While Edmund rested after his battle with Varhathor, our gaze for the meantime turns southward to the state of Danuville, a member state of the Calyssian Confederation. Though styled a confederation, it was little more than a loose alliance, its members bound not by loyalty but by convenience, each caring very little for the fate of the others. Yet there was one thing they all shared. One sentiment that, without fail, united them in times of uncertainty.

  Their hatred for Aurelith,

  and for House Aurelien.

  As Edmund had learned, Calyssia was once known as Durandal during the age of Beldomagne, before the Rucaldian Empire brought the kingdom to heel. In those days it bore many titles: the Archduchy of Durandal, the Promised Land, the Royal Domain, House Archambault’s—

  Ahem.

  I get ahead of myself once again.

  For now, let me simply tell you a tale,

  and allow the world to speak for itself.

  It was still dark for the sun had yet to rise. Somewhere in one of Danuville’s neighborhoods, a young man, around Edmund’s age, slept quietly in his bed, a faint smile resting on his lips. What could he be dreaming of? Food? Money? Was he simply at peace? Before I could peer into his mind to learn more, a sudden splash of bone-chilling, ice-cold water tore him from his sleep.

  He jumped off his bed, screaming.

  Damn it. I could feel it. I was so close to finding it out.

  In any case, after regaining his composure, the young man finally glared at the one who had thrown the water, though his arms were still wrapped tightly around himself. “What the hell?!” he snapped, shivering. “What’d you do that for?!”

  The other man, clearly older, folded his arms and returned the glare with sharp, unyielding eyes. “What did I do that for?” he repeated, irritation creeping into his voice. “The real question is why are you still sleeping?”

  “I don’t see the problem, Marc,” the shivering young man shot back.

  Marc didn’t answer. He simply grabbed the bucket, still half full, and hurled its contents straight into the boy’s face.

  Another scream echoed through the room as the icy water struck him.

  “Do you see it now, Noel?” Marc asked flatly.

  “Okay—okay!” Noel sputtered, wiping his face with trembling hands. “What’s the big deal?!”

  That did it.

  Marc shook his head slowly, disappointment heavy in the gesture.

  “You gave me your word the other day,” he said. “You said you’d accompany me.”

  Noel cracked one eye open, just enough to make sure Marc wasn’t about to splash him again.

  “Accompany you where?”

  Marc groaned and dropped the bucket, no, slammed it against the floor.

  “The boss put me in charge of today’s exchange,” he barked. “Remember?! You and Jules agreed to come with me. Remember?!”

  Noel’s eyes widened as his thoughts drifted back to the day before, and then it came rushing back.

  He remembered playing dice with Jules when Marc had wandered over and casually murmured something to them. Neither of them had really listened. They had simply nodded and carried on. Noel rubbed the back of his head, guilt settling in. “Oh. That’s what that was about.”

  “Apparently,” came another voice, slightly trembling from behind Marc.

  Noel glanced over to see Jules standing in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, hair somewhat wet.

  “Morning… Jules,” Noel said, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

  “Yeah…” Jules replied, sneezing mid-word. “Good… morning.”

  Marc tossed a towel at Noel and turned away, already heading out. “Get dressed,” he called. “Meet us in the dining room.”

  Not long after, Noel emerged and took a seat at the small round table, his black hair pulled into a tired ponytail, a few loose strands hanging at his temples. A steaming pot of coffee and a mug were already waiting for him. He narrowed his eyes first, just to be sure Marc wasn’t preparing something else unpleasant.

  Thankfully, he wasn’t.

  Marc stood across from them, arms folded, watching his two accomplices sip their coffee in silence.

  “Have some fire in your eyes, you two,” he said. “This is the day. Our chance to move up in rank!”

  “And?” Jules asked as he wiped his glasses. “We’ll still be living in the same shack. Eating the same gruel…”

  Noel nodded after taking a sip of his coffee.

  “He’s right. It’s not until you hit the upper, upper ranks that you get anything decent.”

  Marc glanced back and forth between them, exasperation written plainly across his face.

  “Come on, guys! It may not be much yet, but it’s a start!”

  He opened his satchel and rummaged through it before pulling out a bronze medallion. A circle engraved with two doves facing one another, wings raised. He held it up casually. “See this?”

  Both men barely reacted, then they noticed the engraving.

