The four of them stood on the rise, their eyes fixed on the coaching inn a mile down the Aradian Road.

Henrik Vespers, taller than most men and bearing the scars of countless battles, peered through a brass telescope. His dark brown leather armour blended with the shadows as he muttered observations about the figures in and around the inn.

Beside him, Lúna Morquellë tilted her head, her white hair catching the light like spun silver. Clad in sleek black leather with red highlights, the sharpness of her eyes and ears betrayed her elven lineage. A small silver collar encircled her neck, and matching silver cuffs adorned her wrists —subtle, unassuming, yet ever-present. She peppered Henrik with quick questions, her tone precise and practiced.

Graz Kzarlin, a stout dwarf clad in chainmail and a battered breastplate, stood to her side. His helmet had seen as much use as the heavy warhammer strapped to his back. Scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment, he grunted in response to Henrik’s descriptions, marking down details about weapons and movements.

At the dwarf’s side, Aurik Fielding, a halfling dressed immaculately in pinstriped robes, focused on sketching a detailed map of the inn. Despite his formal appearance, his hands worked deftly, plotting positions with the precision of a seasoned tactician.

Henrik snapped the telescope shut. "Time for lunch," he declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.

They retreated to their wagon, where they pulled out trail rations, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. Around a makeshift table, Aurik leaned in. “What’s the plan, Captain?” he asked, his voice full of practiced respect.

Henrik shot him a sidelong glance. The halfling had been calling him "Captain" since they’d met yesterday, and the title was beginning to grate. “Well, Lord Magister of the Lower Courts,” he replied with a mock bow, “we wait. Arriving too early would raise suspicion. We need the sun closer to the horizon before we look like genuine travelers.”

Graz uncorked the wine and squinted at the label. “Huh. Giant script. This must be—” He paused, turning the bottle in his hands. “Giant wine?”

Lúna smirked. “Maybe for your hands. To me, it looks normal-sized.”

Her quip broke the tension. For a moment, their grim mission was forgotten.

Yesterday, they had all been brought together in Ithrill. Henrik, displaced by an arcane surge that had catapulted him ninety years into the future, found himself conscripted once more by the Ithrillian Defence Force.

Lúna, an operative of the Crimson Bank, was chasing a stolen asset—its last trace leading to this inn. She had arranged to collect the package from an individual with ties to the bandits and the Severed Maidens criminal gang.

Aurik, a trainee magistrate under the god Kreditos, sought to uncover the truth behind the inn’s suspicious new owners. And Graz, ever the mercenary, had been hired for muscle, lured by a handsome reward funded by the Crimson Bank.

Now, their disparate paths converged. Somewhere inside the coaching inn, criminals awaited. And so, they prepared—for lunch and for battle.

As they started to eat, Graz broke the silence, his voice gruff but curious. “What was the shipment, Miss?”

Lúna paused mid-bite, setting her fork down with deliberate care. She took a measured sip of the wine, letting the moment linger before finally speaking. “Something of immense value to Mr. Czazarian himself. The ledger describes it as a treasured work of art.”

“Czazarian himself?” Graz’s bushy brows rose in surprise. “What does a dragon want with art? I thought all he cared about were barrels and magnums to trade for his shiny pieces of glass.”

Lúna’s lips curved into a faint smile, her eyes flickering with a hint of amusement. “Mr. Czazarian is more than just a merchant, Graz. He’s a connoisseur. A well-known patron of the arts.”

Graz grunted skeptically, spearing a slice of meat with his knife. “Hmph. Never thought dragons had much use for paintings and sculptures. Unless they’re gilded.”

Lúna chuckled softly, leaning back in her seat. “Perhaps you underestimate him. Dragons aren’t all fire and hoards, you know. Some appreciate beauty in its subtler forms—though I doubt you’d call it subtle when Czazarian’s involved.”

Henrik tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, smearing it with butter as the conversation shifted. Graz, his voice low but edged with curiosity, leaned forward.

“Enough of art, Mr. Vespers. I’ve been meaning to ask—you were there at the Battle of Tench Bridge, weren’t you? I was among the defenders of the city, years ago now. One moment, we’re braced for the northern assault, and the next... Corrith’s king is gone. Peace falls over the land, and prosperity follows—enough to let dragons amass art collections. What really happened that day?”

