and watched Captain Trillion as his eyes tracked to the stone buildings above. The last vestiges of the sun's light were overtaken by the night's shadow, casting everything into a deeper gloom that seemed to swallow the sounds of distant chaos. Captain Trillion looked back to Castielle and shook his head, a silent signal in their wordless communication honed through years of camaraderie and conflict.

The plot was to unfold. ‘The Captains of the Fourth will descend onto the Fulcrum once the sun has fully set, and the tower is dark. Then, and only then, when that volley hits, that will be our cue,’ Commander Amir, the lead Reaver, had stated in the meeting, emphasizing each word. This had been orchestrated months in advance, a meticulous plan birthed amidst the backdrop of a city teetering on the brink of chaos. ‘Captains Trillion and Carne will enter the Fulcrum and kill Harlon. Take the gauntlet. Then engage the reserve guard. If they interfere with the recovery. Finally, everyone will gather at the Seventh's landing with Keda and his group and make their way through the caverns back to Swyn.’ That was the plan, anyway. Simple. Concise. Castielle would get his revenge, Commander Amir his precious dagger. Trillion would add several more to his tally to reach his goal, and Keda would claim his trinkets and then, freedom. Free from the shackles of Shrine.

"Trillion?" Castielle whispered, the dust tickling his throat, the taste of the city’s despair bitter on his tongue. The area above the Fulcrum was quiet, too quiet, the usual cacophony of life now replaced with the hush of anticipation and the faint echoes of conflict not yet quelled. Castielle was beginning to get impatient. He wanted to kill Guard Commander Harlan more than anything. "How much longer do you think?" His voice was barely a whisper, but he knew Trillion's ears were as sensitive as a bat's, capable of discerning whispers amidst the cacophony of their crumbling world.

Captain Trillion slightly pulled down his mask, revealing a handsome, clean-shaven face beneath, a stark contrast to the ruggedness expected of someone of his standing. "Well, maybe never? It will be quite awkward if the Tiers manage to win," he said, his teeth a stark white against the dust and grime of battle. "If that happens, well, you know." He covered his face again, looking up at the tower perched atop the First Tier. The highest peaks still held a radiant summer night's glow, a stark contrast to the shadowed streets where death whispered through the alleys.

Castielle shifted, the cobblestones cold and unforgiving beneath him, the weight of his cloak a scant barrier against the evening chill. Every sound seemed amplified—the scrape of a boot, the distant clang of the city gate, the muffled cries that drifted on the wind—as if the night itself was listening, holding its breath for the moment to come.

He slowly tried to peer his head from the cover of the alley, wanting to see the tower one more time, to find some solace in its steadfastness amidst the chaos. But the senior Captain’s gaze held him back, a silent admonition against unnecessary risks. Castielle retreated, his heart heavy with the weight of impending actions and the memories of a city that once was.

The Tower of Ascari, now just a silhouette against the night sky, stood like a silent sentinel. Its darkened form was a grim reminder of the night's purpose, a beacon for those who dared to change the fate of Shrine. In that moment, Castielle saw not the fierce and often violent Captain Trillion of the Fourth, but Trillion as he was, all those years ago—a young, slender boy, defying gravity with his leaps, blending into shadows as if clothed in them.

Anticipation grew, minutes passed, and the tension in the air was almost palpable. Castielle could sense the nervousness of the junior Reavers behind him, their breaths shallow in the cool night air. But at this moment, Castielle allowed himself to frown. His mask, he hoped, hid any indication of his feelings. When participating in the greatest act of treachery the city has ever known, one should have their wits about them. But Castielle was melancholic and sentimental, his thoughts drifting to days of innocence long lost.

A terrible whistle pierced the silence, and then the ground shook, a harbinger of the chaos to come.

"Reavers. We move. Remember their names!" Trillion’s voice was a crisp whisper as the Fourth Tier descended onto the Fulcrum’s many-domed roof. With the grace of shadows given form, they repelled down, their movements a blend of necessity and artistry, scaling the building with athletic feats honed through countless skirmishes.

Castielle was the first to breach the entrance, his silhouette merging with the darkness as he slipped through the window. The others followed, fanning out with practiced stealth, their steps silent on the cold marble floor. The Fulcrum’s interior opened up before them, a grand chamber that defied the night with its muted splendor. Despite the late hour, the room still glowed, bathed in the soft, flickering light from a few scattered candles and oil lanterns, each casting long, dancing shadows across the intricately carved walls and the polished floor, turning gold and silver inlays into a network of glimmering veins.

As they moved deeper, their presence unnoticed, the heart of the Fulcrum revealed itself—a large, beautiful room that seemed to hold the essence of Shrine itself. Its grandeur lay not just in its size but in the harmony of its construction, the way each arch, each column, each piece of artwork contributed to a whole that was more sanctuary than stronghold.

At the opposite end of the room stood Guard Commander Harlan, his back to them initially, as if he had been waiting, as if the night had whispered secrets of treachery into his ears. He turned slowly, the movement deliberate, his gaze sweeping over the intruders with disdain.

"Treacherous filth! How many of you are involved in this? We should have just killed you all!" His voice echoed, a mixture of amusement and contempt. The smug look on his face was one they had all come to know, a mask of arrogance worn by those who believed their power absolute. Castielle sensed Harlan was speaking more for himself than to intimidate the encroaching shadows of the Fourth. But from the number of shadows approaching, he was able to see Harlan’s eyes narrowing.

"You will soon come to realize how I've earned this station!" he declared, his confidence unshaken by the sight of the assembled Reavers.

But then, Captain Trillion stepped forward, emerging from the shadows of his comrades to stand beside Castielle. The air seemed to shift, a palpable change in the atmosphere as if the very foundations of the Fulcrum sensed the confrontation to come. Harlan’s face changed then, the smugness fading into something more cautious, more calculating. His eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on Trillion, recognizing perhaps for the first time the true threat before him.

