Laying low gnawed at Myrt’s nerves, setting her teeth on edge with the restless need to move, to act, to feel the weight of stolen coin in her palm. Days spent idle left her twitchy, her fingers drumming against the worn wood of the tavern table, her thoughts circling like a caged beast. Their purses were thinning, and the silence of inaction pressed down on her like a slow suffocation. Varin, infuriatingly, didn’t seem to mind. He stretched out his long limbs, drank lazily, and watched her agitation with the smug patience of a man content to wait out a storm. But even he couldn’t deny the truth—Olgard’s streets weren’t kind to thieves who let their skills rust.

So, he found them a job.

One of his drinking companions, loose-lipped after too much ale, had let slip a promising tidbit: Master Alberto, a tailor of considerable renown, was departing on a sudden trade venture. An unexpected commission had emptied his stock of cloth, leaving his coffers brimming with coin.

The shop, a stately two-story structure of white brick, stood proud among the more modest buildings of the Lower City. Wide windows displayed embroidered gowns and velvet doublets, their richness a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. The layout was simple—storefront in the front, workshop in the back. A narrow wooden balcony jutted from the second floor, likely leading to the tailor’s office. What complicated matters was its placement. The building backed against the ancient city wall, leaving no room for carts to unload goods at the rear. Both entrances, one for customers, the other for servants and deliveries, were at the front, well-guarded.

They observed in daylight, feigning casual interest as they lingered across the street. But entry was impossible without risking recognition. There was no time to study guard rotations, and a single misstep could tie their faces to the crime. Instead, they waited for nightfall.

Under darkness, they returned. The guards clustered in the store, their presence a steady murmur through shuttered windows, but the workshop was dark, silent. A promising weakness, yet no easy way in—except from above.

Myrt hated heights with the passion of one who'd seen too many colleagues fall.

Balanced precariously atop a slanted tile roof, she moved with the slow, deliberate caution of someone well aware that one misstep could send her crashing to the cobblestones below. The clay tiles beneath her boots felt brittle, too prone to shifting, and she sent a silent prayer to whatever fickle gods watched over thieves. The crumbling stone wall beside her, a remnant of Olgard’s distant past, offered some support, but little comfort.

Varin followed a step behind, his bulk moving with surprising grace. His truncheon was strapped to his belt, but tonight, a dagger rested in a new leather sheath at his hip. These were violent times, and even men like Varin — who preferred his trusty old truncheon — knew the value of steel.

The angled roof and the battlements above shrouded them in shadow, concealing them from any watchful eyes below. They crept along the spine of the roof, slipping between the darkness, their breath barely a whisper in the cool night air. At the end of the adjoining house, they paused, measuring the drop to the tailor’s balcony. Myrt felt her pulse quicken. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, nor the highest drop she’d faced, but it never got easier.

With a silent nod, they moved.

Myrt landed first, rolling to soften the impact, her body pressing flat against the wooden planks. The balcony creaked beneath her weight, but only slightly. Varin followed, his landing heavier, but controlled. They lay still, listening. The rhythmic chatter of guards drifted faintly from below, their voices casual, unaware.

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They were safe, for now. Myrt moved to the lock, lockpick already in hand. The lock surrendered to burglar’s picks with embarrassing ease. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wool and dye, the lingering traces of beeswax polish clinging to the wooden floorboards. Moonlight painted the room in silver and shadow, revealing shelves laden with silks and velvets. Frescoes depicting the tailor's craft crowned the walls, while a sheet-covered pile occupied one corner. An oak table dominated the space, its surface scattered with papers and crowned by an iron-bound chest.

They separated, each taking their task. Myrt knelt before the chest, working her tools again. This lock was more stubborn than the first, resisting her efforts with every turn. She guessed that operational funds were stored here—workers’ wages, material purchases, bribes for guards—but usually, shop owners kept a rainy-day stash hidden somewhere nearby. That’s where Varin came in.

He moved methodically, checking the obvious places: behind frescoes, lower shelves stacked with fabric, ill-fitted wall planks. “How’s it going?” Myrt whispered, her gaze fixed on the lock.

"Found something interesting," Varin whispered, lifting the sheet in the corner. "Explains the where the money came from."

Myrt glanced over. She expected another chest or stash but instead saw stacks of neatly folded uniforms stacked beneath—all black, each bearing a silver flower.

"Less admiring, more searching," Myrt hissed back. “Where the money is matters more, don’t you think?”

Varin ignored her, stuffing two uniforms into his satchel after a moment of thinking. “Yeah, yeah” he muttered, turning his attention to the floorboards. Traders often hid wealth beneath them, and Varin’s keen eye rarely missed such details.

Finally, the chest clicked open. To her dismay, it contained only a handful of copper coins. Alberto, it seemed, was either farsighted or greedy—perhaps both—leaving them without a payday.

Clank, clank.

The sudden sound of metal boots ascending the stairs froze them in place. Without a word, they scrambled behind the oak table, the only cover in the room. Daring not to breathe, Myrt peered around the edge. Light flickered through the keyhole of the corridor door. A guard tested the handle, then, apparently satisfied with the lock’s security, clanked away.

The light dimmed. Myrt exhaled silently.

But then she heard a weak creak. Turning sharply, blackjack in hand, she found Varin pulling up a loose plank beneath the table. Beneath it lay a cache containing three purses, all heavy with coin, and a few papers, words unreadable without a proper light source.

“Found it,” he whispered, grinning.

He stuffed the purses into his satchel, tucking them beneath the stolen uniforms. After a quick hesitation, he took the papers too—maybe they would find an interested buyer. Myrt rolled her eyes but said nothing. For now, they had what they came for.

They moved back to the balcony, covering their tracks, maintaining an illusion of security for as long as possible. For the moment, Varin froze, looking onto a column of smoke, rising from the Lower City slums. But he had no time to guess what was happening. Now was the time to get away.

Varin slid from the balcony onto a cart in the backyard, careful not to alert the guards. Myrt followed, her legs still aching from the fall she took in the University. They landed in the backyard, where sacks were piled near a shed, and a heap of coal lay nearby. This was undoubtedly within a guard’s patrol route. They had to move quickly.

The backyard gate was barred with a heavy wooden plank. So much for leaving without a trace. They lifted the plank carefully, laying it on the trampled ground. The hinges betrayed them with a subtle creak, and Varin immediately turned back, alert and looking for signs of trouble, but fortune favored them – the guards' voices remained steady, unalarmed. They slipped through like shadows escaping dawn, closing the gate behind them with gentle precision, hoping to fool guards at least until sunrise.

The backstreets welcomed them like old friends, their darkness a comforting shroud against discovery. Yet something felt wrong—the usual patrols were absent, the streets unnaturally empty save for the distant glow of fires painting the sky in orange hues. The Bull and Baron, when they reached it, echoed this strange emptiness, its usual crowds reduced to a handful of souls drowning their fears in cheap alcohol.

“Xandro, ale!” she called, sliding onto a bench. Varin joined her, setting the satchel down with a satisfying thud. For the first time in days, Myrt allowed herself a small smile. Whatever storms gathered beyond these walls, tonight, they were victorious.