Kael crouched on the edge of a weathered rooftop, his eyes scanning the bustling streets below. He let out a slow breath, his heart steady despite the tension that rippled through the night. The city was alive with its usual chaos—hawkers shouted over each other to peddle their wares, drunkards stumbled out of alehouses, and wagons creaked over cobblestones. But tonight, amidst the noise, Kael saw patterns. He saw the gaps, the rhythms, the moments where shadows could slip unnoticed.
At eleven years old, Kael had already carved out a reputation as one of the sharpest lookouts in the Black Fangs, a thieves’ guild that controlled much of the city’s underground. His role wasn’t to take or fight—it was to see. He had a way of marking the movements of people and places, keeping a mental ledger of every opportunity and danger. And tonight, his job was critical.
Below, the target moved through the thoroughfare: a dignitary from some distant southern kingdom. His entourage was as loud and ostentatious as the man himself, with two guards in polished armor flanking him and a harried assistant shuffling behind, burdened with scrolls and ledgers. The dignitary’s swagger screamed of wealth and arrogance, and the Black Fangs had been watching him since he entered the city gates.
Kael adjusted his position, shifting along the edge of the rooftop without a sound. His dirty, calloused hands gripped the stone, his body low and fluid. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a handful of pebbles, lightly tapping one against the roof tile before tossing it to the alley below. A soft clatter, the sound barely audible over the street noise, but enough to draw the attention of the thieves waiting in the shadows. They saw the signal, a subtle cue to prepare for the next stage.
Kael’s gaze flicked to the alley ahead where three seasoned thieves waited, concealed in the shadows. They’d rely on him to call the shots, guiding their approach. The plan was meticulous, every detail rehearsed over the past week. The dignitary carried a hidden chest of jewels and gold, a secret even his guards seemed unaware of. Kael had marked the chest’s location himself, noting the subtle way the assistant adjusted his grip on the satchel when they traveled and how the dignitary cast furtive glances at it during their stops.
Kael slipped off the rooftop and into the throng below. He moved like water, unnoticed despite the crowd. His tattered clothes and small frame made him indistinguishable from the other street rats scurrying between stalls.
The dignitary turned down a narrower street, Shackle Lane. Kael smirked to himself—this had been orchestrated. A suggestion whispered to the right barkeep, who’d passed it on to the guards during their last round of drinks. The lane was ideal: poorly lit, uneven cobblestones, and plenty of blind corners.
Kael darted ahead, weaving through a cluster of merchants unloading wares. He climbed onto a stack of crates near the corner and took a vantage point. From here, he could see the entire stretch of Shackle Lane, noting every door, window, and potential escape route.
He raised his hand, a small motion almost hidden by the folds of his cloak. The thieves down the alley mirrored his gesture, confirming they were ready.
The dignitary paused briefly to adjust his coat, and Kael’s sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement from one of the guards. A shift in posture, the way his hand hovered near his sword hilt. Kael frowned.
He whistled, a high, sharp note that cut through the ambient noise. The thieves stiffened at the sound, adjusting their positions slightly. The tone was clear: patience, not yet.
Kael dropped back to street level, moving parallel to the target but keeping to the shadows. His focus was absolute, his mind cataloging every detail. A vendor’s wheelbarrow sat precariously close to the edge of the cobblestone path. A drunkard leaned against a wall, his bottle half-spilled onto the ground. A stray dog sniffed at a scrap of meat by a doorway. All of it could be useful—or dangerous.
He tugged at a rope tied to the wheelbarrow. The cart wobbled, its barrels shifting just enough to look unstable. A planned distraction for later.
At the end of Shackle Lane, the dice players sprang into action. One threw a handful of dice too far, the clatter echoing loudly as they spilled into the dignitary’s path.
“Watch it, fool!” the dignitary barked, stopping short.
“Apologies, m’lord!” one of the thieves stammered, feigning drunkenness as he stumbled into the dignitary’s guard. The man shoved him back with a curse, distracted for just a moment.
