When the ground was barren and the hands of man were empty, Ephydra descended from the heavens, her footsteps sowing life where none could grow. She knelt upon the soil, her fingers tracing the patterns of the harvest, and spoke to man in a voice like rustling leaves and rushing streams. 'The land is yours to nurture, as it nurtures you in return. To take without care is to invite ruin. To toil with respect is to invite abundance.'
Ephydra gifted humankind the knowledge of seed and soil, of root and vine. She taught them to read the whispers of the wind, to heed the song of the seasons, and to coax life from the reluctant soil. It was she who showed them the rhythm of the plow and the blessings of the rain, her touch turning dust into fertile plains.
Her followers believe that the cycles of nature—the sprouting of seeds, the harvest, and even the inevitable decay—are manifestations of her will. To dishonor the land is to dishonor Ephydra herself, for she exists in the fertile fields and the towering trees, in every bloom and every blade of grass.
The Pantheonic Church honors Ephydra as the Provider, a constant reminder of humanity's partnership with the world. Her shrines are adorned with symbols of the harvest: golden sheaves of wheat, overflowing baskets of fruit, and carved depictions of her kneeling, hands pressed to the soil. It is said that during the Festival of the First Harvest, Ephydra walks among her faithful, hidden in the guise of a humble farmer, blessing those who labor with care and gratitude.
Rell knelt in the shadows, scanning the open space ahead. Her eyes flickered across the courtyard, noting the usual landmarks: the marble fountain at its center, the ornate lamps lining the cobblestone paths, and the towering gates leading to the grand estates beyond. Every detail was familiar—except for the eerie absence of life.
Her instincts screamed that something was wrong. The Noble District was never unattended, especially not at this hour. She had expected to sneak past patrols, slip through gaps in their formation, and keep to the shadows as always. But now, the lack of resistance felt like a trap, as though unseen eyes were watching her every move.
She took a slow, steadying breath, forcing herself to remain calm. Maybe the guards had been called away for some emergency, or perhaps it was a rare oversight—a stroke of luck she couldn't afford to squander. Still, her stomach twisted with unease. Rell had learned the hard way that when things seemed too easy, there was always a catch.
"What're we waitin' for? The way's clear—c'mon, let's get movin'!" A voice behind her piped up, breaking the silence. Mick, one of Declan's boys, had been sent to accompany her.
"Keep it down, would ya?" Rell whispered, but even her hushed voice seemed too loud in the stillness of the courtyard.
"Declan told us to get in and out, quick as we can," Mick whined. "Why're we wastin' time sneakin' around like this?"
"I don't give a damn what Declan said," Rell snapped. "We can't afford to screw this up. No guards? That could mean a setup. We should head back and figure out a better time."
"Declan said it's gotta be tonight. 'Sides, we ain't the only ones headin' in—what about the other group?" Mick insisted.
Rell turned around to face him directly. "What other group?" Her voice was sharper now, frustration creeping in. Mick, the lanky youth accompanying her, was practically still a kid. His freckled face had patches of scruffy facial hair, and his scalp was clean-shaven—a trademark of Declan's militia.
"Pierce and Simon," Mick replied matter-of-factly. "They're our backup."
"Backup? That don't even make sense. We're just here to swap out the contract. We're not plannin' on gettin' caught. How would those two idiots help, anyway?" Rell shot back, irritation clear on her face. They'd been working on this plan for months, and now Declan was stomping all over it.
Mick stared at her blankly, clearly at a loss for words.
"Fine." Rell turned away, her frustration boiling just under the surface. "Let's just get this over with." She didn't know how Pierce and Simon planned to get into the Léveque Keep, but if they did manage to make it in, she didn't trust them to handle it on their own. One wrong move, and they could get caught. Worse, they might bring retribution down on the rest of the refugees.
