Midnight cloaked Heyh in velvet shadows, the opulence of its streets dimmed beneath a hazy moon. Even the air felt quieter—still perfumed, still clean—but no longer welcoming.
Serah crouched in the alleyway just outside the eastern district, her crimson hair braided back tight beneath a hood. Beside her, Kael scanned the rooftops with a compact spyglass, muttering, "Patrols light. Two guards doing lazy loops near the front gate. They're definitely bored."
"Good," Serah said, her voice a low whisper. "Let's keep it that way."
Behind them, Elira clutched a small orb pulsing faint blue—her myst tracker calibrated to detect any irregular flow. Myla and Jorin flanked the rear, blades sheathed in leather, every step muffled.
Their target stood just ahead: Warehouse Seventeen, one of Drosmir's many "distribution centers" for imported goods. To most, it was a spice and textile depot. But the manifests didn't match weight logs. That alone made it suspicious.
