Warm sands, coconut trees, and a calm sea breeze... For Rhea, these signs remind her that she is close to home. Not counting brief excursions to Xenara and Khasmia, she has lived only in Northern Kijani. As much as she didn't mind the more significant heat of the desert or savannah, she felt most comfortable residing close to the coastline, specifically in her birthplace, Sheca. For nearly three months, the feline woman was away plying her trade in a smaller settlement. Like her grandmother and late mother, she belonged to an isolated guild of thieves operating out of the coastal city. The central tenet of their humble creed was simple, 'repossess' valuables from the wealthy and use those pilfered gains to benefit the downtrodden denizens of their home. 
At present, Rhea finds herself heading to the Merry Magpie, an inn on Sheca's outskirts. She needs to speak to someone particular there—the owner, who has a history with their local guild. 
She wanders into the tavern, forced to familiarize herself with the musty aura of the old establishment. Sure, it is unassuming with purpose, though that doesn't mean it can’t do without some touching up. Not a single soul is present apart from the barkeep—perfect, she thinks. 
"Been a while since we last spoke, Mustafa. Thinking it's safe to chat?" 
The old, graying lion was not a simple business owner but an ally of Zahra. Not just that, but one of her grandmother's oldest comrades and a trusted confidant. If she remembered correctly, the gentleman was among the first to be recruited by Zahra. 
Mustafa smiles when he sees the young feline thief. He closes his ledger, grinning as he uses some fingers to comb through his mane. 
"Rhea! You were away for some time, at least a few months. Very well. What trouble have you gotten yourself into, then? Do you have any good scores?" 
"Practically lived in Khardan for a short while." She replies. "You'll like this, though. Listen carefully, and dare to believe it if you can." The younger cat leans against the barroom counter as she regales him with the information. "Picture this: a Javanghari merchant strolls into town. Massive caravan. His friends are peddling these sorts of goods, right? Spices, swords, pottery, whatever you want." 
The old lion nods as she lists the goods for sale from the traveling merchants. "But this first one, he had something that caught your eye?" 
"Oh yes. The first one was a jeweler, a real pompous fuck. He already has several guards with him, but I start talking, tell him that Kijani represents unique dangers–" 
Mustafa interrupts, all too familiar with the premise of her grift. "So, you tell him that only a local can protect him from Kijanan crime?" 
Rhea laughs as she continues the story. "Correct, that fat fool bought every single word. I played the part of his protector for some time, pretending to point out potential threats and all that. Gave me plenty of time to eye up the prize, too. Opals, amber, jade, topaz, citrine, pearls, and yes... Diamonds." The cat hefts a sizeable pouch onto the counter, the aforementioned gemstones flowing out toward Mustafa as proof of her tale. Her face forms a large grin, her whole being swelling with pride. She couldn't wait to show the haul to her grandmother. 
The large lion sorts through the impressive variety of precious Javanghari gems, verifying their authenticity. "Very good, very good. Zahra will most definitely approve. Good job, girl."
He places a hand firmly on her shoulder, patting it a few times to help emphasize his satisfaction. "You know, it's good that you've come back. Your grandmother was looking for another warm body for her planned heist." 
Rhea's ears perked up almost instantly upon hearing the new information. A heist? She knew their guild had avoided these high-risk endeavors since their last big score in Zomola, the capital city of Northern Kijani. "Strange. The last heist was only seven months ago. Shouldn't we still be lying low?" 
Mustafa is quick to respond. "Once in a lifetime opportunity. Osman has found a way in at the estate of a Khasmian noble. From the sound of it, this prick is loaded. Very high risk, very high reward. Zahra seems to believe that this could change things permanently." Ugh... Khasmians. Centuries of bad blood between the Atheran colonists of Khasmia and the natives of the Kijanan coast could've played a part in her grandmother's interest in this job. She thought that whoever this guy was, he probably deserved to be knocked down a peg or two. "Okay, okay. Tell me more: who is this guy, and why are we robbing him?" "Raza Lambert. New blood, paranoid, eccentric, shifty, typical Khasmian traits. Zahra will be sure to tell you more once you get back to the hideout, but what I can say... He's an artifact collector, rich like you wouldn't believe." 
Rhea sat in silent contemplation for at least five minutes before responding. "It would be strange if I said no, right? I'll ask Bibi if you’re trying to fool me. Besides, if I stay any longer, I'll be at risk of exposure to your cooking." The old lion laughs at her jest, collecting the gems for her. "Here, girl. Take these to Zahra, then speak with her. If anyone can make this happen, you are one to be counted on. You've got your grandmother's touch." 
