The Blackwood’s arrival caused the room to erupt into chaos, fools scattering to find hiding places, rogues drawing their weapons, and influencers whispering frantic plans to each other.

A Trickster wearing a coyote mask darted towards a stack of crates near the back of the room. He tipped them over, creating a barricade at the door leading to a narrow alley.

As the room erupted into chaos, Elara's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. "Let me go!" she demanded, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Harahel gave a quick nod to the two rogues holding Elara. "Release her," she ordered. The rogues hesitated for a moment but then complied, their grips loosening as they stepped back.

Elara wasted no time. The moment she was free, she bolted towards the nearest window. Soren, Jarek, and Lira following close behind her.

Elara reached the window and looked out, her heart sinking at the sight. Dozens of armed men encircled the theater, their armor catching the faint moonlight. From the shadows emerged a tall, imposing figure wearing the black and silver livery of the Blackwood family. His eyes gleamed with malice, and his lips twisted into a cold, mocking smile.

"Jonas," Elara whispered, dread filling her chest. Her cousin had always been the family's enforcer, the one they sent to handle their dirtiest work.

“Elara!” Jonas called out, his voice booming and filled with menace, reverberating off the theater walls. "Did you really think you could hide from us? From me? You should know better than that. The family always finds out."

Elara hesitated, her breath catching in her throat as she opened the window just a crack. The cool night air rushed in, bringing with it the distant clinking of armor and the tense murmurs of the soldiers below. She knew Jonas would relish the chance to take her down, but she couldn’t let him see her fear.

Soren, ever cautious, placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Stay out of sight,” he warned in a low voice, his eyes scanning the darkness outside. “One wrong move, and they’ll shoot.”

Elara nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on her cousin. She could feel the weight of the rogues' eyes on her, waiting for her next move, but all she could think of was Jonas and the cold smile that never reached his eyes. She had to confront him, if only to buy them time.

Steeling herself, she spoke through the narrow gap in the window. “Jonas,” she called, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. “Still doing the families bidding. We both know they aren’t worth this kind of loyalty.”

Jonas laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent shivers down her spine. “What do you know about loyalty?” he mocked. “You’ve betrayed us, and now you’re going to pay the price.”

Elara clenched her fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “Betrayed you? I left to survive! You know what they did to me. How can you still serve them after everything?”

Jonas’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You always were the soft one, Elara. The one who couldn’t stomach what needed to be done. That’s why you have always been… a disappointment.”

The words cut deep, but Elara refused to let them show. “And what are you going to do now, Jonas? Kill me in front of your men? Prove to them that you’re nothing more than the family’s lapdog?”

Jonas’s smile faltered, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “You’ve left me no choice, cousin. Surrender now, and maybe I’ll make it quick.”

The heavy wooden door to the theater creaked open, the sound slicing through the tension in the air. Elara’s breath hitched, and Soren’s hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his blade, ready for the worst. Jarek and Lira exchanged tense glances, the unspoken question hanging in the air: Who would walk out into the lion’s den?

To their shock, it was Harahel. She stepped into the moonlit street, calm and composed, the chaos inside the theater seemingly miles away from her measured steps. Walking alongside her was a Trickster, masked in sleek black feathers, the carved face of a raven concealing his identity.

Elara's heart pounded in her chest. “What is she doing?”

Harahel approached Jonas with an air of confidence, her green eyes gleaming in the low light. For a moment, even the Blackwood soldiers seemed caught off guard by her calmness, their weapons lowered slightly as they watched her move. The raven-masked Trickster walked beside her with an unsettling grace.

“And who may I ask are you?” Jonas asked, his tone filled with suspicion.

Harahel tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I'm merely a servant of Antioch, nothing more."

Jonas let out a cold laugh. "If you're here to strike a deal, it's straightforward: give me the ledger and hand over Elara. If you don't, we'll come in, take her and the ledger.”

Harahel's smile never wavered. "A disciple of Artur attacking a sacred temple? That hardly seems honorable. I'm sure Artur would find your actions... disappointing."