The two of them moved cautiously through the courtyard. Even without patrolling guards, they kept to the shadows, slipping past thaumic lamps that cast faint, unflickering light, and staying close to the trimmed hedges and sculpted statues that lined the path. Rell focused on the task at hand, but she couldn't shake the simmering annoyance building inside her. The lavishness of the district—scrubbed stone, pristine lawns—was a notable difference to the grimy slums she called home.
"What a waste," Mick whispered as they passed another extravagant statue. Rell considered shushing him but decided to let it slide this time.
The estates sprawled before them, competing to stand out from the rest with extravagant decor.. Massive stone walls rose high, adorned with intricate carvings and arches, marking the entranceways. Courtyards, meticulously paved with cobblestones, led into expansive gardens where flowers bloomed in symmetrical rows, their vibrant colors almost overwhelming against the greenery. Statues of long-forgotten figures stood at regular intervals, each meticulously carved to tell tales of bravery and heroism, their eyes cast upward as if to gaze upon a greatness only a few could afford.
Rell's gaze drifted over pristine fountains, their waters sparkling under the artificial light. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and roses, almost too sweet, the air itself was pushed toward perfection. She could hardly believe how much land each estate commanded—each one could fit a whole village on its grounds, with more space left over for the extensive gardens and manicured paths.
At every entrance stood guards, tall and immaculately dressed, their spears held in a rigid stance. Rell noted how carefully each guard stood, how they seemed more like statues than people. They were no doubt part of the nobility's private army, tasked with ensuring that only those who were welcome ever stepped foot on the property. As she passed by, Rell could feel their eyes following her—curious, yet dismissive, as if they knew she didn't belong here, but it wasn't their problem unless she crossed into their domain.
It was obscene, how much wealth was amassed here, how every corner of these estates was designed to remind everyone of the power and influence held within. To Rell, it all felt like a show—meant to remind the rest of the world just how far the gap between the nobles and everyone else had grown.
"They're starin'—it's freakin' me out." Mick whimpered. Rell ignored him as they pressed on towards their goal.
As Rell and Mick rounded a corner, the Léveque Keep came into view, towering above them like a monolith. It stood at the highest point of the city, commanding the skyline with its imposing silhouette. The massive structure seemed to pulse with authority, its stone walls rising up in layered tiers. The keep was the crown jewel of Brelith, and every inch of it spoke of wealth, power, and privilege.
Before them, a large staircase unfurled like a serpent's tongue, wide and imposing, its steps crafted from smooth marble that gleamed under the thaumaturgic lights. The stairs stretched up toward the massive, iron-wrought gates, decorated with designs of sweeping arches and flowing lines—symbols of lineage and legacy. Two large thaumic braziers stood to the sides of the gate, casting azure embers into the night's air, causing shadows to dance and flicker before them. But there was no movement. No guards. No watchful eyes. Just the silence of the keep, as if it was a place apart, untouchable. Then again, who would risk the wrath of the most powerful nobles in the city.
Rell felt her stomach tighten. The absence of guards only heightened her unease. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. For all its grandeur, the keep felt hollow, like a carefully maintained facade. Everything about this only heightened her trepidation. But there was no turning back now. She steeled herself and started up the stairs, eash step echoing in the still air. She had a job to do, and the keep was the final hurdle. It was time to cast off the shackles placed on her people.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Rell's gaze shifted to the gates. The massive iron doors, usually a symbol of the keep's unyielding security, stood slightly ajar. The gap was just wide enough for a person to slip through without forcing the doors open—an invitation, or perhaps an oversight?
Were the gates left open on purpose, like the missing guards? Had someone been expecting them? Or—she frowned—had Simon and Pierce, in their clumsy haste, left them this way? The idea of the two of them messing up something this crucial was enough to make her fume.
She moved forward cautiously, her steps slower now, the silence in the air heavy with anticipation. Mick hung behind her, he was unusually quiet, his unease palpable. The gates loomed before her, and the soft creak of the metal in the stillness felt far too loud in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the surroundings once more, but the silence persisted, thick and unnerving.
"Stay alert," she muttered, barely audible, slipping through the gap in the gates.
