Noxus hit like a fist wrapped in silk.
TF stepped off the merchant vessel into late afternoon chaos. The docks swarmed with arrivals—traders from Shurima, diplomats from Demacia, mercenaries from everywhere, all drawn by Victory Festival like moths to a flame that occasionally burned them alive.
Red and black banners snapped in the wind. Everywhere, the three-blade sigil. The empire's mark stamped on buildings, flags, armor, even the damn cobblestones. You couldn't forget where you were. Noxus wouldn't let you.
He adjusted his coat, made sure the cards sat right, and joined the flow toward customs.
The others would arrive separately. Ekko via Zaun smuggling routes. Samira through military contacts she'd maintained. Seraphine on an official invitation, complete with press coverage. Graves by whatever violent path appealed to him most.
Different entry points. Different covers. Same destination.
TF handed his forged papers to a customs officer who looked bored and dangerous—standard Noxian combination. The officer scanned them with hextech verification equipment, frowned slightly, then waved him through.
Too easy. That made TF nervous.
He pushed into the city proper and stopped.
The Festival Streets were overwhelming. Crowds packed shoulder-to-shoulder, moving in currents dictated by parade routes and performance stages. Drums pounded constant rhythm—martial, aggressive, designed to make your heartbeat match. Fire breathers performed on corners. Gladiators sparred in exhibition rings. Merchants hawked everything from spiced meat to captured weapons to slaves—though Noxus called them "indentured servants" these days. More civilized.
The architecture loomed. Sharp angles, dark stone, buildings designed to remind you that power lived here and you were visiting on borrowed time.
TF found a tavern that looked expensive enough to have clean rooms but not so expensive it attracted nobility. Paid for a week with gold that had been silver yesterday—simple transmutation trick. The innkeeper didn't question it.
He went upstairs, locked the door, checked the window for escape routes. Then pulled a card—Seven of Swords—and waited.
Thirty minutes later, someone knocked. Three short, two long, one short.
Ekko's signal.
TF opened the door. The kid looked exhausted, Z-Drive humming louder than usual.
"Rough trip?" TF asked.
"Zaun smugglers wanted double after they saw the Z-Drive. Had to convince them with a demonstration." Ekko collapsed into a chair. "Rewound their boss through a conversation three times until he got so confused he just took the original price."
"Creative."
"Effective." Ekko pulled a small device from his pocket—scrambler. Activated it. "We secure?"
"For about ten minutes. Then sweep teams will notice the blank spot and get curious." TF pulled the maps. "Samira and Seraphine check in?"
"Samira sent word she's in. Already working contacts in the military district. Seraphine's doing a press appearance at the Colosseum tomorrow." Ekko studied the maps. "Graves?"
"He'll show when he shows."
"Comforting."
They went over the plan again. Three days to gather final intelligence. Day four, Seraphine's performance at the Crimson Court—that's when they'd steal access credentials. Day five, infiltration during the festival's peak celebration. Day six, extraction and escape before the empire figured out what happened.
Simple. Except for the thousand ways it could go catastrophically wrong.
"You ever been to Noxus?" Ekko asked.
"Once. Lost three fingers in a card game, won them back, then got escorted to the docks by people with sharp objects." TF shuffled his deck. "You?"
"Nah. But Piltover acts like Noxus-lite sometimes. All that 'strength and progress' propaganda while people in Zaun choke on their fumes." Ekko's jaw tightened. "Least Noxus is honest about being brutal."
"Honest brutality. That's their brand."
Outside, drums intensified. Shouting rose—crowd watching something violent and entertaining. TF moved to the window. Below, a parade marched past. Soldiers in formation, captured war machines on display, generals waving to crowds who cheered with enthusiasm that might've been genuine or might've been survival instinct.
Hard to tell the difference in Noxus.
"We should scout," Ekko said. "Get a feel for the streets, guard patterns, civilian movement."
"Tomorrow. Tonight we rest." TF closed the curtain. "You look half-dead, and the Z-Drive sounds wrong."
"It's fine."
"It's louder than it should be. When's the last time you recalibrated?"
Ekko's expression went defensive. "Been busy."
"Yeah, well, you'll be dead-busy if that thing malfunctions during the heist." TF pointed at the bed. "Sleep. I'll take first watch. Tomorrow you fix your tech, then we work."
"You giving orders now?"
"I'm keeping assets alive. Big difference." TF pulled a card, started shuffling. "Sleep, kid. That's not a request."
Ekko muttered something in Zaunite—probably insulting—but took off the Z-Drive with visible relief. Stretched out on the bed. Was asleep in minutes.
TF watched the door, listened to festival drums, and calculated odds.
Three days of prep. Then everything would either work or they'd die in a Noxian prison getting creatively tortured.
He liked those odds better than the ones the Broker had given him.
---
The next two days were reconnaissance disguised as tourism.
TF wandered the Festival Streets, watching guard rotations and exit points. Got into a card game with off-duty soldiers and lost just enough to seem harmless while learning about vault schedule changes. Samira's intel had been good, but three years old—things had shifted.
Ekko mapped the Imperial Gardens using a combination of stolen architectural records and his own observations. Discovered the botanical defenses had been upgraded with Ionian plants someone had acquired illegally. Deadly but predictable if you knew the patterns.
Samira reconnected with old contacts, trading favors and information. She came back to their meeting spot—a basement in the merchant district—with updated vault schematics and news.
"Darius is on rotation," she said without preamble.
