I dumped the contents into my palm, counting by the dim light of a streetlamp. Six Gold Aureus, two Silver Crests, and five Copper Marks. Bit cheap for a noble, honestly. I’ve seen merchants in the Warrens carry more weight than this guy, but I wasn't going to lodge a formal complaint. It was enough to let me live comfortably for the next week. And just like that, I’d gone from homeless to criminal in under an hour. Damn this economy.
Still, standing around in blood-crusted rags was a good way to get a one-way ticket back to the undercity—or a shallow grave. Homelessness really wasn't the thing for me. I needed clothes. Proper ones.
I spent the next couple of hours navigating the quieter streets of the middle district, away from the heavy patrols. I found a small manor tucked behind some manicured hedges. It looked expensive but not "private-army-guarding-the-windows" expensive. I hopped the fence, moved like a ghost through the garden, and lifted a set of clothes that had been left out on a secondary veranda.
They fit surprisingly well. The fabric was high quality—the kind that looked shiny and impressive during the day but held the heat when the sun went down.
As I stepped back onto the street, the air turned sharp. It was Springtide, and the night was definitely holding a grudge. Then, something wet hit my nose. Then another. Rain.
Back in the undercity, I didn't know the rain. The Warrens are fully covered by the capital's foundations; the only "weather" we get is a steady drip of sewage or steam pipe condensation. I’d heard people topside say they hated it when there was too much, but to me, it was just... cold. And tonight, it was very cold.
I needed a roof that didn't belong to a manor I was robbing.
I walked until I saw a familiar glow spilling out onto the cobbles. A tavern. I pushed the door open and was hit by a wall of heat, the smell of roasted meat, and the beautiful, chaotic noise of a hundred people talking at once. It was crowded, packed with small tables and thick with woodsmoke.
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Ahhh. Home.
I found a seat right in the middle of the place, a tavern called . Calling it a tavern was like calling the Imperial Palace a hut. It was massive—the biggest I’d ever seen. I was on the upper floor, which was so crowded I could barely see the floorboards. Most people were standing, leaning over the railings to catch a glimpse of whatever show was happening on the main stage below. Musicians, maybe, or one of those famous plays the nobles cry about.
A beautiful wench—and I mean the kind that makes you forget you have a death warrant on your head—brought over my haul. Sausages, potatoes, a stow fork and spoon, and a heavy Hearth Knife. To wash it all down, a tall mug of Honey Water.
I didn't waste time. I handed her four copper marks and dove into the food like a wolf. I was hungrier than a stray in a lean winter, and for a few minutes, the only thing that existed in the world was the grease on the sausages and the sweetness of the water.
Just as I was scraping the plate clean, the roar of the crowd died down. It didn't just fade; it went quiet, like someone had sucked the air out of the room.
A maiden stepped onto the stage below. She had hair the color of a sunset and freckles dusted across her nose like stars. She sat down, cradled a lute, and began to sing.
It was a sad song. The kind of sad that reaches into your chest and squeezes. Some men in the crowd actually started crying, while others put on their "tough guy" faces and pretended it wasn't getting to them. It was getting to them. I was one of those pretending, but my chest felt a little tighter than it had a minute ago.
When she finished, the silence broke into a fierce round of clapping. She bowed, looking humble, and slipped off the stage.
I finished the last of my drink and wiped my mouth. I was about to leave, hoping to find a quiet corner to sleep off the meal, when a kid about my age sat down right next to me. He had short black hair and eyes that were a startling, vibrant green—like the grass in the Vale.
"Hello, friend," he said.
I didn't talk. You learn early in the undercity that if you keep your mouth shut, you keep your teeth. I just stared at him.
"What do you want?" I said finally, my voice sounding like it had been dragged through the Warrens' soot.
"Just looking for someone," he said, casual as a cat.
"And why do you think I can help you? More than all these other people here?"
He leaned in, his green eyes locking onto mine.
There was a long pause, and he let a small smirk play on his lips. "The undercity."