The breakfast delivered to Room 102 was a decadent display of Vulpine’s reach: fresh tropical fruits chilled by frost-magic, delicate pastries filled with rare reef-fish mousse, and more of those gold-flecked tortoise buns. Aiven ate with the mechanical efficiency of a man who didn't know when his next meal would come, while Virelle critiqued the structural integrity of the napkins.

  Shortly after, they were summoned.

  Vane escorted them to the top floor. As they walked through the corridors of the upper spire, Aiven found himself doing mental math. The walls were paneled in polished mahogany and reinforced aether-glass; the holographic artifacts displayed real-time data from across the archipelago. Every light, every climate-control vent, and every hovering security drone required mana.

  This building alone probably consumes more resources than half of Lowhaven combined, Aiven thought, his eyes tracing the glowing conduits in the floor. Cyria isn't just running a company; she’s hoarding the island's pulse.

  They arrived at a private meeting room—a circular chamber of white stone and glass that offered a 360-degree view of the ocean. Inside, Cyria Amberfang was already waiting, her dark jacket draped over her shoulders and her amber hair catching the morning sun. Vane took up a post outside the heavy doors, his massive frame a silent reminder of the security surrounding them.

  "Forgive the sudden summons," Cyria said, offering a sharp, practiced smile as she gestured for them to sit. "I know you’ve barely had time to enjoy the linens, but time is a commodity even Vulpine struggles to stockpile."

  Aiven noticed the tone. It was the standard business apology—smooth, efficient, and entirely hollow. To Cyria, they weren't guests; they were assets on a schedule.

  "We leave tomorrow, then?" Aiven asked, his voice steady. "As soon as Noirelle finishes the arm?"

  "Correct," Cyria replied. She flicked her wrist, and a holographic screen shimmered into life in the center of the table. "Which is why we must discuss the target today."

  The screen displayed a jagged, isolated island. At its center sat a ruin that looked like a rotted tooth. It was an ancient temple, its white marble pillars cracked and overgrown with dark, oily vines. A glowing red dungeon marker pulsed near the entrance, casting a sickly light over the weathered stone.

  "This is the Sunken Fane of Oros," Cyria explained. "It’s located on a restricted islet roughly a day’s journey from here by airship."

  Aiven stared at the image. The ruins looked small, barely larger than a warehouse, but he knew the rules of the world. Dungeons transcend space. Something that looks like a shack on the outside could be the size of Fangreach once you cross the threshold.

  Virelle leaned back, her hair spilling over the chair as she hovered an inch above the velvet cushion. "An airship journey? How tedious. I assume you have provided a vessel that meets a minimum standard of elegance? I refuse to spend twenty-four hours in a flying tin can."

  "Vulpine provides only the best," Cyria promised. "I’m sending my flagship, the Cinder-Fox. It comes with a full operational crew, and to ensure your... comfort... I am sending Vane and Pelka to accompany you."

  Virelle’s brow arched. "Pelka? That sounds like a low-quality brand of dried snack crackers. Is this another animal I am expected to tolerate?"

  Cyria let out a musical chuckle. "She’s the sheep beastfolk in the suit—the one who escorted you from the inn. She’s our lead archaeological analyst."

  Aiven remembered her: the short girl with the heavy bangs that covered her eyes and the delicate, curly horns. He looked at the door where Vane stood. Analysts and guards, he thought. Perhaps they serve another objective, to make sure we do not stray from the plan.

  Given Cyria’s shrewd nature, it was a move that made sense. Though they couldn’t have done anything to rebel against Cyria; doing so would cause more problems down the line.

  "Very well," Virelle blurted out, her eyes fixing on Cyria with a cold, theatrical intensity. "But let it be known, fox: if these two escorts of yours get in our way or decide to try anything funny, I shall not be merciful. I will cause fear so great that their minds would revert back to the era when their ancestors were still licking moss off stones and hadn't yet learned the dignity of walking upright.

  Cyria’s smile didn't falter, but her ears twitched. "I’ll be sure to tell them to stay out of the splash zone. Now, let’s talk about the acquisition."

  "Pelka's theories have finally yielded a result," Cyria continued, tapping a finger against the holographic display. The ruins zoomed in, revealing a complex web of blue energy seals crisscrossing the entrance. "It took weeks of data-crunching, but she has figured out a way to unlock the entrance. Theoretically, at least. We won't know for certain until you’re standing on the threshold."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She leaned forward, her golden slit-pupils sharpening. "However, there are complications. The seal on the Sunken Fane is self-repairing. Once Pelka triggers the unlock sequence, the entrance will only stay open for approximately sixty seconds before it seals shut again. You'll have one minute to enter, or the mission is a total loss."

  Aiven felt a cold sweat prickle his neck. "Sixty seconds? That doesn't leave much room for error. And what about once we’re inside? If the door seals shut, how do we—"

  "That’s the other problem," Cyria interrupted. "Our scans show that the fane is a spatial dead-zone. It is heavily enchanted to prevent any form of teleportation or dimensional hopping. Once you cross that threshold, you’re in there for the long haul.”

  Virelle’s posture stiffened. She looked at Cyria as if the fox had just insulted her entire lineage. "No teleportation? A world where one is forced to walk like a common biped through the entirety of a dungeon? How dreadfully linear."

