"What are you doing?"
"…"
"Arin?"
"…Going over the plan again."
"You've been doing that all week."
Arin didn't answer. His attention was consumed by the copy of the Ariana's schematics spread across the table, his focus particularly drawn to an empty space beneath the captain's deck. On his own, he might not have thought much of it, but Voln had assured him there was no way someone like Lord Askar would waste space on an airship — something had to be hidden there.
It was already midnight — not that time mattered much in the Undercity, where the sun never reached — but Arin was still obsessing over every detail of tonight's raid. Even with Madame Corvin's intelligence and Erik's resources, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was a fool's errand. Yet, deep down, he'd accepted it a week ago.
This is really happening.
Mayia, however, wasn't so resigned.
"You don't have to do this," she said firmly.
His back was to her, his chair pulled close to the table. She was sitting on the bed, bound to it as much by her frailty as by the invisible chains of her illness. Tonight, she had managed a few steps before the sickness of her Soul had dragged her back down.
"Maybe," he murmured, snuffing out the candle on the table and rising from his chair. "But I will."
He turned to face her, his expression resolute, though her fiery gaze tried to burn through his resolve. For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence, a silent battle of wills. Finally, Mayia looked away, her defiance faltering as her shoulders slumped. She seemed as though she wanted to say something more but held her tongue.
Arin couldn't wait any longer.
In an hour, the operation would begin.
He picked up his father's old revolver from the table and tucked it into his belt, concealed beneath his worn coat. One bullet. A single, ancient bullet. He grimaced. What good is one shot? Still, it was one of the only bullets left in the entire city—Lord Askar had made sure of that.
Next, he inspected the bag he'd packed the night before, checking its contents for the hundredth time.
"What if you don't come back?" Mayia's voice broke the silence, soft but piercing.
He froze, unable to look at her. Instead, he pulled out a stiletto he'd taken from a thief years ago.
"No one will notice I'm there," he replied.
"And if they do?"
"Erik's bringing half the guild in case it comes to a fight."
"Do you trust him?"
"No."
The stiletto joined the revolver at his belt. He uncoiled a length of rope, inspected it briefly, then replaced it in the bag as he had countless times before.
"I'm feeling better, you know," Mayia said, her voice lighter for a moment.
"That's good," Arin replied without looking up. "You'll be completely well soon."
"That's not what I meant. I… I'm sorry for blaming you before. You're all I have, brother."
His hands stilled as he counted five smoke bombs Voln had given him. He didn't look up. "And you're all I have," he murmured.
He tied the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder. His gray eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, his heart cracked. But there was no turning back now.
"That's why I have to do this."
Crossing to her side, he sat on the edge of the bed and took her frail hand in his, squeezing it gently. "I won't be gone long. He'll look after you while I'm away."
Her gaze shifted toward the Fool, who stood cloaked in shadow, leaning against the wall. His weary eyes betrayed a silent disapproval of the mission. Though Arin had nicknamed him the Fool, there was nothing foolish about his sharp intelligence or the unspoken concerns that lingered in his gaze. The sight of him did little to ease her worries.
The incarnation had been uncharacteristically quiet, his usual smirk absent.
Mayia's eyes returned to Arin, wide and glistening. "Please don't go." Her voice cracked, fragile and desperate.
Arin closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at her—not now. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I love you, little sister."
"Please…"
He released her hand and rose, though she tried to hold onto him. Turning, he met the Fool's shadowed gaze. "Watch over her until I get back."
For once, the Fool offered no sarcastic remark, no playful smirk. His voice was low and grave. "Be careful of him."
"Erik?" Arin asked, but the Fool gave no answer.
Arin pulled the straps of his bag tighter. With one last glance at Mayia, tears spilling silently down her cheeks, he spoke softly:
"Try to sleep."
Then he stepped out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
***
Xenia wore armor for the first time in months. It was a simple chainmail set reinforced with a breastplate and additional protection at critical points — practical, functional, but far from the imposing sight of Sir Baraton's battle-worn plate. She was no knight, after all. Velora stood beside her in full gear as well, her long sword sheathed at her hip. Unlike Xenia, who could summon her Soulweapon at will, Velora had to rely on more traditional steel.
They remained silent. Velora's outward calm might have fooled someone less perceptive, but Xenia knew her sister well enough to recognize the tension in her posture. Both of them were on edge. For perhaps the first time, their father truly expected something of them, and neither wanted to betray that trust.
While Velora masked her nerves with stoic composure, Xenia didn't bother trying. Her restlessness showed in her constant pacing across their father's workshop.
Finally tiring of her circuit, Xenia stopped at one of the workbenches. Resting there was a single vial of Soulfuel, untouched and unprocessed. She picked it up, holding the small container to the light. The shimmering liquid inside seemed almost alive, pulsating faintly as if responding to her presence.
"You shouldn't touch that," Velora warned, her voice uncertain.
Xenia continued to study the Soulfuel, her brow furrowed in thought. "Do you understand what Father sees in this?" she asked, her tone unusually serious.
She turned her head to look at Velora. "Why is he so obsessed with it?"
Velora's brows knitted together, clearly puzzled by the question.
"Soulfuel is incredibly rare," she replied after a pause, as if reciting a lesson from their tutors.
Xenia sighed, exasperated. "That doesn't explain why. Just because something is rare doesn't make it automatically valuable."
Velora countered with measured calm, "It elevates a Sorcerer's abilities to new heights. Like a sharp sword in a knight's hand."
Xenia fell silent, her gaze lingering on the glowing liquid. She had never consumed Soulfuel herself, but she'd seen others do so under controlled circumstances. For ordinary humans, it was deadly, but for Sorcerers, it was a powerful enhancer.
"But Father isn't a Sorcerer," Xenia said, almost to herself.
"No, I'm not." The sudden voice startled her, and she almost dropped the vial. Hastily, she set it back on the workbench.
Lord Askar had entered the room silently, his presence commanding as always. He regarded his daughters with a calm, assessing gaze.
"That's why I rely on you two," he said simply.
Xenia took a sharp breath. She could practically see how much this meant to her father. Whatever it was, he was trying to accomplish.
"Are you ready?"
Both Xenia and Velora nodded, though Xenia's nervousness remained just below the surface.
As ready as I'll ever be, she thought grimly. Taking things seriously wasn't exactly her strength, but today was different.
Lord Askar's sharp eyes studied them for a moment, his gaze carrying a mix of quiet pride and expectation, before he gave a small nod of approval.
"Then let's go. The Ariana is waiting."