Derald squirms uncomfortably as Xara fusses over his dress suit, one last time. The evening chill is settling on his skin, and it's causing gooseflesh to raise across his skin. He shudders once.

This is going to be a night to remember.

But not in a good way.

"Stop moving, Derald," growls Xara, slapping his ankle lightly.

"Remind me why again I'm going to this and not Owain? This stupid plan is his idea anyways."

"Because," Vieva drawls, glancing at him sidelong once. "Your family has a higher position than Owain Snagsnout." Her eyes glow. "Founders, if I walk into that gala with Owain Snagsnout on my arm, I'll be the laughingstock of the noble population." She looks him up and down again. "You're a baby step up."

Derald scowls.

After the home weekend two weeks ago, Owain had burst into their rooms, eyes wide and breathless. He had explained his plan to them all; get into the Inventory Gala, get to the warehouse, and look for anything of importance to the Warlord so they can have an edge over him. It's risky, and there's many things that can go wrong for them. They may not be let in, they may not be able to get to the warehouse, or they may not even find anything of worth and the whole experience could be for naught. But they have to try.

Lysabel huffs impatiently from behind them. "We don't have all night, guys. Hurry up, will you?"

Vieva cranes her neck back, glaring at Lysabel. "Not that you would understand, but if we don't come to this event looking perfect, then we might as well not go at all."

Vieva turns back to studying the Inventory with those intense, fiery eyes of hers. There is rarely an instant where Vieva Bestel doesn't look perfect, and even Derald, who still isn't a big fan of Vieva, has to admit that she looks stunning.

Her shoulders, pale as milk, are completely bared, but she doesn't appear cold. Soft wafts of smoke rise from her unblemished skin. Her silvery silk hair has been pulled up into a complicated looking updo, sparkling under the star-studded sky. It seems as though the very stars have been wrangled to sit in her hair.

Her dress is a strapless, attention-grabbing creation; a figure hugging, glittering material hugs Vieva's curves, enough to maintain modesty, but also enough to tantalize anybody watching. It's an off-white color, with a slight peach tone to it. It falls and pools on the floor in a luscious puddle of pastel. From her waist, gauzy tuille effortlessly floats to the ground, like wings.

She's gorgeous.

Not that Derald would ever tell her that. Vieva would never let him forget it.

As if she could feel his attention, Vieva nails him in place with her molten eyes.

"Xara's done, just so you know." She lifts her chin imperiously. "Whenever you're done ogling me, we can leave."

Derald tears his gaze away from her, looking for Xara, who smirks next to Owain. His cheeks flare up but he tries to look as dignified as he can, turning to face the other three. Lysabel stands, hips jutted and hands perched, lips tight.

"Lysabel's going to slip around the back, and start rummaging around. You two make your way through the party and to the back, to meet her there. Try not to take too long." Xara reiterates.

Derald rolls his eyes. "You act as though this is our first heist."

Xara arches a brow, so characteristically Xara that he almost smiles. "Isn't it?"

Derald goes silent.

Lysabel darts around them, shooting them a warning glance.

"Don't dawdle." Then, with a flash of blonde, she's gone. Xara just shakes her head, bewildered at her roommate.

Derald holds out his arm. "Shall we?"

Vieva curls her fingers around his elbow. "Let's do this."

The two of them cut across the street, which has come to a stillstop from the heavy traffic. The two of them nimbly edge their way across the street, still hand in hand. They step onto the pavement and Derald has to fight the urge to gape up at the Inventory. It's a magnificent structure, it's only rival in his mind being the Ruxnorth Academy Castle. Before they can merge into the line, Vieva drags Derald to the corner.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, looking around her to the crowd gathering. At this rate, they'll only get in when the night ends.

Vieva frantically rummages through her small clutch. "I forgot something. I can't go in without it."

"Is it more important than the mission?"

She slants him a searing glare. "Do you want this to work or not?"

Derald slumps. Five minutes into this charade and he's already exhausted.