TF's cards stopped mid-shuffle. "The Hand of Noxus himself?"
"During Victory Festival, they rotate top champions through vault security. Show of strength." Samira laid out the schedule. "He's there days four and five. Our infiltration window."
"Hell's bells," Graves muttered. He'd shown up yesterday, looking mean and carrying enough explosives to level a building. "Fighting Darius wasn't in the plan."
"Fighting him is suicide," Samira corrected. "We avoid him. The Archive is massive. He can't be everywhere."
"Just everywhere that matters," Ekko said.
TF studied the schedule. Darius changed everything. The man was a legend—brutal, efficient, absolutely loyal to Noxus. Encountering him meant death or capture, probably both.
But changing the timeline meant waiting another month for the next festival window. And TF's deadline was five weeks away.
"We work around him," TF decided. "Samira, you know his patterns?"
"He patrols high-value sections personally. Delegates lower priority areas to lieutenants." She pointed to sections of the vault schematic. "If we approach from here, access the Chronolith chamber from the old tunnels, we might avoid his route entirely."
"Might," Graves repeated. "I hate that word."
"You got a better one?" Samira challenged.
"Yeah. Explosives. Blow a hole, grab the thing, blow more holes on the way out."
"Subtle," Ekko said.
"Effective." Graves grinned around his cigar. "But I'm flexible. We'll try sneaky first."
Seraphine arrived mid-discussion, looking exhausted. Her press tour had been brutal—five interviews, two performances, constant emotional assault from crowds and nobles alike.
"The Crimson Court gathering is tomorrow night," she said, accepting water from Ekko gratefully. "I secured invitations for 'my personal manager' and 'security detail.'" She looked at TF and Samira. "That's you two. Graves and Ekko stay on standby for extraction if things go wrong."
"What do we need from the Court?" TF asked.
"Access credentials for the military district. There's a general—Tavaris—who's drunk, ambitious, and keeps his access card in his jacket." Seraphine's empathic perception had identified him during reconnaissance. "I'll distract him with conversation. You lift the card."
"And if he notices?"
"Then I'll make him think he dropped it himself. My abilities can make people question their own memories if I push hard enough." She looked uncomfortable. "I don't like doing it. But for this, I will."
TF nodded. The plan was coming together. Risky, but workable.
"One more thing," Samira said quietly. "I saw someone yesterday. Former commander. Vasara."
The name meant nothing to TF. But Samira's expression said it should.
"She's dangerous?" he asked.
"She's the reason I left Noxus." Samira's hand drifted to her pistol. "She remembers me. If she sees me at the Court, our cover's blown."
"Then we make sure she doesn't see you." TF considered. "Can you stay in the background? Let me do the lifting?"
"I'm supposed to be security. Guards stay close to their principals."
"Then we sell it better. You're discrete security. Professional. Nobody looks twice at professional." TF pulled a card—Eight of Cups—and held it up. "We're all playing roles here. Just gotta commit to the performance."
Samira didn't look convinced, but nodded.
They spent the rest of the day preparing. Ekko recalibrated his Z-Drive, ran diagnostics, adjusted temporal field stability. Graves sorted explosives by yield and application, muttering about artistic demolition. Seraphine practiced her performance pieces and worked on manipulating emotional perception.
TF rehearsed sleight-of-hand, drilling card manipulations until they were unconscious. Pickpocketing was second nature, but in the Crimson Court, there'd be no second chances.
Evening came. Festival drums reached crescendo as celebrations peaked. Fireworks exploded over the city—red and black, naturally. Crowds roared approval at gladiator victories and military displays.
TF stood at his window, watching fire bloom across the sky.
Tomorrow night, they'd infiltrate Noxian high society. Steal from generals and nobles. Begin the actual heist.
Everything so far had been preparation. Tomorrow, the real work started.
"You nervous?" Graves asked from the doorway.
TF didn't turn around. "Should I be?"
"You're robbing the most powerful empire in Valoran. With a crew you assembled in three weeks. During their biggest celebration." Graves moved to stand beside him. "Yeah. You should be nervous."
"I'm terrified," TF admitted. "But being scared never stopped a job."
"No. But it keeps you sharp." Graves pulled his shotgun—Destiny—and checked it for the hundredth time. "You remember Piltover? That factory job?"
TF did. Three years before the betrayal. Back when they'd been partners.
"We went in thinking we had every angle covered," Graves continued. "Turns out we'd missed the hextech sensors. Nearly got caught. You saved us with that card trick—the one where you made the guards see what we wanted them to see."
"Misdirection. Classic con."
"You were good at that. Seeing what others missed. Planning around it." Graves holstered Destiny. "You're still good at it. This plan might actually work."
Coming from Graves, that was close to a compliment.
"Thanks," TF said.
"Don't thank me. Thank me if we survive." Graves headed back to his room, then paused. "And TF? If you run this time—if you leave this crew hanging—I will find you. And I will make sure you regret every second of whatever life you got left."
"I know."
"Good." Graves disappeared into the hallway.
TF stayed at the window, watching fireworks paint the sky in colors of blood and empire.
Tomorrow, the Crimson Court.
Day after, the vault.
Then they'd find out if five desperate people could steal from an empire and live to argue about the prize.
He pulled a card without looking. Glanced down.
The Tower. Upheaval and revelation.
"Perfect," TF muttered, and shuffled it back into the deck.
Outside, Noxus celebrated strength and conquest.
Inside, five thieves prepared to prove that cleverness could beat power.
At least for one night.