That was all they needed.
A figure slipped from the shadows, silent and swift, cutting the straps of the assistant’s satchel. The chest of jewels and gold vanished into the folds of the thief’s cloak. The assistant, too busy scrambling to collect his fallen scrolls, didn’t notice the theft.
Kael grinned from his perch atop a nearby windowsill. Perfect.
But they weren’t out yet. The dignitary’s entourage began to move again, the guards now more alert after the commotion. Kael leapt from the sill to the street, darting ahead to scout the next stretch of the route.
The vendor’s cart tipped over as Kael gave the rope a sharp tug. Barrels spilled into the street, creating chaos. The dignitary’s group hesitated, caught in the bottleneck, and Kael’s team used the distraction to disappear into the side alleys, the stolen chest safely in their hands.
Kael lingered for a moment, watching from the shadows as the dignitary barked orders at his guards, oblivious to the loss. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before slipping away, his work done.
By the time the dignitary realized he’d been robbed, the Black Fangs would be long gone, and Kael would already be on to the next hunt.
The streets were quieter now, the chaos of the day fading into the restless murmur of the night. Kael moved through the shadows like a whisper, his small frame slipping between narrow alleys and over crumbling walls. Behind him, the other thieves from the Black Fangs followed at a careful distance, their movements heavier but still practiced. None of them spoke; they wouldn’t risk drawing attention, even with the score safely tucked away in a padded satchel slung over the shoulder of the eldest thief, Larris.
The hidden entrance to the guild hall lay ahead, tucked beneath an old, unused warehouse at the edge of the city’s southern quarter. The building above was nondescript, but its foundation concealed the path to the heart of the thieves’ guild: a massive cistern deep within the city’s underground sewers.
Kael reached the hatch first, brushing his hand against the heavy wooden door embedded in the floor. Without hesitation, he slipped his fingers into a recessed groove, triggering the hidden mechanism. The door groaned open, revealing a ladder that descended into the darkness below. One by one, they followed, their descent marked only by the faint scrape of boots against the rungs.
The air in the sewers was damp and stale, tinged with the sour bite of mildew. Kael hardly noticed anymore. He’d spent most of his life in places like this—dirty, forgotten corners of the city that no one cared about. Places where people like him could exist without being noticed.
The cistern stretched before them, a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings and glistening walls. Torches flickered in iron sconces, their light reflecting off the water pooled at the edges of the room. Wooden platforms and scaffolding lined the walls, creating a network of walkways where thieves moved to and fro, each busy with their own schemes.
This was home.
Kael watched as Larris approached the guildmaster’s table, the satchel exchanged with a nod and a few murmured words. Kael didn’t need to hear the conversation to know the heist had been a success. The dignitary would wake to find his precious treasures gone, his guards none the wiser. It was a victory, another feather in the guild’s cap—and another reason why Kael’s name would carry weight among its members.
But to Kael, the praise and the approval didn’t matter. They never had.
His earliest memories were of the streets. Cold nights huddled in alleyways, stealing scraps from market stalls, and running from angry merchants with fists raised and curses flying. He didn’t know who his parents were, or if he even had any. All he knew was survival.
The law of the jungle ruled the streets: might made right. If you couldn’t take care of yourself, someone else would. Sometimes, that meant going hungry. Sometimes, that meant watching someone else starve because you’d taken the last crust of bread. Death was the price of failure, and Kael had no intention of paying it.
When he was little, some of the older street kids had taken pity on him, showing him how to pick pockets and sneak through crowds without being seen. They’d taught him the basics of lock-picking and the subtle art of distraction—skills he’d picked up with alarming speed. By the time he was six, Kael was already working alone, slipping into places others wouldn’t dare and coming back with enough loot to keep himself alive.
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The thieves’ guild was a natural evolution. Street rats like Kael were their lifeblood, and the Black Fangs made a habit of recruiting kids who showed promise. The guild offered food, shelter, and training in exchange for loyalty and service—a trade most orphans were all too eager to make.
