Shrine. The city served as a monument to the sins of our fathers and the sins of their sons. A throne for the wicked and a prison to immortalize the damned. The city of Shrine was a refuge away from our doomed world, away from the wounds of our own design. Shrine was meant to be a new home. To rebuild. To prosper. To grow. A world touched by advancements so far beyond our comprehension that the uninitiated might consider them magical. Some considered these advancements to be divine in nature. Certainly there was power. A deep latent power that you could feel in the soil beneath your soles. In the air you breathe. In the water you drink, and in the waste you pissed out. I truly mean it. You could feel an untapped potential there. That, over time, had given us strength. It had infused our people with a conviction to strive to even greater heights. This power seeped into our blood and bones, sharpening our minds and pushing our bodies to unprecedented levels of strength. But it wasn't magic. It was masked in the form of a temptress' song. A song which hinted at a tune of the lingering source of power. It resonated like a drum, pounding from behind thick walls and from within our chests. Unknowingly, we sang along to its damnable chorus, striking bone against bone, trying to match the tempo of the world's beating heart.
Whether by happenstance or fate, we arrived, drawn to a persistent beat. A melodic drum that echoed from beneath the soil and then from within our own bodies. This drum beat pulled all of us into a seductive trance. Its resonance infected all of us to some extent. Certainly, the contagion was far more pronounced and virulent in others. Those are the saddest of tales, belonging to those individuals who were the most susceptible to its resonating frequency. In our folly, we had ignored the corrupted chorus which echoed back, we further ignored its lyrics and the hymns being sung and we carried on, ourselves willfully singing along in the orchestra of chaos.
Now every tale could have multiple origins. There is a web of great many strands of thread that, when pulled on, may unravel more than anticipated. Legends, intermingled with myth, that may have once been based on faith emerging as the definitive truth. If you were to continue to pull, it would be easy to see the tangled web of history. Here is one particular thread, one particular strand on which I shall pull. This strand is where the melodic beat of that wretched song changed its cadence and began an inescapable creep towards Shrine's crescendo.
I had been approaching adulthood at the time of the great betrayal. Yet, in the eyes of the people of Shrine, I was just a boy named Serif. Serif Shrine. Smaller in stature when compared to other men my age. Frail. Arrogant. Stupid. Born to a bastard father and an estranged mother who, as I was told, had fled to a world beyond Shrine sometime after my birth.
My father, Sernan, refused to speak her name. Out of grief or betrayal, I still do not know. Inwardly, I suspect he had murdered her. That thought helped me rationalize and move beyond my guilt years later, when I recalled the memories of killing him.
Being born a “Shrine” did not mean I was without prospects in life within the city. The son of a well-known thief, public nuisance, and a liar certainly contributed to my lack of prospects.
Much like my father, I, too, was a thief. And I suppose a liar as well. All thieves are inherently liars, and as such, my father and I conspired with other thieves and liars. Oftentimes, taking on dubious contracts to steal from the poor, murder for the rich, or otherwise, settle scores that kept the wheel of revenge ever turning.
Living as a criminal in a city governed by sanctioned criminals has its benefits. The Tiers always have a grudge, a debt, some grievance that needs to be settled. And when one such issue was addressed, the need for retaliation once again had called upon the tierless members of Shrine. A profitable cycle. Certainly Tiers attacking one another outright would bring the city to the brink of another domestic war and that was a dangerous prospect. It hurts power. It hurts deeply entrenched groups and ideologues–people that do not wish to see their power be usurped or destabilized in any way. So the act of hiring criminals provided the facade of deniability. The Tiers and The Guard all played along as long as the actions of my sort kept the greater peace.
My father and I, peacekeepers in the loosest sense, were criminals. The term 'criminal’ lacks any sort of charm. Cheap and effective enough to not overstep the delicate balance. This balance allowed for precise and coordinated violence. Certainly we knew the risks. Capture meant immediate execution by The Guard, yet capture from one of the Tiers meant torture. Torture that would have even the most honorable men confessing to imaginary and abhorrent crimes that only devils could ever conjure in a dream. 'Keep the knife in your boot. Cut into your stomach, pull out your own damned heart before they catch you.' Is what my father would say before the start of a new task, for the descendants of Angellen have novel and inventive ways to enact horrific forms of retribution on one another.
