Rafborough revealed itself block by block.

  Once past the gate, the city did not open up into the splendor Otwin had once imagined when he was younger. There were no sweeping avenues of marble, no towering spires meant to inspire awe. Instead, the buildings pressed close, built of stone that had long since surrendered any claim to beauty.

  They were squat.

  Ugly.

  Practical in the way only things built for control rather than pride ever were.

  Most structures rose no more than three or four stories, their facades flat and unadorned. Stone blocks were stacked with efficiency rather than artistry, mortar lines thick and uneven from generations of repairs. Windows were narrow, many barred, some shuttered even in daylight. Color was rare. Where paint existed, it was faded to dull browns and grays, flaking away in patches.

  Otwin rode his STV at a steady pace, eyes moving constantly.

  The roads were badly cobbled, stones laid without pattern and worn smooth by centuries of use. Wheels rattled, and tracks clanked as vehicles passed, but even so, it was better than the packed earth and scavenged paving of the slums outside the wall. Here, at least, the ground was meant to be driven on.

  The streets were crowded.

  More crowded than the slums, if anything.

  But the crowding had shape.

  Crumbling stone sidewalks lined both sides of the streets, raised just enough to separate foot traffic from carts and vehicles. People flowed along them in dense streams, vendors tucked into doorways, clerks and laborers moved with purpose. The separation made traffic possible. Slow, but possible.

  As the escort moved through, people stepped back without being told. No one wanted to get clipped by an STV.

  Otwin saw the reactions clearly. Not fear, not exactly. Calculation. Civilians gauging how much attention to give and deciding that none at all was safest. Conversations died as the carriage passed. Eyes flicked, then turned away.

  The city sounded different than the slums.

  Less shouting. More constant noise. The clatter of carts, the echo of boots on stone, the distant ringing of bells marking time or transactions or something else entirely. Somewhere nearby, a steam line vented with a shrill hiss that lingered too long.

  The formation held.

  Jordy scouted ahead, weaving through intersections with practiced ease. Paul rode close to Otwin’s flank, occasionally tilting his helmet toward the sidewalks as if listening to conversations Otwin could not quite hear. Behind the carriage, Humbert’s bulk discouraged anyone from getting too close, while Doke’s sapphire eye tracked rooftops and upper windows with slow, deliberate movements.

  Then the street ahead widened.

  The change was immediate.

  Traffic thinned. Vendors vanished. The sidewalks cleared as if by silent agreement. Buildings pulled back, giving way to open stone plazas and carefully maintained grounds.

  The bank dominated the view.

  It was massive.

  And glorious.

  White stone rose in clean lines, polished and unmarred by neglect. Tall columns framed a broad fa?ade etched with restrained ornamentation that spoke of wealth without shouting it. Gold accents caught the light along cornices and reliefs, subtle but unmistakable. Windows were tall and clear, glass unbroken and immaculate.

  Money was on display.

  Not in coin or vault doors, but in maintenance. In care. In the quiet declaration that this place mattered enough to be kept beautiful while the rest of the city was allowed to decay.

  Guards ringed the perimeter.

  They wore ornate uniforms bearing the bank’s insignia, heavy cloth reinforced with plates at the shoulders and chest. The finery did nothing to hide what they were. Scars showed on throats and hands. Their movements were efficient, economical. Veterans, every one of them.

  Regular citizens were kept well back by low barriers and watchful eyes.

  The steam carriage slowed as they approached the bank’s outer gate.

  Another checkpoint.

  This one felt different.

  The gate was wrought iron reinforced with steel bands, tall enough to discourage foolishness. Bank guards stepped forward, weapons present but not raised. One of them spoke briefly with Grump through the carriage port, voice calm, professional.

  Otwin waited, armor still, posture relaxed but ready.

  After a short exchange, the guard nodded and signaled to his fellows.

  The gate opened.

  The entire group was waved through into the bank’s private parking area, a broad stone courtyard enclosed on three sides by the building itself. Vehicles were already parked there, each one expensive in its own way. Clean. Quiet. Watched.

  As the gate closed behind them, the noise of the city dimmed.

  Otwin felt the shift immediately.

  They had moved from public space into controlled ground.

  Whatever Grump was here to collect, it was important enough to warrant this level of separation.

  Otwin tightened his formation by a fraction as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  The bank loomed above them, immaculate and indifferent.

  And somewhere inside it, something worth killing for was waiting.

  ***

  The steam carriage came to a halt in the bank’s inner courtyard with a final hiss of pressure.

  Otwin cut his STV’s engine and swung down smoothly, boots striking clean stone instead of dirt or broken cobble. Around him, the others did the same, practiced and unhurried. Armor plates shifted softly as they dismounted, magitech compensators adjusting weight and balance without complaint.