  Jules adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. “Is that… the White Raven’s seal?”

  “Hang on!” Noel blurted, half-rising from his chair. “What do you need that for?!”

  Marc’s eye twitched.

  Then he exploded.

  “Weren’t we—WEREN’T WE JUST TALKING ABOUT THE EXCHANGE?!”

  “Yeah!” Noel shot back, standing fully now. “The exchange, with the Scarlet Hounds, right?!”

  “Wha—NO!” Marc barked. “Not with bandits! The Syndicate!”

  The word sent a chill down both Noel’s and Jules’s spines. Their eyes widened in unison.

  “I told you both the other day,” Marc said sharply, “that we’re doing the exchange with the Syndicate.”

  “You mean… the guys that’ve been… givin’ us weapons… and narc—” Jules stammered, trailing off.

  “Yes,” Marc cut in with a long exhale while putting the seal back in the satchel. “Those guys.”

  Noel and Jules exchanged a look, frozen for half a heartbeat.

  “You heard what he said, right?” Noel asked slowly.

  “Oh, I heard him alright,” Jules replied.

  Then, in a blink, both of them downed their still-scalding coffee and lunged for Marc, each grabbing an arm.

  “You dirty—” Noel started as they hauled him toward the door. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?!”

  “Holy Twins!” Jules laughed breathlessly. “The pay! Imagine the cut just for printing an old seal on a piece of paper!”

  Marc let out an exhausted breath as his two accomplices finally seemed to grasp his point.

  They slowed to a stop upon reaching the town square, all three turning their eyes toward the direction of their meeting place.

  Marc drew in a deep breath. “Smell that?” he said. “That’s the scent of change.”

  Jules sniffed the air. “All I smell is the urine of that guy who just pissed in the corner.”

  “Who cares what it smells like,” Noel chimed in, already moving again. “All I hear is the sound of gold while I stack it up.”

  Danuville, and Calyssia as a whole, was a far cry from Aurelith.

  Where most faces in Aurelith carried easy smiles, those here were either set in a frown or frozen into something flat and tired. Where the former’s streets were kept clean, the latter were choked with trash, mud, and things best left unnamed. Houses sagged with age, clean water was scarce, and people walked barefoot even in the cold. Even decent food was a rarity. Most survived on stale bread and cheap alcohol.

  The only reason the trio seemed better off, if that could even be said, was because they belonged to a particular group.

  “Things seemed to be getting worse here day by day,” Jules noted as they passed by more people, clearly starved, some having their hands outstretched.

  “That’s just how it is,” Marc responded, “some of us simply weren’t born… lucky.”

  While walking down the street, an elderly man caught sight of them.

  “Where’re ya three young’uns headed?” he called.

  “Morning, Old Man Karl,” Marc replied easily. “Headed for the church. Got some work goin’ on there.”

  “Church, eh?” Karl said, squinting at him. “Didn’t know yer the prayin’ type.”

  The three shared a laugh, careful to keep it light, and to keep the truth hidden.

  Noel glanced at the folded paper in the old man’s hands. “What’ve you got there, old man?”

  “Just readin’ the news,” Karl answered.

  The man beside him snorted, shaking his head. “Seems Aurelith’s prince got jumped by some hooligans.”

  “Then some monsters went snatchin’ livestock and farmers,” another added.

  Karl spat to the side.

  “That place deserves whatever bad luck falls on’em,” he said. “Keepin’ Alvarynn around too… and all those strange folk.”

  The young trio exchanged glances before bidding the old man farewell.

  “Right,” Marc responded, “anyway, we gotta get goin’. We’ll see you around.”

  “Enjoy yer confessions youn’uns,” the old man replied, gaze still fixed on his newspaper. “Ya’ll deserve more ya Aurelith devils!”

  The trio went ahead as the older man kept shouting at every passage. “Aurelith really got the geezer’s blood boiling,” Jules whispered.

  Marc snorted, “whose won’t.”

  The three eventually reached their destination a short time after.

  They stood before an unassuming church, a balanced scale carved above its door, the stone chipped and cracked with age. The door itself sat slightly ajar. Marc nudged it open just enough to peer inside.

  Dim torchlight washed over the interior. A few flames flickered along the walls and near the altar, casting long, trembling shadows. They could make out the rows of benches, the same balanced scale etched into the stonework, a faded mural of the Twin Goddesses looming above the altar and a lone priest, quietly sweeping the floor.

