The city didn’t forget.

  Ravenwatch was too rich, too proud, too sharp-edged to ever truly forget the moment its finest counting house got cracked open like a festival drum. Days had passed since the bank breach, since the gates slammed shut and the watch ran themselves raw in the streets, since rumor turned into a stampede beneath the city and coin vanished into a thousand hungry hands.

  Days passed, yet the air still carried it.

  Not the screams. Not the panic.

  The taste of it.

  Cael felt it the moment he stepped outside with Lyra and Riven, the morning sun warming stone that should have stayed cold. The cobbled lanes looked the same as ever, slick where old rain had polished them, worn-in like a blade you could trust. Shop signs still swung overhead, painted iron and carved wood calling out their trades to anyone who couldn’t read a paper notice. Cloth canopies still stitched the market streets in faded reds and deep blues, turning sunlight into stained-glass shade.

  Ravenwatch kept doing what it always did.

  It just did it louder.

  A street crier shouted from a barrel near the canal quay, voice hoarse from repeating the same outrage to fresh ears.

  “They stole from the Corwins! Right from the vault! And no one’s been caught!”

  A chorus answered him from the crowd.

  “Because the watch is soft!”

  “Because the Corwins are cursed!”

  “Because they deserved it!”

  “Because you’re an idiot and you like hearing yourself talk!”

  That last one came from a woman with flour on her sleeves who looked like she’d love to hit someone with a rolling pin. The crowd laughed, not kindly, and the crier raised his hands like a priest calling for silence.

  Cael’s eyes tracked the watchmen who moved through the press. They looked tired. Their armor was scuffed. Their faces were tight with the kind of frustration that lived behind a smile. They weren’t hunting anymore. Not openly. Not like those first hours when the gates were locked and the city thrashed like a trapped beast.

  Now they were doing damage control.

  And the city knew it.

  Riven leaned closer to Cael, his expression bright with the kind of joy that shouldn’t exist in a place built on debt. “Look at him,” he murmured, nodding toward a watch sergeant arguing with a fishmonger. “That man’s soul left his body three days ago. He’s just armor walking around until someone files the correct paperwork.”

  Lyra’s mouth twitched, close to a smile. “Be careful. He’ll hear you.”

  Riven touched his chest as if offended. “I would never disrespect a public servant.”

  Cael didn’t speak. He watched. He listened. He let the city’s noise become a map.

  The watch sergeant’s shoulders were stiff. His gaze kept flicking toward the nearest Corwin bank branch, where a line of people curled out the door and down the street like a snake that refused to die. The line was loud, too. Not the normal murmuring of people waiting their turn. This was the sound of anger being kept on a leash.

  Cael followed the line with his eyes.

  Men in good wool, women with rings, laborers with cracked hands. All of them wore the same expression: You will answer me.

  A man near the front shouted, voice breaking with outrage.

  “I want it out! All of it! Today!”

  A clerk stood in the doorway, pale yet composed, the kind of calm learned through training and threat. He held his hands out, palms open. Not surrender. Reassurance.

  “Please,” the clerk said, voice carrying. “Please, we understand. You have every right to be upset. We are upset as well. What happened was a violation of trust. It will be addressed.”

  “Addressed?” someone spat. “With words?”

  The clerk didn’t flinch. “With action. The Corwin banks remain solvent. Your deposits remain secure. The loss was suffered by the institution and its owners. Measures are being implemented across all branches today.”

  A man behind him, older, sharply dressed, nodded with practiced solemnity. A supervisor. A smoother tongue.

  “We are introducing new vault protocols,” the supervisor said. “New gatekeeping procedures. Increased guard contracts. Reinforced wards.”

  The word wards made Cael’s attention tighten even without using magic. Wards meant mages. Mages meant money. Money meant the Corwins didn’t plan to bleed quietly.

  Someone shouted again. “You said you were safe before!”