During this time, long ago, there was a plot brewing. A grandiose plan that would shake Shrine to its foundations. Rumors and whispers spread among the lesser folk. Some spoke of rebellion against their respective Tier-Lords, while others spoke of fleeing the city of Shrine to more prosperous lands in the stars beyond. A very expensive proposition. That was my father's intention – and mine, to a lesser extent. To start anew. To swindle, lie, and cheat those that were unaware of our usual antics in a wholly new world. However, those who go wandering through their lives without any meaningful prospects are easily swayed with sweet promises of a new life.
Over the preceding  weeks, always when the moons hung high and the sun was still many hours from rising, my father met in secret with, what I thought, prospective clients. They always spoke inside of our decrepit home, sending me outside to guard the door. Which, was a ridiculous notion for someone my stature with only a knife as my weapon. Some nights, a handful of familiar local criminals joined them. Their meetings were quick and the group dissolved just as fast, each man returning to his own small domain afterwards.
My father, despite his wickedness, treachery, and his usual habit of letting secrets spill out of his mouth like cheap drink, somehow, beyond all the odds, remained silent about these future arrangements. He told me nothing. Yet rumors still slithered through Shrine’s underbelly. When I hinted at those rumors, I saw something new tighten in him. Anxiety. Real anxiety. He would glance over his shoulder and mutter, almost conspiratorial, ‘somethin' big. We do it and we're free.’
I wish I had understood then. But the scheme was too grand, too reckless. Even if he had told me the full scope, I wouldn’t have believed him. Looking back, all of the actors involved wanted a means to their own ends. Some wanted chaos. Others wanted a new start. Many more wanted vengeance. But pitifully, most just wanted to chase a dream. And at that time, I, too, was a dreamer. As it often goes with dreams, reality shifts and perception of what is possible takes on wholly different perspectives. That new perspective was a shift in Shrine’s balance. No one knew how fast everything could unravel, how quickly the celestial bodies would shuffle their divine deck and hand out new fates to the players that didn’t know the odds.
The night before my world changed, a new figure arrived. Unlike the previously tall and slim man, this stranger was significantly thicker in the shoulders and arms. He held a large linen sack and was wearing remarkably plain clothing. He would look like a beggar if he had not been as muscular as he was. He didn’t look like the regular folk that descended from the upper tiers of the city down to the Seventh. A cloak of shadows seemed to linger behind him, drifting in hypnotizing patterns when those shadows encountered the well-lit streets of the Seventh Tier. He stood a head shorter than my father, but somehow appeared to be more imposing. A primal aura clung to him, predatory and patient. His head tilted forward while his eyes stayed locked and level with each step, the way I envision how a cat would move during a hunt.
I had always thought of my father as a large man. I hoped to grow as tall as he was someday. But even if I had, this stranger would still make me feel small. Even when I would see him many years later, on a frozen lake, bleeding to death, he still had the same effect. He radiated a sense of superiority, a threat wrapped in quiet restraint. Unease crawled across my skin.
He scanned the darkness and his gaze snapped to mine. I wasn’t hiding, but I was watching from the shadows. He found me instantly, as if he had been searching for whomever may overhear his private words. His stare froze me. Only when he turned that petrifying gaze back to my father did I feel my limbs return to my control.
I stepped closer. Curiosity pulled me forward. I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to know if things were finally moving towards this mysterious plan that had my father’s crew meeting tonight.
“Well met,” he said with a curt nod, voice smooth, calm, confident. Almost comforting. His dark eyes, unnervingly bright orbs of darkness in the light.
My father hesitated for a moment, cleared his throat, but still managed to stammer his response, “w-welcome, sir.”
He reached out a hand to either greet the stranger with a handshake or to take his bag but was interrupted with the stranger’s question.