Henrik’s eyes flicked to Graz, noting the faded remnants of Ithrillian Volunteer insignia on the dwarf’s battered breastplate. “So, you were there too,” Henrik murmured. “I thought I recognized that paint. Graz, I can’t say much. My orders were simple: infiltrate the battle wizards of Corrith and dismantle them from within. That artifact they wielded—it was ripping through our defenses, devastating our wizards.”

He leaned back, taking a sip of wine. “I did what I could, but the chronomancers tell me the spellwork around that artifact reacted... violently. It catapulted me here, to the present. When I disappeared, it seems the Necromancer College intervened. From what I’ve heard, they ensured Corrith would never crown another king.”

Graz interrupted. “Whatever they did, it worked. But even now, I wonder—what price did they pay to secure that peace?”

Henrik leaned forward, the flickering light casting shadows across his scarred face.

“Graz,” he began, his tone heavy with the weight of memory, “the necromancers never paid the price. The Corrith royal family did.”

He let the words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on the group. “When I vanished, and that artifact shattered, it wasn’t just the end of a battle—it was the end of a dynasty. The College of Bones stepped in and ensured Corrith could never rise again. You’ve heard the stories of their methods, haven’t you? What they demand in exchange for such finality? Trust me, it wasn’t the necromancers who suffered.”

With the sun dipping lower in the sky, the time had come. They cleared their meal, packed away their supplies, and mounted their horses. Lúna would do the talking—her natural charisma and sharp mind making her the best choice for negotiating the deal.

Aurik would handle the money, ensuring their cover as buyers remained intact. Henrik and Graz, clad in Crimson Bank tabards, would present themselves as mere hired muscle, downplaying their true strength.

The plan set, they urged their mounts forward, the coaching inn drawing ever closer as the road ahead darkened with the coming dusk.

As Luna and Aurik approach the wooden door to the inn’s bar, they feel the weight of the atmosphere settle over them. Inside, the faint murmur of conversation and the clink of tankards pause for just a moment, as the group of ten criminals turn their eyes toward the newcomers, a mix of species and sexes.

The low light of the bar casts long shadows over the rough-hewn faces of the Severed Maidens, and Luna’s sharp gaze sweeps the room. Henrik and Graz waited outside.

Finnley Swiftfoot, lounging casually at a table near the fire, flashes a grin. A young half elven male, with the air of someone who’s never met a problem he couldn’t talk his way out of. The table around him is littered with empty mugs and half-finished plates of food, the remnants of a night of drinking and plotting. When he spots Luna, his grin widens into something both charming and mischievous.

“Well now, I wasn’t expecting such lovely company,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying across the room. His eyes flick to Aurik, sizing up Luna with the practiced eye of a man who’s used to judging people at a glance. “Luna, I assume? You’ve got the look of someone who knows exactly what they’re after.”

Luna’s expression doesn’t waver as she steps further into the room, her movements graceful yet purposeful. “And you must be Finnley ‘The Fox’ Swiftfoot,” she responds coolly. “I’m here to talk business.”

At the mention of business, the rest of the gang starts to stir, their attention snapping to the two intruders.

Kruze, the human leader of this cell sitting at the far end of the room, pushes himself up from his seat, the creak of his battered plate armor echoing in the otherwise quiet room. He’s a mountain of scarred muscle, and his eyes narrow as he sizes up Luna, his gaze lingering a moment longer on her silver collar.

“Business, huh?” Kruze’s voice rumbles, deep and gravelly. He steps forward, cracking his knuckles with a sound like stones breaking underfoot. “You’ll forgive me if I find that a bit hard to believe. This lot’s got a bad habit of drawing in anyone looking to make a deal, but not always the right kind.”

Bran, a giantkin thug standing off to the side, chuckles darkly, the scar above his brow pulling his face into a permanent sneer. “You don’t look like someone who’s come to talk business,” he growls. “What’s the real play, eh?”

Behind them, Vega, a female half elf dressed for the forest seated near a window, watches the interaction with a knowing look. Her fingers tap on her dagger hilt, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Careful, Bran,” she warns, her voice low and smooth. “She might just have what we want.”

Luna’s gaze flicks from Kruze to Finnley, and she feels the weight of the room’s expectations. Every movement, every word, must be precise. She steps closer to the table, her posture confident and unyielding.

“Let’s not waste time,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “We’re here for the statue. The one your boss is so fond of.”

The name “Czazarian” hangs in the air for a moment, and Finnley’s grin falters, his eyes flicking to Kruze, then back to Luna.

