Chapter One

Hadeon stood at the center of the subterranean hall, facing the assembled guild. Tall—well over six feet—and draped in black from throat to heel, he looked like a shadow given form. His cloak pooled around him as he reached inside, drawing a throwing dagger and idly spinning it between his fingers while he spoke.

“We are going to seize the Tower of Alignment,” he announced. “No other guild will set foot inside while we strip it of every resource it holds.”

A ripple of uneasy murmurs passed through the ragged thieves.

“That will cause countless deaths,” a small-framed thief whispered. “Every Astarian travels there—”

“Silence!” Hadeon’s roar cracked through the chamber. “Not only will we take the tower, we will announce our intentions to the realm. They will have their warning. The takeover begins Friday night.”

“That’s madness,” said Lucien, the Assistant Guild Master. “The other guilds will have time to prepare. They’ll try to stop us. You can’t be serious.”

“I am the elected Guild Master,” Hadeon replied coldly, “and you are no longer my assistant.” His cloak shifted, half-shadowing the cruel twist of his mouth. “We are the Thieves Guild—the best there is. We rule the dark. We are feared. And we will give Astaria new reasons to tremble.”

The dagger flashed from his hand before anyone could react. It buried itself in Lucien’s throat. Blood erupted in a violent spray as Lucien collapsed, choking on his final breath.

Hadeon strode forward without hesitation. From within his cloak he drew the Fangs of Ashura and plunged them into the dying man’s chest. The fangs glowed a pale, hungry red; a soft darkness spread over Hadeon as Lucien’s life force drained away. The corpse withered, dimmed, and finally dissolved into nothing.

Hadeon retrieved his dagger, wiped it clean, and slid it back into his cloak.

“Any further discussion?” he asked, lips curling into a snarl. “Good. Post the declaration at Starkeep. Make it clear that anyone approaching the Tower on Friday will be shown no mercy and killed on sight.”

The thieves bowed to his authority—whether out of loyalty or terror—and melted into the shadows, eager to sow chaos before the coming siege. One thief snatched up the written declaration and vanished into the tunnels, racing toward Starkeep.

Hadeon returned to his desk and formally banished Lucien from the guild roster. The Goddess Xeraphena would resurrect him eventually, but the Fangs of Ashura had drained him to a husk, and exile would weaken him further still. Hadeon felt no remorse; cruelty was the only language a guild of backstabbers understood.

“Malcolm,” he called, voice echoing through the stone corridors, “report to my office. You are the new Assistant Guild Master.”

Chapter Two

Jorel stood beside his guildmate—and closest friend—Tabitha. Though slender and of average height, he still cut a striking figure in his flowing blue robes, jeweled daggers gleaming at each hip. He scanned the proclamation board once more, disbelief tightening his jaw.

Tabitha’s tension radiated from her. Her gray fur bristled, black stripes shifting with every uneasy breath, and her tail flicked in a sharp, restless rhythm as she reread the notice.

“The Astarian Times printed the same thing,” she said. “They mean to seal off the road from the docks to the tower and allow only thieves inside from Friday onward—until they decide they’ve taken enough treasure. They even suggest it may become permanent. No other guild permitted in the tower at all.”

“We cannot let this stand,” Jorel replied. “As Guild Master of the Psions, I am calling for war against the Thieves Guild. For too long they’ve poisoned this realm for everyone else. It’s time to fight fire with fire. Contact the other guilds—tell them we intend to resist.”

“Should I also request aid from the Paladins?” Tabitha asked. “Their numbers are small, and their recruits have barely begun training.”

“Yes. We will need every ally we can muster. The Psions will carry the battle to the Thieves, and the other guilds can support us. Let me scry Hadeon—perhaps I can glimpse more of his plan.”

Jorel folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, drawing power inward before casting it outward in a focused surge. His mind reached for Hadeon’s presence… only to crash against a wall of interference. The vision froze, swallowed by a single, swirling purple sphere.

“By the gods,” he muttered. “Only magical distortions. I cannot see him at all. No matter—we march and go to war. Magic and steel will guide us. Have all guilds send their warriors to the Sable docks on Friday at dusk.”

“It will be done,” Tabitha said. She slipped from the room with fluid grace, dropping to all fours as she sprinted off to rally the guilds for the coming war.

