Northreach – Ruins of the Paper Factory. Morning – Post-Explosion.
Thin plumes of acrid black smoke still drifted from the skeletal remains of the timber warehouse, now reduced to nothing but charcoal and ash. The sharp, chemical reek of burnt reagents mingled with the heavy scent of scorched wood, creating a suffocating atmosphere that pressed against the lungs.
Riven stood amidst the smoldering debris. His face was smeared with soot, and his eyes were a bloodshot mask of simmering fury. Beside him, Grimm—who had just returned from the Capital—was crouched low, his nimble fingers sifting through the remains of the ignition mechanism.
"This was no industrial accident, Lord Riven," Grimm reported, holding up a partially charred length of fuse. "The fuse was intentionally placed inside a vat of cleaning alcohol. Someone planned this with cold-blooded precision."
"What about the workers?" Riven asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"Three sustained serious burns. Fortunately, there were no fatalities; the blast occurred right during the midnight shift change," Grimm replied softly.
Riven clenched his fist until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "Who was on watch last night?"
"Two men. Flick, the boy we recruited recently, and Master Silas, our master printer."
"Bring them to me. Now."
Temporary Interrogation Room (The Armory).
Flick and Silas sat on stiff wooden chairs, both trembling with visible terror. Flick was restless, his eyes darting frantically around the room, while Silas kept his head bowed low, picking at the ash-stained hem of his robes.
Riven strode in. He didn't roar or shout. He simply sat on a heavy weapon crate and set his battle-axe down on the stone floor.
CLANG!
The heavy ring of metal against stone echoed through the room, a psychological weight that made the air feel thin.
"I don't like wasting time with lies," Riven said coldly. "Our factory is gone. And only the two of you held the warehouse keys last night."
"It wasn't me, Lord Riven! I swear by the gods!" Flick cried out hysterically. "I fell asleep at my post for just a moment! When I woke up, the flames were already reaching for the sky! Master Silas was the last person I saw leaving the warehouse!"
Silas slowly raised his wrinkled face, his eyes brimming with tears. "I... I was inside, My Lord. I was trying to fix a jammed press. But I swear, I didn't bring so much as a spark near the alcohol vats."
"Liar!" Flick pointed a trembling finger. "He was bribed! Look at his pockets—they look suspiciously heavy!"
Riven stared at Flick, then turned his gaze to Silas. His instincts as a former field manager from the concrete jungle of Jakarta kicked in. He knew the tells of a liar; an innocent person usually reacts with confusion or righteous anger when accused, while the guilty party tends to be overly defensive and quick to deflect blame.
"Grimm," Riven called, his eyes never leaving Flick.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Search Flick's locker. Now."
The color drained from Flick's face as if a plug had been pulled. "M-My Lord? Why my locker? Isn't it obvious that Silas—"
"QUIET!" Riven bellowed, the force of his voice shaking the rafters.
Five minutes later, Grimm returned with a small cloth pouch he had found in Flick's locker. As he emptied it onto the table, the contents produced a sharp, metallic ring. Fifty glittering gold coins spilled out, and amidst them lay a small silver pin emblazoned with the Black Sun.
"Flick..." Riven shook his head, a look of profound disappointment clouding his features. "I gave you a job when you were starving. I gave you meat and dignity."
"And you sold our trust for fifty pieces of gold?"
Flick collapsed to his knees, his composure shattering into a fit of sobbing. "Mercy, My Lord! They took my mother! The men in black robes... they threatened to kill her if I didn't burn the warehouse!"
Riven stood up and walked toward the sobbing youth. Flick squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a blow or a blade. Instead, Riven simply patted his shoulder gently.
"I understand you love your mother," Riven whispered softly. But a heartbeat later, his tone turned as cold as a northern blizzard. "...But your actions nearly murdered a hundred and twenty of your own comrades."
"Grimm, take him to the cells. Find out where his mother is being held; we will rescue her. But after that... Flick is to receive twenty lashes and be banished from Northreach forever."
"A betrayal is a betrayal. There is no tolerance for it."
Sol-Regis – Sudrath Manor. That Same Night.
Rianor read the lines of code emerging from the telegraph machine, his expression darkening with every tap.
Dot-Dot... Perpetrator: Flick. Motive: Mother held hostage by Morvath's subordinates. Paper factory 60% destroyed. Production halted for two weeks.
Rianor crumpled the transcript in his fist. "Morvath is playing dirty. He's striking directly at our logistics."
"Should we retaliate?" Roland asked, idly buffing his boots with a velvet cloth.
