“They say dead men tell the best tales,” the man above him said with a smile that revealed his rotten teeth.

Jack hung from the tall roof of the building, clutching desperately to the stone figure of a gargoyle—the only thing standing between him and certain death. The man drew closer, and the glint in his eyes, now unveiled away from spectators, betrayed sheer glee at the prominent end of Jack.

“I bet you have some nice tales to tell.”

A few small stones rolled down from under the man’s feet. Jack didn’t follow them with his gaze as they tumbled into the abyss, disappearing into the fog-shrouded marketplace below. He didn’t want to imagine what he would look like if his sweaty hands failed to hold the weight of his body. Although, right now, that wasn’t his biggest problem.

Jack’s biggest problem on this cloudy morning was the enormous crime lord making his way toward him across the steep, stone rooftop of the cathedral, a maniacal laugh on his lips and an axe in his hand. Jack himself didn’t use axes—he preferred more discreet ways of getting rid of enemies—but at this moment, he was starting to regret his pacifist inclinations.

Everything started with a certain rich widow. As the saying goes, you shouldn’t trust widows until you see the body of their late husband, and especially then, one should be cautious. Jack didn’t like sayings or folk wisdom, so he completely dismissed any suspicions when the same woman offered him a unique opportunity to acquire wealth that would make him the greatest crime lord in this part of the continent.

But let’s go back to the beginning. There are five of our characters. Well, there were six of them, but we don’t talk about it.

Jack is the first one. Born with a natural talent for cunning and charm, he made his way as a leader of a band of thieves, known for his mysterious charisma. Left on his own as a child, he had to make it on the streets until a butcher took pity on him and raised him as his own. The years of growing up accompanied by the smell and sight of fresh meat truly shaped him into the man he was today. In his short life, he had already managed to escape the gallows twice and had narrowly avoided death countless times under more illegal circumstances.

Emerie ‘the Sister’, previously a nun, gifted with a talent for evading and disguises, so perfect that even Shakespeare himself wouldn’t recognize her. As a fifteen-year-old, under the influence of an unhappy love for a charismatic priest, she joined the convent, where she discovered her true calling and faith: money. Stolen devotional items provided her with a good start before she ran into trouble, and disillusioned by the lack of resources, she joined Jack’s group. She didn’t call it desperation.

Finn, ‘Quick Hands’, the locksmith, since childhood had a passion for inaccessible spaces and puzzles, which often led him to the cold and damp residence and castle prison, from where Jack had to rescue him disguised as an executioner or preacher. He still hadn’t forgiven him for the one time when they had to crawl through the sewers.

Then there’s the muscle of the group. Moira ‘the Steel’, better known for her actions than words, had remained the champion of underground fights as long as someone was willing to pay for it.

The last member of the troupe was Bret ‘the Shadow’, the mastermind behind the plans, the oldest of the crew with an unknown origin that changed every time someone asked him about it—from a member of the royal guard to an exiled pagan druid, and once a sorrowful father of five who died in a fire. He also fixed his personality every time to fit the persona he was for the day. You never knew which Bret you were going to deal with that day, and that gave Jack a headache every time.

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The rich widow was Margaret Deveraux, the same as Ebenezer Deveraux, whom everyone had heard of.

“As you know, my late husband was a lover of history and the rich culture of our homeland,” the matron standing before them began.

“More of that rich part than the culture itself,” Moira muttered to Finn, who twisted his mouth into a mocking smile. Everyone knew that Ebenezer was famous for his greed, and he wasn’t so much a lover of culture as he was of what it was worth. Evidence of this could be found in the very interiors they were in, where the burgundy walls were covered with countless paintings, chandeliers glistened with pure gold, and imported furniture exceeded even the mayor’s budget. These were not the fruits of honest work. But everyone knew that. They didn’t come for that. No, they were lured there by the unclear inheritance situation of the merchant himself, as he had officially introduced himself, a situation that needed urgent clarification. Preferably, explained with a knife to the throat.

“My husband, a saintly man, cared for his family all his life; no one can say a bad word about him,” the widow continued, wiping her nose on a handkerchief, though none of the guests believed her tears. That didn’t stop her from continuing the charade. “Unfortunately, sometimes he was forgetful and left things until the last minute.” She glanced at the gathered guests, her face expressing a mix of sorrow and kind reproach, as if she were fondly recalling the antics of a child, rather than one of the most ruthless crime bosses the city had known.

“Unfortunately, the matter of the inheritance didn’t concern him, nor me, for that matter. After all, our life together was pure bliss.” Another imagined tear fell into the handkerchief.

Jack was slowly starting to feel tired of this comedy, but he didn’t want to upset the woman until they knew everything. Margaret, however, seemed to notice the impatience of her audience and quickly got to the point:

“As for the wealth that my husband and I happily managed to acquire, a part of it was omitted from the official will. Not that my dear husband hadn’t intended to leave it to me, it was just that it was of a more modest nature, something we didn’t want to flaunt in front of other citizens of our city.”

These words woke up the listeners. Countless stories spoke of the treasures amassed by Ebenezer, but one of them, the one Jack cared most about, spoke of a hidden treasure, of secrets that involved every citizen of the city, of a hidden treasure of the Scribes, the founders of the city from centuries ago, who hid a treasure so great that even one hundredth of it allowed the construction of the castle and walls of the city.

A legend that until now had seemed like foolish tales, now in light of Ebenezer’s death, began to seem real. His death caused too much of a stir, even among the authorities, and his inheritance had yet to be publicly announced.

“There’s just one catch,” Margaret was the first to look at them without fake feelings, her hawk-like gaze piercing them with cold. A moment later, satisfied with what she saw on their faces, her features softened, and she returned to the role of the grieving widow.

“To the inheritance, it’s not so easy to gain access… I have the map and instructions. Unfortunately, it’s encrypted, and even my husband didn’t know the key. If you manage to get to the treasure, I offer you half of whatever you find.”

Jack’s eyebrows went up. No one offered half. At most, a fifth of the loot. Margaret must really have cared about this treasure—or there were more complications she hadn’t mentioned.

Margaret wasn’t a beautiful woman. But beauty wasn’t her talent, no. She was known for a much deadlier talent, one for poisons. Hell, Jack knew they were standing above an underground, illegal laboratory, where new poisons were developed, and probably new weapons as well. Where else did Ebenezer get his deadly trinkets from? His killer ‘toys’—music boxes that suddenly stopped in the middle of a tune and blazed with such intense light that it blinded anyone within a few feet. Watches that shot deadly darts, too fast for the eye, and finally other substances, worse than poisons because they killed without taking life, they killed the soul, and people remained under the influence of the one who administered them.

“We’ll do it.”

Yes, Jack wanted that treasure, the one someone with such power as Ebenezer’s desired. Then he would never have to kneel before anyone again. And he would never again have to helplessly watch as those closest to him were humiliated or killed.