Chapter Three

Jorel stood within the great armory vault of the Psions, surrounded by walls glittering with power. Racks of enchanted armor and weaponry shimmered in the dim light—energy bows humming softly, spell‑forged blades whispering with dormant runes, breastplates steeped in ancient magic waiting to be claimed.

But at the far end of the vault, it outshone everything.

The Scepter of Might gleamed like a captured star, its fiery white radiance pulsing in slow, deliberate breaths. It called to him—softly, insistently—its presence brushing against his mind like a whispered promise. Among all the artifacts of Astaria, none rivaled its strength, and by right it belonged to the Psions.

Jorel strode toward it, lifted the scepter, and secured it across his back. The jeweled daggers at his sash remained where they were—ornamental, mostly, but they completed the look he cultivated. He selected a set of Scarlet Flowing Robes, their fabric thrumming with layered enchantments, and fastened a Piwafwi of Shadows over his shoulders, the cloak settling around him like living dusk.

Stepping from the vault, he paused before the Hall of Mirrors. His reflection stared back—robes immaculate, cloak shifting with subtle magic, the Scepter of Might glowing faintly behind him.

“Looks are most of the battle,” he said with a crooked grin.

Then he reached inward, channeling his mental power toward the scepter. It responded instantly, its radiance sharpening as it drank in his psionic energy and tempered itself for the conflict to come.

Jorel settled into the chair at his desk, eyes fixed on the crystal ball resting atop it. He placed his hands around the orb, letting his breathing slow as he focused on the image of the Mage Guild Master. His psionic energy flowed outward with practiced ease, stretching across the realm until it brushed against Damien’s mind and formed a link.

“Damien,” Jorel said, his voice echoing through the mental channel, “as you know, we have a problem with the Thieves Guild. We need your help for the coming battle.”

“When are you Psions going to stop barging into our thoughts unannounced?” Damien snapped. “I’m in the middle of slaying Chilblain, and you nearly made me miscast!”

“The mindlink is necessary,” Jorel replied, keeping his tone level. “The Psions are going to war with the Thieves Guild. Without the Magi, our chances of victory diminish sharply.”

“The Mage Guild will not assist,” Damien said flatly. “We won’t be dragged into a war we didn’t start. There are plenty of other places to earn coin and gather loot. I read the Astarian Times—if the thieves want the tower, they can have it. I don’t care. Now end this link.”

Jorel exhaled slowly and severed the connection. The crystal ball dimmed, its surface returning to stillness.

“So be it,” he murmured. “If the magicians won’t help, we’ll face the Thieves Guild without them.”

Chapter Four

Hadeon smiled as Damien severed the mindlink with Jorel.

“Well played,” he said softly. “Well played indeed.” From within his cloak he produced a purse swollen with tricrown. “Five hundred, as agreed—payment for your neutrality on Friday, and for ensuring your guild keeps well away from the Tower until I say otherwise.”

“Of course, Hadeon,” Damien replied with practiced ease. “Happy to oblige. There are plenty of other places for Magi to gather coin, even if the rewards are… less impressive.”

“As long as you stay away,” Hadeon said. “In fact, I’d avoid the entire continent of Sable. I have a few surprises prepared for anyone foolish enough to interfere.”

“Understood.” Damien rose, gave a curt nod, and strode out. A heartbeat later he vanished through a Skygate, no doubt eager to deposit his newly purchased fortune.

Hadeon watched him go, his expression curdling into disdain. “Malcolm,” he called, “once we crush the Psions and their allies at the tower, see to it that no mage survives—no matter where they wander in the realm.”

Malcolm’s grin was all teeth. “We’ll track him. A couple of backstabs and a slit throat should finish the job.”

“Excellent.” Hadeon turned back to the war table. “We strike the Psions the moment they step off the boat. Distribute the Horns of Bushido and Ninjutsu to every thief. And any thief who refuses to fight will be cut down until they are destroyed and cast into permanent exile.”

Malcolm dipped his head and slipped from the room, dissolving into the shadows as he went to spread Hadeon’s commands through the guild.

Left alone, Hadeon drew two daggers from his cloak, twirling them with effortless precision as he reviewed the ultimate piece of his plan. Releasing Virulent, the dragon imprisoned inside the tower, would be the key. All he needed was to slip into the lair, pick the shackles’ locks, and get clear before the beast erupted into a frenzy—unleashing devastation on anything foolish enough to stand in its path.