Jonas chuckled darkly. "Forgive me if I don't take a lecture on honor too seriously from a disciple of Antioch," he sneered, his eyes gleaming with mockery.  “I highly doubt Artur would consider anything that goes on in this ramshackle excuse for a temple to be sacred. Fools, rogues, tricksters... do you really expect me to believe your antics have the gods' blessing?”

Harahel remained unfazed, the calm stillness in her gaze unnerving Jonas more than he’d admit. “The gods favor more than just knights and warriors, Jonas. You forget, even tricksters have their place in the divine order.”

“Spare me the philosophy,” Jonas snapped, stepping forward, his voice turning cold. “I’m not here to debate theology. I’m here to retrieve what belongs to the family.”

At that, the raven-masked Trickster at Harahel’s side spoke up, his voice low and smooth like the quiet before a storm. “Belongs to the family?” he repeated. “Funny how you Blackwoods claim ownership of everything.”

Jonas’s eyes narrowed, his hand inching toward his blade. “Watch your tongue, or you’ll lose it.”

Elara stood at the window, her breath shallow as she watched the confrontation unfold below. Jonas, ever the embodiment of cold menace, was trying to assert his dominance, but Harahel and the raven-masked Trickster weren’t flinching. Her heart raced as she weighed her options. She could stay hidden, as Soren had advised, but every instinct screamed at her to do something—anything—to shift the power dynamic.

From her vantage point, she could see the tension mounting. The Blackwood soldiers were on edge, hands gripping their weapons, waiting for a signal from Jonas. If things went south, a bloodbath would follow, and there was no way the rogues and fools inside would be able to hold them off for long.

Jonas’s voice cut through her thoughts, icy and full of contempt. “I’ll say this one last time. Hand over the ledger and Elara, or I’ll turn this place into a graveyard.”

The Trickster tilted his head, the carved raven mask hiding any emotion, but the playful lilt in his voice persisted. “Such dramatic threats, Jonas. I thought a man of your... reputation would have learned subtlety by now.”

Elara clenched her fists, knowing exactly where this was heading. Jonas was never one for patience, and subtlety was as foreign to him as mercy. She turned her gaze back to Harahel, who still stood firm, her faint smile unwavering, as if she were reading the lines of a play she had seen a thousand times before. It was unsettling how calm she remained, even when faced with Jonas's growing rage.

For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick with tension. The Blackwood soldiers shifted uneasily, their attention divided between their leader and the mysterious woman standing before him. The raven-masked Trickster took a slow step forward, his presence now undeniably threatening.

Jonas's hand shot to the hilt of his sword, his sneer hardening into a cold glare. "Enough of this. I’m tired of these games."

But before his blade could leave its sheath, the raven-masked Trickster moved with lightning speed, lunging forward to intercept him. The suddenness of the motion startled everyone, even Jonas, whose eyes widened momentarily as the Trickster positioned himself between him and Harahel.

The Trickster reached up with deliberate slowness, his movements eerily calm, and removed his mask.

Elara watched as the raven mask fell away, revealing a face that was handsome, though not in any conventional sense—sharp features, unruly dark hair, and a pair of mischievous eyes gleaming with a dangerous humor. She turned to Soren, Jarek, and Lira, who stood frozen in disbelief. “Who… who is he?” she asked.

Soren's expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something close to awe in his gaze. He hesitated for a moment before answering, his voice low and reverent. “That’s Antioch.”

Elara’s heart lurched at Soren's words, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes widened as she leaned closer to the window, her pulse racing. She watched as Antioch, with a playful yet dangerous grin, introduced himself to Jonas. The air around him seemed to hum with an unnatural energy, as though reality itself were bending in his presence.

“You dare mock me?” Jonas said, his voice shaking with fury. “Do you expect me to believe you are Antioch?”