The keep beyond the gates was built from light, smooth stone, its pastel surface standing in stark contrast to Rell's bitterness toward the nobility. She would have preferred a darker, more foreboding stone—something that would reflect the true nature of those who resided within. If it had looked like a castle of wickedness, perhaps it would feel more fitting for the task ahead.
Along the pathway, a golden statue loomed, standing tall and majestic. The path wound around its base, forcing visitors to take notice, to marvel at its grandeur. But this statue was different from the others they had passed; it wasn't simply a symbol of wealth—it was a likeness of Ephydra, the goddess of the land, the one their people still prayed to in the slums. The same god Rell worshipped.
Ephydra stood with a basket of fruit slung over one arm, the other arm raised high, holding an apple to the sky. The image should have felt comforting, a representation of abundance and growth, but all Rell could feel was a sharp pang of guilt. Rell knew what they were doing was wrong, it felt like they were cheating, but in that moment, there was no other choice.
"Where are they?" Mick muttered, his voice tense as the two of them reached the doorway of the keep. Rell couldn't tell if he was asking about the missing guards or his absent friends. Either way, the question hung in the air like a bad omen.
"I don't like this. Let's get it over with and get outta here," Rell said, her tone clipped, trying to steady her nerves. She stepped forward, reaching for the door handle. She had half expected to find a window to slip through, but something told her the front door might offer the quickest way in. Her suspicions were confirmed as she jiggled the handle—there was no resistance, and with a soft click, the heavy door swung open.
"It's unlocked?" Mick exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"No more talkin'," Rell snapped, pushing the door open with a sharpness in her voice. It swung effortlessly on its hinges, not a sound to be heard. Even a nobleman's door is better than the creaky, rickety structures they had to make do with in the slums. The silence around them amplified the tension. Rell released her tight grip on the doorframe and stepped inside, Mick following closely behind.
The entry hall of the keep was the definition of grand. The high, vaulted ceiling loomed above them, accentuated by metal vines and flowers that wrapped around golden chandeliers, glimmering from the light that filtered in from outside. The floor was a polished marble, with intricate mosaics inlaid into the stone, depicting scenes of the Léveque family's illustrious history.
Double doors lined the walls, each made of dark wood with golden handles, their surfaces inlaid with ostentatious patterns. These doors led to rooms Rell could only imagine to be—studies, libraries, dining rooms for the aristocracy each carefully decorated to emphasize the families power. On either side of the hall, two staircases swept up in perfect symmetry, their polished railings shining in the faint light. The stairs curved elegantly toward the floor above, and Rell could almost picture the lavish galas that must have been held in the space above.
Massive portraits of the Léveque family hung prominently across the walls, their painted eyes staring down with a heavy, unyielding gaze. The family's proud lineage was displayed in rich, shining frames. The faces were frozen in time—each brushstroke a reminder of their importance, of their status in the world. Rell shuddered under their judgeful gaze.
Across from them, polished showcases lined the walls, filled with weaponry—swords, spears, halberds, maces and daggers, trimmed in gold set behind glass. Pristine weapons that had never seen combat. Porcelain vases, painted with soft pastels were placed next to the weapon displays. Showing the contrast between delicate crafting and savage purpose.
As Rell stepped deeper into the hall, the overwhelming splendor of her surroundings made her feel smaller, less significant. She was a shadow amidst brilliance, a fleeting thing trying to hold on, to remain unseen. The grandeur of it, the suffocating opulence, made her feel like she didn't belong. Like she wasn't supposed to be here at all.
Shaking her head, Rell forced herself to snap back to focus. There was no time to gawk at the decadence around her. They had a job to do. She needed to find the offices, somewhere on the second or third floor, assuming the intel they'd received was accurate. Every second spent lingering was a second wasted.
They moved through the second floor like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by plush carpets and thick drapery. The two of them darted from door to door, inspecting each room methodically. The first room they checked was a ballroom—a massive space filled with mirrors and chandeliers. They quickly moved on since the room was relatively empty of anything that would hold their contract.