  He didn’t bother looking up, though he addressed them all the same.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” he said evenly. “Just don’t say your prayers out loud.”

  Marc felt his hands tremble.

  As the trio’s leader, the responsibility fell to him. Drawing a slow breath, he stepped forward, careful not to fumble his words.

  “A white raven flew south,” Marc said, voice low, “and found an iris.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The priest stopped sweeping.

  At last, he looked up, his gaze weighing Marc, then drifting briefly to the two behind him. He straightened.

  “Show me the iris.”

  Marc reached into his satchel and produced the White Raven’s seal, holding it out in his palm.

  The priest nodded once.

  “Follow me.”

  He turned and led them toward a small door at the far back of the church.

  The door led into a small room.

  Inside, a narrow table sat tucked into the right corner, while a bookshelf lined the wall to their left. The priest moved to the table and lifted a book from a small stack beneath it. Without a word, he crossed to the shelf and slid the book into a precise gap.

  Something clicked.

  A low rumble followed as the wall behind the shelf shifted, stone grinding softly against stone. The priest pressed against it, opening the passage just enough to slip through. He gestured for the three to follow. Beyond the hidden wall lay a stairwell descending into darkness, ending in a narrow hallway. The priest turned right and walked on, his footsteps measured. The trio followed in silence. To their left stood another stairwell, leading up to a single, heavy door. The priest stopped, opened it, and motioned them inside the dark room.

  They did, and before closing the door, he left them with one instruction. “Knock three times when you’re done.”

  “What if we knock twice?” Noel asked with a nervous chuckle.

  “That means the men inside killed you,” the priest replied dryly.

  The door shut.

  Noel stared at it.

  “…Did he just say—”

  “He’s joking… right—” Jules began.

  Two heavy thuds cut him off. Dull sounds, like something striking stone.

  Light flooded the room after, bright enough to strip away every shadow.

  Marc saw them first.

  Five figures stood behind a long rectangular table, perfectly still. The sight hit him like a physical blow, forcing him to stumble back a step. When Noel and Jules turned, their breaths hitched as well.

  Men clad head to toe in black armor faced them, like unmoving statues carved from iron and silence. For a fleeting moment, the trio wondered if they were statues. Small crates were stacked on the table, while bigger ones were on the far-left corner, behind the masked men.

  Then the man in the center spoke, his voice was low, muffled, stripped of inflection.

  “The White Raven’s seal.”

  Marc’s gaze locked onto him. Unlike the others, this man wore a different mask, one molded into a crude approximation of a human face. Where the others’ masks were smooth and featureless, his bore shallow contours: a nose, a mouth, something that disturbingly looks almost alive, and that made it worse.

  Marc forced himself to breathe.

  He’d seen them before, at least once, when he’d accompanied another during an exchange. Act tough, he reminded himself. He couldn’t just sign off on a deal like this without knowing they’d get the right goods. He stepped forward, sweat beading at his brow, hands trembling despite his effort to steady them.

  “The… um…” His throat tightened. He swallowed.

  “The goods,” he said at last, chin raised, his voice firm and a bit louder than he intended. “Show them… to me… first.”

  None of the masked men responded.

  Then one of them moved. Steel slid free with a soft, lethal whisper as the man drew the rapier from his side. Marc felt his breath catch, so did the others. He held his ground, though he was shaking a bit.

  “Please?” he added quietly.

  The armed man stepped closer. Marc instinctively backed away a half-step as Noel and Jules clutched themselves, terror spilling over.

  “W—we’re gonna die!” Jules screamed.

  Marc didn’t look back. He stayed where he was, sweat soaking into his collar. After a long, deliberate pause, the masked man turned away. He approached the table and drove the tip of his rapier beneath the seal of a wooden crate. With a sharp twist, the seal snapped. The lid creaked open.

  The man lifted the lid and gestured for Marc to inspect the contents. Inside lay a small pouch. The man picked it up and handed it over. Marc swallowed. He loosened the drawstring just enough to peer inside, then closed it again. Turning to the two behind him, he gave a small nod.

  “Redcaps,” he said quietly.

  They returned the gesture. The man moved next to the larger crates stacked behind the table. He pried one open and stepped aside, inviting Marc to look. He did.

  “Weapons,” Marc said.