The young cat retrieves the pouch, smiling at his compliment. "Thanks, Mustafa." She begins to leave when the older cat provides his idea of a witty remark: "Give 'Bibi' a kiss for me, won't you?" Another laugh follows the statement. She shakes her head, making her way outside of the dingy inn.
Rhea makes her way through the city streets, following the old backroads and main streets in a winding and wayward way that looks normal to a casual observer but will surely confuse and lose any potential followers. This is how it has always been to make it to the hideout, a nondescript corner of the town, hidden from ordinary civilians in plain sight, almost as if it doesn’t even exist, mixed with the other storefronts and residential buildings.
The shade is comforting when she enters, but she keeps on her traveler’s gear. Who knows when one might need to escape quickly back into the streets? The last thing one needs is to stick out.
The old feline is sitting in the old sitting room, rocking in a chair, enjoying her golden years in simple relaxation. A warm drink is steaming in a cup she holds in her apparently shaking hand.
“Hello, Bibi,” Rhea says, stepping forth and respecting Zahra properly. “I have something for you.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” says the old woman, taking the bundle of gems from her and weighing them steadily. “It’s good to have you home.”
“Speaking of home—I hear you have a few guests and are looking for room for one more?”
The old cat twitched her whiskers and nodded. “Oh yes. They should be arriving any minute now. It shall be good to have you here. Please, make yourself at home.”
“That’ll be easy,” Rhea responds, admiring the small trinkets and the scent of spices the older generation loves to add to their abodes. The nostalgia is comforting.
A knock on the door—the particular knock—precedes shortly the arrival of a tall and mature male gemsbok. He lowers his hood when he arrives, nodding his head to both.
“Osman, right?” Rhea says, a teasing smirk on her face.
“And you must be Rhea. Ah, it is good to see you,” he says, a gregarious grin.
“So, this job’s good?” Rhea asks.
“Very, very. Lambert is young and foolish. His security is expensive, but that doesn’t make it good.”
“Good enough to warrant a team of five,” says Zahra, nodding.
A second knock heralds the arrival of two more members, a pair coming in hand-in-hand. The female, a Jerboa,  is carrying tools and pouches of gear, and the male, a Honey Badger, is following close behind her, adjusting his glasses.
“Ah, the lovebirds!” Rhea says.
“Let’s hope Fateena and Imran are not too distracted with each other for this, eh?” Osman says, holding his hand up to receive praise from Rhea.
It is praise she does not give as she turns toward Zahra. “And there’s one more to join the crew?”
“That would be me.” The voice comes from right behind Rhea. The feline thief spins around, her blade at the ready, but the cobalt snake stares at her with an undeterred glare of golden eyes.
“I don’t know you,” says Rhea, her voice flat and cold.
Zahra speaks up, motioning to the newcomer. “This is Yousseff. He’s an expert I hired for this case in particular.
“I am, in essence, the getaway,” the mage hisses. However, I also specialize in arcane mechanisms and magical traps.”
“I can help with magical traps,” pipes Imran, though the lover’s voice is overwhelmed by the newcomer's presence.
“There may be many here, considering the nature of our prize,” Yousseff says. “Shall we begin our discussions now?”
Zahra nods. “We’re all here. With Rhea among your number, it is almost as good as having myself on the team in my prime.”
Rhea stands tall at that, but she keeps her eye on Yousseff.
The snake waves a hand in front of him, and a light show of magical illusion fills the center of the room. There, treasures of all shapes and sizes appear, cycling through images of gems, gold, and jewels, moving onto devices of arcane significance, and then to precious pieces of art from all around.
Osman steps up to motion at the images. “Raza Lambert can’t help but collect and display the many treasures that fill his collection. He will show these valuables off soon so they aren’t locked up in his vault. Even if we can only pick out a few key pieces, we should be able to come out richer beyond our wildest dreams.”
Yousseff stopped his display upon an ornate container. “I am in as long as I can obtain this one. The Flask of Dasim.”
“Dasim…” repeats Rhea. “Where have I heard that name before.”
“Probably from some baseless story,” barks Osman.
“Not one I would have told, adds Zahra. “Dasim is a powerful demon, sealed away by the tenuous grasp of a magical item.”
Fateena piques up, bouncing on her toes. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not who I think you are, are you?”