"Retaliate with what? We can't storm the Prime Minister's residence. His personal guard consists of thousands of elite troops," Rianor said. Then, a dangerous, thin smirk spread across his face. "However, we don't need to attack his home. We'll strike at the 'heart' of his power."
"The heart?"
"His coin," Rianor stated firmly. "Morvath is profoundly corrupt. He doesn't keep his slush fund in the Royal Bank—he's too afraid of the King's audits. He keeps it in the Iron Vault, a private bank."
Rianor spread a map of the Capital across the table. "Elara got me the Iron Vault's security blueprints. The place is guarded by high-tier defensive enchantments and several golem units."
"However..." Rianor pointed to a specific node on the diagram. "They have one fatal flaw. They still rely on an archaic mana-security system that we... can hack."
Rhea entered the room, hauling her black tactical gear. "So, we're robbing a bank tonight? Like one of those heist movies from the projection-thingy?"
"More accurately," Rianor corrected, adjusting his glasses, "we're going to 'reallocate' Morvath's assets into the Northreach development fund before he even notices next month."
"The mission: Operation Robin Hood."
"Target: One hundred thousand gold coins belonging to Morvath."
"Execution: Rianor on tech, Rhea on infiltration, and Roland... you're the distraction."
"Hey, why me?" Roland protested. "Do I have to fight?"
"No. You have to act dead drunk in front of the bank gates. Cause as much of a scene as humanly possible to draw the guards' attention."
Roland grinned wide. "Well, that happens to be my natural specialty."
In Front of the Iron Vault Bank. Midnight.
"HEY! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR! I NEED TO MAKE A DEPOSIT RIGHT NOW!"
Roland, his shirt intentionally disheveled and a wine bottle in hand—which was actually just cold tea—banged violently on the bank's iron gates.
"I am Roland Sudrath! The future richest man on this continent! Open up! Tsk, what kind of service is this?!"
Two golem units and two human guards emerged, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Lord! It's midnight! The bank is closed!"
"Who says it's closed?! Money never sleeps, you know! Hic!" Roland swayed drunkenly, even feigning an attempt to vomit on one of the guard's boots.
While the guards were preoccupied with the "drunk lunatic" at the gate... up on the roof, Rhea and Rianor landed without making a sound.
"Elara said the mana vent is around here," Rianor whispered. He pressed a mana-circuit breaker against a small chimney stack.
Click.
The magical glow of the alarm system suddenly dimmed. "We have ten minutes before the system auto-reboots," Rianor said.
They rappelled down, slipping into the cold main vault. The vault door was massive, forged from legendary magic-resistant steel.
"Rhea, can you crack this?"
Rhea shook her head. "Can't force it with blades. But..."
"Wait!" Rianor caught her wrist just before she touched the surface.
"What? We're on a clock!" Rhea hissed.
Rianor activated his specialized goggles. Through the lenses, he pointed to the edge of the iron door. Faintly, the Rune of Silent Alarm pulsed with a dim purple light.
"See that? If this hinge is scratched even slightly without neutralizing the circuit, a garrison of Capital mages will teleport here in seconds. We'll be dead before we can blink."
Rianor reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small metallic disc with a blinking red indicator—a Mana Jammer he'd built with Elara. He slapped it onto the center of the door's mana flow.
WUUUUUUNG...
A high-pitched frequency hummed, grating on the ears. The purple light on the door flickered in panic before going completely dark.
"Security is down," Rianor wiped cold sweat from his temple. "Morvath is paranoid, but he relies too much on rigid, ancient technology."
Rhea pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. "Rumina gave me this. High-concentrate acid extracted from the stomach of a worm monster."
She applied the liquid to the hinges. Hiss... The steel melted away like heated butter. The door swung open, revealing piles of gold bars and glittering gems. On one shelf sat a specialized chest marked with the Black Sun.
"There it is," Rianor smiled with satisfaction. "The blood money he stole from the people."
"We taking everything?" Rhea asked.
"Too heavy. Just shove it all into this Spatial Bag, but leave one coin."
"Why leave one?"
Rianor grabbed a scrap of paper, scribbled something with a pen, and placed it atop the final coin.
It read: Thank you for the donation toward the Northreach Factory Reconstruction. – The Wolf.
"Let him know who took it, even if he has no legal proof," Rianor smirked.
They filled the bag to capacity. One hundred thousand gold coins. "Time's up! Let's move!"
They scaled back to the roof and vanished into the night. Below, Roland finally "passed out" from his drunken stupor and was promptly hauled home by a waiting rental carriage.
Mission: Massive Success. By morning, Morvath would wake up as the poorest man among the King's ministers. And Northreach? They had just received a fresh injection of capital to rebuild their glory.
Current Score: Sudraths: 2. Morvath: 0.