Next, a private room with velvet curtains framing a large window. A quick look showed nothing but fine furniture, gilded frames, and the ever-present stillness. Rell left the room as the silence grew.
They checked the reading rooms next. Bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes and old tomes. A compact thaumaturgic fireplace crackled quietly with blue flames, giving the room a spooky atmosphere.
A bathroom came after—marble counters, copper fixtures, and plush towels hanging neatly on hooks. With a bath twice the size of the room she shared in the slums.
None of the rooms led them to the offices. It was a maze of excess, each corner more ridiculously unnecessary than the last, yet devoid of life. Not a single soul in sight, no staff, no guards, no one.
Still, she pressed on up the stairs. They had to find the offices. She wasn't about to leave without completing the job. Despite the wide passage, Mick followed close behind, practically stepping on her heels.
The third floor housed the bedrooms, and Rell knew they had to tread carefully. Waking someone here would be disastrous, though part of her half-expected the Léveques themselves to be missing by now—perhaps already gone, swept away, like the staff, by some unnatural power.
She reached the first door, praying this would be the last obstacle of the night. She gripped the handle and twisted—but it didn't move. Locked.
Rell knelt by the door, pulling out her tools—a pair of thin, flattened scraps of metal she had scavenged and filed down into makeshift picks. They weren't perfect, but they'd worked before.
She slid the first piece into the keyhole, using it to feel the contours of the wards inside the lock. It wasn't about finesse; it was about understanding the shape and finding a path. She twisted it gently, adjusting her angle while trying to manipulate the internal mechanisms.
Her free hand brought the second piece into play, a smaller, hooked tool that allowed her to lift and press at just the right spots. It was slow, frustrating work—trial and error—but she had a hunter's patience.
Click.
Her pulse quickened as the first ward shifted. She continued, steady and methodical, her fingers numb from the delicate adjustments. Another click, then another. She was close now.
Finally, with a satisfying clunk, the lock yielded. Rell exhaled softly, tucking the tools away before nudging the door open just enough to peek inside.
It was pitch-black. Still no sound. Still no sign of life. Whatever had emptied this keep didn't leave her feeling reassured.
She pushed the door open wider, revealing a room filled with desks, drawers, cabinets, and tables. Could this be their destination? Her eyes darted to Mick, who met her gaze with a firm nod.
They slipped inside, Rell carefully easing the door closed behind them but leaving it slightly ajar—just enough to hear if someone approached. The room was eerily mute, the air heavy with the faint scent of ink and parchment. Rell strode to the window and pulled the curtains apart, letting the faint moonlight spill into the space. It wasn't much, but it gave them enough light to work without risking a lamp.
The two of them set to work, sifting through drawers, leafing through papers, and checking cabinets. The room was a maze of documents, and the search was painstakingly slow. Every rustle of parchment echoed in the silence, Rell's nerves fraying as her hands trembled slightly while she worked.
After what felt like hours, she fished out a familiar document. She carefully pulled it free from the organized cabinet, its worn edges crinkling softly. There it was—the contract Kempford had signed when their people first arrived in Brelith.
She held it up, her hand shaking while she read over the terms. It was nearly identical to the forged version they'd created, but there was one glaring difference. This original contract bound them to an ever-increasing tax, a crushing weight that forced them into the slums. The forged version, however, removed that burden and provided an opportunity for their people to pay off their debt officially—a chance for freedom.
Rell didn't hesitate. She swapped the contracts, sliding the forged version into place and folding the original neatly. She slipped it into her pocket, her fingers brushing down the aged edges of the paper. The original wouldn't survive the night—she'd see to it personally, burning it as soon as they returned to the slums.
She turned to Mick and gave him a thumbs-up, a silent signal that the job was done. The strange stillness of the night lingered in her mind, but the plan had gone off without a hitch. Now they just had to leave without getting noticed.
