The coin from the morning's heist had bought Kael a fleeting sense of security, a rare
luxury in his life. He'd even managed to secure a small, relatively dry corner in a
communal sleeping hall for the night, a significant upgrade from his usual alcove. But
the precarious balance of his existence was always a breath away from shattering, and
today, that breath came in the form of a rumor.
It started as a whisper, carried on the grimy winds of the Lower Districts, then grew into a
low murmur, finally blossoming into a full-blown tale of opportunity. A minor noble,
Lord Valerius, known more for his extravagant parties than his political acumen, was said
to possess a collection of exotic artifacts. Among them, so the whispers claimed, was a
small, intricately carved wooden box, rumored to contain a rare, glowing crystal. The
crystal itself was said to be a mere curiosity, a pretty bauble, but the box… the box was
supposedly enchanted, a relic from a forgotten age, imbued with minor protective
wards.
For Kael, the crystal was irrelevant. It was the box that piqued his interest. An enchanted
object, even one with minor wards, would fetch a considerable sum from the right fence.
It was a risk, a far greater one than picking a merchant's pocket, but the potential
reward was equally grand. Enough to buy him more than a single night's reprieve,
perhaps even a small, permanent room, a place he could truly call his own.
He spent the next few days observing Lord Valerius's manor, a relatively modest, yet
still imposing, structure on the fringes of the Middle Districts. It wasn't a fortress, but it
wasn't undefended either. Guards patrolled the perimeter, and magical wards, though
faint, shimmered around the windows. Kael, with his keen eyes and uncanny ability to
blend into the shadows, noted the patterns, the blind spots, the moments of laxity. He
saw the shift changes, the guards who lingered too long by the ale barrel, the window on
the third floor that was often left ajar for a breath of fresh air.
His plan was simple, audacious, and utterly Kael. He wouldn't attempt a frontal
assault. Instead, he'd wait for one of Valerius's infamous parties, when the manor
would be filled with revelers, and the guards, distracted by the festivities, would be less
vigilant. He'd slip in with the servants, a ghost among the living, and make his way to
the study where the collection was supposedly kept.
The night of the party arrived, a cacophony of laughter, music, and the clinking of
glasses echoing through the usually quiet street. Kael, disguised in a stolen servant's
tunic, his face smudged with dirt to appear more unassuming, mingled with the
legitimate staff. He moved with a quiet confidence, his eyes darting, absorbing every
detail. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, roasted meats, and
a faint, almost imperceptible hum of magic – the kind that permeated the homes of the
wealthy, woven into their tapestries and furniture.
He found the study easily enough, a grand room filled with dusty tomes and exotic
curios. The enchanted box, small and unassuming, sat on a polished mahogany desk,
almost hidden amidst a collection of more flamboyant artifacts. Kael's heart
hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of anticipation. This was it. His chance.
He reached for the box, his fingers brushing against the smooth, cool wood. A faint
tingle, like static electricity, ran up his arm. He ignored it, his focus solely on the prize.
But as his fingers closed around the box, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from it,
followed by a deafening crack that reverberated through the room. The wards, far
stronger than he had anticipated, had activated. Alarms blared, and the sounds of
revelry outside abruptly ceased, replaced by shouts and the thud of heavy boots.
Kael cursed under his breath. He hadn't been caught, not yet, but his cover was blown.
The crystal, now glowing with an intense, pulsating light, seemed to mock him. He
didn't hesitate. He snatched the box, ignoring the searing pain in his hand, and bolted
for the open window, the blaring alarms a harsh symphony of his failure. He was out,
scrambling down a drainpipe, the shouts of the guards echoing behind him. He was
injured, his hand throbbing, and he had a very angry noble and a whole host of guards
on his tail. The risk had been too great, the reward, for now, a distant dream. He was still
the alley rat, and this ill-fated heist had just reminded him of his place.