Grendon pulled his coat tighter against the chill of the Oryn-Vel night, his boots crunching against the damp cobblestones. The mist curled thick around the alleyways, swallowing the distant glow of lanterns and muffling the ever-present noise of the city. Harker walked beside him, flicking a silver coin between his fingers in a restless rhythm.
"You ever get tired of these late-night summons?" Harker muttered.
Grendon let out a low chuckle. "With Varrel? Not a chance. Bastard loves his theatrics."
The two were making their way back to the Syndicate hideout, where Varrel had called for an assembly. Something big was coming—the kind of big that made even seasoned criminals uneasy.
Harker exhaled through his nose. "I just hope this isn't another one of his 'philosophical' speeches. Last time, Felix nearly walked out."
Grendon smirked at the memory. "Felix always looks like he's five seconds away from stabbing someone."
Harker was about to respond when—
A figure stumbled out of the mist.
Both men stopped, hands going to their weapons instinctively.
The man was limping—one arm clutching his ribs, his face half-covered in blood.
Grendon's eyes narrowed. He knew that face.
"…Jorem?"
The Syndicate enforcer staggered closer, his breath ragged.
"They're dead," Jorem rasped, barely upright. "The whole fucking team. Ambushed. Varlo—Varlo's dead."
Grendon stilled.
Harker's coin slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft clink against the stone.
"…What?"
Jorem sucked in a breath, his eyes darting around the alley as if expecting another attack. "We were heading to check in on Varlo. The bastard was late with his reports, and you know how Varrel gets about that shit." His voice wavered. "We got there and—blood everywhere. Varlo—he was torn apart."
Grendon swore under his breath. "You see who did it?"
Jorem shook his head. "No. But they were fast. Hit hard, too. My boys barely had time to react before we were getting our skulls caved in." He wiped at his mouth, smearing more blood across his chin. "They weren't just some thugs. They knew what they were doing."
Harker exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Shit."
"Where are the bodies?" Grendon asked.
Jorem grimaced. "Still there. Most of them. I barely got out before—" He cut himself off, his fingers twitching toward his belt, as if reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
Grendon didn't need to hear more.
He turned to Harker. "We need to move. Now."
Harker didn't argue.
The three of them took off into the mist, heading straight for Varlo's hideout.
*
Felix moved fast.
His boots barely made a sound against the cracked stone of Keep Valcian's hidden corridors, but his breath came quick. The place was buried deep beneath the abandoned ruins, an old stronghold repurposed into Varrel's private sanctuary.
He had always hated it here.
The air was thick—too still, too cold. Like the walls themselves were watching.
Felix pushed forward, jaw clenched, until he reached the final chamber.
The door was already open.
Inside, Varrel sat alone.
The dim glow of candlelight flickered across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes as he turned a crumbling, blackened page in his hands.
The Book of Ashes.
Felix hesitated.
That thing... it was wrong.
He had never known Varrel to be a superstitious man, but ever since retrieving that tome, the old leader had changed. It was subtle—small shifts in his manner, in the way he spoke, in the way he would get lost in the pages for hours at a time.
And yet, he hadn't questioned it. Until now.
Felix forced himself forward.
"Varrel."
The man didn't look up.
Felix took another step, resisting the urge to glance at the tome as he spoke.
"Varlo is dead."
A beat of silence.
Felix watched as Varrel slowly—calmly—turned another page.
"The ones we sent to check on him were ambushed," Felix continued. "Jorem barely made it out alive. Whatever happened at Varlo's place wasn't just a random attack. Someone knew where he was. Someone knew he was Syndicate."
Still, Varrel did not react.
Felix felt his fists clench at his sides.
Did he already know?
No—Varrel had spies everywhere, but if he had known, he would have said something. Wouldn't he?
Felix exhaled sharply. "Varrel—"
Finally, the old man closed the book.
His fingers brushed over the worn, scorched leather of the cover, his expression unreadable. When he met Felix's gaze, his eyes were calm.
"Call for a meeting," Varrel said simply.
Felix frowned. "Where?"
Varrel leaned back, tapping the cover of the book lightly, as if deep in thought.
"…The northern quarter," he finally answered. "Where Alden and Zefaria are stationed."
Felix stiffened.
The Holy Knights.
He bit back his initial response, forcing himself to nod. Varrel had a reason. He always did.
Still, as Felix turned on his heel and strode back toward the surface, he couldn't shake the unease curling in his gut.
Something about the way Varrel had spoken—the way he had barely reacted at all—didn't sit right.
And neither did the Book of Ashes.
