Surrounded only by the thick twisting of unfamiliar oak trees, the shape of a man stood before me.

His voice came from all directions at once, calm and piercing, "I require something of you. But first…"

His form flickered with the changing sway of a million twining branches. Sharp points jutted out from his silhouette, only to disappear when looked at closely. The edges of his coat thrashed in the wind, and his long legs faded into the darkness. It lent him a thin impression and a suffocating presence.

"Do you know where you are, young Ferrowill?" the voice echoed.

I didn't. It felt as if I'd drunk something sour from an inept apothecary. I felt weak and powerless, without any of the pain. Well, mostly. The echoing noise sent deep radiating aches along my skull. I shook my head and the shape in front of me blurred into a dark splotch, much like my memory.

"Ah, you don't remember," the serene voice dragged against my ears like rusted iron.

My left hand rushed to my forehead. The other dug into the dry ground to steady my wobble. I could feel the grit in my hair, dusted in a sparse layer of what I could only imagine to be dirt. What is this place?

My hand ran against the ground, dragging along twigs, dead leaves, and thin cracks that snaked through the entire clearing—a sharp pain caught against my palm: a stone. I winced and drew my hand away; a bright red line trailed from the base of my thumb to the other side. But more than that, my palm was pitch black.

I rubbed it mindlessly against my cloak and glanced a second time at the cracked earth. Only then did I notice that the darkness hadn't come from a lack of light. A dim purple glow illuminated the spiraling trees but none of it could reach the ground. A thin layer of black ash consumed it all. I guess that would include me.

"You're not entirely mistaken." The dark figure took form once again, fading in from a blur, this time much closer. "Though, I can't have you confused. That absolutely will not do. You'll have to provide me a small favor before the big one. Think back to what brought you here. You needn't rush, I only ask you give an attempt to remember." Then, he lifted his arm in a flourish. "That means now, Keeper!"

And a cold, hard mass came down on the side of my head.

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In the two weeks I'd spent sneaking around the bustling town of Trufflemill, I'd learnt one lesson more than any other: nobles from the province of Scint slept in late. I supposed it shouldn't come as a surprise, but without pressing matters to attend, the young noble defaulted to a sedentary lifestyle of glutenous feasting and slothful lounging. And as despicable as that might seem, it worked to my benefit.

A sluggish morning devoid of business would lead to only one kind of night. A late one, filled with copious amounts of ale, infectious stage music, and lonely barmaids sick of their dusty old husbands' gambling addictions. A verifiable honeypot for the newly rich who travelled alongside our main attraction: Baron Goldwater's son, the monotheistic bastard, Geoffrey Goldwater.

I lay hidden in the dense brush behind The Phoenix, the most lavish inn on this side of the country. My legs rested against a thin pine's stump, and my head was propped up with a bundle of moss I'd scrounged from the surrounding forest.

The moon overhead kept me company while I whittled my hundredth branch into a sharp point. Before I could flick it into the soft bark of the tree to my left, as I'd done with the other ninety-nine, the slurred chatter of five rich drunkards bumbled into The Phoenix. That's my cue.

I hopped onto my feet, springing from the ground with one arm, and sheathed my knife in the Scintish leather strap that hugged my thigh. I pulled my hooded cloak overhead and crept up to The Phoenix. I hated to ruin the intricately carved wooden accents that covered its backend but I also knew the owners could easily afford the cost of a fine craftsman. And last I checked, those gentlemen were short on work.

I reached behind and snatched a pair of Coldsteel Claws from my belt hook, slipping each one snuggly around my gloved palms. I tapped the tips of the hooked spikes together and let out a chuckle for no one but myself. The intoxicated fumbling from inside had come to a gradual calm, and so I drove my hand against the wall of the building, sinking the hooks into the wood.

The climb was painfully rudimentary, and I was soon clambering up onto the baby Baron's balcony. I planted my feet firmly, and while I reached for one of the pouches strapped across my chest, my shoulder casually rested against the closed window. I had thought it was locked. It wasn't.

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Leaning on the glass pushed it wide open, inwards. Instead of a loud bang against the ground, I urgently tucked my head into my stomach and tumbled into an awkward roll to break my fall. What kind of godless window opens inwards?

The thud from my shoulder slamming into the floor had caused my entire body to tense, and as soon as I came to my feet, my eyes darted to the excessive mattress beside me: a dreaming Geoffrey Goldwater.

A delayed cold sweat broke out on my brow, and I mouthed a quiet thank you to whoever cared to listen. I briefly scanned the room for anything of value, an old habit but not the reason I'd come here. Despite that, something from the corner of the room caught my attention.

