During the harsh embraces of the winter months, Viktor and Arelos continued to persist through the unforgiving season. The days grew exceedingly cold, and the warmth of the Outrider’s Den became a sanctuary of sorts, a warm beacon amid the icy grip of the city.
At the tavern, they found themselves more welcome than ever, a haven in the midst of the relentless cold. Bryna’s fondness for the boys had only grown, her teasing exchanges with Arelos now carrying an air of familiarity that spoke of trust and acceptance. Viktor, with his charm and easy conversation, had a knack for lightening the mood, earning her warm affection. Even Soros, the gruff chef, had warmed to Arelos’s sharp wit and no-nonsense work ethic. The tavern had become more than a shelter from the cold—it was beginning to feel like a fragile semblance of home.
Between the tavern's wooden beams and the kitchen's inviting aromas, the boys found reprieve from the icy streets and irregular meals. Work wasn’t always guaranteed, but they quickly became part of the rhythm of the place, as much a fixture as the well-worn tables and warm hearth.
Despite Bryna's occasional generosity, keeping them fed even when work was scarce, she made it clear the tavern wasn’t a charity. “I’ve got plenty of mouths to feed before even thinking of charity cases,” she would say, though her smile hinted at kindness too burdened by practicality.
There were days when luck deserted them, and no work could be found, not even at the Outrider’s Den, when the city's icy fingers squeezed them harder. Those days left them wandering the city streets or huddling alongside its bustling workshops, absorbing the warmth radiating from forge fires or bakery ovens. On such days, they were forced to dip into their meager savings just to fill their bellies—an unfortunate necessity that halted any dreams of building their reserves.
One particular day dawned with the breath of bone-chilling winds. Viktor, his breath visible in front of his face, found himself standing near a forge by the market. The forge's heat wafted outward, offering a comforting shield against the chill as he bestowed hopeful glances at passing vendors, any of whom might have work—or at least some kindness—to share.
Arelos, ever pragmatic, had carved out a small spot near the forge, tucking himself away from the wind while his gaze narrowed through memories of familiar streets, always searching for overlooked opportunities.
It was then that Viktor saw them. Two kids, about their age, yet markedly different in demeanor. One was slightly taller, agile, with a cocky ease. The other was smaller, bearing an air of sharp focus as if his senses were tuned to the smallest shifts in the crowd. Viktor’s curiosity piqued as he watched them, intrigued by their synchronized movements and unspoken communication.
The taller boy, with an insouciant swagger, feigned interest in the stalls, glancing back occasionally to the smaller one who’s eyes scanned intently, moving like a hawk watching over a nest.
Intrigued, Viktor watched the two, keen eyes catching the nuances of their silent language. They were a duo—a spotter and a pickpocket. They hovered near the market's edge, movements unhurried but deliberate.
It happened swiftly, as Viktor might have predicted. The smaller boy nodded slightly, signaling their mark. An unsuspecting man, bundled against the weather, laden with goods yet blissfully unaware of the storm about to descend on his pocket.
The larger boy slipped through the crowd with practiced ease, a dance of deception headed toward their prey. His hand darted forth with precision—quick, silent, like a shadow cast deeper by the waning winter sun—and then, into his grasp, slipped a coin purse that had moments ago swayed unnoticed from the man’s belt.
Viktor watched, breath suspended, a spark of indignation mingling with fascination at the sheer audacity of their act. The man's obliviousness was a testament to the inconspicuous artistry of the pickpocket's craft, and for a moment, Viktor was torn—between moral outrage and the calculated admiration of their skill.
As the duo slipped away, their prizes secured and postures nonchalant, Viktor looked to Arelos, who had glanced up, catching Viktor’s wide-eyed gaze.
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"Did you see that?" Viktor asked, pointing toward the retreating figures of the two pickpockets. His voice carried a tone of incredulity, caught between outrage and fascination.
"Yeah," Arelos replied nonchalantly, not even bothering to lift his head from where he was huddled against the forge's warmth. The words held no particular surprise or concern for the incident they had just witnessed. "What about it?"
Viktor turned his head to fully face Arelos, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and admiration. "The audacity," he sputtered. "Are they not afraid of getting caught? That was… that was damn fast."
Arelos finally glanced up, the faintest flicker of curiosity gracing his features, though it was clear he'd rather remain in quiet contemplation than entertain the conversation. Seeing Viktor's insistence, Arelos sighed, knowing the conversation was not about to end just yet. "Skilled, I suppose," he said, brushing off the occurrence with a shrug.
"But—" Viktor pressed on, cutting a definitive gesture toward the dwindling figures, their shadows slipping seamlessly into Lycona’s hustle. "The way they worked together, like a well-organized team! I don't know if I should be appalled or impressed, maybe both?"
Arelos regarded Viktor with a hint of irritation, the conversation pulling him away from his thoughts. Yet the glint of inquiry in Viktor's eyes urged Arelos to humor him despite the interruption.
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"They're branded," Arelos said at last, and there was a crisp authority in his voice, though layered with indifference. "I've seen those kids before."
"Branded? What do you mean?" Viktor frowned, his interest piqued anew by the unfamiliar term.
Arelos pushed himself up slightly, drawing him from the comforting edges of warmth. "Yeah, branded. It means they're part of a group," he clarified. "Not too long ago, they were just scrappy kids looking for their next meal. Then suddenly, they vanished, seen less often and always in better condition when they did appear. It usually points to one of two things: they either stumbled onto a rare opportunity or joined a thieving guild. Given their new tricks, it's safe to say the latter."
Viktor let the words sink in, his mind a whirl of thought and judgment, the ethics and survival tactics of such a life stirring uncomfortable realizations within him. "Thieving guilds," he repeated, the phrase tasting foreign on his tongue, a new numeric for his vocabulary.
