3 days past by quickly, and moonlight seeped through the cracks in the warehouse roof, painting mottled patches across the dusty floor. Eamond crouched in the shadows near the hidden passage that they took to get in, the faint clang of distant footsteps echoing down the corridor beyond. Lysandra knelt beside him, fingers dancing in ember-lit anticipation, while Jake hovered at the rear, clutching his map and bracing himself against the weight of what they were about to attempt.
"This is it," Eamond whispered, voice taut with controlled excitement. "Our first step in bankrupting the Crimson Fang."
He rose, smoothing his coat as if it were a tailcoat for a grand ball, though the fabric was singed and stained. Lysandra exhaled a thin wisp of flame to illuminate a scrap of parchment he held—Jake's crude blueprint of the Crimson Fang warehouse. Eamond scanned the corridor beyond the door with his eyes: two guard posts flanking a heavy iron gate; beyond that, the archival vault where the Fang kept their most precious cargo.
"We move on my signal," Eamond murmured. "Lysandra, disable the brazier on the left. Jake, be ready to slip between them once the flames die." He tapped the gold seal on his palm—a warding sigil he'd quietly learned to etch with Money Magic. "I'll handle the lock."
Lysandra nodded, her eyes glinting. Jake swallowed, gripping his hood tighter.
Eamond inhaled, then sprang forward, muscles coiled like a spring released. Every sense sharpened—the scent of damp stone, the echo of distant guards, the grit of centuries-old dust underfoot.
"This sigil better work for the amount of money I spent," he muttered, palm pressed against the embossed crest. A pale glow spread from the rune, humming with the power of his Money Magic. Drawing on Arabelle's ward-breaking secrets, he whispered the unlocking incantation.
The runes along the door's rim pulsed, then clicked. With a shuddering groan, the heavy oak door swung inward.
Inside, the vault chamber unfolded like a tomb of forgotten wealth. Its curved walls, lined with moss-slick stone, arched overhead into shadow. Wooden crates, scarred by age, and iron-bound chests stood at rigid attention against the walls. Each chest bore brass locks etched with curling runes that gleamed in the brazier's flickering flame.
The single brazier on the far wall crackled, casting wavering shadows across the floor. At the chamber's center, a stone pedestal bore witness to centuries of secrets, its surface worn smooth by offerings past. Resting atop it were two small trunks, their dust-laden exteriors promising revelation—and danger.
Eamond's heart pounded as he stepped deeper into the chamber. Lysandra crouched at his side, embers dancing at her fingertips. Jake hovered near the door, keen-eyed and ready for flight. Three trunks waited—silently daring them to unlock their mysteries.
The air thrummed with anticipation, every rune and shadow concealing peril. Eamond steadied himself, knowing that beyond these locks lay the next turn in their fate.
Jake pointed. "Fang Tribute, 19 Krum," read one box. The other: "Vault Transfer—Discretion Required."
Eamond's breath caught. "Discretion indeed."
He strode to the pedestal and reached for the first trunk's lock. His fingertips traced the runes. Drawing upon the same sigil-magic that had breached the warehouse door, he whispered the unlocking incantation. The lock's runes flared briefly, then the clasp snapped open with a hollow click.
Inside lay two bundles of fine silken cloth — crimson and gold — and beneath them, a small, carved wooden box. He lifted the box's lid, expecting gold or jewels. Instead, he stared down at a sleeping boy.
The boy's slender arms and legs were covered in crimson cloth. White brushed its tiny forehead. It blinked at him, eyes wide and curious.
Behind Eamond, Lysandra gasped. Jake's mouth dropped open.
"Another trunk," Eamond whispered, voice barely steady.
He closed the first box gently, sealed it, and then turned to the second trunk. Kneeling, he released its lock with another soft chant. As the lid clicked free, he found another bundle—this one white and silver. He lifted the cloth and saw a second newborn: a little girl, fine hair the color of moonlight, cheek pressed against a small, ornate box.
The two infants lay side by side at the heart of the Crimson Fang's vault, their breaths slow and measured—protected, perhaps, by magic of their own.
Jake bent down. "They're… treasures? Human cargo?"
Eamond's mind raced. Twins: one bound to with crimson, the other with silver. Each trunk bore the same warding sigils that protected the warehouse itself.