In that moment, the dynamics of power, the lines between hunter and hunted, blurred. The Fulcrum, a bastion of order and authority, became the stage for a reckoning long in the making. And as the silent standoff stretched thin, each Reaver ready and waiting, it was clear that the night was far from over, its outcome resting in the hands of those brave or foolhardy enough to challenge the status quo.

As Guard Commander Harlan faced the intruders, his heart began to race, not with fear, but with the adrenaline of impending confrontation. He had harbored a desire to kill someone throughout the day. Everyone was frustrating him. Arrogant, petulant children that refused to agree on anything if it didn’t benefit themselves. He had ordered the majority of the guard to help secure the Second Tier. They were too far to come help. He ordered a troop to be stationed near the Fifth Tier to ensure that if the fight was won on the plains of the Sixth, that there wouldn’t be looters and thieves descending onto the destroyed parts of the city. What he didn’t expect was that the looters and thieves would be entering the Fulcrum, and certainly didn’t expect the Fourth Tier captains to be orchestrating the event in person.

After the commanders and their captains received the relics, they scattered, each returning to their respective tiers and commands to prepare to engage the menace encroaching on the city. And it seemed to have worked. The majority of the non-combatants of Shrine, the merchants, invalids, children, all were packed into the crypts of the Sixth. The rain of destruction had halted. 

He thought he was going to die alone in the Fulcrum as the walls would slowly buckle and fall on top of him during those few hours. But now, the realization hit him like a cold wave: all of the Guard were gone. Captain Varek was with the Fifth, Captain Lawrence, on guard at the Vault. and he stood alone to protect the Fulcrum. Earlier suspicions about Captain Carne's intentions had nagged at him, but the unfolding reality was beyond madness. Two Captains, attacking the Shrine Guard Commander amidst a city siege? The audacity of their betrayal stoked a fire of outrage within him.

With deliberate motions, Harlan donned the gauntlet. As it encased his hand. At first, the burning sensation made itself known. The last time he wore it, his entire arm had been burned up to the shoulder and was sensitive for months afterwards. He hated wearing it but knew it was the only other weapon he had in his arsenal to even these odds. He ignored the immediate itching sensation and allowed for the power to course through him. Shrine itself seems to channel its energy into his very being. His senses heightened to an almost unbearable intensity. He was able to smell the oil lanterns. He was able to peer into the shadows and see the Reavers holding daggers. Every sound magnified and every touch echoing the city's pulse.

While the grand room fell into an eerie silence, save for the captains and the reavers' approach. They moved with a ghost's stealth, yet Harlan's enhanced hearing picked up the distinct sound of a keychain jingling from the stairs behind him. Captain Lawrence, he presumed, the only person, other than himself, permitted to ever hold the vault's keys.

Good, Harlan thought, he wasn’t going to be alone. Lawrence was old, but not a pushover.

But it was not Lawrence who appeared; instead, Captain Varek stepped into the dim candlelight..

"At your side, Commander!" Varek announced, positioning himself a mere foot or two behind Harlan.

"Where is Lawrence?" Harlan demanded, his voice a mix of command and confusion.

Captain Varek hesitated. "He’s by the vault, guarding it, Sir! We saw them coming in and he ordered me up here to support you!" Varek responded. He seemed nervous and stumbled over his speech.

"I see."

In a lightning-fast movement fueled by years of training and the gauntlet's pull of energy, Harlan swung False Promise in a deadly arc towards Varek. The blade sang through the air, striking deep into Captain Varek’s neck. Harlan felt False Promise hit the Captain’s spine. In truth, the legacy weapons weren’t particularly good at cutting through bone. But they loved to bite into flesh.

Captain Varek staggered backwards and slumped against the wall, knocking over a candle onto the decorative carpet placed under the windows. Varek was clutching his neck. Harlan approached with False Promise. The Captains and the reavers of the Fourth charged. Harlan followed through, ensuring that Captain Varek was dead by driving False Promise through his chest. He reached for the keys, but the haste in which the Fourth approached interrupted the action.

Harlan's focus shifted instantly, the keychain momentarily forgotten as Captain Carne launched himself at Harlan with astonishing speed. The power from the gauntlet surged within Harlan, preparing him for the imminent clash. Carne's approach was a blur.

Harlan braced for the impact, the gauntlet's energy pulsing in anticipation of the confrontation. The room, once a beacon of order, now echoed with the sounds of battle, the fate of the Vault—and indeed, the city itself—hanging precariously in the balance.

Amid the tumult and the fading grandeur of the Fulcrum, Harlan's resolve flared into desperate action. He punched the ancient stone floor with the gaunlet, flooding the room with a wave of blue radiance. His strike thundered through the chamber, forcing his assailants to reel back from its intensity. In this whirlwind of power, Harlan's gaze found its mark—Captain Trillion, the very heart of his current strife and the biggest threat.

The clash that ensued was not merely physical but a duel of wills. Trillion, brandishing a sword as lithe as it was deadly, moved with a precision that seemed almost otherworldly. Each stroke of his blade was a defiance, a dance of rebellion that painted shadows into the air around them. Trillion poked and prodded, striking shallow several times in between the gaps where the plate armor separated.

Harlan, with the gauntlet's might at his command, confronted Trillion's agility with the raw force of Shrine herself. And yet, for all his power, he found himself gradually outmatched, Trillion's relentless assault finding its way through the smallest gaps in his armor. With every hit, Harlan's admiration for Trillion's skill twisted into a deep-seated fury, a hatred not just for the man but for the entirety of the Fourth Tier's audacity.