  “And we will be safer now,” the supervisor replied, as if safety was a product you could sell by smiling harder. “We have weathered worse. The Corwin family is among the wealthiest and most established in Ravenwatch. Your coin is not lost. You will not be punished for criminals’ actions.”

  The supervisor’s voice didn’t tremble. The line did.

  A few people left, cursing. Most stayed, furious, yet held in place by the same thing that made Ravenwatch run: belief in wealth. A simple, ugly faith.

  If a small bank got robbed, it died.

  If the Corwins got robbed, the city held its breath and waited for the Corwins to prove they were still above consequence.

  Lyra watched the scene with her arms folded. “They’re good.”

  Riven clicked his tongue. “They’re trained. That’s different.”

  Cael’s gaze stayed on the line. “People want to pull their money because they fear collapse. They’re being told collapse is impossible.”

  “And they believe it,” Lyra said.

  “Because it usually is,” Cael replied, and felt the old bitterness flicker in his chest. In his first life, poor meant fragile. A bad season, one wrong debt, one cruel creditor, and your life snapped. In his second life, wealth was armor. It didn’t make you good. It made you hard to hurt.

  Riven leaned back, hands behind his head like he owned the street. “So the Corwins got punched in the mouth. Now they’re smiling through broken teeth. Ravenwatch loves a show.”

  “It loves stability,” Lyra corrected, though her tone carried the same contempt. “Shows are what happen when stability cracks.”

  Cael didn’t argue. He already felt the city’s deeper current: everyone turning the disaster into profit.

  A pair of men in fine coats moved through the crowd, speaking softly to those peeling away from the line. One flashed a polished signet and offered a parchment.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Safe accounts,” he said, voice smooth. “Guaranteed reserves. Better protections. We’re offering immediate transfer assistance.”

  Competitors. Other banks smelling blood and trying to drink it.

  A woman with a basket of herbs was selling “warding bundles” near the corner, claiming they would protect against thieves, curses, and greedy lenders. People bought them anyway, because fear loved ritual.

  A priest stood on the steps of a soot-dark chapel and shouted about moral collapse.

  “This is what happens when coin becomes your god!” he roared. “This city has traded virtue for luxury! Repent, Ravenwatch! Or worse will come!”

  Some people spat. Some people crossed themselves. Some people laughed and tossed him a copper just to hear him shout louder.

  Even the watch found ways to profit.

  Cael noticed it in small, ugly angles. A guard accepting a “tip” to look the other way as a cart rolled through a crowded lane without inspection. A watchman steering a frightened merchant toward a “private investigation service,” which looked suspiciously like a cousin with a knife and a hunger for paid work.

  Business as usual.

  Riven watched the same things and shook his head in theatrical sorrow. “Corruption is truly the city’s most faithful citizen.”

  Lyra gave him a sideways look. “You say that like you’re above it.”

  Riven clutched his chest again. “I am offended. I am a man of principles.”

  Cael didn’t smile. Not fully. He kept walking, letting the city show him its mood.

  No one stopped them.

  No one demanded names, papers, intentions.

  The watch had learned a hard lesson during the lockdown: if you try to crush a city this big into silence, it bites back. Ravenwatch was not a village you could command into obedience. It was a machine that needed motion. Trade, labor, deliveries, markets. If you forced everyone indoors, you didn’t get peace. You got a storm trapped under a roof, and the rich hated pressure they couldn’t control.

  So the watch let people move.

  They watched for threats. They listened for tips. They posted rewards for useful information. They tolerated the chaos because the chaos was still feeding them something: eyes on the street, mouths talking, rumors flowing.

  That same river of talk was what Cael wanted.

  Not for entertainment.

  For leverage.

  Because the Corwins were everywhere now.

  In every conversation.

  In every joke.

  In every angry whisper.

  They were the city’s favorite target, and that made them easier to study.

  Cael kept his hands in his pockets, posture loose, eyes scanning. He let Riven chatter. He let Lyra point out small details. He saved his focus for patterns.