“So, you know about the statue,” Finnley says, his tone shifting, a bit of wariness creeping into his charm. “Czazarian’s got a taste for rare things, doesn’t he? And you’re here to collect?”

Luna nods. “I’m here to make sure it’s delivered. And if you have it, I’m prepared to pay what’s owed.”

At her words, the tension in the room thickens. Kruze’s hand tightens around his warhammer’s haft, and Bran’s fingers twitch, itching for violence. But it’s Finnley who keeps control, his smile widening again, though this time it’s edged with calculation.

“Well, well,” Finnley says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s talk numbers then.”

As Luna steps forward, unfazed by the muscular, intimidating figures of Kruze, Bran, and Thorgrim, she keeps her composure, the slight curve of a smile playing at the edges of her lips. The bandits, on the other hand, seem to find her remark amusing.

Kruze laughs, the sound deep and rumbling like a distant thunderclap. "You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that," he says, slapping Bran on the back with a loud thud. "If you survive the night, maybe we’ll all have a drink."

The others snicker, their laughter filling the room, and it’s clear they’re enjoying this moment of power. Thorgrim’s booming laugh follows, and even Finnley, though more reserved, cracks a grin.

“You’re either brave, foolish, or both,” Finnley says with a wink, standing up and leading the way toward the back of the inn. “Come, let’s have a look at the treasure.”

Luna follows them without hesitation, her steps steady and confident. As she passes by Finnley, she catches his eyes with an unreadable expression, as though silently reminding him that she knows exactly how to handle herself.

Aurik watches the group disappear into the backroom, his sharp eyes scanning the rest of the bar. The remaining bandits—most of them quiet and brooding—don’t seem to pay much attention to him, too engrossed in their own quiet conversations. He notices a few lingering gazes, but nothing that screams immediate threat.

Leaning toward the bar, Aurik mutters under his breath and weaves the arcane words of a spell. His fingers move subtly as he casts Message, sending the magical words directly to Henrik and Graz.

"Ready."

Henrik, standing outside near the wagon, checks the straps on his weapons, his eyes scanning the courtyard. He catches Graz’s gaze, giving him a brief nod. The dwarf’s hand moves toward his axe, his fingers curling around the hilt as he starts to count silently under his breath, ensuring his timing is perfect.

Inside, Luna is now out of sight, in the room with Kruze, Bran, Thorgrim, and Finnley, as they head towards the statue. The tension is palpable. The room, dimly lit and cluttered with crates and old furniture, feels cramped as the group stops in front of an old wooden chest.

“Well,” Kruze says, grinning, “This is it. Here’s your art piece, nice and tucked away.”

As Finnley opens the chest with exaggerated care, Luna's sharp eyes scan the room. She takes note of the exits, the gang’s positioning, and any potential threats. She’s always prepared, and she knows she’s never truly alone in situations like these.

The chest creaks open, revealing the statue—the headless female figure, meticulously carved and haunting in its lack of a face. The craftsmanship is exquisite, and the aura of danger surrounding it is almost palpable.

Luna takes a step closer, her gaze fixed on the statue. “Is this it?” she asks, her tone cool and professional.

Finnley gestures to the statue with a flourish. “A prized possession, indeed,” he says smoothly. “Is this what you were expecting?”

As she steps closer to examine it, her hand subtly brushes against the hilt of her hidden blade. The moment she touches the statue, she feels a sudden, fleeting shift in the air, like something dark and powerful is watching.

Outside, Henrik counts silently, his hand steady on his weapon, and Graz, crouched behind a corner, readies his own. The air is thick with anticipation. Aurik remains focused inside, eyes scanning the group in the bar. His fingers tighten around the dagger concealed in his belt.

The pieces are in motion, and the moment they’ve been waiting for is nearing. The Severed Maidens may have underestimated just how prepared Luna and her companions truly are.

Lúna ran her fingers over the statue, tracing its contours with slow, deliberate motions. Cold. Smooth. The weight of fine craftsmanship. And yet, beneath the surface, there were imperfections—tiny bumps and blemishes too subtle to be simple errors in carving.

Then she found them. The marks around the wrists.

Her breath hitched for half a second, though she masked it well.

They brought the real thing.

The Severed Maidens, for all their bravado and bloodlust, had no idea what they were sitting on. To them, it was just a strange, grotesque piece of art—a headless nude figure, eerie and unsettling, but ultimately a statue. They hadn’t looked deeper. They hadn’t questioned its nature.