“This is where you call home, Sernan?”
“Aye, Sir. It ain’t much, but it’s just me and the boy who live here.” My father gestured towards me.
“And you are the boy Serif, correct?”
“Aye,” I responded, but quickly added, “not quite a boy.”
I moved out into the warm shard-light of the lamp post. I remember trying to stick out my chest in an attempt to seem taller than what I actually was. I wanted him to see my beard. Well, what I called a beard at the time, for it was little more than strands of what could be mistaken for pubic hair on my face.
“Not quite a girl either.” The stranger said.
I remember being angry that my father would allow some man dressed as a beggar to seemingly control the situation.
“Ain’t no lady ever got this,” I had made a crude gesture, tugging at my crotch.
“Right. I believe you. Perhaps one day.”
It took me a moment to understand the remark and I felt stupid. I then turned to face my father, and I thought it looked as if he were going to be sick.
I turned back to the stranger and tried to stare hard at the man. I saw multiple old scars that criss-crossed over his lips. “Got them scars from learning how to shave? And who are you anyway? Another beggar coming here looking for work?”
The stranger laughed and then replied in a whisper. “No. Not quite. Call me Amir,”
I saw my father’s face tighten, a familiar look of controlled shock and fury, but I swallowed the heat in my own cheeks and held the stranger’s gaze. If my father was going to look weak, I sure wasn’t. We had a reputation to uphold.
“May I take your bag, Sir?” Sernan asked.
I looked at my father and felt disgusted.
“No. Show me inside.” Amir replied.
The command, simple and absolute, settled in the miniscule front yard like a thick fog. My father's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly and gestured towards the door.

“My crew will arrive within the next few hours, Sir.” Sernan said as he entered the home first and held the door open. His tone was clipped and formal, a stark contrast to the familiar gruff, resentful affection he usually reserved for me. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, a man whose presence filled our cramped dwelling with an unwarranted sense of self-entitled authority.
“Impressive. Sernan. See that you watch the door while I change.” Amir said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that grated on my nerves. It was laced with a casual arrogance, the kind that came with a lifetime of undeserved privilege.
My father nodded sharply, a gesture more suited for a footman of the Fifth than my father who quickly moved back to the front door closing it. His broad shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly under the unspoken weight of the command. I remember finding it intensely strange, and deeply unsettling, that my father—a man whose natural bearing was one of unquestioned leadership, a man who was often the central, authoritative figure when the usual assembly of miscreants and low-level thugs gathered—would be taking orders from this arrogant ass. My father, the resourceful planner, the silent orchestrator, was now reduced to a mere sentry as I had been on numerous occasions.
“Is he putting on an evening dress or something?”
“Shut up, boy.” He said dismissively.
Our dwelling was small, a single-room hovel considered tiny by most standards. From the outside, a doghouse might have been a more apt, if slightly generous, description. The interior offered little in the way of improvement, prioritizing function over any shred of comfort or aesthetics. It was dominated by a small, scarred dining table, its surface slick with age and countless knife wounds. A single, old oil-fed lamp was placed precisely at its center. We couldn’t afford the fancy shard lamps that many of the rich inhabitants of the Seventh Tier owned.
The oil lamp cast a dim, flickering pool of yellow light that barely reached the corners of the room, leaving the rest in heavy shadow. Seven mismatched seats were arranged haphazardly around the table. None of the seven pieces were the same, and to call them 'chairs' was a gross overstatement. Each was born from necessity, scavenged from refuse piles or shoddily, hastily built by my father and I in preparation for tonight's assembly. One, an unplaned slab of wood set upon uneven legs, wobbled precariously. Another was little more than a stout, rough-hewn stump of a tree trunk meant for splitting into pieces of firewood.
Opposite the front door was a rear exit to the boxed-in backyard where we relieved ourselves, and next to that was the cramped bedroom area. It wasn't a separate room, but an alcove partitioned off by a tattered, heavy curtain. The space was utterly consumed by a single, narrow bed—a cot, really—that was far too small for my father, but he still managed to sleep on it while I had to sleep on the floor. Apart from a small, rickety closet pressed into the corner, the bed accounted for every inch of floor space.
