Tavorok’s broad, bovine face split into a pleased grin, the golden nose ring glinting in the low light of his stall. He reached out with one thick-fingered hand and gently tapped the side of the ring Aravior had shown interest in, its surface still faintly humming with latent enchantment.

  “Ah, a man with some sense!” the minotaur said, voice rumbling like a landslide. “If memory serves, the medallion will be within a scroll case made of pale wood, bound in copper, sealed with a glyph that will burn your fingers if you’re rude to it. Don’t open it. Don’t shake it. Don’t let it hear anything you wouldn’t want repeated.” He winked, which was somehow both unsettling and disarmingly charming. “As for specifica, It’s Vault Three-Twenty-Nine, under the Basilica of the Silent Flame.

  “As for the rest?” He gave a soft grunt, raising a hand in a mock gesture of disinterest. “As I said, I don’t care what you do. Burn the place down, pocket a few trinkets, paint your name on the walls with starlight. Just don’t get caught, and don’t bring heat back to me.”

  Aravior raised an eyebrow, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the stall. “And if I find something else useful?”

  Tavorok chuckled deeply. “Then fate’s smiled on you, my red-maned friend. Just remember: the Basilica is watched. Not by the Bureau, mind you. The Consortium keeps their own foreign eyes on it, and those eyes are…less forgiving than your usual spellcop.”

  Aravior smiled, reckless and brilliant. “So you’re saying it’s fun.”

  The minotaur laughed, his horns tilting toward the sky. “Oh, this one’s going to be interesting. Go, little flame. Go steal from the fire and see if it burns.”

  With more grace than would be expected of a man his size, he swiped the golden ring from Aravior’s finger and slid it into a small velvet pouch and tucked it into a hidden fold in his cloak. “Your payment. When you return.”

  Aravior gave a playful salute with two fingers and spun on his heel, his cloak whipping behind him. As he vanished back into the market crowd, Tavorok watched him go with a toothy grin.

  “Either you’re going to be very rich,” he murmured, “or very, very dead.”

  Unknowing of Tavorok’s words, Aravior slipped through the winding streets of the market, weaving between carts overflowing with star-fruit and silken root, past alchemists hawking bottles of stormglass tinctures and whispering sellers of illicit charms. The din of the crowd and the ever-present glow of enchanted lanterns painted a surreal haze over the city, but his mind was elsewhere, fixed on the Basilica of the Silent Flame.

  Vault Three-Twenty-Nine. He turned the number over in his mind like a well-worn coin, his fingers twitching slightly as he considered what might be locked away inside. He was no stranger to vaults. The wealthiest families of the Drao Szann Confederacy had entire wings of their manors enchanted to keep out thieves, but the Basilica…that was different.

  The Silent Flame was an old faith, predating even the rise of the Basilisk Consortium, if history was to be trusted. They worshiped the Everburning One, a god of revelation and purification, whose fire burned away deception and left only truth in its wake. Their followers, the Bulbs, as Aravior called them, were known for their unwavering devotion and their obsession with secrecy.

  He scoffed under his breath. The irony wasn’t lost on him. An order that claimed to revere cosmic truth, yet buried theirs beneath glyph-locked vaults and esoteric scripture. Aravior had no love for the gods, no interest in their riddles or their followers, but he was interested in whatever they were so desperate to keep hidden. After all, holy vaults are where the best artifacts end up.

  His pace quickened as he turned onto a broader street, the buildings here taking on a more severe, almost oppressive grandeur. The rooftops were lined with wrought-iron sigils, each one glowing faintly with warding magicks. In the distance, he could see the spire of the Basilica rising against the night sky, a black silhouette crowned with a flickering blue flame that never wavered and never dimmed. Even from here, he could feel the enchantments woven into its walls. Subtle, insidious, and designed to repel intrusion.

  Aravior grinned. This is going to be fun.