Harlan fell back, his heels against the edge of the platform that overlooked the crescent table. He fought the urge to deal in negatives. Warriors who think they may lose have already lost. ‘How many times did this butcher sneak past us? The Guard has been complacent. This time, after this, I will kill them all!’

Harlan was surrounded now. Reavers all around, all vying for an opportunity to dive in for a quick kill. He counted Trillion and Carne to his right, near the body of Varek. Three Reavers to his left and four in front. Harlan thought he could smell his arm burning inside of the gauntlet. His boots felt waterlogged, as if had walked through a very deep puddle. But in fact, it was the myriad of shallow stabs Trillion had managed to inflict. The blood was slipping into his boots. ‘I’m not going to die today. People like me do not die to cowards like this.’ Adrenaline and his rage allowed him to ignore the pain. Adrenaline and rage allowed him to channel more energy into the gauntlet. The gauntlet emitted a chilling whine, a prelude to unleashing its pent-up fury. The very foundations of the Fulcrum trembled, mirroring the chaos that raged outside its walls. Harlan, seizing this moment, released the gauntlet's energy in a blinding, scorching wave that swept through the chamber, felling several reavers and tearing through the structure of the Fulcrum itself. The reavers to his left were dead. Trillion and Carne looked amazed at the power of the gauntlet. The Reavers certainly didn’t expect Harlan to attack them when the primary threat of Carne and Trillion stood there.

In the ensuing chaos, Captain Carne's voice rose above the din, "Your life has been a crime, Harlan. You’re the worst kind of monster."

The room was overcome with dust and debris. Additional oil lanterns and candles had fallen to the floor, setting fire to anything that would burn. 

Heavy boots began thumping on the stone floors, their shadows being cast on the walls, growing larger by the fires. Reinforcements have arrived and the calculations have changed.

Carne looked back to Trillion. A silent accord passed between them—an acknowledgment of battles fought and the uncertain future that lay ahead. Carne grit his teeth.
“I’ll see you in the stars, Trillion.”

Trillion nodded to Carne, and with a final, contemptuous gesture towards Harlan, Trillion spat. He rushed over and retrieved the keys from the co-conspirator’s body. Harlan watched, impotent with rage as Carne blocked his path, the keys now a harbinger of their continued defiance. Trillion's retreat marked a turning point, leaving Harlan to contend with the remnants of their rebellion.

Now facing Carne, Harlan's wounds slowly recovered. His boots made a squishing sound. The mixture of blood and sweat. The reavers doubled their efforts to encircle him, though diminished, were not yet defeated. 

With Trillion's departure, Harlan felt a cold clarity settle over him. "The field narrows, and with it, my advantage grows," he mused. The battle that loomed would be decisive, a final stand within the crumbling edifice of the Fulcrum. Harlan readied himself, the gauntlet's ominous hum a reminder of the power at his disposal, a power he intended to use to rewrite the ending of this tumultuous night.

Harlan raised his arm. It was definitive now the burning smell was of his own flesh burning as the gauntlet pulled in more. Then the room ignited.

Beneath the shadow of the besieged city, Serif crouched in the underbrush beside Commander Amir, the notorious leader of the Fourth Tier. Growing up, Serif had long doubted the existence of the Fourth Tier commander. There was never a governing body on the fourth tier of the city. Unlike the Fifth, which thrived in bazaars and grand parties, or the Sixth's tournaments, the Fourth remained a mystery. Its soldiers, known as Reavers, often partook in organized crime, further shrouding the Tier in infamy.

Despite housing the majority of Shrine's populace, the Fourth Tier was infamous for rampant crime and lawlessness. It was expected that the Tier's Commanders would maintain some semblance of control, yet the Shrine Guard often overly prosecuted the people of the Fourth, intervening to mete out brutal injustice, leaving both innocent and guilty to be dumped into the Well.

Serif's own childhood was marked by adventures in Shrine's vast tunnel and sewer systems, where it was rumored the Fourth Tier called home. As a boy, he and his friends would often dare one another to delve deeper into the sewers and cramped corridors, each seeking the elusive 'Shadow's Crevice,' a legendary crawlspace believed to be a gateway to the heart of the Fourth Tier. But now, standing before him was the Fourth Tier's Commander. Commander Amir, clad in all black, epitomized the quintessential assassin in Serif's eyes, yet his attire was simple, unbecoming of a commander's expected grandeur. The sole element that captivated Serif was Amir's weapon – a piece he found himself coveting.

Two hours prior, Amir had arrived at his fathers house. Eight people sat inside the home waiting. Sernan had ordered the hired band of mercenaries to remain silent and wait for instructions. Sernan told the plan to everyone several times. They were going to only help carry objects from one point to another. That no one would need to engage in any sort of fighting. Everyone agreed, much to the dismay of one mercenary, Bridley, who often fought and murdered.

Then he arrived, the Commander of the Fourth Tier himself. He introduced himself as such. Serif watched from what he thought be the safety of the shadows, disbelief narrowing his gaze as the figure before him materialized from the realm of whispered tales into stark reality. This was the assassin, a legend he had doubted, a specter he believed was nothing more than a fabrication to instill fear. Yet, here he stood. He wasn’t a legend, and perhaps his legends were just that. Legends and tales that had circulated in hushed tones among those who were afraid of the unknown. 

The assassin's attire was simple, almost disappointingly so, devoid of the grandeur Serif had imagined. His clothes were plain and unassuming. Serif suspected it allowed him to merge with the darkness, an embodiment of the trade to which he belonged. However, it was the cloak that draped over the assassin's form that caught Serif's attention. Vast and enveloping, it was not just a piece of fabric but a statement of purpose. This cloak, with its segments meticulously held by an intricate network of straps, allowed for swift movement, hinting at a hidden arsenal beneath its shadows.