Amir gave a lazy inclination of his head toward me, before turning and entering the suffocatingly small chamber. With a gentle thud, his tightly-bound linen sack was hefted onto the cot. The cheap, worn springs of the bed groaned loudly, a mechanical cry of protest under the sudden, significant weight. He reached out to pull the makeshift door—a flimsy, warped wooden panel—closed, but the hinges had been damaged, broken months ago during one of my father’s less-than-subtle attempts at furniture repair. The door only afforded a modest, utterly insufficient measure of privacy, leaving a wide, vertical gap through which I could see the dark outline of his form as he began to rummage through the contents of his sack.
I sat at the table, deliberately looking away from the sleeping area and the man inside of it toward my father, who appeared to be taking his post with utmost seriousness. He was peering intently through a slight gap between the door and the frame.
I tried waving several times to get his attention. When he finally glanced my way for a moment, I quietly mouthed the words, ‘who is he?'
My father looked toward the now silent bedroom, then back at me. He shook his head before resuming his vigil, staring down the well-lit street.
After a few more minutes, the sound resumed and then abruptly stopped. I thought the shadows cast by the lamp were moving strangely. The lamp's flame wasn't wavering in a draft, yet the room seemed much darker than before.
Amir emerged, entirely clad in fine and undoubtedly very expensive dark leathers. Two long, elegant daggers were tucked into his belt, and the curved blade, strapped across his back, was not a sword of the common make. It was a wicked crescent of a blackened material that didn’t seem to me to be steel or any mixture of metal components. The inner curve was honed to a lethal edge. Unlike a familiar sickle, which curves inward toward the wielder, this weapon's heavy tip swept backward, hooking away from the hand as if defying the laws of balance. The grip was wrapped tightly in dark leather, providing a solid anchor for a cutting surface designed for ensnaring shields or limbs, ending in a point that suggested a brutal tearing force rather than a clean stab. It appeared heavy, balanced to swing with punishing momentum, the back-swept curve promising a final, inescapable drag once the blade bit flesh or armor. I wanted it. That, or a blade similar. It was truly unique and menacing.
Amir ignored my stares as he moved gracefully to the table, carefully lifting the heavy wooden stump and pulling it away from the table, and then sitting down to face me.
“Come, Sernan. Sit.”
My father stepped away from the door mechanically and took a seat in which I considered possibly the second worst chair we possessed, placing himself between the three of us.
We sat in silence for a moment. A long moment. Each of us seemingly in their own thoughts as Amir gently tapped the rondel of his dagger.
Then, mustering whatever courage he had been building, my father finally spoke, “Care for a drink, Sir? I stocked up, considering it was our last night here.”
“Yes. A fine suggestion,” Amir replied, pulling a canteen from his belt and revealing several fine crystal vials in a specialized holder attached to his belt. Each vial emitting faint hues of differing colors, then Amir removed the red vial and placed it on the table. “Cups if you don’t mind.”
My father and I stared for a moment at the glowing red vial.
Sernan frowned, his gaze drawn to the glowing vial. “All I’ve got are—”
Amir glanced at the wooden box holding the chipped and broken tableware. “Misshapen wooden mugs will suffice.”
My father’s face flushed. He returned with two poorly carved wooden cups and a pitcher of stale ale.
“One. For the boy, as well,” Amir said with a smile, and then corrected himself, “For the young man. One must remain hydrated in times such as these.”
“Aye, thanks.” I replied, nervously, unable to look away from the vial.
With shaking hands, my father poured the ale into each mug, ensuring he filled Amir’s first.
Amir uncorked the crimson vial, leaned forward, and let two red drops bleed slowly into our drinks.
My father and I shared a sideways glance, then looked solemnly at our mugs. The ale instantly darkened, matching the vial’s crimson hue.
After a brief silence, I drank hesitantly. Although the ale was now a deep crimson, its flavor was exactly as I had expected—stale and metallic.
