Soren lay on his bed, his eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling.

Sleep eluded him, failures looming large in the darkness—the botched museum heist, the disaster at Fischer’s manor.

He turned his head, glancing at Alaric’s sleeping form, his snores punctuating the silence.

Alaric’s recklessness, his impulsiveness—it had cost them.

And Soren couldn’t shake the feeling that it would happen again.

If they were going to succeed, if he was going to find the answers he sought, he needed to take matters into his own hands.

Soren sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and dressed.

He paused only once, glancing back at Alaric’s sleeping form.

For a moment, doubt crept in.

Should he wake him?

Include him in this plan?

No. This was something he needed to do alone.

The corridors of the Guild were quiet as Soren made his way to the Vault.

The Vault’s heavy door creaked open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space beyond.

The familiar scent of old parchment and leather bindings filled his nostrils as he lit a single candle. The flame flickered to life, casting long shadows across the room.

Soren moved through the shelves, his fingers trailing over spines until he found what he was looking for.

The museum blueprints unrolled with a soft rustle, revealing a maze of lines and notations.

Soren spread them out on the table, weighing down the corners with books. He scanned the familiar layout, memories of their failed attempt flooding back.

He grabbed a piece of charcoal and marked their previous route. Each mistake, each misstep, was circled.

Then, he began to sketch new paths.

The charcoal danced across the floorplan, creating delicate lines that wove through the museum’s layout. Soren’s brow furrowed as he plotted alternative escape routes, marking potential hiding spots and areas of high risk.

As he worked, the tension that had knotted his shoulders began to ease. Without Alaric’s impatience pushing him to act before he was ready, Soren felt a sense of control returning.

Soren’s gaze swept the shelves, landing on a tome of alchemical recipes. He pulled it down, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

The list of ingredients sent him to deeper into the Vault. He studied the jars and vials of herbs and minerals. He moved through the narrow aisles, plucking items from shelves.

Back at the table, Soren set to work with a pestle and mortar as he ground the herbs into a fine powder..

As he worked, Soren’s mind cleared. The doubts, the frustrations, the lingering tension with Alaric—all of it faded away. This was what he had been missing. This sense of purpose, of being in complete control of his actions.

With the concoction complete, Soren slipped out of the Vault, moving through the Guild’s halls until he reached the mess hall.

The kitchen was dark and silent. He grabbed scraps of meat left over from the evening meal, no doubt destined for the next day’s stew.

He returned to the Vault and rubbed the meat with the powder.

He wrapped each piece in cloth, then tucked them away in his pack.

After wrapping the last piece of treated meat, Soren’s eyes fell on a familiar wooden chest tucked away in a corner of the Vault.

Moving quietly across the room, Soren knelt before the chest and lifted the lid.

Inside, dozens of locks gleamed in the candlelight, each one a different design, each with its own unique challenge.

His fingers trailed over them, remembering the feel of each mechanism, the particular way the tumblers moved.

The lock on the display case had been old, but well-maintained. Probably brass, with at least six pins.

He began sorting through the practice locks, setting aside any that didn’t match his memory of the target.

A heavy brass lock caught his eye. Soren lifted it, testing its weight. The keyway looked similar to the one in the museum. He pulled out his lockpicks and got to work.

The first pin gave easily, clicking into place. The second and third followed suit. The fourth was a security pin. The last two falling with ease.

He worked the lock several times, his movements becoming more fluid with each attempt.

The first try took nearly two minutes. By the fifth attempt, he had it open in under forty seconds.

Still too slow.

Soren’s world narrowed to the lock in his hands. Everything else fell away. There was only the subtle resistance of the pins, the whisper of metal on metal, the moment of perfect alignment when everything clicked into place.

An hour passed, then another. Soren’s fingers moved with increasing surety, finding the sweet spot in each pin without conscious thought.

Thirty seconds. Twenty-five. Finally, just under twenty seconds from first touch to open lock.

Satisfied at last, Soren added the practice lock to his pack.

Soren sought another book, this one detailing the creation of simple yet effective devices. The recipe for smoke bombs caught his attention.

He gathered the necessary materials—small metal containers, powders, and fuses.

He worked with care, measuring, and mixing the ingredients.

As he packed the mixture into the containers, Soren found himself appreciating the aesthetics of his creations. The perfect symmetry of the packed powder, the elegant coil of the fuse—there was a beauty to it, an artistry that satisfied something deep within him.