Beneath the hood, the assassin's face was a canvas of experiences, his brown hair threaded with strands of gray spoke to wisdom and time. But it was the almost yellow eyes that held Serif captive, piercing through the shadows like beacons in the night. These eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to cast a spell on everyone Amir looked at, freezing them in time. Eyes that were the very essence of humanity in its rawest forms.

Serif couldn't shake the feeling he had seen this figure before, haunting the streets of Shrine. His appearance was that of age, worn like a badge of survival.Serif recalled his father's words, a warning that echoed in his mind: 'never fight an old killer; They’re still alive for a reason.' He was beginning to understand what Sernan meant by that.

To Serif, the assassin moved through the world with an ethereal grace, a ghost among the living. Despite the simplicity of his appearance, there was an undeniable intimidation that cloaked him, a reminder of the power and mystery that legends are made of. In this moment, Serif realized that the old assassin was indeed more than just a tale; he was the embodiment of fear and respect, a figure cloaked in the mysteries of his ancient craft, walking the fine line between the seen and the unseen. 

His demeanor radiated indifference, a dismissive air as if all nothing really mattered. It was as though he had witnessed every facet of life and mastered it. When he spoke to the assembled group, he spoke in short but clear sentences. He wanted to avoid ambiguity and realized he was dealing with street thugs, and not intellectuals.

Amir settled in on an uncomfortable seat and made a strange clicking sound with his tongue. “Those satchels will be needed. Keep them with you. If we are attacked, do not run. Stay near to me or my reavers. First, we will go to the Fifth. You will wait outside for me. You will stay hidden. You will stay quiet. Then, we will then go to the Fulcrum. You will stay hidden. You will stay quiet. We will wait for the door to open. We will go in.” He cleaned his throat, “inside of the Fulcrum, you will be very quiet. We will open the Vault. There are many objects there. You are to place them in your bags. There will be a dagger with this symbol on it.” He gestured to his belt buckle, “you are to not touch it. You will notify me when you find it. There will be a Warlock. I will insert a key into it. It should activate. There will be many such keys. You will be very careful with them. You will work quickly. You will work quietly. We will leave through the sewers. We will go to the Seventh Tier. And then we will return to Swyn. Are there any questions?” 

No one voiced their questions, although Serif suspected everyone had many.

They left the only home Serif had ever known. A single room house that had already looked abandoned. They followed Amir closely. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Amir strode with unwavering confidence towards the grand edifice known as the Stronghold. Amir paused, signaling his group to wait in a shadowed alleyway across the street. Though none among the group bore the title of Fourth Tier Reavers, they complied with the order without any hesitation. 

The Fifth Tier's stronghold seemed active. The building was well lit, contratary to the surrounding homes and businesses. Everyone was barricaded in their homes or within the crypts. Most of the Fifth Tier were already clashing with the invaders outside the city or elsewhere. Only a small troop of Shrine Guards, the Fifth Tier soldiers, including the Fifth Tier commander—a small, elderly fat man that called himself Lead Archaeologist—remained.

Commander Amir drew his sword and unbuckled his cloak. Folds of the cloak fell to the floor and dragged behind him, casting a large black shadow in the evening sunset. As he walked across the street, he drew his weapon. The assembled mercenaries shared incredulous looks. Serif’s mouth fell open, struck by a mix of awe and disbelief.

‘He’s insane. This is insane. What’s happening?’ He looked to Sernan who had the same expression.
Soon, the Stronghold echoed with the chaos of battle cries, spiraling into endless, harrowing screams. One by one, the lights within the Stronghold extinguished, marking Amir's relentless progression through its halls. The lights and sounds soon ceased. And then, in a chilling resurgence, the screams echoed anew. Serif, hardened to the sounds of agony, found an unsettling familiarity in the cadence of torture. It was a gruesome spectacle that unsettled even those among them seasoned in the underbelly's brutality. The day had commenced under the guise of a straightforward task: to escort and ensure the unhampered passage of goods, all while sidestepping direct conflict. Promises of land, wealth, and a fresh start on the frontier worlds of Vel or Swyn were the rewards for their service. However, the grim essence of their duty revealed itself in their silent vigil from an alley, as they observed Amir's merciless dissection of the Fifth Tier's elite and the savage torment of its leader.

The commander of the Fourth Tier then appeared, his approach marked by a symphony of jingles and melodious notes with each step. Serif didn’t understand what was making that sound, but Amir had retrieved something. Amir sat and breathed heavily for a few minutes while everyone crouched in front of him like children listening to a story. Yet, all Amir did in those moments was draw breath, coughed and spat several times in the direction of the Stronghold. The mercenaries watched in silence.

Subsequently, they advanced towards the Fulcrum. Walking in Amir’s shadow and then waiting in the courtyard of the Fulcrum. They crouched in the tall grass. Amir's stern visage indicated to Serif that there was going to be more bloodshed before the end of the night. Serif, though no novice to the streets' skirmishes and petty thefts with his father, found himself ensnared in a rebellion of unforeseen complexity. The scope of their treachery was a weight he grappled with, the looming threat of execution hanging over them should the city withstand the siege. The city itself had been a battleground from dawn till dusk, its skyline intermittently shattered by explosive assaults that sent debris cascading through the air. Yet, as the Tiers rallied against the onslaught, a temporary reprieve from the siege was palpably felt.

Amir, his figure both commanding and marked by the night's toll, clutched a set of keys. These keys, enshrouded in rumors, allegedly opened the depths of the Fulcrum—a place Serif knew only through whispered tales of its stringent security and concealed secrets. The distant reverberations of discord from within the Fulcrum underscored the pervasive chaos, a stark reminder of the siege's far-reaching impact on the city's fabric.

