The lock was stuck, again. Myrt crouched by the lattice wall, her lockpicks trembling in her hands. The ancient mechanism fought her at every turn, its innards stiff with rust and neglect. Her nerves weren't helping—nor was the nagging feeling that this job was different from their usual fare.

"Just break it already," Varin growled, hefting his truncheon. His voice echoed through the abandoned library hallway like a temple bell.

"Quiet!" Myrt hissed, throwing him a sharp glance over her shoulder. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she worked the picks, muttering a silent prayer to whatever god watched over thieves. The lock finally surrendered with a reluctant click.

"Could you be any slower?" Varin muttered, but Myrt was already slipping through the gate.

The room beyond was a maze of leaning book stacks that seemed to defy gravity. Decades of dust draped the spines like funeral shrouds. Something about the stillness made her skin crawl—this wasn't their usual smash-and-grab. The client's intensity when describing the book, that barely concealed desperation in his cultured voice, suggested deeper waters.

"Let's find it and get out," she whispered, pushing the thoughts aside.

They combed through the titles with methodical haste, disturbing centuries of accumulated knowledge. Myrt's fingers brushed faded leather bindings, but her mind focused only on their quarry. When Varin's voice broke the silence, she nearly jumped.

"Got it." He held up a black leather tome, its title embossed in worn gold: A Study in Noble Houses Forgotten.

Before Myrt could reach for it, Varin tossed it toward her. She caught it with both hands, surprised by its weight. The brittle leather felt unnaturally cool against her palms, and a faint, sickly-sweet smell wafted from its pages—like flowers left too long on a grave. Varin had already turned away, scanning the shelves again with unusual intensity.

"We've got what we came for," she said, tucking the book under her arm. "Let's—"

A cascade of falling books shattered the silence. Myrt flinched as the crash echoed through the library's empty halls.

"Damn it, Myrt!" Varin hissed.

"It wasn't me!" she shot back, but the damage was done.

The distant clink of metal-toed boots rang out, faint at first but growing louder. Myrt's breath caught in her throat as the sound multiplied. More than one guard—much more.

Varin grinned, his truncheon resting casually on his shoulder. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."

Myrt's stomach churned. She wasn't a fighter, and Varin's reckless confidence made her want to scream. Her fingers found the blackjack at her side, the familiar leather wrapping grounding her as she forced herself to focus.

A shadow flickered at the corridor's end. The guard who appeared was in his forties, streaks of gray threading through his hair. His gambeson bore the red-and-yellow colors of the University, and his eyes widened at the sight of them.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"Hey, what the—"

Myrt moved before he could finish. She darted forward with practiced grace, her blackjack swinging low. The guard barely had time to shift his weight before the weapon cracked against his knee. He let out a strangled groan, stumbling.

Varin followed through without hesitation. His truncheon connected with devastating precision, breaking the man's nose with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed as the guard crumpled, unconscious.

Their victory was short-lived. Shouts erupted from multiple directions, and the thunder of approaching boots grew louder.

"Windows!" Varin barked, already moving.

Myrt turned to see him smashing the latch of a stained-glass window. With a heave, he shoved the frame open, sending shards of colored glass raining to the floor like broken jewels.

"Are you insane?" The words barely left her mouth before Varin grabbed her arm and leapt through the opening, pulling her with him.

The ground rushed up to meet them. Myrt landed hard on the manicured lawn, pain shooting through her legs and spine. She gasped, momentarily stunned, as Varin hauled her to her feet.

"Move!" he ordered, dragging her toward the shelter of the city streets.

Every step sent daggers through her joints, but adrenaline kept her moving. Behind them, the guards clustered at the shattered window, shouting orders but making no move to follow. Their hesitation spoke volumes—whatever this book was, they feared it more than they wanted to catch its thieves.

When they finally ducked into a narrow alley, Myrt yanked her arm free and rounded on Varin.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, voice low but trembling with fury.

"We got out, didn't we?" He flashed that infuriating grin, but something darker lurked behind it.

Myrt wanted to scream, to hit him, but the sound of distant bells cut through her rage. The alarm was spreading through the city like wildfire.

They wound their way through the labyrinth of streets, taking the long route to throw off any pursuit. The city's shadows wrapped around them like a cloak, but offered little comfort. Every step reminded Myrt of their violent exit, and every corner held the threat of discovery.

The Bull and Baron appeared ahead like a lighthouse in a storm, though its welcome was questionable. The tavern's weathered sign hung askew, its paint so faded that only the vaguest outline of a nobleman astride a bull remained visible. Perfect for their purposes.

Varin entered first, shouldering through the door. The sour reek of cheap beer and unwashed bodies assaulted Myrt's senses as she followed. She nodded to the barkeep, a wizened man whose rheumy eyes had seen too much to care about what transpired in his establishment. Her abused muscles screamed as she sank onto a rough-hewn bench, but at least here, she could breathe.

Three rounds of watered ale and countless anxious glances later, their contact arrived. He wore a merchant's coat gone threadbare at the elbows, but three days' worth of stubble couldn't disguise the aristocratic cut of his jaw. Myrt's palms grew slick against her mug as he approached.

"Fine night for a stroll," he said, his affected common accent slipping around the edges. The precise consonants of a university education leaked through like water through a damaged dam.

"Fair enough," she replied, letting her natural Lower City drawl thicken slightly.

The exchange happened with practiced casualness. The book vanished beneath his coat while a cloth purse materialized in her lap. Silver clinked softly against her leg, the weight of it substantial but somehow hollow after the night's violence.

"A pleasure," she said, the lie bitter on her tongue.

"Indeed." His smile was pleasant and empty as a porcelain mask. "Let us hope our paths need not cross again."

He melted away into the tavern's shadows, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive soap and too many questions. Myrt turned to Varin, who'd been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, his usual bravado conspicuously absent.

"Well," she said, studying his face, "at least we won't go hungry." She raised her hand to catch the barkeep's attention. "Another round."

Varin's answering grunt might have been agreement. She didn't press him. Some jobs were better left unexamined, especially when they involved men who played at being common while wearing boots worth three months' rent.