The heist & the key

[Jaxen Marveet]

A fine flurry of snow drifted down when Jaxen and Bode stepped out of the transit tunnel. Moscow in mid winter bore its cold proudly, but Jaxen didn’t seem to notice, moving through the flakes like an arrow. Despite the weather, a steady line of people moved toward the Sanctuary of Ascension.

Jaxen wasn’t built for obscurity, even when he meant to be invisible. His face was sharply defined: strong brows set over chocolate eyes that missed nothing, a neatly trimmed beard that suggested he cared about symmetry more than comfort, and a wide, expressive mouth that seemed to unconsciously telegraph disdain, amusement, or impatience all at once. His hair was dark and thick, deliberately tousled so it looked effortless. He cut a presence that was both interesting and predictable.

Most of the time.

Today, his clothes were a careful performance. Not flashy, but unmistakably chosen. He wore a dark, insulated winter coat in muted charcoal tones, the kind that read as practical at first glance but had subtle flourishes of leather trim and seams hinting at someone who chose function with at least a quiet eye for form. A well‑worn scarf wrapped around his neck, knotted snugly against the cold rather than fashioned for effect, its deep navy threads just visible beneath the coat’s collar. Denim pants were dark and solid, and his boots were practical with a faint polish. He blended in without sacrificing too much style.

He should have felt out of place among the crowd shuffling toward the Sanctuary, but he didn’t. Part of Jaxen was carved from that rare stone called presence, an instinct for stepping into any scene he wanted and appearing integral to it. He studied the procession of devotees and curious onlookers, scanned faces starting at the snow‑dappled plaza and stretching back into the line, and cataloged their rhythms as if they were cues in a ballet he was meant to anticipate.

The Sanctuary’s tower loomed ahead. He had researched the space as much as possible, but this was the first time on site. Even the falling snowflakes seemed to gather near the doors in reverence. People in thick coats and scarves leaned into each other, chatter soft behind gloved hands. Some carried tiny drones that darted and hovered, capturing this moment of ritual and anticipation like digital fireflies as they filed indoors.

Inside him, a different kind of current hummed. Not the chill of snow, but the constant undertow of the Emissary’s presence. It throbbed at the edges of his thoughts, insistent and repetitive: Get the Key. Get the Key. Yet he mostly ignored the Emissary's insistence like a buzzing in his ear and navigated the queue. They weren't here to worship. His eyebrows flicked at the screens above the entrance broadcasting sweeping visuals of rejuvenation and miracle testimonies as they approached the entrance, but he wasn’t immune to the spectacle either. The world of the Brotherhood was one of showmanship as much as belief, but Jaxen respected a stage when he saw one.

He tugged at his scarf, a habit rather than necessity, and exhaled a plume of warmth that mingled with the snow. He didn’t just want to get inside; he wanted to see what made this place tick. And once he saw, he would know more how to adjust their plan for the moment.

Nearby Bode matched his quiet stride.

[Nesrin Aziz]

Nesrin gave every carefree indication that she’d left the details entirely in Jaxen’s clever hands, but in reality she’d been far from idle. She was perfectly willing to let him do all the hard work, and claim all the accolades he wanted for it too, but she was her own best contingency. By now she knew this place like the back of her hand, though not because she’d ever been here in person. There was a limit to what the dreaming place could reveal though; layout, design, but not the knowledge she craved. Ephemera morphed and changed moment to moment there, more maddening than enlightening. Though the most interesting piece of intel she’d uncovered in her preparations had not been found there at all.

She was nondescript in appearance today. Gone was the sleek, shadow-enshrined creature of Kallisti. No make-up, hair natural. The hood of her coat was drawn up, a few inky curls spilling free and already frosted with drifting snow, and her scarf was pulled close, just a pair of thick-lashed eyes and the freckle-dusted bridge of her nose visible. Even her hands were clad in lined leather gloves. A subzero rooftop terrace with a hot jacuzzi to dip into was one thing, but Moscow in the dead winter was frankly miserable. It was only the thrill of anticipation glittering her gaze with interest, rather than simply letting herself hunch against the frigid temperatures.

Getting into the Sanctuary wasn’t the problem. Like many places of worship, its atmosphere of divine reverence protected as much as any real security measure. People didn’t normally stray where it felt forbidden, especially when an actual god might strike them down. Getting into the vaults was something different, though.

But that’s what Jaxen was for.


As they walked her eyes wandered over the grandiose spectacle of the plaza. The Monument itself had been impressive even before it had been commandeered to its new narrative, and Nesrin could appreciate the audacity of the effort, but the statues and plaques they passed amused her for a whole other reason. She wasn’t looking at a would-be-god, or a leader or men, or even the individual who’d united half the world under his banner. She was considering the most absurd kind of inheritance, especially for a girl half-raised in a brothel.

Brandon had told her answers were in the hands of fate. But the only hands Nesrin trusted were her own.

The Brotherhood would be circling the Hall of Stars like vultures looking for fresh meat. And not that Nesrin lacked a saint’s patience, but being waylaid by the faithful would be yawn-worthy at best. She slipped an arm through Jaxen’s with all the comfortable familiarity of a matching puzzle piece. The rules didn’t apply through such thick winter layers. And it was only passing enough to ask a question.

“Skip the queues?”

They could cut through the gardens. There were several doors used by novitiates discreetly tucked away if you knew where to look. But it was phrased as a curious question, not a suggestion. She’d plied Wicked for information the moment she’d left him in Kallisti, and like usual, Wicked was only too eager to oblige her whims. Not that he needed much pushing to share what he knew. Primarily she’d wanted to know if Jaxen really was as good as thought he was – and apparently he was. Or at least, if Jaxen said he could do it, he’d find a way according to Wicked. So whatever her usual predilections, she would leave the decision to him, curious to see what he would do.