"Ah ha!" Vieva retrieves two small vials and pops their lids off, letting the contents slowly drip out. The heady, heavy scent of osmanthus and neroli fill his nostrils.

"Seriously?" he explodes. "You're putting on perfume?"

Vieva barely glances at him. "It's important for the ruse, Derald. Not that you'd understand."

She mixes the oils in her hand, and dabs it on her pale, swanlike neck.

"Appearance is everything at these sorts of things, Pellefard. If I don't appear looking absolutely perfect, then someone will notice, and I'll be in trouble. So will you. It will jeopardize the entire mission. Got it? Now smell my neck, will you?"

Derald is taken aback at the sudden change of topic. He reels backward. "Excuse me?"

Vieva rolls her eyes and groans. "Man up, for Founder's sake! I need you to make sure it's potent enough, since I can't smell it myself."

Derald shuffles forward, not really sure why he's agreeing to it. Vieva Bestel may be a prick but she's also the most beautiful annoying girl he's ever met. Sweat collects and beads in his palms as he leans in to take a whiff of her neck.

Derald hastily takes a large step back.

"It's good. We're good to go." He says gruffly, the cold air rushing back in. Vieva looks at him, pale brows furrowed lightly, before shaking her head and taking his arm once more.

"I'll never understand you, Pellefard."

Derald swallows nervously.

"Good."

✡✡✡

The Inventory looks unrecognizable. Derald's father's occupation requires him to visit the Inventory occasionally, and he'd tagged along a few times. Previously, it had just been a large, airy room with gunmetal gray walls and a glass, diamond-pane ceiling. Now, it had been transformed into a luxurious and eloquent space.

Vieva hardly looks surprised, almost bored even. She must attend these things a lot.

"Shut your mouth!" She whispers harshly in his ear. "You're attracting attention. You have to look like to belong."

"That's the thing: I don't belong!"

"Well, if we want this plan to work, you're going to have to step up your act. Otherwise, everyone here is going to make conclusions about why you're here. And trust me, we don't want that."

Derald stands straight, puffing out his chest.

Vieva elbows him and he deflates with a grunt. "Back straight, chin parallel to the floor, small, measured steps. It's not that hard."

Not that hard my foot.

The Inventory's sitting areas and directory had been changed into a dance floor and lounge. Reams of silk dangle from the banister, and fresh cut flowers, in the same shade of pastels, decorate the room in floral pops of color. The food table is on the far side of the room, yet not one person takes anything from it. He frowns. What's the point of having so much good food if no one eats it?

Derald feels so out of place, he could feel layers of sweat collecting under his tux. He reaches to loosen his tie but Vieva slaps his hands away quickly.

"Don't touch anything."

"But I-"

She silences him with a cold look. Derald refocuses his attention to the attendees of the gala. All the high-caliber members of Ruxnorth's upper society have gathered here, talking quietly amongst themselves. They have been dressed in varying shades of light pinks, yellows, and purples. They stand in small clusters, talking so quietly Derald can't hear a single word. There is an occasional polite laugh, and a grimacing smile, but in truth, no one looked happy to be here.

"Are all rich people parties so dull?" he whispers to Vieva, trying to lighten the mood. But she isn't listening. She wets her lips lightly.

"Obstacle number one," murmurs Vieva, jutting her chin lightly in the direction of four approaching men. The largest and clearly the most powerful, a man with platinum blonde hair cropped close to his scalp and eyes of fire. Another fire-eyed boy, but with black hair, keeps pace a few steps behind. The other two are obviously father and son. The father has a time-wearied face, but studious eyes. And his son, striding proudly beside his father, is none other than Kayd Wyvern.

As if this night couldn't get any worse.

"Just follow my lead," Vieva says from the corner of her mouth. Then, right before his eyes, Vieva metamorphoses into the regal, harshly elegant girl that he'd met back in September. Her eyes cool into a steady, yet impassioned warmth, vastly different from the fierce flame he's used to. Her eyes narrow cautiously, while her mouth sets.

The four stop in front of them, and Derald has to fight the urge not to shrink under their disapproving glares. It's as though they can smell the middle-class emanating from him.