Serif's curiosity about the keys gnawed at him; he suspected they unlocked the vault, yet his desire to converse with Amir went beyond mere speculation. He sought to grasp the unfolding events and what lay ahead. Glancing at the group, huddled behind Amir, he noticed their apprehension, almost palpable in the air. His father, standing amidst them, seemed on the verge of tears—a rare display of vulnerability that hinted at the depth of the situation's gravity. It dawned on Serif that perhaps even his father was unaware of the plot's full scope.

Amir had charged Serif's father with gathering at least six individuals capable of transporting 'goods'—the nature of which remained shrouded in mystery. In his quest, Serif’s father not only met the quota but also recruited a supposed locksmith. However, this locksmith was in reality a watchmaker known for his expertise in intricate mechanisms—a fact Serif knew all too well, having once stolen from the man’s shop. The business was situated between the city’s second and fourth tiers. The watchmaker's life seemed simple enough. A small business with an upstairs apartment where he and his wife raised two daughters. Serif wondered about their fates. Was the watchmaker going to bring them with him to the frontier? Was he going to abandon them? Had they already died from the barrages. Serif couldn't help but wonder if an escape was even possible now. Much of the city’s tiers had sustained heavy attacks and debris. The Fifth Tier still seemed as the least affected, receiving only minor damage from falling debris from the fourth.

The watchsmith turned locksmith turned traitor was shaking. He clutched the leather strap that secured the satchel to his back. Sernan and Serif had stolen the satchels and sacks weeks before. Serif, at the time, assumed they were going to be resold, or used in a future robbery. Sernan insisted that they remain in their home and go untouched. And now, each mercenary carried at least two. A larger member of the group was holding four. Sernan, Serif and Bridley had participated in many heists before. Bridley often used his size to intimidate others and get his way. He was Sernan’s enforcer of sorts. Brave and stupid. Sernan and Bridley were good friends, which made Serif hate both.

The sun had set and the evening was beginning to settle in. It was still warm, but in the darkness, Serif could only hear his teeth chattering. Then, muffled sounds of combat and several dampened booms echoed from inside the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum's front doors loomed ahead, still staunchly sealed from within. The uncertainty of their entry mirrored the uncertainty within Serif's heart, leaving him to ponder the true extent of their mission and the potential consequences of their actions.

They waited. Amir, showing signs of impatience, began tapping his foot—a motion that, combined with the watchmaker's chattering teeth, did not go unnoticed.
A noise from behind the door and then, they burst open, revealing Captain Trillion. Serif swallowed hard and hoped he was still allies with Amir. 

“Trillion.” Amir called out, gesturing for the column to follow.
“I have them.” Trillion held up the keys.

"Varek?"
"Dead. The idiot ran up with the keys in his pocket. Harlan heard them jingle, before we were fully in the room.”
"Harlan was waiting?"
"Sure was."
"And Castielle?"
Trillion's head lowered in a silent moment of respect. "He insisted I go, he’s still up there."

A sudden and loud pop startled the group. The hired mercenaries crouched lower than before in Amir’s shadow.
Commander Amir exhaled a sigh of frustration and resignation. "Stupid, just stupid..." His voice fades, overtaken by the weight of their loss. He then shifts focus, "Right, what of my Reavers?"

With another shake of his head, Trillion confirms their absence from the board. “That’s probably them dying right now.”
"Harlan did all that? Remarkable. The Gauntlet, then?"
"Yes, it's—"
"Right. Who cares. Keda isn’t going to give us anymore if we brought it back or not." Amir made a strange sound and gestured towards Trillion’s sword, still unsheathed. "Is he injured?"
"Definitely."
"Well, that’s some good news."
Amid the eerie silence of the gardens before the Fulcrum, the group exchanged uneasy glances at once another while the leadership of the Fourth Tier spoke, seemingly oblivious to their audience. “Is that everyone?” Trillion inquired, his gaze sweeping over the group that stood almost in a single file behind Amir, as if seeking shelter in his shadow. "The Vault has already been opened, they took most-”
“Not all. The real prize is here.” Amir held up his hand, showing the second set of keys that also made a notable chime sound.
Within this tense atmosphere, Serif couldn't pull his eyes from Trillion. He looked like the most interesting person he had ever seen. His clothing was wildly different from Amir. He had an assortment of weapons and several charms dangling from around his neck. He didn’t look like an assassin, or what an assassin should look like. His clothing was more blue than it was black.
“With all that noise, the Fifth and Guard may come to check this out. We need to move before they surround us," he asserted, a clear directive to hasten their actions.
The dialogue shifts with Trillion's subtle probe about their adversaries, "You get Clay?" hinting at the fate of the Fifth Tier's commander.
Amir's reaction is a mix of derision and humor, "If only everything were as easy as that, we'd rule the world," he scoffs, his laughter briefly piercing the night's gravity. "Let’s get this over with."

The group hurried into the Fulcrum, the mercenaries' large, empty leather satchels bouncing on their backs. Moving into the Fulcrum, Serif immediately felt the heat and smoke. Something was burning. He smelt textiles and cooked meat. They ascended a flight of stairs with Commander Amir taing the lead, adopting a strategic low stance along the far wall. He was closely followed by Sernan, Serif, Bridley, and the rest of their motley crew of traitors, with Trillion covering the rear. Having spent the long evening crouching in hiding, Serif’s legs were beginning to cramp and seized a moment to stretch, letting the others advance by. 

There was a hazy fog above the Fulcrum and new scents. Charred stone and the metallic tang of spilled blood. The multiple fires caused shadows to play wildly along the walls, cast by the flickering light from torches that still burned stubbornly, several decorative rugs and drapes were on fire,  revealing the grandeur and devastation in equal measure of the Fulcrum.

