Torik's eyes wandered to the ceiling. The cracked plaster had more stability than the conversation unfolding below it.
"Highlord Galrick will be in the city tomorrow, boy. I want you to steal something from him," said the man in the chair that was begging for mercy as it flexed under his weight.
Varlon the Fat, as people didn't dare call him to his face, sat with the smug certainty of a man used to getting what he wanted. On either side of him stood two thugs. Slim, with faces that looked like they were thinking intently about nothing.
Torik blinked slowly. "The Highlord will be guarded like a drunk hoarding the last bottle of wine in the kingdom." His voice dragged; each word dipped in disbelief as the distinct flavor of being underpaid stung his tongue.
Varlon waved away the concern like it was an annoying fly. "Our client is offering an unimaginable sum for this piece. And you're the best we've got, Tor. I'll give you a hundred chains if you pull it off."
Torik straightened. "A hundred?" The number smacked him across the face. One hundred chains. That wasn't just unusual, it was suspicious. When the hell had Varlon ever offered anything close to one hundred chains? But then again, they were talking about robbing a Highlord. The King's personal bootlicker at that. Maybe the price fit the danger.
Was it worth his life? Hard to say. His life wasn't exactly in high value these days.
He sighed. "What's the job?"
"I knew you'd come around," Varlon said, grinning through grease-stained lips. He snapped his fingers at the nearest thug.
The man stepped forward, nervous in the way people only got around Varlon, like standing next to a fire that occasionally decided to burn things. "Tomorrow. An hour after noon. He'll be traveling down the main street by the northern park, in his carriage. You're to follow him to his destination and slip in. The item is an artifact, it ought to be crown-shaped and made from stone. Not something he wears. It'll be hidden. On him, or in the carriage."
Torik ran the setup through his head, watching it fall apart in half a dozen ways.
"How do we know it's not still back in his estate? You know, the one halfway across the kingdom?"
The thug glanced at his crumpled notes. "It's being delivered to Highlady Ysara, in her Valebast estate."
Torik scoffed. Loudly. "So, you want me to steal from two Highlords now? Marvelous. Next week, maybe we rob the heavens."
"One hundred chains," Varlon repeated from his seat, like a priest reminding the congregation of salvation.
Torik scratched at his chin. "Clear my debts, too. Then we've got a deal."
"Boy can never give a simple yes," one of the thugs muttered, as if irony were a spice he didn't know how to use.
Varlon paused, looked Torik over, and nodded once. "Fine."
Torik blinked again. That was easier than expected. Which meant this job was worse than expected.
He took the folded report from the thug, slipped it into his coat, and turned toward the door. As always, the world outside felt a little colder now that he had a job in his pocket.
This one felt like it might be his last.
Valebast stank as he exited the hideout and into the alleyways of the city.
Not the sharp rot of a port city, nor the animal musk of countryside towns. No, Valebast's scent was refined filth. Perfumed sewage. Gilded garbage. Incense clung to the alleys like guilt, trying to cover the stench of ten thousand people living on top of one another. The rich having lunch across the street from a starving beggar, that was the capital for you.
Torik pulled his coat tighter as he slipped through a side street, one hand brushing the hidden knife at his hip, not because he expected trouble, but because Valebast liked to surprise.
It was a habit now. Like breathing. Knife ready, eyes down, footsteps light. And when he needed to, really needed to, he had that other trick. That subtle bend in sight and thought.
He didn't understand it. Only that sometimes, if he concentrated just right, people's eyes passed over him like he wasn't there. Like he was part of the alley wall. He could make them not see or hear what they should, of course if they weren't already focused on him.
He didn't question it too much. It made jobs easier, but too much would give him a headache, so he only used it for small things. Like make someone see a full basket of apples even though he had taken one.
The northern park wasn't far. Nestled between merchant estates and walled noble gardens, it was the closest thing this city had to beauty, trees lined in even rows, fountains that still worked when the city remembered to care, and cobbled paths swept daily by men who looked like they hated every leaf that dared fall out of place.
If only half of the money spent here could be given to the people suffering he thought.
He arrived just past dawn. The fog hadn't burned off yet, which was useful.
From the eastern edge, he watched the street. It was wide, clean and too exposed for his liking. If Galrick really did come through here, his entourage would span half a block with guards, attendants, and maybe even a second carriage to throw off any hopeful threats.