Antioch smiled lazily, his eyes glittering with amusement as he casually rested a hand on the hilt of Jonas’s sword, preventing him from drawing it further. “Believe what you will, Jonas. It hardly matters to me.” His voice was smooth, unbothered, as if the threat of violence hanging in the air were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Jonas’s face twisted with rage, and his free hand swung in a fist toward Antioch, but the god was quicker. With a graceful sidestep, he dodged the blow effortlessly, leaving Jonas to stumble forward, his balance thrown off.

“You’ve always been too slow,” Antioch commented, his tone as light as a feather. “It’s really quite sad, but I suppose we can’t all be blessed with wit and charm.”

Jonas growled in frustration, quickly recovering from his stumble, and drew his sword. Without hesitation, he lunged at Antioch, his blade aimed straight for the trickster god’s heart.

But Antioch moved with the effortless grace of someone who had seen this play out a thousand times. With a mere flick of his wrist, an invisible force seized Jonas mid-strike, lifting him off the ground. Jonas’s eyes widened in shock, his arms flailing as his sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly on the cobblestones below.

Antioch fingers lightly curled in the air as if holding an invisible puppet. “It’s so predictable, really,” he mused, turning to Harahel with a wink. “Mortals always think brute force will win the day.”

With a casual motion, Antioch gestured downward, and Jonas was slammed into the ground with a resounding thud.

Jonas's soldiers tensed, ready to attack, but a sharp gesture from Harahel held them in place. “Do you really want to challenge a god?” she asked, her voice soft but carrying an unmistakable authority.

Jonas’s face paled for a fraction of a second before he scowled, shaking off the uncertainty. “You expect me to cower? To kneel before some trickster god?”

Antioch chuckled softly. “Kneel? No, no, Jonas. I don’t care for kneeling. It’s terribly boring.” He glanced at Harahel, who couldn’t help but smirk. “But you see, we’re not here to make you grovel. We’re here to show you the error of your ways. Though, if I’m honest,” his smile widened, “I do enjoy watching men like you fall apart under the weight of their arrogance.”

Elara watched in disbelief as Antioch toyed with Jonas, the once-imposing enforcer now floundering in the presence of the trickster god. She could sense the unease radiating from the Blackwood soldiers. For all their training and numbers, they were hesitant—unsure how to fight something beyond their comprehension.

Antioch took a step closer to Jonas, his playful expression fading as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Let me make this simple. You will leave here, alive and unharmed, if you walk away now. The ledger, Elara, and everyone inside this ramshackle excuse for a temple will remain under my protection.”

Jonas’s face contorted with rage. “You think you can threaten me? The Blackwoods will—”

“Will do nothing,” Antioch interrupted, his voice cold and unyielding. “Your family may rule with an iron fist, but I am not bound by mortal politics. You know who I am, Jonas. And if you choose to fight me, you’ll learn exactly what I can do.”

For the first time since the confrontation began, Jonas hesitated. His hand wavered on the hilt of his sword, the weight of Antioch’s words sinking in. The god’s reputation was not one to be taken lightly—he was a force of chaos, cunning, and mischief, but also of retribution for those who overstepped their bounds.

Elara held her breath, her heart pounding as she waited for Jonas’s response. She could see the fear creeping into his eyes, the realization that he was not in control. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jonas released his grip on his sword and took a step back.

“You’ve made your point,” he spat, his voice thick with bitterness. “But this isn’t over. The Blackwoods will never stop.”

Antioch grinned, his playful demeanor returning in an instant. “Oh, I’m counting on it. I do love a good game.”

With a furious glare, Jonas turned on his heel and stormed back to his men, barking orders for them to fall back. One by one, the Blackwood soldiers retreated into the shadows, their armor clinking as they disappeared into the night.

As the tension in the air slowly dissipated, Elara let out a shaky breath, her mind still reeling from what she had just witnessed. Antioch, the trickster god himself, had just saved them. But why?

She turned to Soren, her voice barely above a whisper. “What happens now?”

Soren glanced at Antioch, who had already begun walking back toward the theater with Harahel at his side, and shook his head. “Now… we wait and see what game the gods are playing.”