Youseff quirks a brow ridge, looking toward his companion. “It seems my reputation is beginning to precede me. If you believe me to be the Demoneater, you are correct.”
The two lovers whistle at that.
Rhea looks at her grandmother. “Bibi,” she whispers, can I talk to you?”
“Certainly,” says the old woman, hopping up with much more alacrity than her age would suggest. They walk off into the kitchen, where Rhea confronts her, a worried hush to her voice. “Why is there a renowned mage here? What exactly are you expecting us to find in Lambert’s treasury?”
Zahra smiles and places her hand on her grandaughter’s shoulder. “I expect to find more than Osman said we would find there.”
“You don’t trust Osman?”
“Oh, I trust that man with my life,” the old woman says, touching her nose. “But, I trust a young noble like Lambert to be more sharp-witted. After all, he is a ‘self-made’ man. Those are the ones you must look out for.”
“Damned new rich,” Rhea nearly shouts at that. “He’s bound to overcompensate and be too cocky.”
“And that’s why I’m taking no chances, dear.”
—-
Rhea leans against the palm tree, arms crossed, with her ears perked and ready for any strange deviation in the night's sounds.
Next to her, Yousseff sits, meditative, his head lowered. Or perhaps he’s also asleep.
It’s difficult to tell, and she won’t break the Demoneater’s concentration.
After all, the heist should be simple enough. Having the connections, Osman was in the larger of the two main buildings. Like any rich prick, Lambert has his estate sprawling and filled with ostentations that would make anyone remember that those with means have no goodwill. In the main mansion, the sounds and scents of the guests’ revelry waft over. The party is loud and boisterous and most definitely far too decadent.
And she has to listen to all of it because she’s the lookout.
Her ears twitch, and her tail flicks when Yousseff shifts and looks up at her. “You are distracting my meditation.”
Rhea apologizes and slips away, heading further from the party house and closer toward the smaller but still sizable adjacent building.
Fateena and Imran are in there already, if all is going to plan, having broken through the first lock on a second-story window into the office of some clerical worker. Even so, there are guards around the perimeter, armed and ready to protect the purchased treasures that the dragon of a man has hoarded. Osman had said they were from the Carter Company—a foreign security force imported more because of their exotic nature that the wealth can show off rather than their effectiveness against the local criminal element here. Even so, they are costly for a reason—they have a track record of being perceptive, at least that’s what Osman had said.
Osman has made many claims in their meeting, having infiltrated Lambert’s staff and even supposedly making it into his good graces. That’s why he’s at the party right now, no doubt wining and dining and keeping all of the party-goers and their hosts interested in the pleasures and treasures that could be had in the main building, where no doubt the more simple and shiny of ill-gotten riches were stored.
Not so with their prize.
Rhea freezes, her ears perking up. The sound of sand shifting and metal clinking in rhythmic motions tells her she is not alone. She slowly reaches for a dagger, crouching where she can, her cloak helping to conceal her in the darkness.
The one who arrives is dressed in heavy armor. It gleams and shines, reflecting the light of his lantern as he looks around his immediate environment. Such a loud and noisome presence is perfect for a thief to hide, and the nonchalance he waves his lam around shows either inexperience or disinterest in his current job.
Security is numerous, but it is relaxed, just as Osman had explained.
Rhea smiles as the guard passes her. This means things are going well, and his intelligence has been quite good.
Once the guard disappears into the darkness and his armor clanking fades among the sounds of delight, Rhea stands up, a shadow given form, keeping her senses attuned toward the vault building.
But that is when she feels the cold metal pressing against her throat and the body pressing up from behind her.
“If you value your life,” the mystery assassin whispers to her ear, “you’ll tell me what it is you are doing here.”
Rhea’s nose twitches, her body clenched tightly, avoiding the desire to move and strike against this newcomer.
“Struggle and the whole complex will know of you,” her attacker hisses. Now, state your business quickly.”
“W-who are you, ah!” She gasps as the blade presses against her, just on the precipice of cutting. She can’t even breathe lest she finish the process.
“That’s what I want to know about you. State your business.”
 This person is different from the previous guard—sneaky and effective. Could this be the work of the Carter Company, or is it something else entirely? There’s no way of knowing, so she speaks. “I’m just a thief looking for trinkets to take. That’s all!”
The mysterious shadow lessens the blade's pressure, a soft chuckle in their voice. “Just a thief? Well, aren’t you lucky?”