But Lúna knew.

This was no mere sculpture. She had seen works like this before, deep in the vaults of the Crimson Bank. Statues that were not sculpted but transformed. The marks on the wrists told her everything she needed to know—who this woman had once been, and what had been done to her.

Lúna hoped they had brought the one Czazarian really wanted. It was time to find out if they had.

She took a slow, measured breath, letting the weight of the revelation settle into place. Then, with the ease of a seasoned negotiator, she turned her head and gave Finnley a small, knowing smile.

“You weren’t lying,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “This is a rare piece indeed.”

Finnley, ever the showman, spread his arms wide. “The best of the best. Straight from our employer’s personal collection.”

Kruze grunted, unimpressed. “You’ve seen it. Now let’s talk gold.”

Lúna didn’t look at him right away. She let her fingers linger on the cold stone a moment longer, as if savouring the touch, before turning to face the bandits.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “But before we get to that…” She flicked her gaze to Finnley. “Would you be a dear and tell me where you got it?”

Finnley hesitated. Just for a second. A flicker of something passed over his face—surprise, uncertainty—but then he recovered, flashing his usual charming grin.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “You’ve got what you wanted. All that’s left is the price.”

Lúna tilted her head, her smile never faltering. “Oh, it matters.”

For the first time since she entered the room, silence stretched between them. Bran and Thorgrim exchanged a glance, and Kruze, ever the impatient brute, folded his arms across his barrel-like chest.

Finnley held her gaze for a moment longer, then let out a small chuckle. “You’re sharp, I’ll give you that,” he admitted. “But I don’t ask too many questions when the pay’s good. We got it from a source with ties to the big players in Corrith. The kind of people who don’t part with things easily.” He leaned in slightly. “If you’re smart, you won’t ask too many questions either.”

Lúna met his gaze evenly, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

Then she smiled again. “Fair enough.”

She turned slightly, adjusting the angle of her body—enough to give herself room to move if things went south, but not enough to make it obvious. Then, in a voice as light as a whisper on the wind, she uttered a single word.

“Now.”

Aurik’s whispered Message spell carried her voice through the air, straight into Henrik and Graz’s ears.

Outside, Henrik exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on his weapon. He turned to Graz.

“Showtime.”

With that, they stepped forward, their boots crunching against the gravel as they advanced on the inn.

Inside, Lúna stood motionless, her fingers still resting on the cold, lifeless stone.

The trap was set. The game was in motion.

And the Severed Maidens were about to find out just how badly they had underestimated their opponents.

Kruze cracked his knuckles, his scarred face twisting into a smirk. "Right, time's up. We’ll take our payment now." He turned to his men. "And our payment… is her."

Lúna barely had time to raise an eyebrow before the brutes closed in. Kruze grabbed her arm, his grip like iron, while Bran and Thorgrim flanked her, their massive hands seizing her shoulders. Finnley grinned, stepping back as if to enjoy the show.

Lúna let out a breathless chuckle. "Well, well. Such chivalry. You boys sure know how to treat a lady."

She didn't resist as they dragged her toward the door. Let them think they had control. Let them believe they were winning.

The moment she stepped outside, feeling the cool air against her skin, she made her move.

Her lips curled, and in a voice like silk-wrapped steel, she spoke a single word:

"Freedom."

The air around her detonated.

A deafening boom ripped through the courtyard, the sheer force of it sending Kruze, Bran, and Thorgrim flying backward, their bodies hurled like ragdolls into the dirt. Dust and splinters of wood erupted from the blast zone as the wave of force knocked over barrels and rattled the walls of the inn.

Ragnar, caught directly in the blast, had no such luck. The thunderous force tore through him with unrelenting fury, ripping him apart in a grotesque explosion of flesh and bone. What remained of him slumped lifelessly to the ground.

And then—she was gone.

A crackling shimmer of energy reformed her by the entrance door, completely untouched.

Inside the bar, Aurik was already moving. His voice, calm but commanding, cut through the chaos. "Lila. Drop to the floor."

The halfling rogue barely had time to react before Henrik and Graz stormed in.

Henrik’s sword flashed in the dim light, his presence looming over the stunned bandits like a shadow of death. Graz, his warhammer already in hand, charged forward, eyes locked onto the biggest threat in the room.

The battle had begun.