  As he walked, his mind drifted to the possibilities. If this was truly a faith-run vault, then relics of power were almost guaranteed to be locked inside. Holy weapons, spell-woven tomes, enchanted vestments imbued with the blessings of long-forgotten saints. Things that priests and Consortium scholars would kill to keep out of hands like his. Maybe he could even sell things to the Conclave of Anomalous Studies, though they’d surely question him on where he had acquired it.

  And, of course, there was the medallion Tavorok wanted. The minotaur had been cagey about its worth, other than its family importance. Which meant it was important to more than just him. He didn’t intend to break the deal with Tavorok of course, Aravior was a man of his word. But nonetheless, his grin still continued to widen.

  There was something thrilling about the unknown. About the risk, the reward, the sheer audacity of it all. It wasn’t just about the gold or the power. It was about proving, again and again, that he could slip through cracks where others saw walls. That he could stand before locked doors and leave them swinging open in his wake.

  And this time, it wouldn’t just be some noble’s overstuffed vault or some tavern’s safe.

  This time, he was stealing from the gods.

  He continued. The streets near the Basilica of the Silent Flame were different from the rest of Mirrakar. Quieter, but not empty. Even at night, robed figures moved in pairs along the marble-paved avenues, their heavy cowls casting long shadows in the glow of the ever-burning torches set into iron sconces. Their voices were hushed murmurs, the soft rustle of parchment carried beneath their arms, the click of prayer beads rolling between their fingers.

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  Aravior pulled up his hood and kept his gait measured, casual. He knew how to blend, how to become just another silhouette in a sea of robed figures.

  But his eyes, his very sharp eyes, were scanning everything.

  The Basilica itself loomed ahead, a monolithic structure of blackstone and gold-veined marble, its immense double doors embossed with the sigil of the Everburning One. A great, lidless eye, wreathed in curling flame. The architecture was ancient, its spires and buttresses woven with thread-thin filigree that, he suspected, wasn’t just decorative.

  Wards. Layers of them.

  Even from this distance, he could feel the faint hum of divine magick, a pulse of energy that made the air taste like embers. It wasn’t hostile, at least, not yet, but it was a warning. His gaze drifted higher, tracing the structure’s ascent. He had studied buildings like this before. Holy sanctuaries, fortified citadels, places that were meant to keep things either in or out.

  And every building, no matter how sacred, had a flaw.

  The stained-glass windows were too high, the buttresses too sheer. The torch sconces weren’t decorative either; they were enchanted, their flames unwavering in the night breeze. Not an easy climb.

  But then he spotted it. Near the rear of the Basilica, past a courtyard lined with statues of forgotten saints, was an adjacent tower. Shorter, older, with crumbling stonework that suggested it hadn’t been maintained as rigorously as the rest of the structure. More importantly, it had an arched window that was dark, unlit, and open.

  Aravior felt a thrill rise in his chest.

  He ducked into a nearby alleyway, pressing himself against the cool stone as two Bulbs passed, their voices low. He didn’t need to listen to their words. He was focused on their movements, the way they carried themselves. Confident and unhurried. They weren’t expecting an intruder. That was good.

  He waited until they rounded the corner, then slipped through the alley, circling the Basilica’s perimeter. His fingers brushed the edge of his wand, his mind already whirling through the spells he might need. A burst of air to propel him, a cushion of flame to catch him if he fell, a quick illusion to mask his presence if needed. Trivial stuff like that.

  Reaching the edge of the courtyard, he crouched behind a stone railing, studying the statues. Each one was a robed figure, hands clasped over their chests, their expressions solemn. Beneath their feet, runes were etched into the marble. Old and probably powerful.

  Ward-glyphs. Not an immediate threat, but he had no doubt they’d flare to life if he moved too carelessly.

  He exhaled slowly, centering himself. This was the part he loved. The anticipation. The puzzle of it all.

