The Crimson Court wore violence like expensive perfume.
TF adjusted his collar—borrowed formalwear that fit well enough to pass inspection—and followed Seraphine through marble halls lit by hextech chandeliers. Around them, Noxus's elite moved with predatory grace. Officers in dress uniform, nobles in silk that cost more than ships, merchants who'd gotten rich supplying imperial conquest.
Everyone smiled. Everyone calculated. Everyone carried weapons hidden under elegant clothes.
"Stay close," Seraphine murmured, nodding at a passing diplomat. "And let me do the talking. Your accent screams Bilgewater."
"I can do sophisticated."
"You can do con artist pretending to be sophisticated. Different thing." She accepted champagne from a passing servant, didn't drink it. "General Tavaris is near the east balcony. Red sash, too many medals, already three drinks deep."
TF spotted him. Mid-fifties, florid face, gesturing expansively while lesser officers laughed at his stories. The access card would be in his jacket's inner pocket—standard Noxian military protocol.
"I'll get him talking," Seraphine said. "Give me five minutes, then approach as my 'concerned manager.' I'll create the opening."
"And Samira?"
"Perimeter. Watching for Vasara." Seraphine's empathic perception swept the room, reading emotional currents. "There's so much ambition here it's choking. And fear underneath. Everyone's terrified of everyone else."
"That's Noxus. Strength built on knives pointed inward."
"It's exhausting." She smoothed her dress—elegant but practical, easier to move in than her usual stage attire. "Ready?"
TF pulled a card—Ace of Spades—and palmed it. Luck and death. Fitting.
"Born ready."
Seraphine glided toward the general like she was crossing a stage. Every eye tracked her—the famous performer, the bridge between Piltover and Zaun, the voice that moved thousands. She'd announced this appearance as cultural exchange. Nobody questioned it. Noxus loved displays of power, and fame was power.
TF circled the room, maintaining distance. Through the crowd, he spotted Samira positioned near a column, scanning faces with professional paranoia. She caught his eye, gave a subtle nod. No Vasara yet.
Small blessings.
He watched Seraphine work. She approached Tavaris with perfect timing—just as his current story ended, before someone else could claim his attention. Said something that made him laugh. Touched his arm lightly—simple gesture that established connection without overstepping.
The general preened. Started a new story, this one clearly about his own martial prowess. Seraphine listened with apparent fascination, occasionally asking questions that made him elaborate.
TF counted to three hundred. Then approached.
"Miss Seraphine? Apologies for interrupting, but we have the schedule conflict I mentioned."
She turned, expression shifting to professional concern. "Oh. Yes. General Tavaris, this is Marcus—my manager. He worries too much."
"Just doing my job." TF extended his hand. The general shook it—firm grip, assessing. TF let himself be assessed. Looked appropriately subordinate. Not threatening.
"She's a treasure, your client," Tavaris said. "Was just telling her about the Battle of Basilisk Ridge. Finest tactical maneuver I ever executed."
"Sounds fascinating." TF pulled a pocket watch—stolen, naturally. "Unfortunately, the Demacian ambassador's reception starts in twenty minutes, and—"
"We can spare a few more minutes," Seraphine said smoothly. She touched Tavaris's arm again. "I'd love to hear how you managed that flanking action. The logistics must have been complicated."
The general launched into details. TF played his role—impatient manager, checking his watch, trying not to show irritation. Seraphine kept Tavaris talking, angling him slightly away from TF.
The opening.
TF moved. Stumbled slightly—not obvious, just clumsy enough. Caught himself against Tavaris's shoulder. Apologized profusely. In the two seconds of contact, his fingers found the inner pocket, lifted the card, replaced it with a duplicate he'd prepared.
The real card vanished up his sleeve.
"So sorry, General. These formal shoes—not used to them."
Tavaris waved it off, already turning back to Seraphine. "As I was saying, the left flank required precise timing..."
TF stepped back. Made eye contact with Seraphine. She saw something in his expression and wrapped up the conversation with practiced ease.
"General, it's been an honor. But duty calls." She offered her hand. He kissed it—old Noxian custom. "Perhaps we'll speak again before I leave the capital."
"I'd be delighted." Tavaris was already scanning for his next conversation target.
They moved away smoothly. TF felt the access card solid against his palm, tucked in his sleeve. First objective complete.
"Clean work," Seraphine murmured.
"Had practice." TF scanned the crowd. "Now we need to—"
"Seraphine?"
The voice cut through ambient noise like a blade through silk. Female, cold authority, absolutely certain.
They turned.
Commander Vasara stood three meters away. Lean, predatory, iron-gray hair pulled back with military precision. Her eyes were calculating. And they were locked on Samira, who'd moved to intercept.
"Commander," Samira said neutrally. "Been a while."
"Three years." Vasara's expression didn't shift. "Still wearing Noxian leather, I see. But not the uniform. Shame."
The air between them crystallized with tension. Around them, other conversations continued—nobody else felt it yet. But TF's con-artist instincts screamed danger.
"I'm freelance now," Samira said. "More profitable."
"More cowardly." Vasara stepped closer. "You were the best soldier I ever trained. Then you hesitated. Showed weakness. Got your squad killed."
Samira's jaw tightened. "That's not what happened."
"No? Then tell me—where were you when they faced execution for your failure?" Vasara's voice stayed level, conversational even. Making it worse. "Oh yes. You were running. Saving yourself."
