The road curved gently through farmlands and old woods. The scent of autumn hung in the air—damp leaves, distant smoke, and the faintest trace of rain. The sun was just beginning its descent, gold bleeding into orange.
As he crested a hill, he finally saw it.
Vaelthra.
Stone walls loomed in the distance, tall, ringed with towers that glinted with banners of crimson. Beyond them, the city bloomed—spires, rooftops, and faint plumes of forge smoke, bustling even at this hour. The gates, massive and reinforced with iron, were open—but guarded.
A line of travelers stretched out before them—caravans, traders, farmers, pilgrims, and the occasional armored figure. The air was thick with murmurs.
Cael took his place at the back and waited, observing.
A grizzled man in front of him, cloaked and carrying a pack that clinked with bottles, glanced back. Cael saw an opportunity.
"What's the inspection about?" he asked quietly.
The man leaned in, lowering his voice. "Rebel activity. They say the western reach was hit last week. Caravans burned, guards slaughtered."
He paused, eyeing the walls.
"…and there's talk of worse things. Shadows that walk like men. Some folks say that Gravewalkers were spotted."
Cael's breath caught slightly, but he masked it well.
"They know about Gravewalkers?" he asked carefully.
The man gave a skeptical glance. "You from the isles or something? Course they do. Tales of the dead returning to serve some buried god has been known in vaelthra for years. Used to be folk thought they were myths. Now... not so sure."
Cael said nothing. The idea that the living knew anything about the Gravewalkers at all—let alone believed it—was troubling.
He turned his eyes forward, toward the guards checking wagons and asking questions. No turning back now.
Soon, it would be his turn.
Cael stepped out of the inspection line, boots crunching against the dry dirt road as he turned away from Vaelthra's front gate.
Too risky.
If they were really checking for signs of rebel activity, and worse—Gravewalkers—then walking through the front in borrowed gear with no name and no coin would be a fast way to end up behind bars… or worse.
He moved around the outer wall, keeping low, mind running through options. Climbing the wall was suicide, and any hidden entry would take time to find—
Then he saw her.
A lone hooded figure, walking with deliberate pace and shifting eyes. Not dressed like a peasant. Too clean. Too confident. A flick of red hair poked out from beneath the hood as she passed beneath a dying tree.
Cael narrowed his eyes.
"Suspicious people know things."
He followed at a distance, his steps quiet, watching her weave down a forgotten trail behind the wall and vanish behind a collapsed stone building, the remnants of some long-abandoned watch house.
Cael approached cautiously and found what he expected—a grate torn from an old sewer tunnel, the scent of rust and mold wafting up from the darkness.
He stepped forward.
"Going somewhere?" he asked flatly.
The hooded woman spun fast, a dagger flashing out like a snake's fang—but Cael was faster. He ducked inside her reach, twisted her arm, and slammed her back against the wall with a grunt. Her hood fell.
Red hair, green eyes, and a face covered in a smirk.
"Who the hell are you?" she snapped.
"Someone who needs to get into the city," Cael replied. "I saw you. This tunnel—can it get me in?"
She gave a snort of laughter despite the position. "You think I'd tell you anything with you being all touchy with me?"
He released her slowly but kept his eyes locked. She rubbed her wrist and tilted her head.
"You've got the reflexes of someone very dangerous," she muttered. "Let me guess—you want me to guide you through the sewers?"
Cael nodded.
"Well, sweetheart," she said with a toothy grin, "That'll cost you."
"I have no coin."
She raised a brow. "Of course you don't."
"Then I'll find my own way through"
Cael turned to leave, but then she stopped him with a word.
"Wait."
He turned his head slightly, and she was watching him with narrowed eyes.
"You're not a common merc. You didn't flinch, and that blade you carry is military issue—but your boots say wanderer, and your face says you've killed recently."
"What's your point?"
She tapped the wall beside her. "Maybe I don't need coin. Maybe I need a sword arm."
Cael folded his arms. "For what?"
She grinned again, this time with something sly behind it. "There's a man inside Vaelthra. He owes me something. Something shiny. Trouble is, I can't exactly stroll into the Inner Ring without… complications. But you? You seem skilled and true to your word."