  With a flick of his wrist, he whispered an incantation, feeling the air around him shift, growing lighter, buoyant. His boots barely made a sound as he stepped forward, skimming over the ground, past the runes, past the statues. A breeze stirred his cloak as he reached the base of the old tower, pressing a hand against the rough stone. The climb would be tricky, but he had done worse.

  He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders. Then, with a grin, he leapt.

  His hands moved with graceful precision as he scaled the aged stone, fingers dancing across pitted surfaces and jutting ridges. Wisps of wind coiled around him, subtle and silent, guided by whispered cantrips as he pulled from the School of Fundementalism, manipulating the air around him with deft finesse. His boots barely scraped the wall, each step cushioned by the very element itself.

  One school in hand, five more in heart, he mused to himself.

  He remembered the old lectures from the Moldivore Academy back in Orselvane, the great university, all ivory spirals and floating lecture halls, where the most gifted of Drao Szann’s young mages went to learn. Not that Aravior had stayed long. He’d learned faster on his own, in shadows and side streets, with spellbooks pried from dead hands and rituals whispered in alley smoke.

  The Six Schools of Magick. The great foundation upon which all sanctioned spellcraft in Aanor was built. Shaping, Fundementalism, Enchanting, Consciousness, Necromancy, and Manipulation.

  Fundamentalism, he used now. It was generally easy, often the first school young sorcerers were taught to use, and had a wide array of uses. He himself favored air and fire, but he could do minor work with water, earth, and light as well.

  Shaping was the art of form and function, all about effecting the body in some way. It had branches in healing, enhancement, and transformation. Mending wounds, removing toxins, boosting strength and speed, even shapeshifting into animals or other people. It was very mana intensive, but it was easier than other things. He only used it when in close quarters brawls, which he avoided if he could help it.

  Enchanting was one he was off and on with. It focused on storing, altering, or transferring magick into objects or minds. The minds part was always so hard to concentrate on. Entering dreams, reading minds, or general mind control. The other side was completely lost to him. Aravior had no hope in his mind to ever get the hang of glyphs, runes, or sigils. He’d leave that boring shit to the artificers and tinkerers of the world.

  Aravior couldn’t think of “complicated magick” without thinking of the School of Consciousness. Magick all about the mind, senses, and emotions. He didn’t particularly care for practicing it all too much, though he did think it was cool to enhance his perception to see magick in the air. Maybe he’d try it out again, he did know a Biota who was pretty good with echolocation and clairvoyance.

  Necromancy wasn’t exactly the most socially acceptable school to practice, being magick focused on manipulating the essence of life, but Aravior didn’t see it. Like sure, you can summon and talk to the undead and spirits, or control corpses, but as far as he was concerned, people could do whatever magick they wanted.

  Finally was Manipulation, Aravior’s second favorite. All about the art of altering reality in small parts. All three of its branches were useful. Force, Property, and Transmutation, allowing for awesome things like shifting density, controlling an objects momentum, or changing something into something else. Though the most mana intensive it may be, Aravior still loved it.

  The six schools didn’t even delve into things like divine magicks or the Tethered and their pacts. But he wasn’t here to delve into that.

  Aravior reached the open archway and swung himself silently inside, landing in a crouch on the worn flagstones of an old corridor. Moonlight poured in behind him, pooling silver against the dust. He rose to his feet, letting the gentle darkness hug his form. This part of the basilica was ancient, far older than the main sanctum. He could see it in the stones. No gold, no polished obsidian here. Just old, honest stone, set by hand and enchanted long before the modern Age.

  He moved forward slowly, careful not to stir the dust. Ahead, a spiral stair led downward, and the air changed, becoming cooler, drier, and laced with that particular tang of mana.

  The vault, he thought, a thrill buzzing in his chest.

  He touched his wand briefly to his chest, letting the stored mana hum to readiness. His eyes, gleaming in the low light, narrowed in delight. It was time to see what kind of secrets the Basilica of the Silent Flame had hidden away.