TF moved to intervene, but Seraphine touched his arm. Wait.
"They died because you demanded brutality," Samira said quietly. "Because Noxus only understands strength through cruelty. I chose different."
"You chose weakness. And in Noxus, weakness is death." Vasara glanced at Seraphine, then TF. "Interesting company you keep now. Pop star and her handlers. Is this what you've become?"
"It's what I chose to become."
"Then you chose poorly." Vasara signaled a nearby officer—subtle hand gesture. The officer started moving toward them. "I wonder what your new friends think about your history. Do they know about the Demacian mission? About the children in that building?"
Samira's hand drifted toward her pistol.
TF stepped between them. Smooth, non-threatening, just a manager concerned about his client's safety.
"Ladies, perhaps this conversation is better had privately? Miss Seraphine has appointments, and—"
"Who are you?" Vasara's eyes cut to him. Sharp. Assessing.
"Marcus Venn. Entertainment manager." TF produced a business card—forged, but good work. "And you are?"
"Commander Lysandra Vasara. Trifarian Legion." She took the card, barely glanced at it. "Entertainment. Is that what we're calling it?"
The approaching officer was ten meters away. Others were starting to notice the confrontation. Attention was the last thing they needed.
Seraphine's voice cut through the tension. Not loud, but everyone heard it anyway—some empathic trick that made sound bypass ears and go straight to consciousness.
"Commander Vasara. I've heard of you." She stepped forward, radiant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Your service record is impressive. Battle of the Rokrund Gap, wasn't it? The flanking maneuver that saved the Third Legion?"
Vasara's attention shifted. "You know military history."
"I research everywhere I perform. Context matters." Seraphine's empathic perception was working overtime—TF could see her concentrating. "I'd love to hear about it. For my cultural exchange program. Understanding Noxian military excellence helps audiences appreciate—"
"Your manipulation won't work on me, girl." But Vasara's stance had shifted slightly. Less aggressive. "I can feel what you're doing. Empathic abilities. Subtle. But I've been trained to resist."
"Then you felt that I'm being genuine." Seraphine's voice softened. "I truly would like to understand. Not manipulate. Understand."
For a long moment, nobody moved. The approaching officer stopped, waiting for Vasara's signal.
Then Vasara smiled. Cold. Calculating.
"Another time perhaps." She looked at Samira. "We'll talk again. Before you leave the capital. That's not a request."
She turned and walked away. The officer followed. The moment broke.
Samira exhaled slowly. "We need to leave. Now."
"Agreed," TF said. "Seraphine?"
"I'll make excuses. Give me two minutes with the hosts." She touched Samira's shoulder briefly. "Are you alright?"
"Fine. Just—move." Samira was already heading for the exit, maintaining composure through visible effort.
TF followed, mind racing. The access card was secured. Mission accomplished. But Vasara's attention was now on them. That complicated things. Significantly.
They regrouped outside, in the Imperial Gardens' edge where festival crowds provided cover. Graves and Ekko emerged from shadows.
"Got the card?" Graves asked.
TF produced it. "Yeah. But we have a problem."
"Vasara," Samira said flatly. "She recognized me. Questioned our cover. She's suspicious."
"Suspicious is manageable," Ekko said. "Does she know about the heist?"
"She knows something's wrong." Samira leaned against a garden wall, composure cracking slightly. "She'll investigate. That's what she does. Finds weaknesses and exploits them."
"Then we move up the timeline," TF decided. "Hit the vault tomorrow night instead of day after. Before she can dig deeper."
"Tomorrow?" Ekko's eyes widened. "That's Darius's rotation. We specifically planned around him."
"Plans change. We adapt or we die."
Graves pulled his shotgun, checked the chamber. "I'm good either way. Got enough explosives to make tomorrow interesting."
"Interesting," Samira muttered. "That's one word for suicide."
Seraphine joined them, slightly breathless. "Made our excuses. But TF's right—we need to move fast. I could feel Vasara's suspicion. She won't let this go."
They stood in the shadows of Noxian power, five criminals who'd just stolen from a general and attracted the wrong kind of attention.
"Tomorrow then," TF said. "We prep tonight, move at dusk. Hit the Archive during evening celebrations when guard rotations change."
"And Darius?" Ekko asked.
"We avoid him. Or we don't." TF pulled a card—Tower. Again. The universe had a sense of humor. "Either way, we're committed now."
"Committed," Graves echoed. "That's what you call breaking into the most secure vault in Valoran with the Hand of Noxus patrolling?"
"I call it our only option." TF looked at each of them. "Anyone wants out, now's the time."
Nobody moved.
"Right then." TF tucked the access card in his coat. "Tomorrow we rob an empire. Tonight we prepare not to die doing it."
They dispersed into festival crowds. Separate routes, different safehouses, maintaining operational security.
TF walked alone through gardens where beautiful flowers hid deadly toxins. Overhead, fireworks painted the sky. Around him, Noxians celebrated strength and conquest.
Tomorrow, he'd test whether cleverness could beat both.
The card appeared in his hand. He glanced down without thinking.
Death. Not the end, but transformation. Change forced by circumstance.
TF shuffled it away and kept walking.
Behind him, the Crimson Court continued its elegant dance of power and violence.
Ahead, the Eternal Archive waited.
And somewhere in its depths, the Chronolith Shard hummed with potential—one chance to change everything, waiting for whoever was desperate enough to claim it.