  He lifted the lid of another crate at random. Rune-etched swords neatly arranged within. A third held crossbows, their limbs dark and well-oiled. Marc closed the crate and leaned toward Noel and Jules, lowering his voice. “This is the real deal.”

  Then the leader of the masked men stepped forward once more. “The White Raven’s seal,” he repeated. He placed a piece of parchment on the table and smoothed it flat, tapping a blank space beneath the writing with one armored finger. Slowly, Marc stepped forward and withdrew the seal from his satchel. He pressed it against the parchment. The symbol flared faintly, a dull glow bleeding outward as the mark burned itself into the paper. Marc held it there until the light faded, then lifted the seal away.

  The deal was done.

  Without another word, the masked man rolled the parchment and tucked it away. He reached for a red-lacquered crate, set it before Marc, and turned. One by one, the men departed through a door on the far end of the room.

  The door shut.

  Silence followed.

  “Is—is that it?” Jules asked at last, glancing around the room.

  “Guess so,” Noel replied.

  Marc exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly he’d been holding his breath. He slipped the seal back into his satchel and knelt before the crate. With careful hands, he pried it open. His eyes widened. Noel and Jules leaned in, curiosity overtaking fear, and froze.

  Inside lay a small pouch of gold, its mouth slightly open, coins glinting within. Beside it rested a finely crafted knife, its hilt etched with intricate designs. A ring set with a yellow stone lay near the blade, along with a pair of bronze gauntlets, polished and heavy.

  For a moment, none of them spoke.

  “…Are these,” Noel whispered, “for us?”

  Jules reached for the ring first, his breath catching as recognition flickered across his face.

  “No way…” he murmured.

  He slipped it onto his right index finger and rubbed it gently with his thumb. The ring pulsed to life, projecting faint, hovering symbols that shimmered in the air. “It’s an alchemist’s tool,” he whispered, eyes lighting up. “For aiding in engraving runes.” He stared at it like a child holding a miracle. “Oh man… I’ve always wanted one of these. Imagine all the bombs I could make.”

  Marc, meanwhile, lifted the knife. He gave it a quick, experimental sway through the air.

  “Whoa,” he muttered. “This thing’s light. And sharp.”

  Noel grabbed the gauntlets next, fastening them over his hands. He flexed his fingers a few times, then closed them into fists, throwing a couple of quick punches into the empty air.

  “These too,” he said, surprised. “It’s like they’re punchin’ on their own—fast, too.”

  He grinned. “I could beat up a few guys with these in a minute.”

  After testing their respective weapons, Marc and Noel took them off and fastened them on their belts, beneath their coats. Jules simply put gloves on to keep his ring hidden. Marc then divided the gold between the three of them, evenly at least, and hid their share well in their pouches.

  “Job well done I guess,” Noel remarked. “What to do with the rest of the stuff now?”

  “The guys will be coming here, one at a time, to avoid suspicion,” Marc replied. “They’ll take their stuff, sell it wherever, then that’s it.”

  He then knocked on the door, making sure its three times, for the priest to open it. The man did, letting the three out and guiding them back upstairs. After leading them back to the church itself, he gave them a nod and returned to sweeping as if nothing happened. The three returned the gesture and made their way out.

  “Told you two,” Marc said with a grin. “Easy money, right? And, while improving our rep.”

  “Oh, you bet,” Jules replied. “Can’t wait to buy myself a proper steak. One that’s still bleeding.”

  “And I’m gettin’ a new coat,” Noel added, tugging at his sleeve. “This one’s startin’ to smell… unpleasant.”

  Marc chuckled. “And this is just the start. Remember Cole?”

  The other two nodded.

  “Well,” Marc went on, “after he signed off on his last deal a couple months back, the leader was so pleased he got promoted. Lives in the main hideout now.”

  Noel’s eyes widened.

  “Holy—what kind of deal gets you promoted that fast?”

  Marc shrugged. “Before he left, he muttered something about the cargo he signed off on. Some kind of beast. Wolf’s head… some horns… wings…”

  He frowned. “Can’t exactly remember. I just know it scared the lights out of him.”

  “Wolf’s head? Wings?” Jules scoffed. “You sure he wasn’t high on caps when you talked to him?”

  “No idea,” Marc said, waving it off. “But who cares? He’s livin’ easy now, I think.”

