THEY MOVED like smoke through the museum's ventilation system.
Mason and Ravenson were blurred streaks of darkness. Even with their powers limited, they were faster than any human eye could track, slipping through the corridors and silencing the night guards with a single, sleeping touch.
Carson's illusion—a localized "electrical fire" in the west wing—had successfully drawn the majority of the security team away from the main exhibit.
Mailah and Grayson reached the grand hall. The Ember Sigil sat in the center of the room atop a white marble pedestal in a simple glass case.
To the museum, it was just a priceless artifact, but as they approached, Mailah could see it pulsing with a faint, inner orange glow as if it recognizes that its owner was near.