Amir then spoke, “So. While I was changing, you asked a question?”
I froze, certain the shock was evident on my face. Thankfully, Amir continued before the awkward silence lingered.
“Your father and I are well acquainted. I am Amir Shrine, Commander of the Fourth Tier. You probably know me as ‘The Reaver’.”
I wanted to turn to my father and scream, a complicated mix of wonder, anger, and terror. Had we just ingested a poison to which the Reaver most likely had already adapted immunity? He was the Demon of Shrine. The Master Assassin. A supposedly horrible, cruel, monster. The name in bedtime stories parents would tell their misbehaving children about. I, personally, never had that luxury of hearing bedtime stories. I believe it was mostly on the part that my father couldn’t read. But to hear the Commander of the Fourth Tier was seated at our table, sitting on a stump of wood. It was all too surreal to be true.
“So, Serif. Tomorrow night, you will be assisting Master Rennell with any lock work we encounter. Or has Sernan already explained this?”
“No, Sir—” Sernan quickly interjected. “The boy doesn’t know anything.”
Amir sighed. “I see. I suppose it’s my fault for ordering such secrecy. Regardless. Serif. You’re good with locks, correct?”
My father, seeing my presumably stunned expression from Amir’s revelation, answered on my behalf. “Aye, he does. He’s not good for much else.”
“Did we just drink poison?” I managed to stutter.
“No. I save the poisons for my friends,” the Reaver said with a smile.
Amir reached into his pocket and took out a strangely shaped shard—dull, uncharged, and lacking any visible glow. He leaned forward and placed it in front of me.
“You and Master Rennell have experience with these, correct?”
I was still reeling. I had never been this close to a Tier Commander, let alone imagined one sitting in the hovel my father and I called home, sharing a drink. Then I felt a none-too-gentle kick from my father’s boot beneath the table.
“Aye, indeed, Sir. I have.” My hands shook as I picked up the shard key to examine it.
“Familiar?”
“No, Sir. Different. Rennell’s one of our clients, and I’ve done a lot of work with him—he’s kind of a teacher, or a boss.”
“A mentor?” The Reaver interjected.
“Aye, Sir. Mentor. My pa always had me doing odd jobs and errands for him,” I said, fumbling with the shard key.
“Yes. I know Master Rennell well. He applies his craft generously for the Fourth from time to time.”
“But, Sir,” I swallowed hard, nearly dropping the shard key. “We'd need the pylon to charge it?”
“Yes,” the Reaver smiled and turned to my father. “When is Master Rennell set to arrive?”
“He’s supposed to be one of the first, Sir. Any minute now. He was staying at a place up the road from here. Would you like me to stand by the door?”
“No. No need. I should hear him coming.” The Reaver took another drink and then refilled his mug. “Tomorrow night. We are going to retrieve a second such key you hold in your hand, Serif. Study that one well while we wait, and then ensure you return it to me.” Amir took a long drink, then added, “but we shall discuss that upon the arrival of the remainder of your crew, Sernan.”
We sat and drank. I only pretended to study the dull shard-key, using the moment to observe Amir. He wore a closely-cropped, full beard. It was dark and neatly trimmed, streaked with gray. He looked aged, significantly older than my father. His forehead was scored with deep lines, and his temples showed a receding hairline, although a narrow, dark peak remained. I couldn't clearly gauge the length of his hair; the shadows of his hood obscured it. His eyes were the most striking feature: dark orbs, yet vibrant and bright where they caught the light. He possessed a long, hooked nose, and yet, I assume he would be considered somewhat handsome for an older man.
I wanted to ask him several dozen different questions. I wanted to know if he was behind the assassination of the Second Tier’s Commander that took place earlier in the year. I wanted to know if he had travelled to Vel or Vespera or as far as the Strands. I wanted to know where his strange weapon was crafted and if it could have possibly been made from the Bones of the Mother. But I looked to my father who remained as stone faced as I had ever seen him.
But then Amir took his gaze away from his empty mug and stared at me.