  The trio continued walking quietly until Jules stared down at the ring hidden beneath his glove. After a moment, curiosity got the better of him.

  “Any guesses on who’s paying for all this?” he asked quietly. “These aren’t cheap stuff.”

  Noel shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Marc kept his eyes on the road ahead and shook his head. “No clue either.”

  “But from what the boss said,” he continued, lowering his voice, “these people just appeared and met with the leader a few years back. We started doin’ this work not long after that.”

  “But… why us?” Jules asked. “We’re not exactly, you know, those kinds of guys.”

  Marc glanced around once, then leaned closer. “Boss thinks it’s some wealthy noble footing the bill.”

  Jules blinked. “Really? Why?”

  Marc straightened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “He said something about—”

  He stopped and froze. His eyes darted side to side, scanning shadows and corners.

  Noel noticed immediately. “What is it?” he whispered.

  Marc didn’t answer. He slowed his pace instead, voice low when he finally spoke. “Just keep walking.”

  They did, but Marc kept glancing to either side, turning down streets at odd angles, slipping into alleys that made no sense.

  “Where are we going?” Jules muttered. “Are we being—”

  “Just keep moving,” Marc cut in.

  Noel started looking around too, his pulse quickening.

  Then Marc stopped after they turned into a narrow alley.

  Men stood waiting in front of them.

  Their lower faces were wrapped in cloth, hoods pulled low. Worn coats hung from their frames, and knives and clubs glinted in their hands.

  Bandits.

  As the trio hesitated, more figures emerged behind them, blocking the way they’d come. The trap closed. “Would you look at that,” said one of the men blocking their way, “the Twin Goddesses do reward the diligent.”

  Marc narrowed his eyes. “Who are you people?”

  “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” one of them said, stepping forward. His gaze flicked to Marc’s satchel. “I’m more curious about what you’ve got in there.”

  “Couple of junk items and some papers,” Marc replied coolly. “I’d show you, but judgin’ by the look of you, I doubt you’d be able to read any of it.”

  Another bandit laughed. “Been watchin’ yer fellas walk in and outta that church for a while now,” he said. “Ya'll don’t look like the prayin’ type.”

  “Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” Marc said evenly. “Right, Jules?”

  “Sounds about right!” Jules shouted.

  In one fluid motion, he plunged his hands into his coat and hurled several small objects forward. They struck the bandits and burst, smoke billowing thick and choking, light flashing bright enough to blind.

  Shouts erupted.

  The trio moved instantly.

  Marc drew his new knife, its blade catching the glow as he surged forward. Noel snapped the gauntlets into place, fists clenching as if the metal itself urged him on. Jules threw his coat wide, revealing an impossible collection of vials, canisters, and trinkets strapped beneath, an armory whose purpose defied easy understanding.

  They charged.

  Marc cut down the first man before he could even raise his club. Noel barreled through the next, gauntleted fists cracking ribs and sending bodies sprawling. Jules stayed back just long enough to hurl more concoctions, smoke, liquid, flashes of light, turning the alley into a storm of confusion and pain.

  They broke through the line and that’s when they saw it.

  Ahead of them was an abandoned part of town, with more figures waited, armed, ready, surrounding them. Behind them, the bandits they’d just fought staggered and recovered, weapons clattering back into hands. They’d been herded, led into one of the least traveled parts of the district.

  “This was a setup,” Marc breathed.

  The bandits in front raised their weapons.

  Those behind surged forward again.

  “Get ’em!” someone shouted.

  The street erupted into motion.

  Marc’s new knife was everything it promised to be. Fast, precise, almost eager. It moved as if it had a will of its own. He parried an incoming sword and, in the same breath, sliced across the man’s shoulder and arm. A club swung toward his head. Marc didn’t block it. He cut straight through the shaft. The weapon snapped, the attacker stumbling back in shock. Another tried to strike from behind. Marc slipped aside, turned smoothly, and drew the blade across the side of the man’s neck. “Didn’t wanna do that,” Marc muttered, stepping past the falling body, “but you left me no choice.”

  Noel was a storm. His fists moved as though they had wings, each jab, hook, and uppercut nearly imperceptible. One bandit leapt at him with a mace; a heartbeat later, the man collapsed in a heap. Another rushed him with a sword and lost several teeth almost instantly. A third tried to punch him in the face. Noel drove a gauntleted fist into his gut instead, knocking the wind clean out of him. “Amateurs,” Noel spat.

