The containment wards sang with killing intent.
TF circled the pedestal slowly, watching shimmer-distortions bend light and space around the Chronolith Shard. The artifact sat in the center, impossibly beautiful, radiating temporal energy that made his teeth ache.
"Three-layer ward system," Ekko said, studying it with professional appreciation. "Outer layer is detection—touches us, alarms trigger. Middle layer is defensive—tries to physically repel intruders. Inner layer is offensive—kills anything that gets through."
"Optimistic design," Graves muttered.
"Effective design." Samira checked the collapsed entrance. Muffled sounds of excavation continued. "We have maybe two hours before Darius clears enough rubble. Less if he brings mages."
"Then we work fast." TF pulled a card—Queen of Hearts—and held it near the outer ward. The card's enchantment reacted, shimmer intensifying. "Magic recognizes magic. The wards are reading my cards as threats."
"Can you disable them?" Samira asked.
"Disable? No. Trick? Maybe." TF's mind raced through con-artist logic. Every security system had assumptions. Find the assumption, exploit it. "The wards are designed to stop people from taking the artifact. What if we don't take it?"
"We're literally here to take it," Ekko said.
"We're here to acquire it. Different thing." TF studied the pedestal's base. "The wards protect against removal. But if something moves the Chronolith from outside the containment field..."
"You want to move it remotely?" Samira frowned. "How?"
TF pulled his deck, shuffled, found the card he needed. The Magician—reality manipulation through focused will. His strongest card, the one that drained him to use.
"Card magic is projection," he explained. "I manifest the card's properties at a distance. If I project movement force carefully—precise enough to lift without triggering touch-based defenses..."
"That's insane," Ekko said. "The precision required—any wobble and the wards activate."
"Good thing I've been doing card tricks since I was six." TF positioned himself at optimal angle. Held the Magician card flat on his palm. Focused.
The card glowed. Blue-gold light wrapped around it, then extended—a tendril of pure magical force reaching toward the Chronolith. TF felt resistance immediately. The wards pushed back, testing, probing for hostile intent.
He kept his mind calm. Not taking. Just observing. Curious visitor, harmless.
The tendril touched the artifact.
The Chronolith responded. Light flared. For one crystalline moment, TF saw—
—futures. Possible timelines. Himself with the artifact, without it, dead in this chamber, escaping successfully, betraying the crew, staying loyal, the Broker collecting his debt, the Broker destroyed, a thousand branching paths all overlapping—
Then he was back, gasping, the vision gone.
"What happened?" Graves had his shotgun raised.
"It showed me..." TF steadied himself. "Possible outcomes. Future echoes. The Chronolith is aware. Conscious, maybe. Definitely not just an object."
"Can you still move it?" Samira asked.
TF focused again. The tendril was still connected, still touching the Shard. He pulled gently. The artifact lifted—millimeter by millimeter, rising from its pedestal while the wards swirled around it, confused by the indirect approach.
"It's working," Ekko breathed.
TF lifted the Chronolith through the ward layers. Outer detection—bypassed, no direct contact. Middle defensive—confused, pushing at magical force rather than physical presence. Inner offensive—
The killing ward activated.
Lightning arced from the pedestal. TF jerked the Magician card sideways, redirecting force. The lightning hit the wall, scorched stone, dissipated.
"Hurry," Samira urged.
TF pulled faster. The Chronolith rose through the final ward layer, clearing the containment field. He guided it toward his free hand—closer, closer—
His fingers closed around it.
The world stuttered.
Time hiccupped. TF saw the chamber in a thousand different moments simultaneously—past, when it was built; present, as they stole; future, when guards would find it empty. All overlapping, all real, all happening at once.
Then his perception stabilized. The Chronolith sat in his hand, warm despite looking frozen. It hummed—not sound, but feeling. Temporal energy cycling through patterns he almost understood.
"You got it," Graves said. "Hell. You actually got it."
TF stared at the artifact. So much risk, so many desperate choices, all for this one object. The power to change the past. To undo mistakes. To become someone different.
He thought about Graves. About two years in prison. About the moment he'd run instead of staying.
One choice. One rewind. He could fix everything.
"We need to move," Samira said. "Find another exit before Darius breaks through."
"There." Ekko pointed at a passage—smaller, unmarked, probably maintenance access. "That looks promising. Maybe connects to different archive levels."
They moved toward it. TF tucked the Chronolith carefully in his coat's inner pocket, feeling it pulse against his chest. Behind them, the excavation sounds grew louder. Darius was making progress.
The maintenance passage was cramped, carved for utility not comfort. They squeezed through single file. Graves barely fit, cursing about Noxian architecture and his shoulders.
"This better go somewhere," he muttered.
It went somewhere. Up. A spiral of carved steps, ascending through archive levels. They passed storage rooms filled with cursed weapons, forbidden texts, artifacts too dangerous for display. Noxus's hoarded power, locked away and forgotten.
