“Whoever would summon something like that,” Imran says. “Values, not the life of those beneath him.”
“But Fateena…?”
“I did her a service,” he growls, slinking back toward the door, pressing his palm against it, gritting his teeth, the wet stains of tears growing all along his muzzle.
The great vault door creaks and clatters with the mechanisms of many complicated inner workings. Without magical assistance, undoing every contraption that keeps the portal closed would have taken a lifetime’s worth of mastery. After the setback the team just endured, it seems almost laughable and unfair that such a thing would be so simple.
With a great, echoing clank, the doors unlock. Imran, his eyes red and cheeks stained, grips his hands against the doors, his shoulders struggling as he hefts the massive things open, taking step after laborious steps to grant them access to the treasures Fateena died for.
Beyond them is another spacious chamber, but this one bereft of any light, save for one singular spot that flickers from above, bathing a cone before them to illuminate a small display case. Inside that case is an ornate container inscribed with precious and magical jewels and topped with a glimmering stone of more value than the other gemstones combined.
“That must be it,” snorts Imran. “Go ahead, do what you must!” He says this, tossing Rhea a satchel.
The feline thief snaps out of a slight stupor in time to catch the satchel, the stink of death behind her breaking her concentration. But she must still go forward with the plan—grab it, swipe out with a similar item, and make a break for it using Yousseff’s magic. He’ll know when they take it. Hopefully, no one else will catch the subtle shift in the magical output.
“Well?” Imran snarls. Get going! Without… without Teena…, we can’t waste more time!”
Rhea steels herself, clenching her fists and pushing herself forward. “Right… this is it. I got this.” She hates how the thought crept into her but wonders if bringing the pair to such a risky operation was wise. They were skilled enough, but now that Fateena has been killed, Imran’s resolve has likely diminished. It was unclear if he was even fit to finish this mission.
As she enters the room, smoke emerges from the ground. She adjusts her mask, ensuring it is tight against her face, but she can still smell the sickly sweet smell of whatever came out of the ground.
She runs for it, rushing straight towards the treasure, only to stop herself and ready her weapon when she sees a figure emerge from the darkness.
There’s a dignified poise behind the figure, dressed nicely in royal hues and with a simple yet clean fur pattern upon his face. Everything about him seems so uptight, even the way he stands with his hands behind his back, his shoulders straight, his gaze unfaltering right toward her eyes.
Imran snarls, only to yowl as a bolt hits him in the shoulder. She rolls around, finally hearing the sound of the guards shouting and rushing into the chamber, raising their weapons carefully with trained steps and making their way through the defenses with practiced steps.
Rhea growls, her tail tense, her blade in her hand. She rushes behind the apparent leader, grabbing at him and moving her hand up to his throat.
But something isn’t right. She misstepped. She missed him, or he moved so little that she didn’t notice, but she stumbled past him, spinning around, her eyes wide, entirely off-guard.
The figure shakes his head, a mirthless laugh escaping from his lips as he places his hand on the bridge of his nose. “How arrogant you are, believing that you would simply force your way into my estate while I was tending to guests.”
He lifts his free hand, snapping his fingers.
From the mass of guards, steps out Osman, an awful grin forming on his face. “What did I say, Master Lambert? Right in the palm of your hand.”
“Osman!?” Imran’s fur bristles at the sight of their supposed inside man. “OSMAN!?”
“Surprised to see me? Of course, you would be. You’re all so gullible. You and that bitch of yours. Zahra was dangerously unreasonable, thinking she could defy the will of Krypta Srebrna… Now, she and her associates will pay for her utter lack of wisdom!”
Imran roars, rushing forward toward the man and his guards. He foams at the mouth. His vision is bloodshot and frenzied.
The guards raise their weapons and fire, aiming straight for Imran. Dozens of bolts strike him, but he leaps for Osman with his teeth bared.
Rhea looks away at the final volley of attacks, rushing forward again at Lambert. As she does, he dissipates into smoke, reappearing behind the flask—some sort of arcane illusion. “Not quite that easy. I’m still trying to enjoy the festivities despite your intrusion. Now, do not resist and accept that your lives are forfeit. Accept the cost of this transgression and your lack of insight.”
“Bastards!” Rhea says, flipping her dagger and striking the glass with the pommel. It shatters and swipes it, continuing her run past the taunting figure.
“No, no, no. None of you will be leaving.” Lambert says, reappearing beside her. He nods over toward Osman.
Osman runs forward, his weapon dripping with crimson. “Come here, girlie. Do you have any final wishes for Bibi?”
Rhea reaches the back of the room, but only shelves of locked boxes greet her. She grabs onto them, climbing frantically, her heart racing.
Osman slashes at her, but she pulls herself up, his weapon clanging against the wall.
“Can’t you kill one foolish girl? Don't embarrass me this way, Osman,” The haughty hyena barks.
Smoke swirls around the traitorous gemsbok, trailing upward. It makes its way to Rhea, embracing herself around her. It grabs her arm and the flask.
Rhea yowls, pulling at the flask, but the smoke pulls her in, bringing her into a spiraling darkness. Her breath increases, and her mind spins. She can’t see, think, or feel it. It’s all going wrong, so terribly wrong, and she’s falling, falling back down toward Osman and back to that chamber filled with failure and death.