  Jules was something else entirely. He danced through the chaos, slipping past knives, clubs, hands, anything thrown his way. Every dodge was answered with a bomb. One bandit took a vial to the face, thick goo splattering over his eyes and sealing them shut. Another inhaled a cloud of strange powder and immediately began spinning and laughing, limbs flailing wildly. A third’s hood caught fire. A fourth suddenly turned on his own allies, screaming incoherently. Jules ducked aside, already reaching for another trinket. “I’ve got so much work to do replacing those bombs,” he said breathlessly, grinning afterwards. “Good thing I just got myself a new ring.”

  Despite their advantage, the bandits kept coming. In the chaos, one of them managed to slash the strap of Marc’s satchel clean off his shoulder. The bag dropped but Marc caught it before it hit the ground. He spun immediately and slashed the man’s wrist, sending him howling back. Before another could grab it, Marc hurled the satchel toward Jules who, for the moment, had fewer enemies on him.

  Jules caught it.

  Almost instantly, every bandit’s attention snapped in his direction.

  “Ah—great,” Jules muttered.

  He broke into a run, hurling smoke bombs and flashing vials at anyone who tried to intercept him. He reached into his coat again, fingers searching desperately.

  “Take—”

  He froze.

  “I’m outta bombs!” he shouted.

  “Over here!” Noel roared, already charging toward him.

  Jules didn’t hesitate. He flung the satchel toward Noel, but a bandit leapt and caught it midair.

  “Yes!” the man shouted. “I got—”

  He never finished.

  Noel’s gauntleted fist smashed into his jaw, dropping him cold. Noel snatched the satchel and kept moving. He ran.

  Up onto a low wall.

  Onto a stack of crates.

  Then onto the rooftops.

  Bandits cursed and scrambled after him, some tossing aside their weapons to climb faster. Noel grabbed whatever he could as he ran. Barrels, loose planks, roof tiles, and hurled them behind him. One man took a plank full-on, splinters embedding into his face. Another caught a barrel to the head and vanished from the chase entirely. Noel didn’t slow.

  One bandit finally managed to catch up. He hurled a small wooden crate at Noel’s feet. The impact sent Noel stumbling, the satchel slipping from his grip and skidding across the rooftop. The bandit vaulted past him, snatched the satchel, and leapt off the roof. The sight sent a jolt of pure panic through Noel. He was on his feet in an instant. Noel jumped. He hit the ground hard and kept running, chasing the bandit straight into a narrow alley without slowing. He vaulted onto low ledges, kicked off walls, swung from a hanging pole and landed directly in the bandit’s path.

  Noel didn’t hesitate. He drove an uppercut into the man’s chin. Bone cracked. The bandit staggered backward, the satchel slipping from his grasp. Noel caught it and ran as the remaining bandits poured into the alley behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst back into a populated district. Only then did he duck behind a stack of crates, chest heaving as the bandits spilled out of the alley and scattered, cursing. Noel stayed hidden, barely daring to breathe.

  Minutes passed. When he was certain they were gone, he stepped out and exhaled shakily. “Good grief,” he muttered. “That was something.”

  He made his way to the town square and waited. Marc and Jules arrived shortly after, having shaken the few bandits still chasing them.

  “Glad to see you in one piece,” Marc said.

  “Same to you two,” Noel replied. “Let’s head back before more of those guys show up.”

  “Right,” Marc agreed. He hesitated, then glanced at Noel.

  “My satchel—if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Noel said, handing it over. “Safe and sound.”

  “Thanks,” Marc said.

  He opened it and froze.

  “What’s wrong?” Jules asked.

  Marc’s breathing hitched. His breath fogged the air as he exhaled, trembling.

  “The—the—”

  “What?!” Noel snapped. “What is it?!”

  Marc looked up at him, face pale.

  “The White Raven’s seal,” he whispered. “It—it’s not here.”

  Jules rushed over to check the satchel. When he saw it contained only Marc’s pouch of gold, his hands rose slowly to his head, fingers digging into his hair. He opened his mouth to scream. Only a strained, broken sound came out instead.

  Noel felt the blood drain from his face. His hands went limp at his sides, lips trembling as the words slipped out.

  “We’re so dead...”