Rell moved to the door, carefully pulling it open. The hinges barely made a sound, but as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. Standing in her way was a child, a boy with long blond hair, eyes wide and curious.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat. Where had he come from? Why was there a child wandering the halls at this hour? Her initial thoughts tumbled over each other in a frantic mess, but it only took a moment for recognition to settle in. The boy standing before her wasn't just any child—he was Noah Léveque, the youngest son of Jacques Léveque.
Rell stared dumbly at the young lord, her mind struggling to catch up. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Every scenario she had imagined—every contingency she had rehearsed—involved guards, the elder Léveques, or maybe even a warden. But this? A child? She hadn't prepared for this.
Noah tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking between her and the barely open door behind her. Rell swallowed hard, her body tense, unsure whether to run, explain, or simply stand frozen in place.
"What'cha doin' in fere? Huh?" Noah asked, his wide eyes studying the strange woman standing in his home.
"I was just—" Rell trailed off, her mind scrambling for an excuse. How much did this boy know? He was still young—could she trick him into thinking she was just cleaning? She glanced quickly at Mick, who was crouched just out of sight by the side of the doorway. His eyes were wide with panic, silently pleading with her to get them out of this mess.
"I'm not 'posed to go in fere. It's only for 'dults!" Noah declared with an exaggerated nod, his face scrunching up as he squinted at Rell. "Are you a big 'dult? You don't dwess like one."
"Yeah, I'm an adult," Rell said, forcing a smile, trying to sound as casual as possible. "I-I'm on a special mission… for... actually, I can't tell ya. It's a secret."
"What kinda sekwet? I wanna know! I won't tell anyone, pwomise!" Noah exclaimed loudly, his voice echoing down the hall.
"Shh," Rell hissed, holding a finger to her lips. Noah mimicked her, his tiny finger tapping his mouth. "How 'bout this: if you go back to bed and be good, I'll tell ya my secret next time we meet."
Noah's face lit up with excitement, and he nodded vigorously. "Pwomise?"
"Promise," Rell replied, offering him the best reassuring smile she could muster.
With a wide grin, Noah turned on his heel and scampered down the hall, his tiny footsteps echoing behind him.
As soon as Noah was out of sight, Rell and Mick shut the door quietly and rushed back downstairs, moving quickly but trying to stay out of sight, just in case. The tension hung heavy in the air—they needed to leave before anything else went wrong.
"D-Declan said no witnesses," Mick muttered shakily, his voice a mix of fear and anxiety.
Rell shot him a venomous glance. She hated the nobles with a passion, but there was no way she would harm a child. "I told ya before, I don't care what Declan said." She spat the words, her voice sharp.
"But… he saw yer face… what if—" Mick continued, the fear in his eyes evident as he tried to reason with her.
"Just shut up. The job's done, everything'll be fine." Rell snapped, cutting him off. They'd made it back to the first floor now, and she just wanted to get out of there before they were caught.
They retraced their steps through the grand hall, moving more swiftly this time, not bothering with the careful silence they'd maintained earlier. Out the keep they went, passing the golden statue of Ephydra without a second glance, almost running through the estates until the noble district was far behind them. The air felt lighter as they neared the outskirts, the tension finally starting to loosen, though Rell couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone wrong somewhere along the way. They succeeded, but the whole ordeal felt off.
As they moved through the empty streets, the weight of the night's events began to settle on Rell's shoulders. The job was done. The contract was swapped. No harm had been done.
But the unease gnawing at her wasn't about what they had done—it was about what they hadn't. They didn't have to hide, they didn't have to run, they practically didn't do anything.
Rell couldn't help but feel like there was a piece of the puzzle missing. They'd completed their task, sure, but she wasn't convinced the job was as straightforward as it had seemed. It felt like there was something else lurking beneath the surface.
As they neared the slums, Rell found herself wondering what the next step would be. She could tell herself that everything had gone according to plan, that she had done exactly what she was supposed to do, but deep down, she knew the truth. She was far from satisfied. There was something else that transpired that night. She didn't know what, but there was more that she was unaware of.
And when it came to the nobility, nothing was ever simple.