The villa was quiet.

  Karl returned from his solitary walk around the estate gardens, expecting to find players lounging, sparring, or trying to grill sausages over the fireplace again.

  Instead, the entire basement level had been turned into a war room.

  A large table had been dragged into the middle of the storage area. Candles flickered over a map of the noble quarter, with colored stones, chalked lines, and coded notations scrawled in places like "North Entry – 1 Guard Rotation" and "Window 2C: Possible Entry."

  A few players stood around the table in hushed tones. One held a crude pointer. Another cross-referenced a notebook that had several pages marked “Mission Flow.”

  Karl leaned against the doorframe.

  For the first time since arriving in Aurelia, he felt something close to relief.

  They weren’t burning things. They weren’t shouting. They weren’t licking statues.

  They were planning.

  He didn’t understand what. But they seemed serious, focused.

  “Finally,” he muttered. “They’re starting to act like a team.”

  Then he turned and left.

  ---

  Hours later, five players moved through the narrow alleys of the noble district.

  They were dressed in stolen servant garb and guard cloaks, faces smudged with dirt, eyes hidden under low hoods. One carried a parcel. Another had a rope coiled under their tunic. The one at the rear carried a crude flintlock under his cloak.

  They had rehearsed the plan a dozen times.

  Get in. Find the target. End it.

  It was clean. Precise.

  It failed within two minutes.

  ---

  The courtyard of Prince Alven’s villa erupted in shouts.

  One of the disguised players dropped a powder pouch. The clatter echoed too loudly. A guard turned. A question was shouted.

  The gun misfired.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The shot went wide—but loud enough to awaken the entire villa.

  The alarm was raised.

  Steel clashed with wood. A blade nicked a guard’s shoulder. A player tripped on their cloak. Two more tried to force their way toward the central wing.

  Prince Alven’s personal bodyguards were already in motion.

  They didn’t hesitate.

  ---

  Karl’s brother didn’t die.

  Because one of his guards threw himself into the line of fire, catching a bullet in the ribs. Another pushed him down behind a marble pillar, shielding him with a tower shield.

  Eight guards died that night. Three more were maimed—legs shattered, arms torn open.

  Two players were killed outright. One by a spear to the gut, another struck down by a heavy axe to the chest. Their bodies didn’t vanish. They bled.

  And bled.

  And stayed there.

  ---

  The remaining players fled.

  One stumbled through a back window. Another leapt into a canal. The flintlock was lost. The rope was left behind.

  But in the chaos, something else happened.

  A system window blinked to life—visible only to the surviving players.

  > [You have died.]

  > [Respawn not available. Permanent death engaged.]

  > [Revival possible via: “Starbound Resurrection Token”]

  > [Purchase Available through: Summoner Interface — Rate: 10 Gold / Token]

  The old soldier stared at it in shock.

  “There's a resurrection system?” he muttered.

  Back at the villa, he approached Karl—covered in mud, drenched, limping.

  “We lost two,” he said. “We need revival tokens.”

  Karl blinked. “You what?”

  “They’re not gone. But we need you to authorize the purchase.”

  The Star Key shimmered in the back of Karl’s mind. The prompt was already waiting.

  > [Confirm Token Purchase — 10 Gold Each]

  He stared at the screen. Then at the soldier.

  “Who died?”

  “Patch and Lavi.”

  Karl sighed.

  He pressed confirm.

  ---

  Across the city, a small team of Ravens arrived at the scene of the attack.

  The smell of gunpowder lingered.

  The corpses remained.

  The blood hadn’t dried yet.

  Captain Maldran crouched beside one of the players’ bodies. He studied the odd clothing, the pale expression, the unfaded color in the hair.

  “They didn’t vanish,” he said softly.

  “Which means?” asked his second-in-command.

  “They’re real.”

  He stood.

  “And this wasn’t an accident. This was a move.”

  He looked toward the villa’s upper floor, where Alven had retreated.

  “This was a message.”

  ---

  Maldran’s report was sent immediately.

  Not to the city garrison.

  But to the palace.

  ---

  Prince Alven read it before the Emperor did.

  His hand clenched the edge of the report until the parchment nearly tore.

  He had been patient.

  He had tolerated the rumors. The whispers. The reports that his little brother was in the city, playing guest.

  But this—

  This was too far.

  “He came after me,” Alven growled. “He made the first move.”

  His advisors tried to calm him.

  He ignored them.

  “Ready my guards,” he barked. “All of them. We’re going to his door.”

  ---

  Back at Karl’s villa, the air was still.

  Two players sat in silence, staring at the floor.

  The others tried to pretend nothing had happened.

  Karl sat in the upper study, watching the city lights flicker.

  A knock came at the front gate.

  Then another.

  Heavy. Measured.

  Deliberate.

  The Ravens, Karl thought.

  But they were too soon.

  Too loud.

  Too angry.

  A servant ran into the hall, pale-faced.

  “Prince Alven is outside,” he whispered.

  “He brought men.”

  ---

  Karl stood slowly.

  Below him, iron boots hit the marble walkway.

  Ten men in chestplates stood at attention.

  Their leader—his brother—stood in the center, eyes ablaze.

  “Open this door,” Alven shouted. “Or I’ll open it for you!”

  And inside the house, the players began to stir.

  The storm had come.

  And it wore their names.