"Daughter." The imposing man speaks first. "How goes your studies?"

Derald's hardly shocked. Vieva and this man are identical, in every way. Derald gulps inaudibly, the urge to tug on his tie stronger than ever. Jonan Bestel is the most terrifying man in all of Ruxnorth, and Derald is standing in front of him. Don't faint. The black haired boy grins his way, seeming to understand Derald's plight.

"Top of the class, obviously." Vieva responds, with a detached tone of voice. Uncaring.

"Good." Then Jonan reverses his attention to Derald, who nearly emits a squeak. He doesn't get scared of much, but Jonan's mere presence is enough to make Derald want to abandon the mission altogether.

"Who is this boy, Vieva?" Jonan speaks in that soft, lethal way of his.

"This is Derald Pellefard, Father. A colleague of mine."

"What is he?" Jonan continues to talk as though Derald isn't there. Which is fine by him; words seem to have fled from his mouth.

"A Tsunami." Vieva gauges Jonan's reaction. The elder Wyvern's mouth puckers in contempt, while Kayd sneers. Jonan seems unaffected by Vieva's bold choice. Derald isn't an idiot- he knows that in Ruxnorth, though no one outwardly says anything, Arcanes are the most powerful. Already one disadvantage. His prospects of continuing through are looking smaller and smaller.

"What does your father do, Derald?" Jonan says his name slowly, addressing him for the first time.

Derald bows his head lightly, in deference of Jonan's position. Maybe the etiquette lessons he'd been forced to attend as a child really are helpful.

"My father just recently became an analyzer here at the Inventory, sir," Derald says, inwardly pumping his fists that his voice didn't waver.

"How recently?" The elder Wyvern speaks gruffly.

"Just 8 months ago, sir."

That is true, actually. Father had recently gotten a job here at the Inventory 8 months ago, and he is an analyzer. Just not a senior one. Analyzers take the artifacts and assess their worth, which is actually a pretty impressive job.

Music drifts in from the right corner, where the musiciens have begun to play. The black-haired boy strains his head above the sea of glittering people.

He nods at Derald. "I must find my lady. Adieu." Jonan doesn't say goodbye to the nameless boy.

"I see the waltz has begun." Jonan unfurls his fingers towards the dance floor. "I do hope you are worth the money, Mr. Pellefard."

Before Derald can say anything else, Vieva whisks him to the marble dance floor, positioning him across with the other men while she herself goes to the other side. The music heightens, and Derald bows, his memories of etiquette class rushing back. Twice in one night.

Vieva and Derald join again. He places a hand on her waist in a proprietary manner whilst she places a hand delicately on his shoulder. He can smell the oils on her neck with every breath.

She nods at him appraisingly as they dance. "I have to say I'm impressed."

Derald smirks. "I'm not completely useless, Vieva."

"Don't rush to conclusions."

He swirls her around, her dress fanning out as she spins. He tugs her back to him.

"What was that comment your dad said about the money?"

Derald didn't dare look back to where they'd left Jonan standing; he could feel the searing Bestel gaze on his back like a brand. Yet another thing Vieva had inherited from her father.

Vieva rolls her eyes lightly. "The whole point of this stupid gala is to raise money for the Inventory, right? So to be a guest, you have to pay 800 gold pieces. Father always pays for me and my escort, so basically, Father paid for you to attend this gala in the first place."

Derald nearly misses the next dance step. "800 gold pieces? My family could eat a month's worth of dinners with 800 gold pieces!"

Vieva wrinkles her nose. "That's... depressing."

Derald glares at her. "You know, not everyone gets a feast every night for dinner."

Vieva acknowledges his statement with a dip of her head, but Derald can see she doesn't quite believe it.

On the triple step, Vieva glances at the door. "We don't have much time. When this waltz ends, I'm going to excuse myself, saying I'm thirsty, and ask you to accompany me. We'll slip out the door then, got it?"

Derald bows as the music ends, and a light pattering of applause breaks out around the room. Then he looks up. Uh-oh.