"How can you tell?"
"I always had an eye for people"
She extended a hand, mockingly formal. "Help me, and I'll show you the tunnels."
Cael hesitated, then took her hand.
"Name's Cael."
She smirked. "I didn't ask. But fine—call me Rhosyn."
The sewer tunnels of Vaelthra were old—older than the kingdom itself, Rhosyn claimed, carved from forgotten catacombs and buried aqueducts. The walls were slick with moss and iron mold, the air thick with moisture and rot. Cael said little, his eyes constantly darting ahead and behind. The tunnels were silent… too silent.
"You always this tense?" Rhosyn asked, stepping lightly over a crumbled pipe. "You walk like the shadows are about to bite."
"They usually are," Cael muttered.
"Paranoid much?"
"Maybe"
They emerged into a narrow stone culvert behind a bakery, lifting a loose drain grate into a dim alley half-hidden by hanging laundry and stacked barrels. Rhosyn beckoned Cael forward, and within minutes they were weaving through the backstreets of Vaelthra's lower ring.
The city bustled beyond the alleys—smoke curling from chimneys, the clang of iron on steel in distant smithies, merchants hawking fruit, trinkets, and furs. But Rhosyn kept to the shadows, taking turns only she seemed to know, until finally—
"There it is," she said with a smirk.
They stood before an old, leaning structure squeezed between two taller stone buildings. Weathered wooden shutters, faded paint, and a crooked sign swinging in the breeze.
The Snoring Wyrm.
"A real classy place," Cael said dryly.
"Only the best for sewer rats like me," she quipped.
They stepped inside, and the scent of burnt stew, stale ale, and wet wool hit Cael like a kick to the nose. The taproom was mostly empty, save for a pair of passed-out drunks and a barmaid cleaning mugs behind the counter.
From the back, a voice boomed like a rusty saw blade.
"Godsdammit, Rhosyn! You smell like boiled sewer shite!"
Cael blinked as a short, old woman with wild gray hair stomped in, drying her hands on a bloody apron. She glared at Rhosyn with a face only a hardened innkeeper could love.
"Lovely to see you too, Auntie Bruma," Rhosyn said sweetly, pulling a coin pouch from under her cloak.
Bruma snatched the coin and bit it.
"Well, well," the woman said, glancing at Cael. "You snatched yourself a man, did you? First time I seen you dragging one back from the piss tunnels. What's the occasion?"
Rhosyn put her arm around Cael's shoulder with exaggerated affection. "We're madly in love. Gonna consummate our eternal bond in the splendor of your finest fleas."
Bruma snorted. "Heh! Poor bastard doesn't know where he's stickin' his sword."
"I'm very careful with my sword," Cael replied flatly.
Bruma squinted at him. "Hmph. Least this one's got teeth. Room's upstairs. Try not to break the bed."
She waved them off and returned to the kitchen.
Cael followed Rhosyn up a creaky stairwell into a small, cramped room with a single bed, a window overlooking a tangle of rooftops, and a basin filled with old rainwater.
As the door shut behind them, Cael leaned against the wall.
"You do this often?"
"Drag mysterious men through moldy tunnels into shady inns?" she said, tossing her cloak onto the bed. "Only on special occasions."
Cael crossed his arms. "So what's this 'favor' you need?"
Rhosyn sat on the edge of the bed and smirked. "Patience, lover boy. First, we wash off the smell of the sewers. Then, we steal from the rich."
Steam coiled lazily from the wooden basin as Cael scrubbed at his arms, the grime of the sewers peeling away. Rhosyn stood by the cracked window, running her fingers through her damp, fiery hair, now slightly frizzed from the humidity. Her red cloak hung from a nail on the wall, still dripping.
"You done brooding yet?" she asked, glancing at him with a crooked smile.
"I wasn't brooding."
"You were absolutely brooding."
Cael dried off silently and pulled on the clean clothes Bruma had left—plain but practical: a fitted tunic, reinforced trousers, and a dark travel coat. The dagger and throwing knives now rested snugly at his hip and thigh.
Rhosyn flopped backward on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"So," she began, "There's going to be a party."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "That's your brilliant plan? Go to a party?"