The Fulcrum, built into the wall of Shrine, appeared paradoxically more vast from within than its outward appearance suggested. It was a place of secrecy, its inner workings hidden from the common citizenry. Serif, who had always dreamed of exploring its halls, now witnessed its interior ravaged by conflict. The area around the Crescent Table, where he imagined the Tier Commanders convened, was adorned with scorched walls and strewn with lifeless forms.

In the heart of this devastation, a singular figure was moving. Through the smoke, Serif could see the right arm was blackened, seeming to smolder, as he writhed in pain beside a notable armored gauntlet. Serif recognized the armor. It was the Guard Commander, Hanish Harlan alone amidst the carnage. “He managed to fight off all of them?” Serif marveled.

Trillion, retracing his steps, joined Serif, his sudden proximity startling. However, Trillion’s calm demeanor and a reassuring eyes quickly quelled Serif's alarm. "I keep losing friends to bastards," Trillion remarked, looking back at the scene with a soured expression. “I should have stayed. I should have killed him.”

Serif swallowed. The agony of Harlan’s screams echoed through the Fulcrum.
“Burn you bastard.”

Serif nodded. He thought of his own friends that were caught by the Shrine Guard. He generally never saw them again. If he did, they were being tossed into the Well.

“What’s your name?”

Serif hesitated. The last person he wanted knowing his name was Trillion. "Serif. Serif Shrine," he replied. 

"I’m Trillion, with a T. You want a new life?" Trillion's question, laden with the promise of escape, caught Serif off guard. 

Dreaming briefly of a different existence, one where Sernan is dead and he is free, Serif affirmed, "Yes. I do."

“Time to focus then. Let’s go.”

Serif liked Trillion. He seemed normal. Honest. But Serif heard the stories. One cannot grow up on the mid-tiers without having heard of Trillion. Trillion, with a T, was not  normal and the furthest thing from honest. He’d kill without a second thought and made a sport from it.

Rejoining the main body, Amir led the group down several flights of stairs into the the narrow corridor. He spat on and then stepped on and over a fallen guard captain, while the group carefully maneuvered around, walking single file in the tight hallway. They reached the heavy wooden doors of the Vault. "Which one of you is Rennell, my locksmith?" Commander Amir asked while staring directly at Rennell. 

A slender figure with delicate hands, more suited to watchmaking than burglary, stepped forward. "Me sir!" 

Amir handed the keys to Rennall, slowly, while grasping all of the keys. “Careful now, they sing. I don’t want them to know we are here already.

Taking the keys from both Amir and Trillion, Rennell studied them intently, his hands trembling. He turned to the first door and dropped the keys. Serif tried to catch them, inadvertently juggling them. Picked them up for Rennell who continued to shake uncontrollably.

Amir and Trillion exchanged impatient glances. The crackling of fire and pieces of the building above masked the noise, Serif hoped. 

"Rennell?" Amir's voice was a low whisper of irritation. 

“Apologies, sir. Um-” Rennell mumbled his response.

 "It's ok Rennel. Take your time." Trillion said while looking at Amir. He wore a mask, but Serif could make out the distinct shape of a frown beneath it.

Amir raised both his hands in agitation while the nervous Rennell counted a series of numbers, matching the keys.

Amir cleared his throat again.

Rennell, caught between his task and the growing pressure, explained the critical nature of their challenge: "I just- if we use the wrong key on any door, it will create a false set, dropping tumblers onto the key, which will cause the key to become stuck and then the door won’t open." he stuttered several times. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. Above them, shouts.
Amir and Trillion both sighed and lowered their heads. Trouble would soon arrive.
Serif moved in closer to Rennel. “Let me help.” Serif was nervous as well but felt guilty for the man. Perhaps it was because he had stolen from him before. Perhaps that is why he was here and took the job. Destitution. He had children to feed. But Serif could also see the Commander and Captain’s disagreeable expression. Things have gone horribly wrong and now the thought of staying a moment longer in the Fulcrum was going to cost everyone their lives. 

Rennell handed the keys with shaking hands.

Serif tried to recall the last time he even held a key. Most keys he held in his life were large rocks or long and thick metal bars that would be used to pry open doors and chests.
Rennell looked to Amir as if asking permission to receive help.
Amir raised both hands as an emphatic gesture of ‘yes, go on, hurry, we are all going to die.’ Or at least that’s what Serif saw in those erratic hand gestures.

“Which key first?” Serif asked.

Rennell hesitated. “Uh, eight! Wait”. He looked at the keys from Amir. Six.”

Serif inserted the key and looked back at Rennell who looked confused.
“Turn it boy!” Serif’s father managed to still sound as if he was barking, but in a strange whisper. This drew angry glares from Amir and Trillion.
Serif hesitated. He was trying to recall which way one turns a key, to the left or to the right. He turned it to the left. Nothing happened. Then to the right and the bolt loosened.

Trillion moved into the group and pressed a finger to his masked lips. He and the hired help lifted the beam which secured the door and placed it upright against the wall. They struggled for a moment, trying to quietly push and then pull the door, then discovered it had to be slid. The door had pockets on either side in which they could be snuggly inserted. The opening was narrow and only allowed for a single step. 

“Eight now.” Rennell said, with more confidence.

The door opened. It was significantly heavier and made more noise than the previous. Two more doors stood in front of them, three key holes. Serif noticed all of the weapons were gone, he could see dusty footprints and cut cords. But beyond this wooden door was the final door.

A loud whistle was heard overhead as a crash rocked the building. Serif dropped the keys and scrambled to try to pick them up.

“Dammit, Keda. The fool is moving up the schedule or we are late. We are going to be buried here.”