"We may need to deal with obstacle number two first."

The nameless black-haired boy approaches swiftly. Vieva groans. "I'll handle this."

The boy smiles down at Vieva. "Can I steal you for a dance?"

"What happened to your date?"

The boy frowns slightly, checking the room.

"She's... somewhere here."

Vieva rolls her eyes.

Derald clears his throat. "Excuse me, who are you again?"

Vieva elbows him fondly. "This is-"

"Her devastatingly handsome cousin." The boy's eyes sparkle with mirth. "Caedric. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Derald shakes his hand, and Caedric returns his attention to his cousin. "What about that dance?"

Vieva's hand flutters to the hollow of her pale throat. She widens her eyes, effortlessly shifting into the part of needy maiden. "I'm feeling quite parched. Derald, would you?"

"Of course," he says graciously, accepting her hand. Vieva smiles coyly at Caedric.

"You'll have to find me later, cousin."

Caedric grins.

Derald breathes a sigh of relief. "We made it."

"Not yet." Her jaw tightens and as inconspiculously as she can, she takes a quick scan of the windows. Everyone here is relaxed, so her actively looking for windows where Lysabel may be waiting is suspicious. And the last thing they need is another roadblock.

A waiter prances by, holding a ornate silver platter with little squiggly foods on crackers. Vieva sniffs them with distaste.

"I'm so over this gala," he whispers to her.

Vieva hastens their pace.

"Me too."

✡✡✡

"Psst! Over here!" a frantic, angry voice whips at them the minute Vieva and Derald take a step outside.

Crouched in the shadows sits Lysabel, jade eyes glimmering with irritation.

"I don't recall the two of you taking your sweet time being part of the plan," she hisses, coming to her feet.

Vieva narrows her eyes, clearly rubbed the wrong way by Lysabel's words.

"We got out of there as quick as we could."

"It's just a bunch of old rich geezers in suits talking! How is that hard to escape?"

"Girls, we probably should get going." Derald whispers, in a loud-ish voice.

Lysabel glares at him. "I was about to say that." Then she stomps past him.

Derald exhales forcefully. Vieva nods at him angrily.

"You said it."

"Let's just get this over with," he says, fighting a wave of exhaustion. It's as if time slowed the minute they stepped into the Inventory.

The three of them dart across from the Inventory to the storage warehouse behind. The warehouse is semi-shrouded in darkness from the night, and Derald can just barely make out the outlines of the guardsmen. They are heavily armed, and never stop moving.

"I'll handle the guards," Lysabel says in a low voice. "The two of you need to get inside and start searching." She holds up three fingers. "There are three places it could be." She ticks off each finger as she speaks. "We need to search under W, for Warlord, R, for Runemore, and F, for Founders."

"We'll get a head start." Vieva nods her affirmation. "How will you take all those guards down?"

Lysabel's eyes glint with an unfamiliar excitement. Her lips curl up into an almost cold smile. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Bestel. Just make sure you get inside."

Derald just shakes his head. He's not sure whether he likes or dislikes this new Lysabel Axelane.

Lysabel smirks at them, then stands, hands out, palms flat. Roots erupt from the ground, silent assassins of the earth. They wind themselves around the mens' legs and with a sharp flick of Lysabel's wrist, they hit the ground. Roots curl themselves around the men, so tight and unmovable that they can hardly flail around. Thin branches wrap loosely around their heads, enough so that they can breathe freely, but restricting them from screaming.

Vieva's eyebrows lift a fraction, the only evidence that she's impressed.

Lysabel waves a hand at them. "Go!"

Vieva leaps nimbly over the wide-eyed men, their eyes tracing her and Derald as they go. Derald winces lightly. "Sorry," he mouthes to them.

The guards mutter incoherently what seems to be some sort of profanity. It's probably better that he didn't hear.

Vieva slips inside the warehouse, with Derald close on her heels. Vieva takes his hand and pulls him along, not letting him stop to observe anything.

