The sky was blindingly bright and the only sound you could hear was chatter as people moved around the park.
It was nearly time.
Torik sat on a rug near a low wall, dressed in beggar's rags. Not that his usual fit was much different. He kept his head low, his hands in a bag by his side, one eye on the street beyond the fountain. The highborns walked past without sparing him more than a sneer, if they noticed him at all.
Perfect.
He'd lived this life before the Association found him. Five years ago, he'd been a starving street rat with bones sharper than his wit. He remembered that day clearly, being caught trying to nick a sweetroll off a merchant's cart, and then the shadows that came after. The men who didn't beat him, who didn't scream, but just pulled him into the alleys with strange, quiet smiles. They brought him to Varlon the Fat.
He'd thought they were going to kill him.
Instead, they gave him debts for keeping him off the streets. Some nights, he still wasn't sure which was worse.
A bell rang in the distance. Sharp and loud. He tensed.
It was time.
Torik stood, slow and casual, brushing nonexistent dust from his threadbare trousers. He leaned against the low wall, one arm braced as he peered toward the main road.
The guards came first, boots pounding the stone in disciplined rhythm. Then the carriages, three of them, gold-trimmed and lacquered in royal blue. Overkill, clearly. The first cart was likely empty. The second might hold some overfed cousin. But the third…
Torik's eyes narrowed.
That one would be the prize.
Children squealed and pointed. Vendors paused in mid-sale. City folk craned their necks, waving, some dropping to one knee. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone shouted "May they be unbound!"
Torik stayed still. Watchful. He wasn't here for blessings.
He was here for job.
As the procession moved on, he slipped through the crowd. The nobles turned their noses up as he passed, none realizing how close he was to all their chains. He ignored them, throwing some chains in his bag would be easy but when he was on a job it was his sole focus. He continued walking until the park ended. Then he vanished into the alleyways, weaving through narrow backstreets, catching glimpses of the main road whenever a path opened up.
Eventually the alleys ended. To go any farther, he'd have to cross the open.
He stopped at the alley's edge, where sunlight spilled across his boots. Just beyond, Keep Ysara loomed, its gates already open.
A guard walked past the alley, eyes scanning lazily.
Torik focused.
The man's gaze slid past him, like oil over glass.
Good.
He would need to move quickly.
Three guards stood with line of sight. He touched their minds, subtle as breath, and planted a single image: a shadowy figure crouched on a rooftop just at the edge of their vision.
One of the guards pointed, murmuring something. The others followed his gaze.
Torik moved.
He darted across the main road. One guard turned his head just as Torik approached so Torik gave him something else to see. A hole in the stone, gaping and sudden. The man startled, halting mid-step, eyes wide.
Torik flung open the carriage door and leapt inside.
Shouts rose behind him. Confused. Arguing. One of the guards insisted there had been a hole, just a second ago.
Torik crouched low, heartbeat steady.
The first part had worked. He felt his head as the headache started.
He glanced around the carriage. Empty, as expected.
The first one. Just a decoy. But now, he was inside the gate. Inside the keep.
And close to the other carriages. Close to the artifact.
Torik crouched low in the carriage, every creak of the wheels tightening a coil in his chest.
The air inside smelled of polish and dust. Unused, just as he'd thought. He peeked through the side curtain, watching the procession roll forward through the inner courtyard of Keep Ysara.
He counted: three guards near the gate. Two more stationed by the entrance to the keep proper. And six along the sides of the carriages, walking in even rhythm, eyes scanning everything.
Except him.
His lips twitched into the ghost of a grin.
The procession came to a halt.
Footsteps. Voices. Someone announcing Highlord Galrick's arrival. The guards stiffened, their lines straightening like drawn swords. Two of the carriages emptied, cloaked nobles stepping out, one of them laughing far too loudly for the occasion.
But not the third.
Torik narrowed his eyes.
The back carriage remained closed. Eventually someone exited, he was holding an ornamented box with a grey robe.
His heartbeat quickened.