  It reminded him of Stonegate in a way he didn’t say aloud.

  Stonegate had erupted into celebration when a tyrant died, the kind of wild joy that made authority look small. Ravenwatch wasn’t celebrating in one clean direction. It was split. Some people cursed the thieves. Some cursed the Corwins. Some cursed the watch. Most cursed whatever was nearest.

  The effect was the same.

  Power looked shaky.

  And when power looked shaky, people talked like they’d been waiting their whole lives to speak.

  Riven’s voice dropped. “We should use this.”

  Lyra didn’t pretend not to understand. “The Corwins are loud in the city’s mouth right now. If we ever wanted information, this is the moment.”

  Cael nodded once. “Agreed.”

  They’d already identified the Corwins as targets. Edrin Corwin, the public face with clean hands and charity speeches. Maris Corwin, the vault-mind who approved discreet transfers and private accounts. Garron Corwin, enforcement, authorizer of the account men who corrected lives the way knives corrected breathing.

  They had names.

  They didn’t have the most useful thing yet.

  Addresses. Habits. Entry points. Weakness.

  Lyra’s eyes held a cold spark. “People will talk about where they live.”

  “They’ll brag,” Riven said, smiling. “Or whine. Or threaten. Anything, as long as someone listens.”

  Cael’s fingers brushed the hidden weight inside his coat, the portion of coin they’d kept from the tunnel loot. Not profit, not greed. Operational extraction. A tool. A resource to be spent for advantage.

  They didn’t flash it.

  They didn’t toss gold like fools.

  They used it the way a sharp mind used bait.

  A bowl of stew bought more truth than a sack of silver, as long as you offered it to the right kind of mouth.

  They started small.

  A dockside tavern where the air smelled of smoke and pepper, where men who’d worked all day came to drink and complain because complaining was cheaper than change. Riven did the talking, because he could turn any room into a stage without looking like he was trying.

  Cael sat back, listening. Lyra watched faces.

  Riven leaned on the bar and sighed like the world had personally betrayed him. “You know what’s funny?” he said, loud enough for nearby ears. “Everyone’s mad at the Corwins. Yet no one dares go to their doors.”

  A man with a scar on his neck snorted. “Their doors have guards.”

  Riven widened his eyes like a child hearing a legend. “Guards? On private houses?”

  The scarred man spat into a cup. “They’re not like you. They’re the Corwins.”

  Riven leaned in, voice dropping into conspiracy. “Where do they even live? I’m new here. I’d like to know where the gods keep their shrines.”

  That got a laugh.

  Not friendly. Not cruel. More like the laugh people gave when they enjoyed someone else’s ignorance.

  A woman nearby, broad-shouldered and tired-eyed, lifted her mug. “Edrin’s place is up in Highcrest. Big stone wall, raven carvings, too many lanterns. You can see the roofline from half the district.”

  Riven whistled. “Highcrest. Of course.”

  The scarred man shook his head. “That’s the public one. Maris stays near Goldwater Terrace. Closer to the river. Easier for private deliveries.”

  Lyra’s gaze sharpened subtly. She didn’t look excited. She looked like someone placing a puzzle piece.

  Riven nodded as if impressed. “And Garron? The one everyone whispers about like he’s a nightmare with a ledger?”

  The scarred man made a face. “Garron’s not one place. He moves. When he does sleep in a house, it’s in Lantern Ward. Close to the watchtower bell. Close to trouble.”

  A different man snorted. “You asking for trouble, stranger?”

  Riven spread his hands. “I’m asking for a story.”

  The scarred man leaned in, voice low. “Stories get people corrected.”

  Riven’s grin turned charming and empty. “Then we’ll keep it a bedtime tale.”

  Cael didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The names of districts were already forming a route in his mind.

  Highcrest. Goldwater Terrace. Lantern Ward.

  Simple. Memorable. Rich neighborhoods with enough prestige to hide monsters behind pretty stone.

