The room fell silent for a breath, the ambient jade glow humming softly against the metal walls.
Then Lira stepped forward, her tone suddenly razor-edged.
"No," she snapped, voice slicing through the quiet. "This is not a pattern of convenience—it is personal."
Behind her, the faint outline of jade falcon wings shimmered into view—ghostly remnants of her Martial Soul, reacting to her rising pressure.
"The first vault attacks occurred during the last time the Starlight Circus visited Skyhaven. Now the circus returns… and so does the Trickster. That is not a coincidence. It is choreography."
Captain Rhen, arms folded behind his back, nodded slowly as he studied the suspended image of Kael leaping across the Skyhaven rooftops.
"That rooftop escape?" he murmured. "Clean. Balanced. The form of someone trained not just for combat—but performance. I would wager my soul rings that it is him."
Jian Holt leaned forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the glowing metal table. A glint of mischief danced behind his eyes.
"So what is the move, Captain? Do we storm the circus during intermission? Drag him offstage during a midair somersault and hope the audience applauds?"
Lira's reply came cool and measured as she circled a location on the city map with a luminous quill. The ink left a mark over the words: Starlight Circus.
"Too visible. Too many civilians. A direct strike would only force him deeper underground—and compromise the investigation."
She stood straighter, eyes focused.
"We will attend tomorrow's performance. Front row."
Jian blinked, then chuckled as he leaned back.
"Front row, huh? That is bold. Shall I bring roasted almonds? Maybe he will juggle stones just for us."
Rhen let out a rough laugh, brushing away a smudge of dried tea on his sleeve—the aftermath of Jian's earlier clumsy spill still evident.
"Be careful, Holt. This man is not a sideshow clown. He rides a Midnight Wind Stallion, and vanishes through ward arrays like smoke through fingers. That is not flair. That is orchestration."
Lira turned back to the projection. She reached toward it and enlarged the image of the stallion mid-leap.
"He is not simply performing with the circus. He is anchored to it. Tied to the troupe in some hidden way."
Her fingers hovered just above the stallion's flank, where a faded emblem shimmered faintly beneath the fur.
"Find that connection," she said softly, "and we find Kael Vaelor."
---
Beneath the Starlight Circus – Hidden Workshop
A low hum resonated through the underground chamber—steady, pulsing, like the heartbeat of something alive and waiting. Kael Vaelor descended silently through a narrow trapdoor concealed beneath the stage's rigging, its lock sealing behind him with a whisper of light.
The air here was different.
Still. Dense. Breathing with secrets.
The chamber was compact but meticulously organized: coils of thread hung like woven constellations, their silver lengths pulsing faintly with embedded command glyphs. Tables were strewn with half-finished tools—some fine as needles, others jagged and brutal. A row of schematics hovered above a jade slab in midair, slowly rotating, casting pale green illumination onto the stone floor.
At the room's center stood a projection orb, no larger than a clenched fist. It hovered quietly above a stone pedestal, flickering with an illusion of the Skyhaven Vault's interior. Shifting walls. It was a living map of obstacles and opportunities.
Kael approached, his performer's cloak gone—replaced by plain dark garb woven with only the most subtle thread. His footsteps made no sound on the metal floor.
His eyes, once filled with playful charisma beneath the circus lights, now bore the still sharpness of grief honed into purpose.
He reached the far table and gently touched a small jade frame resting against the wall. Inside it, a faded photograph: a young boy beaming with pride, seated on his father's shoulders.
Torin Vaelor.
Laughter frozen in time. A moment left untouched by the fire that came later.
Next to the photo sat a single coin, dulled to matte silver from years of being turned between weary fingers. Its engraved sigil was half-faded.
Kael stared at it for a long while.
"One last act, Papa," he said softly, his voice roughened by restraint.
"Not for gold. Not for glory. For you."
He exhaled.
"For everything they took. Everything they buried and smiled over."
His fingers grazed the coin once—then drifted to the projection orb. With a pulse of soul power, the image shifted: it zoomed through the layered vaults of Skyhaven, stopping at the innermost chamber, where rows of spirit stones glimmered behind a wall of rotating seal arrays.
The orb trembled briefly as it calibrated.
On Kael's wrist, a timer blinked into visibility.
22:00:17
The number held no drama. But its meaning was precise.
Two hours, seventeen seconds.