Chapter Five

Jorel studied the ragtag band of adventurers crowded onto the deck as the ship cut through the waters toward Sable. They weren’t much to look at—low‑ranked, inexperienced, and armed with more enthusiasm than skill. Still, they had held their own when the pirate ship attacked. The pirates now fed the sharks, and the group’s confidence had swelled accordingly. Jorel knew the truth, though: most of them would not survive their first clash with the Thieves Guild.

He planned to form proper ranks once they reached the tower. Until then, they listened to bard song and watched the coastline drift by, unaware of how short their futures would be. Ahead, the Sable farmlands stretched beneath the floating Tower of Alignment, peasants tending their fields beneath its looming shadow.

Jorel glanced at Tabitha. She tried to project calm, her psychic shield shimmering faintly in the sunlight. She met his gaze and nodded—ready, resolute. He would need her strength if this war was to end quickly.

As the ship docked, the adventurers hurried down the gangplank and toward the road. They would need to turn north and travel two miles through the countryside before reaching the tower.

A scream shattered the air.

A body toppled onto the dock, blood spilling between the planks and dripping into the sea. Another scream—another body. Before Jorel could react, Tabitha teleported to the road in a flash of light, instantly covering the distance. He saw her press her fingers to her temples, psychic energy rippling outward in a shockwave that stunned several dark‑clad figures already butchering the group.

Adventurers fell like wheat before a scythe. Some fled back toward the boat, only to be cut down from behind. The dock ran red.

Jorel drew the Scepter of Might. Several thieves cloaked themselves and vanished into the shadows. He teleported to Tabitha’s side and brought the scepter down on a stunned thief, crushing him instantly. Red psychic rays burst from Tabitha’s eyes as she cannibalized the corpse’s energy, her aura flaring brighter. She hurled a mental thrust into another thief who tried to flee, dropping him mid‑stride.

“Hadeon! Show yourself, you coward!” Jorel roared, wading into the fray. The scepter swung left and right, each strike caving in another skull.

“I am right here, foolish psion,” came Hadeon’s voice from the shadows. Jorel couldn’t see him—he was cloaked, hidden. Jorel cast a scrying spell and glimpsed the coward slipping into a thief tunnel, preparing to escape.

“You cannot flee,” Jorel warned. “If you do, you lose the war—and the tower.”

Then Tabitha screamed.

A roar unlike anything Jorel had ever heard shook the ground. He spun around just in time to see Tabitha lifted into the air, impaled on a massive black claw. Virulent.

The dragon was monstrous—sixty feet long, twenty feet tall, with wings spanning nearly a hundred feet. It had taken the combined might of the cleric, mage, and psion guilds to imprison him beneath the tower. He had devoured the previous captive, the giant Cindrax, with ease.

Tabitha writhed helplessly as the claw punched through her chest. Her scream tore through the battlefield. Virulent roared again and bit her in half, tossing the pieces aside before turning his burning eyes on Jorel.

Jorel charged, swinging the Scepter of Might with all his strength. The blow bounced harmlessly off the dragon’s scales. Virulent inhaled—and unleashed a torrent of black fire. The flames vaporized thieves and adventurers alike, leaving nothing but scorched planks and drifting ash.

Jorel gathered his mental focus and cast mindfang, desperate to halt the dragon’s rampage. But a single stray thought of Tabitha—her scream, her death—shattered his concentration.

Virulent roared and lunged.

Jorel had no time to react. The dragon’s jaws closed around him, tearing him in half and flinging the pieces of his body into the sea.

From the mouth of the thief tunnel, Hadeon watched, ready to bolt if Virulent noticed him. The devastation was beyond anything he had imagined. Everyone was dead—Malcolm, the thieves, the adventurers. Not a single soul remained alive.

Virulent roared triumphantly, then turned toward Sakai. With a powerful beat of his wings, he lifted into the air and vanished into the coming night, his black form blending seamlessly with the darkness.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Hadeon muttered, stepping back into the tunnel. “There will always be new recruits. The Thieves Guild is the best of the best. Time to rebuild.”

He disappeared into the depths, retreating toward the guild hall as the echoes of the dragon’s victory roar faded into the night.