  Aiven, however, was focused on the exit strategy. "If the door is sealed and we can't teleport out... how are we supposed to get back to the ship?"

  Cyria’s mischievous grin returned, showing that small, sharp fang. "That is where the artifact comes into play. The artifact you’re retrieving is known as the Loom-Breaker. It’s an ancient relic capable of unraveling any form of seal—dungeon seals, spell seals, physical locks—regardless of the level or complexity. It doesn't just open doors; it unbinds the very magic holding them shut, and we can modify the levels of the seals at will."

  She flicked the screen, showing a blurred, ancient sketch of a jagged crystal key glowing with an obsidian light. "Retrieve the Loom-Breaker, and the exit becomes a non-issue. You simply walk up to the door and unmake the seal from the inside."

  "So it's a heist," Aiven whispered. "A one-way trip into a spatial trap, with the only way out being the very thing we’re sent to steal."

  "Efficient, isn't it?" Cyria purred. "I expect a full success, Aiven. Don't make me regret the investment in that new arm."

  Cyria’s expression turned grave as the holographic image of the ruin shifted, showing heat signatures and mana-concentrations. "We don't know exactly what resides within those halls. But logic dictates that a dungeon housing the Loom-Breaker won't be empty. Expect several Boss-rank monsters. And... according to Pelka’s latest readings, there may be a legendary-class beast acting as the final seal guardian."

  She looked directly at Virelle, her golden eyes shimmering. "Which is exactly why I need you, Virelle. I’ve heard some quite fascinating things about your capabilities. Specifically, your ability to delete boss-class monsters with nothing more than a flick of your wrist."

  Aiven’s heart skipped a beat. How does she know that? He stared at Cyria, his mind racing through their short history in Lowhaven. Only a few people had seen Virelle truly exert that level of power: himself, the government workers in the Sector 4 mines, and... Rysa.

  Did the government leak the report? Or did Rysa... Aiven quickly pushed the thought away. Part of him still desperately wanted to believe that the fiery red-head hadn't betrayed them. But in a world where Cyria Amberfang seemed to have eyes everywhere, Rysa was the most likely source. He tried not to dwell on it; there was nothing he could do about a possible betrayal from islands away.

  "Why do I have to tag along?" Aiven asked, his voice sounding small in the vast room. "If the dungeon is that dangerous... I'm just a deadweight."

  Virelle’s eyes snapped to him, her brows furrowing in an instant, sharp refusal. "I refuse to step foot in that dungeon without my Master," she declared, her prismatic orb hummed with a protective, low-frequency vibration.

  "Virelle, I could barely contribute in a regular dungeon," Aiven protested. "Let alone one housing a legendary artifact. I’d just be a burden you have to carry while fighting for your life."

  The words tasted wrong the moment they left his mouth. Aiven felt a tight knot form in his chest, sharp with regret. Days ago, he just told Virelle that he would fight alongside her, not leaving her to shoulder everything by herself. Yet, he just said the exact opposite thing.

  Yet another part of him—the quieter, colder voice, whispered that this was no place for pride or stubborn resolve. A high-level dungeon housing a legendary artifact was not where a half-trained clerk proved his worth. Wanting to be useful didn’t change reality. Charging in just to show he could might not be bravery at all.

  "You are never a burden," Virelle hissed, drifting closer until she loomed over him. "I can keep you safe, such as by encasing you in a protective barrier at all times. But if I were to leave you here... with this fox?" She gestured vaguely toward Cyria with an open look of distrust. "Who knows what manner of corporate tricks she would try to perform on you while I am absent?"

  Virelle’s concern struck a nerve in Aiven. Cyria knew about Virelle’s strength. Who was to say she didn't know about his own nearly unlimited—albeit sealed—mana pool? Even if it was locked away, a woman like Cyria could find a way to weaponize the star in a bottle.

  It was a power that he so desperately wanted to use yet unable to use fully. He had to fear of other people somehow figuring out unlocking it, using that power for themselves, and maybe somehow killing him in the process.

  Aiven sighed, his shoulders slumping. Albeit reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine. I’m going."

  Cyria’s smile widened, sharp and satisfied. "Then everything is settled. Efficiency at its finest." She reached out and pressed a discreet gold button on the marble table. "I’ll have Pelka join us now to explain the technical steps of the insertion."

  Less than five seconds later, the heavy double doors at the end of the gold-carpeted corridor swung open.

  Pelka rushed into the room clutching a heavy leather briefcase. Her curly horns were slightly askew, and her long bangs swayed as she moved with a frantic, nervous energy.

  TRIP.

  Her boot caught the edge of the carpet. With a startled bleat, Pelka went flying forward. The briefcase flew from her hand, its contents—stacks of parchment and glowing data-crystals—scattering across the floor as she landed face-first with a dull thud just a few feet from Cyria’s desk.

  Aiven stared at the lead archaeological analyst currently groaning on the floor.

  Virelle smiled with a hint of cruel amusement. "I’ve seen more coordination from a newborn calf on ice.”

  Aiven had never seen a newborn calf on ice before, let alone Virelle.