The Blackveil Market of Valthar's capital pulsed with life, a labyrinth of stalls and shadows where the city's heart beat loudest. Lanterns swayed from crooked poles, casting a flickering glow over crates of spices, bolts of silk, and cages of squawking birds. The air was thick with the scents of roasted meat, stale ale, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies. Merchants hawked their wares in a cacophony of shouts, while pickpockets and cutthroats slipped through the crowd, their eyes gleaming with opportunity. In Valthar, wealth and desperation danced a dangerous waltz, and no one knew the steps better than Torrin Blackthorn.
At twenty-four, Torrin moved through the market like a shadow, his lean frame cloaked in a patched gray tunic that blended with the dusk. His dark hair was tied back, revealing sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing—a stallholder's distracted glance, a noble's heavy purse, a guard's lazy patrol. His fingers, nimble and scarred, twitched with anticipation. Tonight was no ordinary pilfering. He'd set his sights on a prize that could buy him out of Valthar's gutters for good: the Star of Thalindor, a sapphire the size of a quail's egg, rumored to be locked in the backroom of Silas the Pawnbroker's shop.
Torrin leaned against a stall piled with tarnished trinkets, pretending to haggle over a brass ring while his gaze flicked to Silas's shop across the square. The pawnbroker's storefront was a fortress of iron bars and boarded windows, but Torrin had spent weeks casing it. He knew the guard's schedule, the lock's weaknesses, and the narrow alley that offered a perfect escape. The Star was his ticket to a new life—maybe a tavern of his own, or passage to Thalindor, where a man with his skills could start fresh.
"Oi, you buying or just wasting my time?" the stallholder growled, a burly man with a scar across his nose.
Torrin flashed a crooked grin, tossing the ring back. "Just admiring your fine craftsmanship, mate. I'll be back when I'm richer."
The man snorted, but Torrin was already moving, slipping through the crowd toward the alley beside Silas's shop. The market's noise faded as he entered the shadows, his boots silent on the cobblestones. He crouched behind a stack of crates, checking for watchers. The alley was empty, save for a stray cat that hissed and darted away. Perfect.
He approached the shop's back door, a heavy slab of oak reinforced with iron bands. From his satchel, he pulled a set of lockpicks, their tips worn but reliable. The lock was a beast—three tumblers, each trickier than the last—but Torrin's hands were steady, his focus absolute. He hummed a tavern tune under his breath, a habit that kept his nerves at bay. The first tumbler clicked, then the second. The third resisted, but he coaxed it with a gentle twist, and the lock gave way with a satisfying thunk.
Torrin eased the door open, slipping inside. The backroom was cramped, cluttered with shelves of pawned goods: dented armor, chipped goblets, a lute with broken strings. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, its light glinting off a locked chest in the corner. The Star was inside, according to his informant, a drunk fence who'd spilled the secret for a jug of wine. Torrin knelt before the chest, his picks already at work, when voices drifted from the shop's front room, muffled but urgent.
He froze, his pulse quickening. Silas wasn't supposed to be here—his routine was clockwork, drinking at the Rusty Anchor till midnight. Torrin crept to the curtain separating the backroom from the shop, peering through a gap. Silas, a wiry man with a rat-like face, stood with two cloaked figures. Their hoods obscured their faces, but their voices carried a clipped, aristocratic tone that didn't belong in Valthar's slums.
"The queen must fall," one said, a woman, her voice sharp as a blade. "Lysara's unification threatens our interests. Eryndor's grip tightens, and Valthar will be crushed under her boot."
Silas nodded, rubbing his hands. "I've arranged the men. The festival's chaos will cover the strike. But the price—"
"Paid in full," the second figure, a man, interrupted, tossing a clinking purse onto the counter. "Ensure the assassin reaches her. Fail, and your head will decorate the city gates."