"We don't have time, Pellefard," she whispers to him. Derald hardly hears her; he's too focused on the feel of her hand inside of his. For all the advice he gives Owain about girls, he actually has no experience to back his words. The only time a girl's ever held his hand had been when his older sister had been scared, during one of the festival shows.

Mope about how pathetic you are later, Pellefard.

The warehouse is large and dark and gray, monotone and mind-numbing. The shelves are so high that he cannot even see the top. The artifacts are organized by letter, like Lysabel had said. Derald still can't figure out how she knows that, considering that her region of Hodwerry is the farthest from the Inventory. But he banishes that thought from his mind momentarily; he must focus on finding something, anything, to help send the Warlord back to where he deserves.

Derald and Vieva branch out, her taking the Founder section while he works in the W area. Derald squints, to no avail; it's darker than spilled ink, and the sparse moonlight isn't helping. But he can just barely make out the labels. His eyes scan each tome and box, running over the labels twice each.

Nothing.

Derald leans against the boxes in frustration. This section is probably smaller compared to the Runemore one. The Runemore brothers had been celebrities during their time and no doubt there will be a vast variety of artifacts from them.

Derald lopes from in between the shelves and goes to the R section, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. A small, dull pain swells in his head. His eyes ache from staring too long at the dark text.

I'm so calling in sick tomorrow.

Then, suddenly, a flare of light explodes from behind him. Fire curls in the air, bright and brilliant for a few seconds before fizzling into smoke. Derald pivots quickly, bolting in the direction of the flame. Vieva. Something must be wrong. Or maybe she found something.

Oh Founders, please let it be the second one.

Derald skids to where Vieva stands frozen, almost quivering. She doesn't look back as he approaches, rooted to the ground.

Derald looks in the direction in which Vieva stares, wide-eyed, peering into the billowing darkness.

"Vieva? What is it?" Derald keeps his voice low, forcing himself to sound brave and not terrified like he really is.

A dark laugh snakes around him, oddly familiar. "That was smart, my dear, to send up the warning light." A hulking figure swathed in black cloth emerges from the shadows. Fear and dread trickle down his back. He already knows who this man is.

Vieva seems to regain her wits, straightening with dignity beside him. "Why are you here, Cynem?"

The Warlord. Derald presses a hand again to his temple, feeling woozy. He's here. The very man they're trying to stop stands in front of them, practically oozing power and thunder from his pores. Already, with a short glance out the window, Derald can see angry clouds forming, bulbous and full.

The Warlord angles his head. "Such bravery, little one. I'm impressed."

Vieva remains silent. The Warlord turns his head to Derald, eerily owl-like.

"It's a very good plan, I have to admit. Sadly, it was destined to fail." The Warlord's face is hidden but Derald can hear the smile in his voice.

"Are you sure about that?" Vieva arches an eyebrow, all fears apparently having fled. Derald still can't find the words.

The Warlord studies her, then whirls around, taking an elongated box from the stack. He stomps through the wood, and it splinters easily beneath the heel. The Warlord bends and retrieves a sword, magnificent and regal. Vieva's breath catches beside him.

He's going to fight us.

Derald can feel his blood pumping faster and faster. He wouldn't do that. It isn't smart. Leaving the Inventory trashed is a bold, and stupid move.

He's the Warlord, for Founder's sake. What does he care?

Then he does the unthinkable- he tosses the sword to Vieva, who gasps lightly and fumbles to catch it properly.

The Warlord chuckles again. "What you and I are looking for will not be found here. You won't find it anywhere. You cannot defeat me."

"You just gave us your legendary sword," Vieva says slowly. "I wouldn't hold your breath."

Derald cocks his head, rethinking the Warlord's words. "What are you looking for?"

He's surprised at the lack of utter terror in his tone.

The Warlord rustles in his cloak.

"You will find out soon enough."

>>AUTHOR'S NOTES:

ohmygod. this may be the longest chapter I've ever written. no kidding. anyways, i'm so glad that I'm past this chapter! i've been having a depressing lack of inspiration recently, but seeing how close i am to the finish line is getting me all hyped up!

peace&love,

raniaditi