  Grump stepped out of the carriage next, straightening his coat and adjusting his cuffs as if this were a social call instead of a high-risk transaction in the heart of the city. He glanced at Otwin once, sharp eyes confirming positions, then turned toward the bank’s main doors.

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  “Alright,” Otwin said quietly over the squad channel. “Humbert, you’re with him.”

  Humbert grinned behind his helmet and fell in beside Grump without a word.

  The rest of the Chiliad Five Seven spread out.

  Otwin took a central position where he could see both the carriage and the STVs, lines of sight overlapping with Jordy and Doke. Paul drifted closer to the fence line, eyes on the guards and the surrounding architecture, listening more than watching. Doke angled himself to keep the upper levels of the surrounding buildings in view, sapphire eye-catching reflections in glass and polished stone. Jordy paced slowly, restless energy kept in check by discipline.

  Bank guards remained at their posts, outwardly calm. Their presence was reassuring, but Otwin did not let it relax him. Too many men relied on uniforms and walls. Too many died because of it.

  “Stay sharp,” Otwin said.

  There was no argument.

  “Grump wanted us here for a reason,” Otwin continued. “He’s making a show, but not for nothing.”

  The massive doors of the bank closed behind Grump and Humbert with a muted boom that echoed faintly through the courtyard.

  Time stretched.

  The courtyard was quiet in the way only heavily guarded places ever were. No vendors. No civilians. Just stone, metal, and the low background hum of the city beyond the walls. Occasionally, a bank guard shifted position or spoke quietly into a communicator. The smell of polished stone and faint incense drifted from somewhere near the entrance.

  Otwin checked angles again. And again.

  Half an hour passed.

  No alarms. No raised voices. No movement beyond the ordinary.

  Then Humbert’s voice came across the squad channel.

  “We’re coming out.”

  Otwin straightened slightly. “Roger.”

  The bank’s great doors opened.

  Light spilled out from within, warmer than the daylight outside, glinting off polished stone and gold accents just inside the threshold. Grump emerged first, expression neutral, stride steady. Humbert followed a step behind.

  He was carrying a lockbox.

  It was enormous. The size of a full footlocker, rectangular and brutally solid. Thick bands of bronze wrapped its length and width, bolted and sealed into place. Intricate runes were carved into every exposed surface, glowing faintly with contained power. Whatever lay inside was not meant to be accessed casually, or at all, without permission.

  Otwin felt the weight of it even from where he stood.

  “That’s it,” Jordy murmured.

  Humbert carried the box like it weighed nothing, but Otwin could see the way the armor compensated, subtle adjustments to keep balance perfect. This was not just heavy. It was important.

  Grump led the way back toward the carriage.

  Otwin took a step forward, preparing to tighten the perimeter.

  And then the world broke.

  Sound detonated across the courtyard.

  Shouts. The crack of weapons fire. A concussive blast that rattled stone and metal alike.

  All hell broke loose.

  ***

  They had been waiting for Grump to leave.

  The moment Humbert stepped out into the courtyard with the lockbox, the trap snapped shut.

  The main gate in the outer fence exploded inward in a bloom of fire and shattered metal. The blast punched through iron bars and stone anchors alike, hurling fragments across the courtyard. Two bank guards caught the brunt of it. They were thrown through the air like broken dolls, bodies tumbling end over end before slamming into the ground and not getting back up.

  Otwin barely had time to register the blast before the bank reacted.

  The massive doors behind Grump and Humbert slammed shut with a thunderous boom, stone grinding against stone. A heartbeat later, a heavy portcullis dropped from above, iron teeth crashing down to seal the entrance completely.

  No way back in.

  “CONTACT!” Otwin roared over the squad channel.

  Bolts hissed through the air.

  Snipers.

  Otwin’s HUD flared as multiple trajectories resolved at once. Crossbow bolts streaked in from rooftops and balconies overlooking the courtyard, heavy shafts tipped with barbed heads meant to punch through flesh and light armor.

  One struck Otwin square in the chest.

  The impact rang through his frame like a hammer blow, but the Stormtrooper armor barely shifted. The bolt skittered off to the side, clattering uselessly across stone.

  The turret gunner reacted instantly.

  The energy rifle mounted atop the steam carriage whined as it charged, then discharged with a concussive crack. A bolt of coherent energy tore across the courtyard and smashed into one of the rooftops.

  The sniper there ceased to exist in anything resembling a whole state.

  “Snipers!” Doke called.

  “I see them,” Otwin replied.