TF's hand drifted to the Chronolith unconsciously. One choice. One moment changed. So simple.
"You're thinking about using it." Ekko's voice, quiet, from behind him on the stairs.
"Aren't you?" TF didn't look back.
"Every second since we planned this job." Ekko's footsteps paused. "But thinking and doing are different things."
"Are they? When you got the power in your pocket?"
"The power's not the problem. The choice is." Ekko resumed climbing. "Who decides? Who deserves it more? Your mistake or mine? Samira's failure or Seraphine's regret?"
"Or Graves's prison time," TF finished. "Yeah. That's the question."
They reached a landing. Samira checked their position against mental mapping. "We're three levels up. Should be near the festival supply tunnels. If we can reach those—"
Voices. Ahead and behind. They'd found alternate routes. The Archive was mobilizing, sealing escape vectors.
"We're surrounded," Graves said. Not panicking. Assessing.
TF thought fast. "The festival tunnels—they connect to the Colosseum, right?"
"Eventually. Through maintenance systems." Samira frowned. "But that's thirty guards minimum between us and freedom."
"What about up?" Ekko pointed at another passage. "We keep ascending, eventually we hit street level. Exit directly into festival crowds."
"That puts us in the middle of Noxian military district during high alert," Samira countered. "Suicide."
"All our options are suicide," TF said. "Question is which one's least suicidal."
The voices grew closer. Organized search patterns, professional communication. These weren't random guards—these were vault security, trained for this exact scenario.
"I got an idea," Graves said. "It's stupid."
"Those are the only kind that work," TF said. "Talk."
"I blow a hole. Straight up. Three levels of stone, right into the street. We climb the rubble, emerge in festival chaos, disappear before anyone processes what happened."
"That's insane," Samira said.
"That's what I said. Stupid." Graves pulled his demolition kit. "But I got enough explosives left for one big boom. Shaped charge, directional force, controlled collapse. Done right, we get a chimney. Done wrong, we get buried."
"And if we do get buried?" Ekko asked.
"Then at least we die fast." Graves started assembling charges. "Better than what Darius will do if he catches us."
TF considered. Voices closing in from two directions. Darius somewhere below, excavating with systematic fury. Limited options, all terrible.
He pulled a card. The Tower. Again. Always the Tower—upheaval, sudden change, structures collapsing.
The universe really did have a sense of humor.
"Do it," TF decided. "Blow the ceiling. We go up and out."
"Everyone behind this support pillar," Graves commanded. "When I detonate, cover your heads and pray to whatever you believe in."
They clustered behind stone older than Noxus itself. Graves set the charges—precise placement, years of experience calculating angles and force. He worked quickly, no wasted motion.
"Thirty-second delay when I trigger," he said. "On three, we run for the blast zone. Climb rubble before guards recover. Got it?"
They nodded.
Graves triggered the detonator. "Three... two... one—"
They ran.
Toward the charges. Toward the imminent explosion. TF felt the Chronolith bounce against his chest, temporal energy pulsing faster. Did it know what was coming? Could it sense its own possible futures?
Twenty seconds.
They reached the position—directly beneath where Graves had calculated the blast would punch through.
Fifteen seconds.
Voices behind them. "There! Intruders at section nine!"
Guards burst into view. Saw them. Raised weapons. TF pulled cards, ready to—
Ten seconds.
The guards realized what the charges meant. Started retreating, shouting warnings.
Five seconds.
"Down!" Graves yelled.
They dropped, hands over heads.
The explosion was violence made sound. Stone shrieked. Force hammered through TF's body. His ears popped. Dust choked air. The world became noise and pressure and pain.
Then it stopped.
TF looked up.
A hole. Straight through three levels of ancient stone, opening like a wound to the sky above. Rubble provided a climbable slope. Festival lights filtered down—red and black, Noxian celebration continuing oblivious to the heist beneath.
"Move!" Samira was already climbing.
They scrambled up through destruction. Stone shifted treacherously. Ekko's Z-Drive sparked—damaged by the blast. Graves hauled himself up with raw strength. TF's ears rang, balance uncertain, but he climbed.
Behind them, guards recovered. Started shooting. Bullets sparked against stone.
TF reached the top. Burst through into festival night. They'd emerged in a supply plaza—merchants, workers, festival preparation chaos. People stared at them, confused, not yet understanding.
"Act normal," Samira hissed. "Walk, don't run. We're festival workers, minor accident, nothing to see."
They walked. Covered in dust, bloodied, exhausted. Through crowds that parted instinctively. Away from the hole, away from the Archive, into the festival's mass of humanity.
Behind them, alarm klaxons began screaming. The Archive was broadcasting its violation. Soon the entire military district would mobilize.
But they were out. They were alive.
And TF had the Chronolith Shard in his pocket.
The heist was complete.
Now came the hard part: deciding what to do with what they'd stolen.