“Well. I’m far short from my prophesied number.”
After the final reverberations of the strike, the heavy beam which once secured the first door slid off from its precarious placement on the wall and crashed down with a resounding thud, silencing everyone. A few seconds passed. Serif exhaled.

"The vault!" came a shout from above, quickly echoed by others, each voice louder than the last.  

"Focus on the door!" commanded Amir.  

Trillion, unable to contain his excitement, began to hop and skip, nimbly ducking and dodging, throwing practice punches into the air before drawing his sword. Amir watched, shaking his head in disbelief.  

"Concentrate on the door. We'll handle everything else," Trillion reassured the burglars.  

The sound of numerous footsteps signaled the approach of at least a dozen Shrine Guards.  

"What should we do?" inquired a burly mercenary with a notable belly.  

"Ever fancied being a Reaver?" Trillion joked, glancing at Amir.  

Amir responded with a soft chuckle and a knowing click of his tongue, nodding towards the body of Captain Lawrence and the sword lying beside him.

"What's your name?" inquired Trillion.

"Bridley, sir," came the reply.

"A hearty welcome to the Fourth Tier, Reaver Bridley!"

Pride swelled in Bridley's chest and his round gut. He turned to Sernan, nodding firmly. "You needed muscle, correct, Sernan? Here's my bid for a larger share."

Seizing the fallen captain's sword, Bridley brandished it high. Filled with vigor, he charged forward, his battle cry "For the Fourth!" echoing through the corridor.

Amir and Trillion shared a glance of bewilderment. Amir extended a hand, attempting to halt him, but Bridley, perhaps assuming support from his comrades, charged ahead. His sprint was clumsy, and he soon tripped and fell, quickly becoming overwhelmed by the Shrine Guards.

A brief pause fell over both factions, a shared moment of perplexity hanging in the air before the guards pressed forward, barely able to walk two-abreast down the corridor.

Amir faced Sernan with a pointed look. "I expected the best men you knew." 

Sernan offered an apologetic shrug. "He was the best." 

"Bravery isn't in question, certainly," Trillion interjected.

Amir and Trillion, distinct in their martial disciplines, braced for the imminent clash. Amir, with deliberate motions, loosened his cloak, letting its heavy fabric cascade around him, an ominous prelude to the storm of violence he was about to unleash.

Panic seized Serif as he glimpsed at least a dozen guards charging towards them, possibly more lurking out of sight. From his constrained viewpoint within the vault's depths, he and Rennell faced the final challenge: a daunting barrier secured by three intricate locks. "What was this all for?" he pondered aloud, the weight of their perilous journey pressing upon him. Among the trove just beyond reach, a large, unwieldy sword caught his eye, lying amidst a myriad of ancient artifacts. In the vault's shadowed corner, a discolored Warlock stood as if it was a statue in a solemn pose in eerie silence.

As Rennell shakily inserted the final keys. 

With a presence that screamed aggression and dominion, Commander Amir hurled himself into battle, a death personified. His cloak, now a weapon of its own, enveloped the front lines, snaring weapons and men alike. Amir danced through the chaos, a reaper in the midst of harvest, his blade reaping a grisly toll from the guards. Trillion, the antithesis of Amir's brute force, moved with a dancer's grace atop the melee, his feet barely touching the helmets and shoulders of his foes. His sword was a whisper, leaving only the echo of death in its wake as it pierced through armor and bone. The ground soon became littered with the fallen, falling on one another forming a grizzly pile of death.

Sernan's voice faltered, laced with dread, as his eyes flickered between Serif and Rennell's painstaking work at the door and the besieged mercenaries. “Oh Divine above! Boys, you need to hurry, there’s a lot of ‘em.”
The corridor bore witness to at least eight guards felled when Amir, caught off-guard, reeled from a shield to the face, followed by a swift kick. Tumbling backwards, he dragged with him an entanglement of swords and spears caught in his cloak, one guard included. Quick as thought, Amir drew a dagger from his boot, ending the ensnared guard's struggle with a swift thrust. Yet, in the fray, another guard's blade descended towards Amir, only to bury itself in his fallen comrade's armor, sparing Amir the fatal blow. With a defiant spit, Amir prepared to counter, even as the thwarted guard, wiping away the spit from his face, raised his weapon once more, fury renewed.

A collective gasp echoed from the mercenaries, a palpable wave of dread washing over them as they witnessed what seemed like Amir's imminent demise.

Abruptly, two sword tips pierced the Guard's back in rapid succession, emerging with a spray of blood from his chest. With swift decisiveness, Trillion shoved the dying guard into the heap of bodies and extended a hand to Amir, pulling him back to his feet.

"Seven more, Commander," Trillion reported, his voice steady. "Only seven?" Amir exhaled a labored breath of relief mixed with disbelief. As the final door swung open, a tense pause enveloped the scene, both sides eyeing the macabre obstacle between them, knowing the only path forward was over the bodies of the fallen.

The clatter of chains hitting the stone echoed through the chamber as Rennell and Serif managed to unlock the doors. Stepping inside, Serif noted the room's confining dimensions, barely accommodating him and Rennell, a tight squeeze that spoke volumes of the vault's secretive nature. "Swords? We risked everything for antiques?" Serif's confusion was palpable. Arrayed before him were nearly a dozen artifacts of peculiar design and bone-white relics, their purpose and value a mystery.

Among the ancient relics, Serif's gaze was drawn to a collection of dormant objects on a dusty shelf. Their dim light pulsed faintly, barely noticeable in the shadowed room. Each object, encased in its own shimmering field of energy, seemed to whisper of the power it held within. As Serif reached out, hesitating for a moment, the nearest object responded to his proximity, its glow intensifying as if acknowledging his presence.

With a cautious hand, Serif lifted the object, and instantly, the room was flooded with an oppressive, brilliant light emanating from the item in his grasp. The intricate patterns inside it danced wildly, casting vibrant shadows across the walls.