“Questions?” the Reaver asked. His voice seemed almost annoyed, though laced with amusement.
“Is Trillion real?” I blurted out.
Amir smiled. Then nodded.
I felt a cold dread washing over me at the implications.
I quickly followed up with a second question. “Why us? Why this crew? Don’t you have Reavers for this sorta thing, huh?”
“Yes. While the Fourth is large, my Reavers will be exceptionally busy tomorrow night. They are better suited for… other acts, rather than carrying pilfered goods. They will be our guard. You may not see them, but do not mistake that for their absence.” Amir smiled, swirling his drink. “I always find it insightful how little the common man knows about those who govern them. Considering each of those arriving tonight has worked for the Fourth for years.”
Amir turned his focus to Sernan. “Decades, even—as with the man currently approaching.”
The Reaver went silent, his eyes snapping to the door. “Sernan, inspect him first. Ensure he is his usual self.”
My father looked confused for a moment, then rose, moved to the door, and waited. A moment later, I heard the footsteps, followed by the code: a double-knock, a pause and then a single knock.
My father cracked the door. After a few whispered words, he stepped aside.
The Reaver stood and reached out a gloved hand. “Rennell. Well met. Please, take a seat.”
“Oh. Commander Amir! Well met, Sir. Long time, no see! Yes. Thank you, Amir.” Master Rennell seemed far more nervous than I had ever seen him.
I knew Rennell well. He was a wiry man, kind-hearted but ruined by an insatiable appetite for the tables. He had once been the one of the most revered crafters in the city, crafting locks for the AMS Guild and the Fulcrum, before the Challengers’ Arena took his fortune and forced him into the district's unsavory underbelly to save his family. He had eventually won his shop, The Clock & Lock, back after having to sell it—and the men who had taken it from him had conveniently vanished—but the stress had left its mark.
“Serif, my boy! It’s good to see you again,” Rennell said, offering a warm smile.
“Aye, it’s been some months.”
“I’ve kept him practicing,” my father interjected, stepping forward.
“Mister Sernan. Glad to see your sails are still catching wind.”
“Aye. Well enough.”
Rennell lowered a heavy travel sack to the floor. I noted its size; it seemed his wife and children wouldn’t be coming with us. Whatever job Amir had planned, Rennell was doing it to pay a debt, not to start a new life.
The Reaver gestured for the locksmith to sit. “Right. You have all you wish to take?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Master Rennell’s voice, usually tame, was brittle.
“Hm. Ensure it doesn’t slow you down tomorrow.”
“No, Amir. Of course not. It’s mostly minor belongings for sleeping during the day, water, and some food, as planned, well, as directed. Followed by my tools, which are most important if, well, in a situation that may—”
The Reaver raised a hand. “Easy, brother. Have a drink while we wait. Serif.”
I stiffened when the Reaver said my name.
“Allow the good Master Rennell to examine the shard key.”
I handed the key to Rennell. As his fingers touched the metal, his apprehension vanished, replaced instantly by professional obsession.
“Oh, fates! This is marvelous! Extraordinary craftsmanship. The elegance... I have only seen the likes of this shard key or its sisters when I was an apprentice. Which door is it for?”
“The Fulcrum’s vault.”
I saw Master Rennell swallow hard.
“I see…. There must be another? Yes? Do you possess that as well, Commander Amir?”
“No. Not yet. Prior to us going to the Fulcrum, we are to retrieve it.”
Master Rennell froze. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a trembling finger. “But there is another door? And the sister shard is in the possession of the Fifth Tier? Within their walls, Amir?”
“Aye. Patience, brother, patience. I will retrieve that. As for the outer door,” Amir looked to me, then to Sernan. “Captain Trillion and Captain Dire will be retrieving that prior to our arrival.”
The Master Locksmith turned a shade paler than he had already been.
Amir smiled again, a cold, predatory curve of the lips that did not reach his unsettling dark eyes. "Easy. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Drink."
Master Rennell gave a nervous cough and picked up his mug, taking a long, shaky sip of ale. He seemed to shrink into the rough-hewn seat.
