The room was alive with tension. The thick aroma of sweat and smoke mingled in the stale air, making it almost suffocating. A group of players and guild underlings sat around a rickety table in one of the lower levels of the guild's stronghold. This was not a place of honor or prestige—it was where the forgotten players lingered, those too weak or too scared to make their mark in the field. Yet, for Lyria Vayne, it was a goldmine.
She smirked, leaning back in her chair as her fingers toyed with the edge of a card. Her silver-blonde hair fell effortlessly over one shoulder, the strands catching the faint glow of a flickering lamp above. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, danced with mischief as they swept across the table.
"Last chance, boys," she purred, tapping her fingers against the small pile of items in the center of the table—trinkets, low-tier system tokens, and a dull blade that was probably worth more as scrap metal. "Fold now, and I might even let you keep your pride."
Across the table, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek growled. He was visibly uncomfortable, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of his chair. "You're bluffing," he spat.
Lyria tilted her head, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Am I?" She flipped her cards in her hands, her movements fluid and hypnotic. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. But that's the thrill, isn't it?"
The man's eyes flickered to the cards in his hand. He hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
"You know, a man like you shouldn't sweat so much," Lyria quipped, her voice dripping with false concern. "It's bad for the nerves."
"Enough of this!" he bellowed, slamming his cards down. "I call!"
The table collectively held its breath as Lyria placed her cards down with deliberate slowness. The room was silent for a beat, and then came the groans and curses. Lyria's hand was flawless—an impossible combination that had her opponents staring in disbelief.
"Better luck next time," she said with a wink, raking the items toward her.
The burly man rose abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "You cheated," he snarled.
Lyria's smile didn't falter. "Cheating is such an ugly word," she said, pocketing her winnings. "I prefer… improvisation."
The man lunged toward her, but Lyria was quicker. She rose gracefully, her chair tipping backward as she stepped aside, her movement fluid like water. With a single, well-placed kick, she sent the man stumbling into the table, knocking it over.
The room erupted into chaos, chairs clattering and curses flying. Lyria used the distraction to slip out the door, her laughter echoing in the cramped corridor as she left the players to squabble amongst themselves.
---
The lower levels of the guild's fortress were a maze of narrow hallways and poorly lit rooms, the perfect place for someone like Lyria to thrive. She moved with ease, her boots barely making a sound against the steel floor. Her fingers twitched as she passed by unlocked doors, her instincts screaming at her to pilfer something—anything—but she resisted. She'd already gotten what she came for.
As she rounded a corner, a voice called out behind her. "You're going to get yourself killed one day, you know."
Lyria didn't stop walking. "One day, sure," she replied, her tone light. "But not today."
The voice belonged to Soraya, a tall African American woman with braids that fell to her waist and a no-nonsense attitude that made most people think twice before crossing her. Soraya was one of the few people Lyria actually respected, though she'd never admit it out loud.
Soraya fell into step beside her, her arms crossed over her chest. "You've been stirring the pot again, haven't you?"
Lyria grinned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Soraya gave her a pointed look. "You're lucky you're good at what you do. Otherwise, someone would've snapped your neck by now."
"Aw, is that concern I hear?" Lyria teased.
"It's annoyance," Soraya shot back. "I've got enough on my plate without cleaning up after you."
Before Lyria could respond, the corridor trembled, a low rumble reverberating through the walls. Both women froze, their playful banter forgotten.
"What the hell was that?" Soraya muttered, her hand instinctively reaching for the blade strapped to her thigh.
The rumble grew louder, and then the alarm blared—a shrill, piercing sound that echoed through the fortress.
"Portal breach," Soraya said, her tone grim. "We need to move."
Lyria's grin returned, though this time it was laced with anticipation. "Looks like things just got interesting."
---
The two women made their way toward the source of the disturbance, weaving through panicked players and guild workers. The fortress was in chaos, the alarm drowning out shouted orders and frantic conversations.
As they approached the main hall, Lyria noticed a group of soldiers gathered near a portal that flickered and crackled with unstable energy. The breach was larger than most, its swirling surface pulsating ominously.
"What's coming through?" Soraya asked one of the soldiers, her authoritative tone cutting through the noise.
The soldier, a young man with fear in his eyes, stammered, "Class-5 entity, ma'am. Nothing major."
Lyria raised an eyebrow. "Class-5? That's hardly worth the fuss."
"They're harmless," Soraya agreed, though her grip on her blade didn't loosen.
The portal rippled, and a creature emerged—a lanky, insect-like thing with translucent wings and glowing eyes. It skittered forward, its movements jittery and erratic.
Lyria sighed. "Well, this is disappointing."
Before Soraya could respond, the creature lunged, its wings buzzing furiously. Lyria dodged effortlessly, her movements as graceful as a dancer's. With a flick of her wrist, she drew a dagger from her belt and plunged it into the creature's thorax.
The creature let out a high-pitched screech before collapsing to the ground, its body twitching spasmodically.
"Is that it?" Lyria asked, pulling her dagger free.
Soraya shook her head. "There's always more."
As if on cue, the portal flared again, and more creatures began to emerge. Lyria's grin widened, her pulse quickening with excitement. She lived for moments like this—the thrill of the fight, the chaos of the unknown.
"Looks like the fun's just getting started," she said, spinning her dagger in her hand.
---