"Put that into the Warlock, now!" Amir's voice cut through the blinding light with an urgent, emphatic command.

Blinking against the brightness that made it hard to look directly at the luminous object, Serif turned towards the towering figure of the dormant Warlock. The machine loomed over him, its design a complex mesh of technology and arcane craftsmanship. 

Confusion clouded Serif's mind for a moment; the Warlock's interface was not immediately apparent, and the overwhelming light from the luminous object obscured his vision further. He approached the Warlock, the object in his hands pulsing more fervently as if eager to reunite with its mechanical counterpart. Serif's eyes struggled to adjust, and for a moment, he felt lost, unsure of where the object was meant to go.

Then, as if guided by an unseen force, he noticed a faint outline on the Warlock's chest—a slot that seemed to await the mysterious object. With the light from the object casting his shadow long and stark against the ancient walls, Serif stepped closer and aligned the object with the slot. The moment it touched the Warlock, it was drawn in by an invisible force, snapping into place with a sound that resonated through the room.

The oppressive light dimmed as the object integrated into the Warlock, its energy now contained within the machine. For a brief moment, everything was silent. Then, the Warlock stirred, its eyes lighting up with the same intricate patterns that had pulsed within the object. It stood, now awakened and alive, a fusion of arcane magic and advanced technology. The Warlock's face, adorned with shifting patterns of dark and light, resembled an ever-changing puzzle, each movement suggesting fleeting images of symmetry and chaos.

Serif, still squinting from the afterimage of the object's light, stepped back, awe and uncertainty mingling in his gaze. The Warlock, now fully activated, regarded him with a gaze that seemed almost... grateful.

Amir watched the scene unfold, a rare smile breaking across his face. "Well done," he said quietly, knowing they had just awakened something truly powerful.

"Seize only what you can carry—time presses us," Amir urged, his voice a beacon of focus as the group momentarily lost themselves in the marvel of their discovery. Amidst this, Amir and Trillion stood firm, their steadfast presence forming an impregnable wall that the guards dared not breach, their hesitation at desecrating the resting places of their fallen comrades buying the thieves precious seconds.

With methodical care, Serif filled his satchel with the enigmatic weapons, ensuring each was secured by its hilt before passing the laden bag down the line to Rennell, then to Sersan.

“Dammit, that brave idiot had four bags on him,” Sersan remarked.

“How much is there?” Amir inquired, his breath heavy with exertion.

“A lot.”

“Find my dagger first, then prioritize the gems you see there,” Amir directed, his gaze not leaving the now animated Warlock.

Trillion looked at Amir and sighed. Amir laughed and spat. “You’ll see.”

Within the trove, Serif's grip tightened around a grotesque dagger, its presence chilling yet compelling, as though it invited closer inspection while simultaneously cautioning distance. Rennell, perceiving its importance, quickly intercepted the blade from Serif's grasp, only to fumble and let it clatter to the ground.

Serif looked to Amir and Trillion who were facing the Shrine Guards. 

Both Rennell and Serif hesitated on who to pick it up. Sersan cursed and crawled forward, grabbing the dagger and sliding it along the ground. Amir heard the object sliding towards him and stopped it by stepping on it with the heel of his foot. He picked it up and pressed his lips to the hilt, and as if by magic, the weapon disappeared from sight.

"What in Derjinn’s sweaty ass was that?" Trillion’s astonishment mirrored that of the Shrine Guard, all caught in a moment of uncertainty. Trillion looked to the Shrine Guards beyond the pile for answers. They shrugged, equally bewildered by the ancient magics and technologies coming to life before their eyes. “What’s going on right now?”

Amir spit as if he had dust in his mouth.

“Are we done?” Amir asked.

Serif and Rennell both looked at the large, hanging weapon. Neither of them wanted to carry such a heavy object. All of the other relics they picked up seemed overly dense. As if made from a material that wasn’t steel. Serif’s satchel was full of the objects he had inserted into the Warlock.
“We leave it?”

Rennell nodded.

“No! You get that, boy. It’s worth a small fortune. Sling it on your back.” Sersan tossed Serif an empty bag.
Serif sighed. He struggled to hoist it off the hook. It looked to have been held against the wall and then a nail hammered into one of the rings where presumably a person would place their index and middle fingers into. Pulled on the nail. He looked at then at the Warlock that seemed to be staring at him. Serif then jumped on top of the wooden table, placed his feet against the wall and pulled hard, he fell backwards, the large sword falling on top of him.

“Are you alright?” Rennell had panic written on his face.
Serif froze for a moment, wondering if he had cut himself. But everything seemed fine. He stood and then struggled to place the sword on the table. He wrapped the sword with the satchel and slung it over his shoulder and then looked back at the Warlock. “How we are supposed to move this thing?”

Both parties were becoming impatient. The Shrine Guard began stepping on and moving closer to the group.

“The Warlock?” Amir paused for a moment, as if trying to think, “ask it to follow you?”

Serif laughed. Then stared at the Warlock and laughed again. Serif asked politely, preparing himself for the inevitable embarrassment. “Please, follow me?”

The warlock moved, startling Serif.

“It’s working!” Rennell’s voice quivered.

“Good.” Amir summoned the dagger from his hand. It was a small piece, with a miniature carved demon’s head on the hilt.

With swift agility, Amir vaulted onto the mound of debris, brandishing the dagger forward. Miraculously, the blade elongated, skewering two guards through their torsos before withdrawing into its original form. A second command from Amir, and the dagger lunged once more, its lethal dance met with the guards' startled flinches.

Trillion stood motionless and speechless.

Amir stood on the pile and looked back to his assembled crew. “To the sewers, now.”