The torrential rain hammers against the collapsed roof of the ruined monastery, drowning the forest beyond it in one long, relentless roar. Water runs black down cracked saints, broken stone, and the split remains of the altar. The old sanctuary smells of wet ash, old incense, iron, and fresh blood.
At the far end of the nave, beside two pried-open Guild chests, burlap sacks of stolen silver sit in a neat row. Rhea kneels among them with her crimson robes gathered cleanly out of the mud, sorting stamped bars, sealed lockboxes, and ledger cases into separate piles with the detached precision of a surgeon deciding what can still be saved. Silver needles drift around her shoulders in a slow, humming orbit, catching the firelight in thin flashes.
Vane sits on the remains of a shattered pew near the campfire, broad frame bent forward, elbows on his knees. His blood-dark Kriegsmesser lies across them while he drags an oiled rag down the blade in long, patient strokes. An unlit cigarillo rests between his teeth. Somewhere under his breath, he mutters a low, gravelly complaint about damp leather and ruined wrapping.
You shift your footing beneath the broken archway. It is the smallest sound in the world — a scrape of grit, a breath where there should have been none.
Before you can even draw a breath, Vane vanishes from the pew.
The side of the greatsword presses cold and heavy against your throat. One of his hands locks against your shoulder, not rough, just absolute. He says nothing. He does not need to. The smell of rain, iron, and stale tobacco closes around you like a second collar.
By the altar, Rhea finishes tying off one sack before she rises. She turns at her own pace, re-knotting one immaculate glove as if your intrusion were an inconvenience rather than a threat. The needles around her shoulders sharpen their orbit and settle into a tighter ring.
Rhea: Her voice is soft, almost courteous. "So. The Guild finally noticed."
Her green eyes travel over you once — weapons, insignia, posture, intent — and miss nothing.
Rhea: "Tell me... are you here to arrest us, to kill us, or to ask why the cargo guards had to die?"
Vane: The sword does not leave your throat. "Answer carefully."