  Doke raised his own light energy rifle and fired. The shot punched clean through a man’s face at rooftop level, vaporizing bone and blasting out the back of his head in a spray of fragments. The body collapsed backward out of sight.

  Humbert did not slow.

  He shoved Grump bodily toward the carriage and heaved the massive lockbox in after him. The bronze-banded container slammed down hard, rattling the interior.

  “INCOMING!” Otwin shouted.

  Ten men surged through the ruined gate.

  They wore mismatched armor and heavy coats, faces wrapped in scarves or masks. Their weapons were crude. Axes. Clubs. Maces. In their hands, they carried red sticks.

  They hurled them.

  Otwin recognized them a fraction of a second too late.

  “DYNAMITE!”

  The courtyard erupted.

  Explosions punched up from the stone around the carriage, blasting debris and smoke skyward. One of the STVs caught a direct hit. Its track assembly disintegrated in a burst of metal shards, and the vehicle flipped onto its side with a shriek of tearing steel.

  Everyone dove.

  Otwin felt the shockwave slam into him as he hit the ground, armor absorbing the worst of it. Stone fragments rained down around him.

  Paul, further from the blast, raised his rifle and fired. A rushing attacker dropped mid-stride, energy tearing through his torso.

  Another man was already on him.

  The attacker brought his axe down in a brutal overhead swing.

  The blade struck Paul square in the shoulder.

  It bounced.

  The Stormtrooper armor deflected the blow with a harsh clang, barely scuffing the plating. Paul stepped into the attacker and drove a fist into his chest.

  The punch landed with reinforced force.

  The man flew backward five feet, sternum crushed inward, and hit the ground without getting up.

  More attackers poured in.

  Humbert did not even raise his rifle.

  He waded into them.

  Mass met flesh and bone as Humbert swung with armored fists, each blow landing like a sledgehammer. One man was lifted clean off his feet and hurled aside. Another folded around a punch to the gut and collapsed, gasping.

  Jordy vaulted onto the overturned STV, bracing himself against its wrecked frame. He opened fire into the mass of attackers, shots snapping out in controlled bursts.

  Doke shifted position, firing again, dropping another man who had tried to flank.

  Then something flew toward Jordy.

  It burst open in midair.

  A net.

  Energy crackled along its strands as it enveloped him, snapping tight around his armor. Sparks danced across the mesh, and Jordy went rigid, muscles locking as the suit seized.

  “JORDY DOWN!” Otwin shouted.

  Otwin rose in the same motion; he drew his vibro blade.

  The black sword hummed to life, its micro-vibrations thrumming through the hilt. The men rushing him faltered.

  They had not known.

  They had not known a vibro blade was on the field.

  Too late.

  Otwin surged forward.

  The blade passed through armor, flesh, and bone as if they were mist. One man fell in two clean pieces. Another lost an arm and then his life a heartbeat later. Bodies hit the stone in bisected chunks, blood spraying across the courtyard.

  Humbert kept himself between the attackers and the carriage.

  A stick of dynamite struck him square in the chest.

  It bounced.

  Then it exploded.

  The blast hurled Humbert backward, lifting the massive man off his feet. He slammed into the bank wall with a resounding crash, stone cracking beneath the impact.

  “Hum!” Otwin yelled.

  Energy fire answered.

  From inside the carriage, Grump leaned out and fired a light energy pistol through a side window. The shot struck an attacker in the face, dropping him instantly.

  Three men swarmed Paul.

  He backhanded one, the reinforced blow caving in the man’s skull and sending him sprawling.

  Another jammed something into the gap beneath Paul’s arm.

  Paul froze.

  His armor seized, locking him in place as the device discharged.

  Before the attacker could capitalize, Doke fired.

  The energy bolt bored straight through the man’s chest, punching a smoking hole clean through him. The stunner clattered to the stone as the body fell.

  Paul staggered backward, systems rebooting.

  Otwin cut down another attacker, then another. The remaining men faltered, momentum breaking.

  They had expected panic.

  They had expected chaos.

  They had not expected the Chiliad Five Seven.

  The attackers began to fall back, dragging wounded, retreating through smoke and shattered stone toward the ruined gate.

  “CONTACT BREAKING!” Doke called.

  “Humbert!” Otwin shouted.

  A massive figure stirred against the bank wall.

  “Here… ow… that hurt,” Humbert said, pushing himself upright. His chest armor was scorched, a small crack spiderwebbing across the plate, but it held.

  “Jordy?” Otwin snapped.

  Jordy tore the dead net from his armor and staggered upright. “Here,” he said. “That was unpleasant.”

  Grump’s voice crackled from inside the carriage.

  “What are the losses?”