Atop a pile of dirty and discarded robes sat a patterned box. Blue as deep as the ocean and purple as warm as the setting sun covered its entire surface in hypnotic, undulating waves. So rich in color, it pierced through the darkness, almost glowing. That couldn't be…

I tried shaking the idea from my head, but the possibility of accidentally stumbling across that treasure continued to distract me. Even if it wasn't the treasure—and it certainly could be—the box itself must've been worth a fortune. Unfortunately, I still had a noble's throat to slit… I mean, a quick peek can't hurt.

My tightly wrapped soles weaved along the polished planks of floor, and the box came into the center of my vision. On closer inspection, it looked more like a chest with a flat top. A clasp on the front sat snuggly inset into the box, and a padlock dangled from a thin loop of what looked to be gold. I tried simply warming it with my hands and snapping the clasp clean off, but without any luck, I guessed it to be gold plated Coldsteel or something equally reliable.

Upon reaching for the lock picking set in the pouch across my chest, I noticed it had been left open and empty. The set must have fallen out when I'd fallen in. Great.

My feet slid back to the spot in front of the window, and I felt a chill shiver through my core. The cold nighttime air had poured straight into the room. I had to be quick before this sleeping one-god rodent woke up from a less-than-ideal room temperature. Do I risk the bastard screaming when I stab him or take the treasure first? At least I'm certain that the latter will be quiet.

I dropped to my knees and ran my hand along the ground, searching for my lost tools. The dim moonlight bled in through the open window and barely lit the grain of the wood, let alone my—and I nudged something pointy and metallic, sliding it across the floor and under the sleeping boy's bed.

Before I had the chance to make a fool of myself shuffling underneath in search of tiny scattered pieces of equipment, the shrill shriek of a man who'd seen a demon sounded out over top of me. "THIEF! THERE'S A THIEF!"

I'll have you know I'm an assassin this time. My body kicked into a gallop, and the dagger on my thigh slid out from its housing as smoothly as the lock on that accursed box would've clicked open. The boy scuttled back in a flurry of sheets, blankets, and tossed garments. I took one step onto the edge of the bed's frame, a second onto the mattress, and through the floating fabric, I drove my blade down on the squealing pig's throat.

The door to Goldwater's room slammed open, and the briefly enjoyed silence disappeared like a thread in the wind. Terrified screeching filled the room. I tugged at the blade. It was stuck. I tugged again. Nothing. Warm blood continued to soak onto the now-settled white sheets, covering the dead noble's body in a uniform patch of red. But my knife still wouldn't release, so I leaned my entire weight against it and gracefully tumbled onto the floor. In that same moment, one of the boys sailed past me, his face now covered in his friend's blood. Brave one, aren't you?

The knife shot out in front of me to dissuade any further heroics. I eyed the box in the corner of the room, and before I could run the numbers on how many would end up dead if I grabbed it, my feet darted for the thing on their own. I tucked the—surprisingly light—chest under one arm, and before I could slip away, a burly man burst through the bedroom door. I'd expected him to show up far earlier. The innkeeper.

Devoid of fear or hesitation, he charged into my knife. It slid deep into his arm. He didn't so much as flinch, grappling my throat with the blade stuck comfortably inside his flesh. I choked back a half-breath of air and kept my grip firm on the hilt. With my eyes three heartbeats from exploding, I stabbed his arm again. His solid grasp tightened.

I dug the slice of metal into him a second time. Three times, four times, five, six, seven—and his grip finally loosened. My legs lifted up to his chest, and shoved against him hard, freeing my neck.

Through staggered gasping, I scampered back into a corner. Wheezing breaths gave just enough air to find my exit. All that stood between me and the open window was a bed and one brave snob. More importantly, the innkeeper stomped closer. The crash of his boot sent me into a panic.

In my mind, one word repeated a dozen times in the span of a heartbeat: Escape. Spurred forth by pure desperation, I gripped the edge of my cloak and tossed it into the air. The flurry of fabric would, hopefully, hold everyone's attention just long enough. I'd learned the trick when I was thirteen, before I'd met my mentor. It had only ever worked once.

With my distraction in place, I rolled onto my back, shoved the box below the bed, and pushed with my feet against the wall. My body slid underneath, and my fingers desperately pulled against the bottom structure of the bedframe until I emerged from the other side. I snatched the patterned chest, and with my gaze stuck on the exit, the cold clasp of a desperate hand sealed my fate.

Mid-leap towards the windowsill, Goldwater's lackey, face covered in blood, gripped my ankle. His twig of an arm couldn't stop my momentum but it did send me completely off balance. When my foot missed the edge of the window, I tumbled from the third floor. Desperately, I shoved the box in front of me to break my fall.

Crack. And everything went dark.

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The same grating voice with the quality of rusted iron brought my pounding head back to the present. "But there were two others you met between then and now, weren't there? Tell me, Ferrowill. What else can you remember?"