Torik wasn't hopeful. He was practical.
He walked the perimeter slowly, keeping his pace casual, pausing now and then to examine the fountains or tie a boot. The park itself had five entrances, but only two that allowed direct access to the main street. He noted both. Stone benches, dense shrubbery, a small sculpture garden that he started mapping as cover in his head.
A child ran past chasing a wooden hoop. His mother followed a step behind, scolding him gently. It seemed he had been here for a while as people were now out and about.
Good. Locals used the space. That meant if Torik played this right, he'd have a crowd to disappear into.
He perched on a low stone railing and pulled a crust of bread from his coat. It was hard enough to be a weapon. As he chewed, his mind began to pull the job apart and put it back together.
Spot the carriage. Easy enough, assuming Galrick kept to the schedule. If not, things got difficult fast.
Next follow unnoticed, that was the delicate part. With this much attention, he couldn't tail them openly. He'd need to move parallel, ducking between crowds, alleys, and maybe even rooftops.
He wasn't fond of rooftops. They were too open.
But he had other ways of slipping through sightlines, if it came to that.
After that it was Entry. Slipping inside the carriage would be suicide unless it stopped. The delivery might happen on foot at Highlady Ysara's estate, which meant baggage would be moved. If the artifact was in the transfer, that was the window.
Once he got the artifact he'd have to get out. Somehow.
He folded the job report, tucked it into his coat, and stood. His eyes flicked once more across the street. Guard patrols rotated every fifteen minutes, two-man teams, crossbows slung but rarely loaded. Their eyes scanned, but didn't focus. Complacency, Valebast's favorite type.
Torik made his way south, cutting back into the city's thin streets. Valebast's upper quarter gleamed with marble facades and banners that fluttered more for fashion than loyalty. Carriages passed like bored predators, their crests stamped in gold or obsidian, and the pedestrians walked like they owned the stones.
He didn't belong here.
But then, he never really belonged anywhere.
As he slipped into a shadowed alley behind a teahouse that smelled too expensive to tolerate, he rehearsed the plan again in his head. Every step. Every risk.
A hundred chains. Enough to vanish, if he wanted to. Maybe even enough to stop watching over his shoulder.
He tried to believe it would be simple.
But he'd never stolen from a Highlord before. Let alone two.
"You got space for one?" a voice asked from the shadows.
Torik froze, fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger.
Then he recognized the voice and let his hand drop. Mox stepped into the light, the grin on his face cocky enough to make up for the soot on his cheeks. He was the closest thing Torik had to a friend, which wasn't saying much.
"Spread that fast?" Torik asked, sighing.
Mox shrugged. "One hundred chains tends to echo. Even down the sewer alleys."
Of course it had. Varlon didn't know the meaning of discretion. Or maybe he just liked letting people drown in rumors before tossing them a rope.
Mox took a step closer, eyes bright. "Let me in on it. Fifty-fifty split."
Torik gave him a look. That was what Mox always wanted. Half the job for half the risk, and maybe none of the planning.
"Not this time," Torik said. "I want the full hundred. It's a solo run."
He turned, heading back down the alley. Mox followed, keeping pace.
"Come on, Tor. You don't have to play the lone thief this time. You know I'm good for it. We'd make this easier with two."
Torik stopped. He didn't turn around.
"This is my last job, Mox. Varlon clears my debts if I pull it off. One hundred chains, clean slate." He tapped the report folded in his coat pocket. "After that, I'm out. Somewhere with fewer shadows. Maybe I'll get plump and fat like Varlon. Grow a beard. Start grumbling about taxes."
Mox scoffed. "You really think you can escape this life?"
Torik turned to face him. His voice was quiet. "No. But I've got to try."
Mox clung to his last shred of hope. "Torik, take me with you. Please. We're friends, I swear I won't let you down."
Something shifted in Torik's eyes.
He stepped forward and grabbed Mox by the collar, dragging him close. "I don't fucking have friends, Mox. Everyone in this fucking world is just waiting to stab you in the back." His voice was low, but fierce. "I accept your company on occasion, but I'd never trust you with my life and you should never trust someone else with yours."
He let go and turned away without another word, already walking.
Mox stood frozen, eyes wide. The others in the association treated him like trash, but not Torik. Not always. He'd thought the older boy was different, rough on the edges, sure, but with something solid underneath.
That's why it hurt. That's why those words cut like a thousand blades.