A parchment lay open beside the projection: hand-inked with guard patrol rotations, weakening intervals, and a carefully stacked margin for escape vectors. No move uncalculated. No risk unjustified.
Kael slid open a compartment in the worktable and removed a slim tool wrapped in a black cloth. A lockpick—its edge lined with micro-etchings, glowing faintly in hues of silver and violet.
He turned it once in his hand, then tucked it away beneath his wristband.
Another breath.
Another memory buried.
His hand lingered on the photo one last time, then curled into a fist.
"The Trickster is not just a mask," he whispered. "He is the question they never learned to ask. And tonight… he becomes the answer they never wanted to find."
With a final glance toward the coin, Kael moved to the trapdoor. He pressed a sequence on the wall, and the panel hissed open. He stepped through, his body dissolving into silence and momentum—like a shadow slipping between heartbeats.
Above him, the circus roared on.
But down here…
the heist had already begun.
---
Skyhaven Streets — Moments Later
The crowd outside the Starlight Circus had begun to thin, spilling into the amber-washed streets of Skyhaven. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting drifting halos across polished cobblestones. Vendors packed up glowing orbs, children tugged at tired parents, and laughter lingered like perfume in the air.
Arthev walked alone.
His hood was drawn low against the final rays of sunset, casting shadow over sharp eyes that tracked the world with analytical clarity. Every footstep was deliberate. Every breath, measured.
Beneath his still exterior, his mind ticked like a locked gearwork—focused, relentless, methodical.
And then—
"Tch. What's with this sneaky clown, Stunned Face?"
Shukaku's voice growled from within, coarse and dry like wind dragging across ancient dunes.
"He's up to somethin'. Vault job, maybe? He's got that glint in his eyes—like he wants to crack somethin' open. You thinkin' of crashin' his little act?"
Arthev turned down a narrow alley where the crowd noise dulled behind him. His boots echoed softly on the stone path, his cloak brushing past a faded ward . The dying sunlight kissed the edge of his shoulder—gold vanishing into night.
His reply came not aloud, but inward—precise, calm, absolute.
"He is no simple performer. No common thief."
"Each gesture is deliberate. His misdirection is ritual—crafted, not chaotic. The heists, the jester cards, the stolen relics… It is not wealth he seeks. It is something else."
"A message," he added silently. "Buried beneath flair."
Shukaku gave a dismissive huff, his tail thudding somewhere in the subconscious void they shared.
"Bah. You sound like you're makin' excuses for not jumpin' down there and draggin' him by the boots. Guy walks like he owns the rooftops, flashes lockpicks like candy, and rides a glowin' horse like he's king of style. I could bury him in a sand coffin before he lands his next fancy flip."
"And in doing so, waste the trail," Arthev answered mentally, eyes narrowing slightly. "The vault? The relics? They are bait. His movements—his timing—none of it aligns with pure greed. No, Kael Vaelor is a thread…"
He stopped beneath an archway carved with twin crescent moons, the city's sigil gleaming faintly inlaid with spirit-gold.
"And I intend to follow that thread until the tapestry reveals its shape. There is a reason Skyhaven feels… unfamiliar. Fragmented. He might be the key."
Shukaku's grumble shifted from irritation to something almost thoughtful. But only almost.
"So what now, eh? You sit through another round of light shows tomorrow night? Sparkles, clowns, dancin' illusions? Waste of soul power if you ask me."
"Yes." Arthev did not blink.
"Every movement on that stage speaks. Rhythm, pacing, eye contact, transitions between tricks—they are tells. Subtle confessions. I will learn more watching him perform than chasing shadows in a vault."
A beat of silence.
Then Shukaku exhaled like a windstorm in a bottle.
"Fine. Fine. But I swear, if that smug jester so much as breathes wrong—one twitch—I am dragging him underground so fast the tent will not know what hit it. That is the deal."
A faint twitch flickered at the edge of Arthev's lips.
Not quite a smile. But close.
He stepped forward, deeper into the alley, letting the dark rise around him like a curtain before the second act.
"No promises," he murmured aloud.
Around him, Skyhaven City hummed in anticipation. Lanterns bobbed in the distance. Windows glowed with ghostlight. And somewhere far ahead, laughter echoed—soft, theatrical, and laced with something more.
The Trickster would move.
And the one watching would be ready.
To be continued…