Rhea turns around, slowly, gradually, only to see the figure clad all in dark blue, their features concealed, holding out a collection of jewels and gems, rivaling, perhaps even surpassing, the haul Rhea had just obtained.
“The master of the house extends this to anyone brave enough to attempt to steal from him. It’ll be more than enough to satisfy any starving street urchin. Take it and go with his blessing.”
It was a royal sum for one living on the streets. As Rhea looked at the valuables offered, the possibilities of this interaction ran through her mind. What would happen if she took them? Were they cursed? How about this stranger? Would they leave her be or stab her in the back as she runs? And there’s the possibility that this one would also alert the other guards, tightening security.
“I know it must be strange to see such generosity,” the stranger admits, “But the master wishes for no distractions from his party and is not beneath peaceful resolutions to such attempts this time.”
Lambert is a self-made man. He would know what it would be like to be in need. Was this a genuine offer, or was it a ruse?
Either way, Rhea's response to this encounter is clear.
—-
Yousseff sits straight up, his head turned skyward, his arms resting, and his mind focused. Without the nervous energy of youth that Rhea brought with her, the serpentine sorcerer has a much clearer view of the mana swirling throughout the estate.
He will investigate this swirling starlight of magical energy, seeking any sign of discontinuity or deceit throughout the ethereal engravings. There is a confluence of energy toward the main building, which makes sense in and of itself. Party tricks and security for the guests would be top priorities.
Then, there is the vault building—their target. A slight pulse goes on within there, and he focuses his mind on it, furrowing his brow, gripping his legs, hissing.
Buried deep inside that vault must be the object of their desire, as the place burns brightly with the magical essence necessary to hold at bay the most powerful of demons.
It’s difficult to determine if there are any traps beyond what Osman described. Hopefully, the two lovers can work on alleviating any issues that come their way within that building.
He’ll turn his attention there once he finishes scanning the grounds. After all, the tiny flecks of light from each guard are nothing to grow overly concerned over. Some are equipped with superficial magical charms that the wealthy love to give their underlings, letting them be so easily visible to one who is so in tune with the weaves of mana. It would be no problem to avoid them if the need arises.
He turns his attention back to the vault when a burst of energy catches his attention. He focuses on it, taking only a moment to stand up, plant his staff on the ground, and whirl his cloak around him, disappearing into the aether.
In a puff of magical smoke, Yousseff appears closer to the disturbance. He sits behind a statue dedicated to Lambert in a thoughtful pose but with a self-confident smirk over his muzzle. The statue is large enough for the cast spell to appear behind and hide, listening to the magical incantation in the small garden walkway.
The words the unknown mage speaks are familiar to Yousseff, who curses his situation. Osman, the fool he is, didn’t find out about this part of the guard detail. The Carter Company must have wizards under their employ, and they must be diligent in scoping out the area.
Once this ritual is completed, the spell caster can count the number of souls in the area and provide details about them, essentially scrying their identities.
The spell caster falls to his knees and writes upon the dirt.
It’s a quick and dirty process, but he also says a word for each word his unknown opponent speaks. For each stroke the guard caster makes, he must create a counter stroke. Each sound and movement he creates adds to the magical ephemera, producing a brilliant light for those attuned and watching. He must only hope that his rival doesn’t notice the slithering tails of deception make their way into the tale that they weave.
And what a tale Yousseff has to weave himself. After all, he can’t just counter the spell. At best, the unknown caster will suspect they have failed and must try again. At worst, they will realize that an exterior force is working counter to them.
So, the play is obvious, but it is also taxing. He must not erase anything that the mage creates but instead add to the symphony of magical energy, taking the encoded will of the guard and turning out a different result. He needs to prepare for everything he can and think of each of his companions—their form, skill sets, and equipment. By speaking of each of them into this streak of lies, he will blind the one seeking the truth and keep his allies well hidden, doing his part of the deal and undoing any unknown magical hazards.
The spell continues in the dark of the night, the sounds of the desert insects serving as the only thing that could drown out his hissing breath from behind the statue. Not too soon, the guard finishes their spell. Yousseff feels the blast of magical energy as it sweeps over him and the rest of the estate.
A long and pregnant moment of silence follows. Yousseff grips his staff tighter, waiting, his heart beating faster and faster. With no response coming, it must mean something went wrong.
“All present and accounted for,” the smooth voice speaks from the park. There are no unknown entities.”