Kael had joined without hesitation. It wasn’t the promise of security that drew him in; it was the challenge. The thrill of a job well done. To Kael, every heist was a hunt, and every mark was prey. The adrenaline of slipping past guards, the satisfaction of outsmarting locks and traps—it made him feel alive in a way nothing else could.
He was good at it, too. Better than most. The older thieves started talking about the kid who worked with the precision of someone three times his age. Kael’s name carried weight before he even understood what it meant.
But in Kael’s mind, none of it mattered. The guild wasn’t his family. The other thieves weren’t his friends. They were tools, just as he was a tool to them. What mattered was the next hunt, the next challenge. He lived for the thrill of outsmarting the world around him, of overcoming obstacles that seemed insurmountable.
Still, Kael had learned early to temper his ambition. A good hunter knew when to walk away. Some marks weren’t worth the risk, and some scores were better left for someone else—or for another day. It wasn’t fear; it was survival. The moment you overreached, the jungle swallowed you whole.
Kael leaned against one of the wooden posts near the edge of the cistern, watching as the guildmaster opened the satchel and inspected its contents. Jewels and gold glinted in the torchlight, a glittering testament to the night’s success.
A few of the older thieves glanced Kael’s way, murmuring among themselves. He caught snippets of their words: “sharp eyes,” “natural,” “born for this.”
He didn’t care.
To Kael, the praise was noise, a distraction from the only thing that truly mattered: the hunt. He wasn’t here for loyalty or glory. He was here because it was the only place where he could be himself.
Kael pushed off the post and slipped into the shadows, unnoticed as always. The cistern buzzed with activity, but Kael’s mind was already elsewhere. The heist was over, but there would be another. There always was.
And when it came, Kael would be ready. His downtime simply used to hone and become ever better prepared for taking on a challenge.
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As the evening came and the sun was setting there was shadows on the road.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, its dense canopy breaking the sunlight into scattered patches that danced along the dirt path. The wind was brisk, carrying the sharp scent of pine and damp earth. Thorne rode at the head of his squad, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as the trees gave way to rolling hills in the distance. The road to Althemar was quiet, but experience told him that quiet often meant trouble was lying in wait.
Thorne was tall and broad-shouldered, his weathered face framed by a neatly trimmed beard and streaks of gray that were just beginning to show at his temples. His cloak, lined with the deep green of the Rangers, bore the subtle scars of a lifetime of service: nicks from blades, burns from fire, and the occasional tear from claws. To those who followed him, he was more than a leader—he was a legend
.
It hadn’t always been that way.
Thorne’s father, Aldric, had been a soldier—a stalwart, disciplined man who had seen too many battles to count. When Thorne was young, Aldric trained him with the fervor of a man determined to raise a successor. Mornings were spent drilling with wooden swords, afternoons in heavy armor trudging up hills, and evenings practicing the art of strategy over worn maps.
But while Thorne learned everything his father had to teach, he’d never felt the same passion for the battlefield. He found himself drawn not to the clash of steel but to the quiet solitude of the woods beyond their village.
The forest was his true home. He would rise before dawn to stalk deer through the underbrush, his footsteps silent on the loamy ground. He learned to track wolves, study the flight of birds, and decipher the language of rustling leaves. By the time he was sixteen, there wasn’t a single creature in the woods he couldn’t find—or kill, if he needed to.
Hunting wasn’t just a skill for Thorne; it was his calling. The thrill of the chase, the tension of the stalk, the burst of adrenaline as predator met prey—it all made him feel alive in a way nothing else could.
When the Rangers’ Guildmaster came to his village, seeking new recruits, it was Thorne he chose. The old man had seen him in the woods, moving like a shadow through the trees. “You’re not just hunting,” the Guildmaster had said. “You’re mastering the hunt. Come with me, and you’ll see what a true predator can become.”