Arelos was quiet for a moment, clearly expecting the conversation to wind down. But Viktor, fueled by the strange mix of moral intrigue and personal concern, prodded forward.
"What's a thieving guild?" Viktor inquired, paying no heed to Arelos's evident disinterest. There was a certain desperation underlining his question—a need to understand how the world functioned within its shadow territories, places unfamiliar yet critical in the reality he now navigated.
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Arelos sighed, a sound of exasperation growing heavier with each passing moment, fully aware of Viktor’s inquisitive nature yet reluctant to delve into the murky narratives that often clouded the lives of those in Lycona’s alleys. Still, knowing that educating Viktor was preferable to his friend remaining ignorant in these matters, Arelos steeled himself to share what he knew.
“Alright, listen,” Arelos began, his voice adopting an instructive tone, even as a hint of reluctance threaded through his words. “A thieving guild isn’t much different from a family, just one bound by survival, not blood. They take in those who have no choice, offering food and shelter in exchange for work—often picking pockets or other unsavory tasks.”
Viktor listened intently, absorbing each word as if Arelos were imparting some clandestine knowledge. “So they just train them to steal?” Viktor inquired, the concept both unsettling and strangely logical in the abstract world of necessity.
“More or less,” Arelos confirmed with a nod, his gaze turning toward the cityscape where those two figures had vanished. “When you join a guild, you learn the tricks of the trade—how to slip unnoticed through a crowd, how to distract marks, and how to escape if things go south.”
Viktor frowned, a flicker of concern shadowing his features. “How many of these guilds are there?” he asked, curiosity mingled with apprehension at what lay hidden within the city’s depths.
Arelos shrugged, the movement casual but his expression taut with the limits of his understanding. “Hard to say. I know of two, but there could be more,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “They keep under the radar, existing in whispers more than facts. It's a world kept purposefully vague, easy to overlook until you find yourself in it.”
His words were weighted, an unspoken caution layered within his explanation. Viktor’s frown deepened as he processed this new dimension to life in Lycona—the web beneath the surface where shadows walked freely, guided by necessity rather than principle.
“But they’re bad news,” Arelos pointed toward the marketplace’s edge, gesturing where the act had occurred, now claimed by hustling bodies, seamlessly blending into the tapestry without trace. “You think the guild suffers if they’re caught? They just replace them. The streets are always teeming with those willing to take a chance when faced with an empty stomach.”
His words sparked a momentary silence, both boys reflecting on the reality of the choices laid before them, a dizzying horizon marked by ethical dilemmas set against the stark demands of survival.
The conversation hung heavy in the air, and Viktor, ever curious, couldn't resist probing further. Despite Arelos' initial reluctance, Viktor leaned into his curiosity, eager to understand more about the world that seemed to operate in the shadows, a stark contrast to his previous life.
After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Viktor spoke again, his voice laced with uncertainty and a hint of nervous anticipation. "Arelos," he said tentatively, "how do they actually pull it off? I mean, I get the part where they work in pairs, but is it always two people? Do they ever work alone, or in bigger groups?"
Arelos, noticing the earnest curiosity in Viktor's eyes, chuckled softly. "It's funny," he began, amusement lacing his tone, "your questions are a bit at odds with the Viktor I've come to know. You seem so... intrigued by the underbelly of things." He shot Viktor a sidelong glance, noting the flush of sheepishness in response.
Viktor chuckled, a touch embarrassed by his heightened interest in the illicit activities he’d spied. "Yeah, I don’t know if it’s more fascination or horror," he confessed. "But it’s just… there was something so seamless about their movements. Almost like a sort of grim artistry." The admission left a light blush across his cheeks, colored by both intrigue and the acknowledgment of Arelos’ yet again astute observations.
Arelos shrugged, casting a sidelong glance toward the bustling marketplace. "Alright, since you're so keen," he agreed, deciding to humor Viktor’s unusual interest. He shifted into an explanation, speaking with the straightforward cadence that matched his methodical nature. "Pairs are common, yes. One creates distractions, while the spotter or taker does the lifting," he elaborated, grounding the concept in the practical elements of thievery. "The mark stays focused on the distraction, not realizing they've been lightened until it’s too late. Two-man teams are generally the most efficient—but not too high-profile."
Viktor nodded, absorbing the strategy, noting how the tactics played upon psychology as much as dexterity. The more he learned, the more he understood Lycona's clandestine layers—the webs and networks that operated seamlessly beneath the surface of mundane, everyday life.
"So, no solo acts?" Viktor queried further, pondering the possibility of solitary work in the underworld. His mind conjured images of lone tricksters, skilled in the art of pickpocketing yet adept at melting into shadows unassisted.
Arelos chuckled at this notion, clearly entertained by the inquiry. "Oh, there's solo work," he confirmed, "but it’s riskier—all eyes on you and no backup. Solo pickpockets must be exceptionally skilled, or desperate—usually both. If they get caught…” Arelos trailed off, letting the implication rest heavily in the air between them.
Intrigued, Viktor pressed on, his fascination slightly laced with the anxiety of such high-stakes operations. "And… larger groups? Multiple people working together?"
Arelos nodded, his voice gathering a more serious tone as he elaborated. "Larger groups are rare but happen," he explained. "They’re usually organized operations handled with military-like precision. Each member has a role—distractors, takers, lookouts like hawks skirting the market's edge—all coordinated to orchestrate something bigger, like taking down a well-guarded stall or a more substantial mark. Such heists are the realm of seasoned thieves—real pros trained by a master thief.”
Viktor found himself captivated by this revelation, his mind whirling around the calculated daring of it all. In his imagination, such operations were exercises in both cooperation and chaos, actors moving in tandem, driven by a shared goal against common foes.