Yousseff breathed a sigh of relief and picked himself up, pressing onto the statue to listen to the rest of the conversation.
“But there’s one thing. Yeah, I’ll call ‘em.”
Yousseff catches his breath, planting himself flat against the statue. What did he miss? There are many possible errors, yet he is sure he made none.
So then, what?”
“Yeah, you’re off your post,” the voice continues. “Do you have something to report?”
—
“A would-be thief,” the shadowed assassin-guard responds, speaking through a communication stone.
“No, she ran off after she took the jewels. Yeah, I watched her go. What’s the matter?
The shadowed guard pauses, sighs, and pockets the stone. “Ah, so there’s more to you than you let on, kitty cat?”
—-
Rhea took the gems. Of course, she did. Given the circumstances, what other choice would she have? However, that doesn’t mean she will keep them. She holds them cupped in her hands as she runs toward the exit, but she drops one and then takes a turn, running for a bit more through the cover of the night before she drops another. She keeps up this practice as she circles around chaotically, keeping the target building in sight.
Was it folly to do so? What choice does she have now, rather than to be as careful as she can while also being as quick as possible? Security will surely be beefed up now that she’s been found, and if this isn’t just a bribe, the jewels will also be a danger.
Yousseff reappears by the palm tree, which is the meeting place. He focuses his magical sight upon the direction Rhea runs off to, only to notice the faint glimmer of many tiny motes of magic, disconnected but parts of a greater whole.
“Foolish girl,” he mutters, heading toward the first one. “Resourceful, but foolish.”
Dropping the last jewels, Rhea returns to her stealthy work toward the vault building. Warning the others is a paramount concern, no matter how on alert the guards may or may not be. When she makes it to the building, she zips around the perimeter, keeping her body low but her eyes on the wall. Soon, she sees the small opening that her companions had created. At least they’re in the correct spot at the proper time, right?
Rhea wriggles out of the small vent inside the building, her head popping free first as she scans the large, unlit chamber before her. It’s cavernous, with items of all sorts of artistic, intrinsic, and sentimental value on display. But the echoing chamber reverberates the sounds that she is not alone, and on the other side, the sounds of muttering toil make their way over to her.
“How much longer?” whispers Fateena, the jerboa’s whispers twitching. I want to crack something open.
“Patience, my love,” chuckles Imran. The badger traces his finger over the security system's magical circuitry. “This is delicate work. Soon, you’ll be able to work the mechanical locks with no problem.”
Fateena frowns, turning toward the back of the building from whence they came. “Did you hear something? I’m gonna check it out.”
“Be careful, my soft dove.”
Fateena hops past the different untriggered traps they had left behind, easy enough to avoid without having to undo or disarm them for the time being. She passes so many fun things they could steal. She won’t until she sees the hooded figure emerging from the vent shaft.
“What are you doing?” she hisses to Rhea.
“We might be compromised,” Rhea responds, pulling the end of her cloak free from the vent.
The jerboa furrows her brow, contemplating this information before a loud bang blasts past them from the vault door entrance. She whirls around, crying out to her lover, “Imran!”
No response.
She hops forward, dodging the same traps as before, but when Rhea follows her, one of the tiles presses down.
A trap!
She leaps out of the way as another loud bang shoots through, a projectile ejected from some hidden launcher that she barely dodged. It buries itself in the floor in a smoking hole that she stares at, the implications flooding her mind momentarily.
Fateena arrives next to Imran, who clutches his shoulder. In it is a large, metallic bolt. He winces, breathing heavily.
“Love, are you alright?” Fateena says, kneeling next to him.
“Damn place is rigged with summoning circuits,” Imran says. “Thing came flying in at sonic speed!”
“Summoning…? That wasn’t on Osman’s briefing.”
“Watch out!”
Imran gathers his strength and shoves his lover aside, pressing the bolt deeper into him as he knocks her back.
A moment afterward, a loud pop fills the room as a warbling mirage-like tear appears above them, and falling out of it comes to a large, thick, scaled creature. It slams down onto Imran, knocking him flat against the ground, its massive frog-like maw filled with so many layers of serrated teeth as it roars straight at him.
Rhea glances up from her predicament to see the beast crushing one of her comrades. She pulls out her weapon and rushes across the floor, shots firing off at her at different angles and velocities. She keeps her focus and slips and dodges out of the way of each one. Evading traps is easy, and without the need for silence anymore, getting past them is a breeze.