The hours slipped by unnoticed. The single candle burned low, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across the Vault. But Soren barely noticed.

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As he tied off the last smoke bomb, he surveyed his work.

Everything was in place.

This was how it should be.

No debates, no compromises, no recklessness to account for.

Just him, his skills, and a well-crafted plan.

He began to pack away his creations, each item nestled in his pack.

As Soren made final adjustments to his plan, marking optimal times and routes on the blueprint, he paused.

Was he really ready to do this alone?

Without Alaric watching his back?

He pushed the thought aside. Alaric’s impulsiveness had cost them too many times.

This was the right choice, the only choice.

The morning sun shone as Soren slipped out of the Guild headquarters. Soren avoided puddles as he made his way through the winding streets.

As he neared the museum, Soren’s pace slowed as he forced himself to adopt a casual gait, trying to blend in with the few pedestrians on the street.

A pair of city watchmen rounded the corner ahead, and Soren’s breath caught in his throat. He resisted the urge to turn away, instead keeping his movements measured and calm.

As he approached the museum’s outer perimeter, Soren caught sight of a patrolling guard with a large dog at his side. The animal’s head swivelled towards him, nostrils flaring.

Did the dog recognise his scent?

He forced himself to keep walking, his hand drifting to his pocket where the treated meat was hidden. If necessary, he’d use it earlier than planned.

The dog’s ears perked up as Soren drew closer. It took a step in his direction, but the guard tugged on its leash, redirecting its attention.

As he rounded the final corner, the museum stood before him. Soren paused in the shadow of a nearby building, adjusting the strap of his pack as he took in the scene before him.

The museum’s entrance was guarded. A small group of people queued outside.

Should he abort the mission?

Come back another day?

But the thought of returning to the Guild empty-handed steeled his resolve.

Taking a deep breath, Soren made his way towards the queue.

As he took his place in line, he felt exposed, vulnerable.

His hand tightened on the strap of his pack. If the guards demanded to see inside, it was all over.

The smoke bombs, the treated meat, the tools—there would be no explaining them away.

Discovery now would mean not just failure, but imprisonment or worse.

As the line inched forward, Soren’s mind raced through contingency plans.

Could he create a distraction?

Slip away unnoticed?

Or would he have to fight his way out, abandoning any hope of completing his mission?

The visitor in front of him stepped inside, and Soren found himself face to face with the guard.

“Next.” The guard waved him through. “You can go in.”

Soren dipped his head and entered the building.

The atrium stretched out before him, a cavernous space filled with the low murmur of voices. Families huddled around display cases.

His gaze swept the room, cataloguing the positions of the guards.

He moved deeper into the museum, his pace slow and measured.

He paused to admire exhibits as he went. The craftsmanship of the ancient pottery, the delicate brushstrokes of centuries-old paintings—in another life, he might have spent hours here, lost in admiration.

But that wasn’t why he was here.

As he entered the exhibition hall displaying artifacts from Sieshin, Soren’s focus sharpened. Two guards stood near the entrance, their postures relaxed but alert. He noted the weight of their weapons, the slight bulge beneath their jackets that suggested light armour.

One guard’s eyes constantly scanned the room, while the other seemed more interested in chatting with his colleague.

Soren moved on, weaving through the crowd. As he passed from one exhibit to the next, he built up a picture of the guards’ routines. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed since his previous visit.

He continued his circuit of the museum, each step bringing him closer to the weapons exhibit.

A low, rumbling growl reached his ears.

A massive black mastiff padded alongside its handler, its dark eyes alert and searching.

Soren watched the dog and its handler make their rounds, noting how the animal’s head swivelled at the slightest unusual movement. Its nose twitched constantly.

His hand drifted to his pack, feeling the small lumps of treated meat nestled within.

As he approached a quieter section of the museum, Soren pretended to study a tapestry hanging on the wall.

Soren reached inside his pack and withdrew a small piece of meat, letting it fall to the floor.

It landed in the shadow of a nearby bench, hidden from casual view..

Over the next hour, he repeated this process half a dozen times, each drop of meat calculated to intersect with the dogs’ patrol routes.

Finally, he allowed himself to approach the weapons exhibit.

The ravenglass dagger sat in its case, just as it had during their previous visit. Its blade seemed to drink in the light.

Soren felt a pull towards it, an almost physical longing to hold it, to feel its weight and balance.