The surviving brutes had been pushed outside after being blasted through the wall after Lúna’s spell, groaned in pain, struggling to regain their footing. Kruze spat blood onto the dirt, his armour scorched and dented from the blast. Bran clutched his ribs, breathing heavily, while Thorgrim wiped the trickle of blood from his ear, his face twisted in rage.

Inside, the rest of the Severed Maidens reacted.

Lila, a female halfling thief dove behind an overturned table, her quick reflexes saving her from being caught in the open. Finnley, his charming demeanour shattered, reached for his daggers, eyes darting between his allies and the approaching threat.

Gunda a female Dwarf and fanatical cleric, gritted her teeth and raised her war pick, her muttered prayer summoning a dark aura around her. The air around her crackled with unholy energy.

Jax, the male devilkin, ever the wildcard, cackled and flicked his fingers, fire dancing at his fingertips. "Well now, this is getting interesting," he sneered, his eyes wild with glee.

Vega, her movements fluid and deliberate, nocked an arrow and took careful aim, her gaze cold and focused.

Henrik and Graz exchanged a brief glance. No words were needed. They knew what came next.

Lúna’s smile never faded as she flexed her fingers, magic crackling at her fingertips.

Aurik adjusted his sleeves, his expression impassive. "Shall we?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken violence.

Then, as one, they struck.

Lúna wasted no time.

She lifted her hand, fingers curling as dark energy coiled around them. In a heartbeat, she fired a series of shadowy blasts that streaked across the room like shooting stars.

Eolyn a female elven wizard barely had time to raise her staff before the first bolt hit her square in the chest. A second and third followed in rapid succession, each impact searing deep, purple burns across her form. She gasped, eyes wide, before crumpling to the floor in a heap.

The first enemy had fallen.

Kruze, still staggering outside, shook his head and roared in fury. He swung his warhammer, aiming for Henrik, but the seasoned warrior deftly sidestepped. Graz, taking advantage of the distraction, brought his warhammer down on Bran’s shoulder with a sickening crunch. The goliath let out a bellow of pain, barely managing to stay on his feet.

Jax flicked his wrist, sending a firebolt toward Aurik, but the spell fizzled out just before impact—Aurik had already woven a subtle ward. He smirked, unfazed.

Lila, still prone, hesitated. Her fingers twitched toward her hidden dagger, but she stayed low, watching the battle unfold with calculating eyes.

Outside, Henrik, bleeding but undeterred, gritted his teeth as he reached inside his cloak. With a swift motion, he pulled out a wickedly curved dagger — a Scarlatti Dagger. The moment its blade gleamed in the moonlight, the very air around him shifted.

The crackling of magic, the eerie glow of spells in effect—all of it vanished.

Thorgrim, mid-swing, suddenly faltered, his strength draining as whatever enchantments aided him ceased to exist. The goliath barely had time to process what had happened before Henrik drove the dagger deep into his gut.

A choked gasp escaped Thorgrim’s lips, his body trembling as his life force was ripped away, his strength draining in an instant. Henrik twisted the dagger before yanking it free, letting the goliath slump to the ground with a final, gurgled breath.

Kruze, still reeling from his wounds, saw the dagger and took an unconscious step back. His eyes flicked toward Bran, who was struggling to remain standing, chest heaving.

Inside the inn, Lúna watched the chaos with a smile. Vega, still reeling from Aurik’s mind spike, tried to knock another arrow, but Lúna was faster.

With a casual wave of her hand, she whispered a few arcane words and flicked her fingers.

Vega gasped, her body trembling—then shrinking.

Her form collapsed in on itself, her limbs shriveling, her armor and weapons vanishing as her entire being was reduced to something small.

A tiny, slimy snail plopped onto the wooden floor where Vega once stood.

The bar fell into dead silence.

Lúna sauntered over, crouched down, and gently picked up the snail between her fingers, grinning. "Well, that’s one way to keep her quiet." She turned to the remaining bandits, holding Vega up. "Would any of you care to join her?"

At that moment, Aurik took a slow step forward, one hand still pressed to his wounded arm. He reached into his coat and pulled out something small, something dark and shimmering. A single gem pulsed in his palm—a deep, almost hungry black.

His voice was eerily calm.

"Enough."

Everyone froze.

The Severed Maidens recognized the gem immediately.

Aurik’s eyes swept the room. "We can keep doing this," he said, voice steady, "or you can drop your weapons and walk out of here alive. But if you test me—" He held up the now shining gem. "You won't be walking anywhere."

Silence.

One by one, weapons hit the floor.