Torrin's breath caught. An assassination plot against Queen Lysara? The festival was tomorrow, a grand affair to celebrate Eryndor's alliance with Valthar. If Lysara died, the kingdoms would fracture, plunging Valthar into chaos. Torrin wasn't a patriot—he'd stolen from nobles and guards alike—but he knew a bloodbath when he smelled one. And chaos was bad for business.
He shifted, intending to slip back to the chest, but his foot nudged a crate. The clatter echoed like thunder. Silas's head snapped toward the curtain, his eyes narrowing. "Who's there?" he barked.
Torrin cursed under his breath. No time for the Star. He bolted for the back door, but Silas was faster than he looked, bursting through the curtain with a dagger in hand. The cloaked figures followed, their movements eerily coordinated, like predators stalking prey.
"Thief!" Silas shouted, lunging. Torrin dodged, the dagger grazing his sleeve. He kicked a shelf, sending a cascade of junk crashing down, buying a moment to reach the door. He flung it open, sprinting into the alley, but the cloaked figures were on his heels, their cloaks billowing like wings.
The market's noise swallowed his footsteps as he weaved through the crowd, ducking under awnings and vaulting over stalls. His heart pounded, but his mind was sharp, calculating. He needed to lose them, then decide what to do about the plot. Warn Lysara? That meant tangling with guards, who'd likely arrest him on sight. Flee Valthar? Tempting, but the cloaked figures' words echoed: The queen must fall. If they succeeded, nowhere would be safe.
He darted into a narrow side street, the crowd thinning. A mistake. The cloaked woman appeared ahead, blocking his path, her hood falling back to reveal a pale face and cold blue eyes. "You heard too much, rat," she said, drawing a curved blade etched with glowing green runes.
Torrin's stomach dropped. Those runes—he'd seen them on stolen relics, whispered to belong to the Void King's cult. This wasn't just politics; it was something darker. He drew his own dagger, a slim blade hidden in his boot. "Lady, I'm just a thief. Whatever you're planning, I want no part of it."
She smirked, advancing. "Too late."
The man appeared behind Torrin, cutting off his retreat. Torrin's grin returned, masking his fear. "Two on one? Hardly sporting."
He feinted left, then dove right, slashing at the woman's arm. She hissed, blood welling, but the man was on him, his blade a blur. Torrin parried, the impact jarring his wrist. The market's edge was close—if he could reach it, the crowd would slow them. He kicked a barrel, spilling apples across the street, and sprinted, the cultists in pursuit.
He reached the square, shoving through revelers, but a hand grabbed his collar, yanking him into an alcove. Torrin spun, dagger raised, only to face a grizzled man in a guard's tabard. Captain Rorik, a bear of a man with a scarred face, glared down at him. Torrin knew him—Rorik had chased him for years, never quite catching him.
"Blackthorn," Rorik growled. "What's got you running like a spooked hare?"
Torrin hesitated. Rorik was no friend, but the plot was bigger than a thief's grudge. "Assassins," he panted. "Planning to kill Lysara at the festival. Void cult, maybe. I overheard them at Silas's shop."
Rorik's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe a guttersnipe like you? What's your angle?"
"No angle," Torrin said, raising his hands. "I like my head attached. If Lysara dies, Valthar burns. You want proof, check Silas's shop. But move fast—they're after me."
Rorik studied him, then released his collar. "If you're lying, I'll gut you myself. Stay here."
Torrin nodded, but the moment Rorik turned, he slipped back into the crowd. Trusting guards was a fool's game, and the cultists were still out there. He needed a plan—warn Lysara directly, or disappear into Valthar's underbelly. The festival was hours away, and the weight of his choice pressed heavy. He was a thief, not a hero, but the runes, the plot, the cult—they stirred a flicker of something he hadn't felt in years. Duty, maybe, or just stubbornness.
As he melted into the market's shadows, the lanterns swayed, their light dimming as if the city itself sensed the gathering storm. Torrin tightened his grip on his dagger, knowing he'd just stepped into a game far bigger than a stolen sapphire.