*
The house was larger than most in the northern quarter, a remnant of an older time when Oryn-Vel had still been ruled by noble families before the wars reshaped it. Inside, the Syndicate had gathered.
The air was thick with tension, hundreds of members packed into the once-grand halls. The flickering oil lamps barely cut through the dimness, casting twisting shadows against the stone walls.
Felix stood near the center of the room.
His arms were crossed as he scanned the crowd—his eyes passing over the faces of men and women he had fought alongside for years, the hardened killers, the desperate thieves, the ones who had joined for wealth, for revenge, for survival.
And then there were the Holy Knights.
Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria stood near the back, their blackened silver armor gleaming in the firelight. They were separate from the rest, untouched by the low murmurs, by the sweat and uncertainty that filled the room. They had once been warriors of the Holy Church, now they stood in the midst of criminals—and they looked unbothered.
Then, the doors opened.
A hush spread through the hall.
Varrel stepped inside.
Felix stiffened.
He looks worse than before.
The Syndicate's leader was always a man of calculated composure, but now—now, his skin looked almost sunken, his eyes ringed with shadows. His silver hair, once sharp and neatly combed, now fell in a slight disarray.
But the worst part?
He didn't seem to care.
There was something distant in his gaze, something detached as he swept his eyes across the gathered Syndicate.
Felix saw Grendon and Harker exchange a look.
Even Ivara, standing tall and composed near the front, had her arms crossed, her keen eyes locked onto their leader with the same uncertainty Felix felt in his own chest.
Varrel reached the center of the hall and stopped.
Silence.
Then, he spoke.
"The next stage of our plan begins now."
The weight of his voice carried through the room, but this time, something was different.
Felix had been with the Syndicate for years. He had heard Varrel's speeches before—the careful persuasion, the steel conviction, the way he spoke as if he could command fate itself.
But tonight, his words felt… empty.
Like he was reciting a script, rather than believing it.
Still, the crowd listened.
"We have the members we need," Varrel continued, his voice even, steady. "For years, the Syndicate has moved from the shadows, feeding off the wealth of this city, taking what we could in the ways that would not bring war upon us."
Murmurs spread through the hall.
Felix felt his fingers twitch.
Where is he going with this?
"But that is not enough," Varrel went on. His bagged eyes glinted. "Oryn-Vel has grown fat and weak. It has forgotten what it means to fear."
A slight shift in the room.
Felix noticed the small reactions—Grendon tensing, Jorem's jaw clenching, Ivara's stare narrowing.
Varrel took another step forward.
"The Festival of the New Year is in three hours from now."
The room stilled.
"On that day, we will remind this city who it belongs to."
Alden let out a quiet hum of amusement.
Zefaria folded her arms, her gaze sharp.
"The Holy Church grows bold in the north," Varrel continued. "They are already preparing to move against Oryn-Vel. They see it as a den of heretics."
Felix saw a few of the newer recruits shift uneasily.
"They will come to claim it for themselves," Varrel said, his voice growing sharper. "Unless we take it first."
The murmurs grew louder.
Felix took a slow breath.
The Syndicate was always about power. But it had never been about war.
From its beginning, Varrel had always spoken of it as a means to survive—a way for those cast aside by Oryn-Vel's elite to carve their own place in the world.
Now…
Now he speaks as if he means to conquer.
Felix's hand itched toward his blade.
He didn't like this.
Then, Varrel revealed the plan.
"There are three caches of Explosive Reactive Crystals stashed within the city."
A sharp, collective intake of breath.
Felix felt his pulse spike.
Varrel continued, unfazed.
"One at the Western Gate, just outside the Whispers."
One of the gang leaders in the crowd cursed.
"The second at the Southern Gate."
Felix's stomach twisted.
"And the third," Varrel said smoothly, "in the heart of the city center."
Silence.
Real silence.
Felix saw the way Grendon's face darkened, how Harker's fingers curled against his arms, how even Ivara's controlled stance grew just a little stiffer.
"This city has long been against us," Varrel said. "And on the day of the festival, it will learn. We will strike three blows at once. The gates will burn, the city will be thrown into chaos, and we will take what is ours."
Felix's breath felt too sharp.
This isn't just about power anymore.
This wasn't just theft.
This was annihilation.
Varrel's bagged eyes glowed in the dim light as he spoke his final command.
"You will spread out and prepare. On the day of the Festival, the Syndicate will rise. And Oryn-Vel will belong to us."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then—slowly, carefully,—the members began shifting.
Some hesitated. Some whispered. Some glanced toward one another in uncertainty.
But none dared to speak against Varrel.
Not yet.
Felix's blood ran cold.
This wasn't just a plan.
This was madness