That's the one. It's not Galrick but that must be it there in the box.
A pair of guards flanked it, unlike the others. These two didn't move. They didn't speak. Their armor didn't bear Galrick's crest, but something older, twisted metal and a circle of broken chains.
Torik frowned.
That wasn't part of the plan.
He'd have to adapt.
He let the moment settle, then moved. He slid the carriage door open and dropped into the space beneath it, crouching low as boots passed only inches from his face.
A breeze brushed his cheek. No, not wind but movement. Someone had opened the keep doors. Nobles were filing inside.
He snuck behind the bushes, averting gazes when necessary. Torik reached into his bag and pulled out some robes, that of a servant. He would disguise as one of the many attendants in the keep, allowing him to get through the halls easier.
He finished and followed behind some of the people entering the keep.
Low. Quiet. Invisible.
Every few feet, he refreshed the perception on the edge of people's vision, a warped shadow, a flicker that made the eyes skip. He didn't disappear. He made others not want to look.
The headache followed but he had gotten somewhat used to this, he would just have to be smart with who he touched and who he used old fashion stealth with.
The artifact would be unloaded soon. Moved inside. And whatever it was, whatever Galrick wanted to keep so guarded…
He meant to have it.
"You there. What are you doing?"
The voice was sharp and sudden. Torik spun on instinct.
An old maid stood behind him, arms crossed, gray hair frizzed from kitchen heat and irritation. Her eyes squinted at him like he was something unpleasant smeared across her floor.
Torik dipped his head. "Fetching plums, miss. Chef said the Highlord prefers them with his salad, and the keep store was empty, so they sent me to the market."
"Plums?" She stepped closer, inspecting him like a dog she'd never seen before. "And what's a slip of a boy like you doing on plum duty? You wouldn't know a ripe one from a rotten slug. Let's see 'em then. If they're no good, I'm sending you back."
Torik swallowed. He reached into the cloth satchel at his hip, fingers brushing against nothing more than chipped buttons, an old ribbon, and a half-eaten heel of bread. As he pulled his hand free, he bent the perception around her eyes, a soft pressure, a twist of intent, and when she looked inside, she saw exactly what he wanted her to.
Her brows lifted.
"Well. Huh." She snorted. "Those'll do. Run along, then."
She turned and shuffled off down the corridor.
Torik exhaled. Hard. His temples ached from the strain. Warping sight for something idle was a breeze, a shadow as well. But when they were focused, truly looking? That was like bending steel with your mind.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, blinking the blur from his vision, and moved deeper into the keep.
The kitchens were chaos.
Servants darted past like startled hens, some carrying trays, others arguing about sauce or wine pairings. The air smelled of sweat, steam, and burnt onions.
"Boy!" someone shouted. "Get me water!"
Torik nodded, shouldering his way through the flurry toward the old pump station. Another servant boy was already there, about his age, scrawny, hunched over a bucket.
"You seen the Highlord yet?" Torik asked, watching the stream of water rise and fall.
The other boy didn't look up. "Yeah. West Wing. I just came from there, changed the sheets in his chamber."
Torik's fingers twitched. Jackpot.
He gave a thoughtful nod, then narrowed his eyes. "Hold on. Which laundry room did you get the sheets from?"
The boy hesitated. "Um. The regular one?"
"The one in the East Wing?"
"Yeah?"
Torik cursed under his breath and started pacing, running both hands through his hair. "No, no, no. They found mold in that basin yesterday. The sheets stank. North Wing's laundry was cleared as safe and cleaned just this morning. If someone notices…"
The boy froze. Eyes wide. "I… I didn't know-"
Torik clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. I'll fix it. No one needs to know. Just tell me what room is for the Highlord?"
The servant nodded quickly, grateful. "First room on the left when you turn into the West Wing. There's a big painting of the Bound outside it. You can't miss it."
"Good. Thanks." Torik offered a reassuring smile before turning on his heel and heading for the hall.
He kept walking until the boy was well behind him, and only then did he let the smile curl fully across his face.
Too easy.