He forced himself to look away, to study the other items—a Boeki hook knife, a Yao mace encrusted with diamonds, and a wooden dagger used during the Southern Isles slave revolts.

Soren allowed himself a small smile as he headed for the exit.

Tonight, he would return.

And this time, he would not fail.

The smell of roasted meat wafted from a nearby tavern, making Soren’s stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten since before setting out to Fischer’s manor.

Pushing open the door, Soren stepped into the relative quiet of the midday lull. A handful of patrons sat scattered across the room, most focused on their meals.

Sunlight filtered through grimy windows, catching motes of dust that bobbed in the air.

Soren’s eyes swept the room, assessing potential threats and escape routes. Nothing seemed amiss..

He chose a table in the corner, positioning himself with his back to the wall and a clear view of both the main entrance and the back door.

A barmaid approached. “What’ll it be, love?”

“Whatever’s hot. And an ale.”

She nodded and bustled away, leaving Soren alone. He let the noise of the tavern wash over him.

The barmaid returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a mug of ale. Soren nodded his thanks, fishing out a few coins from his pocket.

He ate mechanically, barely tasting the food as his mind raced ahead to the night’s plans.

Every detail of the museum’s layout played out behind his eyes. He visualised the path he would take, marking the positions of guards and potential obstacles.

The ravenglass dagger seemed to call to him, its shadowy form etched into his mind’s eye. He could almost feel its weight in his hand, the cool smoothness of its hilt against his palm.

He finished his meal, pushing the empty bowl aside.

He ran through his plan again and again, examining it from every angle, searching for any weakness or oversight.

As more patrons arrived for lunch, Soren felt a growing need for quiet, for a space to gather his thoughts without distraction.

He moved to the bar and caught the innkeeper’s eye. “I need a room for the night.”

“Ten krones with breakfast.”

Soren counted out the coins, sliding them across the bar.

The innkeeper pocketed them with a nod, then fished out a key from beneath the counter. “Up the stairs, third door on your left.”

Soren took the key with a nod of thanks, then made his way through the tavern to the staircase in the back.

The room was small, furnished with a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a battered desk beneath the single window. A stub of tallow candle stood on the night stand.

Soren dropped his pack on the floor, then sank onto the edge of the bed. His muscles ached from the tension he’d been carrying all day, and he allowed himself a moment to stretch, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers.

He reached for his pack, emptying its contents onto the bed. Soren checked his smoke bombs, ensuring the fuses were secure and the casings intact.

He hung his tunic from a hook on the wall, and went through each pocket and hidden compartment, each item inspected and returned to its place.

After checking his equipment, Soren pulled out the practice lock from his pack. The brass felt cool and heavy in his palm. He settled at the small desk, positioning the lock in the weak afternoon light filtering through the window.

His picks slid into the keyway with ease. First pin. Click. Second pin. Click. The third pin gave him trouble.

He reset and started again.

The familiar rhythm of lockpicking settled over him, each attempt a delicate balance of pressure and patience.

Twenty seconds. Reset.

Eighteen seconds. Reset.

The scratching of metal on metal became a meditation, drowning out the distant sounds of the tavern below.

Soren lost track of time as he worked.

His fingers moved without thought, finding each pin’s sweet spot by feel alone.

Sixteen seconds.

Fourteen.

But fatigue was starting to creep in.

A pick slipped, scraping against the lock’s housing.

He’d been at it too long.

Still, he forced himself through one more attempt. The lock opened smoothly, pins falling into place with satisfying clicks.

Thirteen seconds.

As he packed the lock away, Soren’s fingers trembled.

His eyes stung, lids heavy. The room seemed to swim at the edges of his vision.

He needed rest if he was going to be sharp enough for tonight’s work.

Soren couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly slept.

The days had begun to blur together, marked only by failures and setbacks.

He extinguished the candle and lay back on the narrow bed, its thin mattress offering little comfort.

His body felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion, yet his mind refused to quiet.

Images flashed behind his closed eyes—the museum’s layout, guard positions, possible escape routes.

The ravenglass dagger seemed to hover at the edge of his thoughts.

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position.

The pillow was lumpy, stuffed with straw that crackled with each movement.

His thoughts grew sluggish, the constant planning and calculating giving way to a blessed emptiness.

His muscles relaxed one by one, tension draining.

His head sank deeper into the pillow, and darkness claimed him at last.