Fateena screams out the name of her lover, her voice that of anguish, terror, and despair. She releases a collapsible rod from her pack and hops forward, slamming the pole down onto the creature’s head.
The thing snarls and spins around, its mouth open wide and its tongue shooting out. It wraps around her stomach, and for a moment, Fateena turns toward her lover, her eyes filled with tears, only to see Imran pushing himself up, coughing, a fiery determination in his gaze as he prepares a spell in his hand.
She smiles for that moment as the creature's massive muscles pull her forward, her feet lifting off the ground one second and her whole world covered in darkness the next.
Rhea slashes through the air just as Fateena disappears, stumbling on her feet and spinning around at the creature.
With a roar of fury and indignation, Imran unleashes a blast of magical fire that engulfs the monster. Rhea has only a moment to hop back; even so, the edge of her cloak is singed with the flames.
“What are you doing?” She shouts. “Fateena’s in there!”
Imran stumbles to his feet, clutching his shoulder, staring at the thrashing and roaring remains of the beast before him. “No… that’s no frog… I read the runes.”
Rhea turns toward the creature, only to see it burst open with myriad tendrils, spines, and bones—writhing around in its flailing death rattle.
“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.
—
A cold wind flows over the felid’s prone body, her hair swaying gently in accordance. Slowly coming to her senses, she raises herself to observe her surroundings. No trace of soft sands nor the comfort of the coastal beach. She saw trees and shrubs indicative of a more temperate environment than the typical flora she anticipated. Rhea knew what an oak tree looked like but hadn't seen one in person until now. Where was she? Was this some delusional vision as she lay dying in Lambert’s vault? Was it even real?
As her head turned further leftward, she saw him—Yousseff. The wizened wizard sat on a rotting log, staring at the cat as he presumably waited for her to wake.
“Mage… Where am I? What happened?”
“Alteia, the Kinland region, to be more precise.” He states matter-of-factly, “We were outnumbered by Lambert and his men at the heart of his palace. Therefore, I saw fit to conjure a means of escape. You're fortunate to be alive, not to mention that you're mostly free of injury as well.”
Her mind turns to her fallen friends, Imran and Fateena, and the group's unexpected treachery at the hands of Osman. He had served Zahra loyally for many years but had, in reality, been in the pocket of Krypta Srebrna. Zahra…
She scrambles to her feet, going over to the resting wizard. “We're on the other continent!? We have to go back! Bibi… My grandmother is in danger! They're going to kill her. They're going to kill everyone!” The thought that Osman intended to off Zahra was enough to make her voice crack, tears coming to her eyes. It wasn't enough that she'd already lost two members of their association. Those bastards had to go after Bibi as well.
Yousseff seemed unmoved by her emotional appeal, barely stirring as she yelled at him. “No.”
“NO!? What do you mean, no??” Rhea was furious, grasping at the collar of the man's robes as she shook him. “Are you mad? He said they're going to kill her!”
The serpentine sage’s form dissipates into clear smoke, reappearing ten feet behind the crying tabby. “No, we shall not be returning to Kijani or Khasmia. You are correct. Lambert and Osman seem intent on culling the rest of your little group, which is why you're safer here. I intentionally took us as far away as I could.”
“You coward.” She said feebly, falling to her knees. Was there really nothing that could be done? Osman freely announced his betrayal, and he'd get away with it? “What if it was your own family at stake? I understand that you don't care, but I do! I want to help her!”
“You will both be dead, then. I know of Krypta Srebrna. In fact, I wish I had known that Raza Lambert was in league with them beforehand. It would've changed my approach entirely.” The serpent reveals the magical flask he sought after, the reason he had agreed to assist them at all. “Thankfully, I was able to retrieve this artifact in the confusion. The mission wasn't a total loss.”
More anger swelled within her as he showed her the bauble, reminding her he didn't care for her current trouble. But he was correct. If she were to try and save Zahra, she would be hopelessly outmatched. Osman and Lambert have far more men and resources; it'll be a slaughter.
“Bibi…”
The mage starts to depart but turns back before disappearing into the forest. “I feel that I must warn you again, girl. We've just made a powerful enemy, so do nothing foolish. Stay away from Lambert and your home. Far away.”
The feline thief rests near that same log, covering her face with her hands as she wept freely. She was alive but lost in some foreign land with the knowledge that she could never return home–the knowledge that Bibi and the rest of her friends were likely to face the same fate as Imran and Fateena. She didn't know when or how, but simply that it had to be done… Osman must die.