She waved a hand lazily. "Not just any party. The palace is hosting a gathering in two nights. Nobles, foreign dignitaries, and guess what—even Princess Thalia herself is expected to make an appearance."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why would they even host a party now? The border's unstable, and there are rebel attacks."
"That's the point," Rhosyn said, sitting up. "It's a show of strength. A little pageantry to keep the court pacified. And where there's pageantry, there's gold, jewels, secrets—everything a girl like me dreams of."
Cael folded his arms. "Sounds like a perfect way to get caught."
"Or disappear in a crowd of silken buffoons with powdered faces and egos the size of this kingdom."
He paced once, glancing at the gear she'd laid out—grappling lines, smoke pellets, a vial of something green and bubbling. This wasn't her first heist.
"So why me?" he asked. "You don't know me. What if I work for the kingdom? What if I'm setting you up?"
Rhosyn stood, walking toward him with deliberate steps. Her expression wasn't mocking this time—it was serious.
"I know people," she said quietly. "And I know how they carry themselves. You don't walk like a palace dog. You don't ask the questions they ask. And I know you're the type to honor promises."
Cael didn't respond immediately.
She stepped closer. "Besides, if you were with the kingdom, you'd be wearing armor that's been polished five times and stitched by blind monks.
You'd be quoting oaths and blessings with every other breath. And you definitely wouldn't smell like sewer slime and wild steel."
"…Fair point."
"So?" she asked, grinning again. "You in?"
He sighed. "Fine. But if this goes sideways—"
"If it goes sideways," she interrupted, "we improvise."
Cael smirked faintly. "That's reassuring."
Rhosyn turned back to her gear. "Good. We've got two days to prepare. You'll need a mask, a name, and a lie."
She paused.
"…and maybe a dance lesson. Nobles are suckers for flair."
Days passed in quiet tension and careful plotting.
Cael and Rhosyn moved like shadows through Vaelthra's underbelly—meeting fence contacts, scoping out servant routes, memorizing patrol shifts around the palace grounds. Rhosyn even taught Cael a few noble mannerisms and the difference between six kinds of cutlery, though Cael retained maybe half of it. The important half, he hoped.
By the time the final night fell, they were ready.
Their gear was packed in compartments beneath the floorboards of the inn room. Two elegant yet subdued sets of attire—perfect for passing as low-tier nobility or merchant kin. A forged invitation sat tucked into Rhosyn's coat, marked with the wax seal of House Veldran. Fake, of course, but good enough to pass inspection.
The room was dim, the lantern low. Rhosyn leaned against the headboard of the bed, arms folded, watching Cael pace.
"Sleep," she said finally. "You'll need it. You look like you're carrying ghosts."
"I always look like this," he muttered, but he stopped pacing.
Rhosyn smirked. "Then stop brooding about whatever brooding thing you're brooding about and sleep anyway."
Eventually, she curled up, her cloak wrapped like a second skin, and drifted off. Her breathing slowed. Calm.
Cael remained sitting near the shuttered window, elbows on his knees. He stared out into the Vaelthran night, the spires of the palace illuminated by moonlight and torch flame. The music of distant lutes and harps echoed faintly from the upper district.
He should have felt tired.
But there was nothing. No ache in his limbs. No desire to lie down. No hunger gnawing at his gut. No thirst.
He blinked slowly. Realization settling.
Gravewalkers don't need sleep. Don't need food. They had been returned from the Veil with purpose, not comfort. Their bodies were something else now—something in between.
And then—
A thrum.
It wasn't sound, but sensation. A presence resonating in his bones.
His eyes shifted instinctively to the palace.
There.
Two.
Two shardbearers were inside.
The fragments of the World Heart sang to him, faint and fractured, like echoes through stone. He stood, gripping the window's edge tightly.
Then he understood.
The closer a Gravewalker is to a bearer, the more they can feel them—like gravity pulling them inward.
He knew, without doubt, that Maire was already heading there. She must've felt it too. Maybe even sooner than he did.
He turned to look at Rhosyn, still sleeping soundly.
She didn't know what she was walking into. None of them did.
This heist wasn't just dangerous.
It was fate-bound.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
"Here we go then"