“Right. Waiting on three, correct? A Mister Rook, a Mister Drawlly, and a Mister… Jetter?" Amir asked.
“Aye, Sir. We met often with your man to arrange it,” Sernan said with a nod.
“Reaver Thestle? Tall? Slim?”
“Aye, that’s the one. He never did give his name.”
I knew the three men the Fourth Tier Commander had named. All used aliases to sever ties to their previous lives—men wishing to run from whatever haunted them. Rook was a stone-faced killer; 'murderer' was likely the more apt term, but my father considered him reliable for the more violent jobs. Drawlly was a brute of a man my father used more as a fist than a tool. And Jetter... Jetter was perhaps the most competent of our whole crew, but he was still younger than the main group, but still older than me.
We waited in silence until Amir pointed to the door.
“My proxy. I’m sure he gave clear directions about arriving individually, did he not?”
My father’s face flushed red with embarrassment, though he kept his voice steady. “Aye.”
Amir made a soft tsk-tsk sound and shook his head.
Two sets of heavy footsteps approached. After the friendly knock, my father opened the door and inspected the visitors. He hissed out several angry remarks before stepping back to allow them entry.
“Welcome,” the Reaver said, his tone laced with annoyance.
“Who’s this spooky bastard?” Drawlly asked, dropping his sack noisily to the floor.
Beside him, Rook froze. He seemed to recognize the Reaver immediately; his eyes went wide, blinking rapidly as the blood drained from his face. He nudged Drawlly hard in the ribs.
“It’s fine. Be quiet. And sit,” Amir commanded.
Drawlly opened his mouth to argue, saw Rook’s terror, and wisely shut it. We sat in silence.
Minutes later, a final knock echoed. Jetter entered, and the small house suddenly felt claustrophobic. He carried only a single, empty sack. He greeted the room with a sharp nod, then locked eyes with the Reaver.
“Sir. After tonight… can I become a Reaver?”
“Perhaps? I’m not involved in that process anymore. Prove yourselves to my captains.”
“Wait,” Drawlly grunted. “Do we become Reavers if we do that?”
“Survive and thrive,” the Reaver replied. “When we leave the city, everyone will have the opportunity to petition to join our…” He hesitated, a frown touching his lips. “We won’t quite be a Tier anymore. You will be free men. Paid handsomely for your services, of course with future options.”
The Commander abruptly stood and leaned over the table, startling everyone seated. The lantern light warped around him, casting his shadow long and distorted across the group.
“Now. Second chances. I believe in them. Here’s yours. You have all, at one time or another, served the Fourth—whether you knew it or not. You have been tested for loyalty and determination by factions you didn't even know existed. But I will say this now, and only once.”
His gaze hardened. “Tomorrow night will be long. And very dangerous. You may back out now, no questions asked, no harm done. Return to your holes and wait until this storm passes. However,” his voice dropped, heavy with implication, “you will be shadowed. You know enough details to throw years of planning into disarray. If you leave, you will be watched. If you speak, you die. But the door is open.”
The Reaver met each man’s eyes. One after another, we each nodded in turn.
My heart raced with the possibilities. To be a part of a crew that respected me. To maybe have my own crew that would take what I said seriously. To be in a group of brothers—to perhaps become a Reaver. The thought made me both anxious and thrilled. I wanted the day to break and night to fall in a heartbeat. I wanted to be free.
“Good.” The Reaver cleared his throat. “Brothers. Welcome. Here is what is going to happen.”
He detailed the plan, his voice low and steady. When he finished, he leaned back into the shadows. “Soon, you will hear every bell in the city begin to ring. There are a great many moving parts engaging within the next few hours, none of which concern us until after the Fifth Tier. As you can see, our accommodations leave much to be desired. We sleep on the floor during the day. No one leaves this building until nightfall.”
Just then, a sound cut through the silence. A bell. Distant and mournful, likely from the Metrisei Tower. Then another joined it, followed by a cacophony of others rising from the city high above.
The Reaver smiled. The invasion had begun.