He knelt between them. "Not gold," he murmured. "The greatest asset the Fang possess—heirs. They intend to ransom or that they stole from rival nobles."
Lysandra's fire flickered doubt in her eyes. "You wanted treasure, Eamond." Her voice was soft but carried across the vault. "These are… people."
Jake placed a trembling hand on Eamond's shoulder. "We can't sell them. They're children."
Eamond rose, the weight of his ambition and greed pressing on him. He looked at the twins' small chests rising and falling in sleep. "They are wealth," he whispered, his eyes twinkling with greed. "But our ransom will bring gold and opportunities."
He reached into his pouch, fingers brushing the cold metal of his silver coins. In his mind's eye, he balanced risk and reward: a fortune for the Fang, a lifeline for St. Marla's, and the spark of leverage that could set him above every debt.
"We extract them," he said, voice steady. Lysandra exhaled, flames dancing in a hesitant glow. "You intend to bargain."
"Nope," he replied, catching her gaze. " I have a different plan."
Eamond lifted the boy from the trunk. The child's eyes fluttered open. In panic, he screamed—a shrill, piercing wail echoing through the vault. The girl awoke and joined him, tiny voices reverberating off stone walls.
"Kids, hush," Eamond hissed, pressing a palm to the boy's back. Lysandra knelt, gently cradling the girl's hand. "It's okay." Eamond and then cast a sleep spell so they could quiet down and not alert the guards
But the sound had reached the guard post above. Heavy footsteps thundered on the stairs.
"We're discovered," Jake whispered, voice tight. "They're coming."
They burst into the stairwell. The guard's torchlight blinded them. Eamond jostled the children, pressing them into the wall's shadows.
Jake slid the heavy door shut, and Eamond locked it with a hurried chant. "That should buy us seconds."
Eamond pressed his back against the cold stone, heart hammering as distant shouts and the thud of armored boots drew nearer. The narrow stairwell wound upward in a tight spiral, each step swaying under the weight of panic. He tightened his grip on the boy.
Jake extinguished the torch in his hand, plunging them into near-darkness. Only Lysandra's faint ember-light guided their way. "Soft steps!" Eamond hissed, crouching low as he led the way. The children clung to him, tiny fists clutching his tunic.
They ascended three flights, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Lysandra paused at the turn, peering over her shoulder. "They're below," she whispered, voice trembling with urgency. A muffled crash echoed as the first guard surged against the locked door.
Eamond found a narrow ledge along the wall and pressed the children into its depth. "Stay close," he murmured.
Lysandra knelt, her ember-light dancing across the rough-hewn steps. "We need a diversion," she said softly, embers flaring bright in her eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she ignited a hidden pile of rat droppings in the corridor below. A pungent flare of smoke and the scurrying of fleeing vermin echoed through the stairwell.
"Now!" Eamond seized the moment. He guided them upward again, each step measured and swift. Their pursuers cursed below as guards fanned out to quell the chaos.
At the top of the stairs, a half-open door led into the back entrance. Eamond heaved it open, moonlight spilling through a gap in the boards. He squeezed through, pulling the children behind him. Jake followed, slamming the door shut and paying another price to seal it.
They lay panting among them. The children nestled against Eamond's chest, sweat cooling on their foreheads. Below, muted shouts and the sounds of alarm bells signaled the guards' frustration.
Eamond exhaled, voice barely above a whisper: "It worked. We're alive. But nothing goes smoothly from here."
Outside, the children steadied their breaths and sank to their knees. " We did it."
Lysandra's flames drifted out of her fists, dim and contemplative. "We stole the Fang's most valuable treasures."
Eamond unmasked his face to the moonlight and watched the warehouse vanishing behind them. Eamond's pulse thundered. "Back to the street. Now."
He clutched the children close and took them to the back alley, Lysandra's roaring flames echoing in their wake. As they reached the alleyway, a cry rang out—"Intruders! Get them!"—and the night exploded with shouting.
Jake's voice was firm. "We'll make it. We have to."
Eamond nodded, lifting the girl aloft. "Onward, then. Operation Treasure Hunt is only half complete."
And as they vanished into the maze of streets—children in arms, guards in pursuit—Eamond knew the next chapter would be even more perilous.