  They left the tavern without making it obvious they’d gotten anything.

  Outside, Lyra exhaled slowly. “So it’s true. Separate residences.”

  Riven shrugged. “Power likes distance. It’s easier to pretend you’re clean if you don’t sleep under the same roof as the knife.”

  Cael glanced down the street, then to Lyra. “We confirm. No single source. We verify through different mouths.”

  They did.

  A market woman in the cloth canopy district confirmed Edrin’s place in Highcrest and added a detail: his house hosted charity dinners and chapel donations, and his gates were always polished like he expected the city to bow.

  A messenger boy confirmed Maris’s residence near Goldwater Terrace and laughed when asked why he knew. “I carry letters,” he said, like that explained everything. In a way, it did.

  An old man at a public well confirmed Garron’s house in Lantern Ward and spat a curse afterward, as if speaking the name invited consequence.

  Each time, Cael offered something small.

  A few coins. A meal. A kindness.

  Never enough to make someone greedy.

  Enough to make them open their mouth.

  And the more mouths opened, the more Cael saw the same truth: Ravenwatch was still mocking the Corwins openly, at least those who didn’t bank with them. Those who did were more anxious than angry, desperate to believe the Corwins remained unbreakable.

  That divide mattered.

  It meant the Corwins could still weaponize loyalty.

  It meant killing them would not only break a power structure. It would shake a faith.

  By the time they walked toward Highcrest, Cael could feel the city’s mood shift under his feet. The streets got cleaner. The buildings grew taller. The shop signs became less desperate and more confident, painted with richer colors, hung by stronger chains. Rooftop bridges linked close-set buildings like secret paths for those who preferred height to crowds.

  Highcrest rose ahead like a statement.

  Stone walls. Raven carvings. Gates that looked built to stop not thieves, not beggars, but reality itself.

  They weren’t the only ones going there.

  People clustered outside the Corwin estate like flies around a wound.

  Not a riot. Not a mob trying to smash gates. That would have gotten them cut down.

  This was something uglier and smarter.

  They were camped.

  Some sat on bundles and blankets. Some leaned against walls with arms crossed. Some held handwritten signs on rough parchment.

  COMPENSATE US.

  WE LOST WORK BECAUSE YOUR BANK FAILED.

  MY SHOP CLOSED FOR THREE DAYS.

  MY SON WAS HURT IN THE PANIC.

  They blamed the bank for the chaos. They blamed the Corwins for being the kind of rich that made thieves bold. Some were genuine victims. Some were opportunists. Most were both, because poverty made people creative in ways the rich never understood.

  A woman with red eyes shouted toward the gate. “You owe us! You owe the whole city!”

  A guard stood on the other side of the iron bars, helmet polished, expression blank. He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His presence was the response.

  Cael watched the guards.

  They weren’t city watch. Not wearing the city’s colors.

  Private blades.

  They moved like professionals. Their attention swept the crowd with the patience of men who expected a knife to appear at any moment. Their hands rested near weapons. Their stance was relaxed in the way only trained killers could manage.

  Lyra murmured, “That is not new hiring.”

  Cael’s gaze slid over the wall, over the roofline, over the windows that looked too narrow for comfort. “They’ve tightened. After the breach.”

  Riven’s grin was absent now. His eyes were measuring. “If this is Edrin’s house, the public face, I’d hate to see Garron’s.”

  Cael didn’t answer. He stepped back into the crowd and let his face become neutral. No one paid attention to three more bodies among dozens.

  Then he made his choice.

  Arcane Sight.

  He didn’t like relying on magic for every problem. This wasn’t reliance. This was reconnaissance.

  He breathed once and pushed the spell into existence.

  [SPELL ACTIVATED]

  Arcane Sight

  Mana Cost: 3 (Cast) + 0.85/min (Sustain)

  The world shifted.

  Not brighter. Not darker.

  More layered.

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