At eighteen, Thorne had joined the Rangers. Ten years later, he led their elite squad.
Thorne glanced over his shoulder, his squad moving in a tight formation behind him. There were six of them, all seasoned veterans, each one trusted with the kind of missions most Rangers wouldn’t dare attempt. If there was danger on the road to Althemar, Thorne and his team would find it—and end it.
The Rangers Guild was buzzing with change these days. The Guildmaster, now old and weary, had begun pulling back from the field. The whispers were growing louder: it was time for Thorne to step up, to take on the mantle of leadership.
But with leadership came expectation.
The pressure to choose an apprentice had been relentless. Every Ranger was expected to train someone, to pass on their knowledge and ensure the Guild’s strength endured. Thorne had seen countless young Rangers who were eager, disciplined, and skilled. Many of them were more than capable of becoming the next generation of leaders.
But none of them had been the one.
Thorne wasn’t looking for someone who merely followed the rules or mastered the techniques. He wanted someone with drive, someone who lived for the thrill of the hunt the way he did. Someone who would dive headfirst into danger, not out of recklessness, but because they couldn’t turn down a worthy challenge.
It was instinct, that deep hunger to conquer the unconquerable, that Thorne sought. He knew it because he had lived it his whole life. From the first time he’d stalked a deer to the moment he’d tracked his first fugitive, it was always the thrill that drove him. The need to pit himself against the wild, the unknown, the impossible.
And so, he waited.
“Thorne,” called Tarl, one of the Rangers behind him. “Something ahead.”
Thorne slowed his horse, his hand drifting to the hilt of the curved blade at his side. He scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a figure standing by the edge of the road.
“Hold position,” Thorne said quietly, raising a hand to halt the squad.
The figure was cloaked and hooded, leaning heavily on a staff. They didn’t look like much of a threat, but Thorne had learned long ago never to trust appearances. He dismounted, his boots crunching against the dirt as he approached.
“What’s your business here?” Thorne called out, his voice calm but firm.
The figure turned, their face hidden in the shadows of the hood. “No business,” came the reply, the voice thin and reedy. “Just passing through.”
Thorne frowned but didn’t press further. He watched as the figure shuffled away, disappearing down a side path. Only when they were gone did he relax his grip on his blade.
“False alarm,” Tarl said, smirking.
“Maybe,” Thorne replied, his tone thoughtful. His instincts told him something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t place it. He’d learned to trust those instincts, and they rarely failed him.
As he climbed back into the saddle, he thought about the pressure awaiting him in Althemar. The Guildmaster would undoubtedly bring up the subject of an apprentice again. Thorne could already hear the questions: When will you choose? Who will you choose?
His answer was always the same: not yet.
He didn’t want a follower, a soldier, or a scribe. He wanted someone who could think for themselves, someone with fire and hunger in their soul. Someone who didn’t fear the hunt but lived for it.
And until he found them, Thorne would remain alone.
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The air in the cistern was tense, a charged hum beneath the usual din of murmured conversations and the shuffle of boots on wooden planks. The thieves’ guild was rarely quiet, but tonight it was alive with whispers, speculation rolling through the hall like a storm on the horizon.
Kael leaned against one of the support beams near the edge of the room, pretending not to listen as a group of older thieves huddled nearby. Their voices were low, but the incredulous tone carried enough for him to piece together their words.
“Lord Cedric? The Guildmaster’s lost his damn mind.”
“You’re joking,” another said, his voice dripping with disbelief. “No one’s cracked Cedric’s vaults. Ever. His mansion’s a fortress.”
“Fortress doesn’t cover it,” a third muttered. “Guards straight from the capital. Not your usual city watch. These are real soldiers.”
Kael’s ears perked up. Lord Cedric. The name was enough to send a ripple of unease through even the most seasoned thieves. He wasn’t just the ruling lord of Althemar—he was a symbol of power, wealth, and untouchable authority. Appointed by the King himself to govern one of the seven major regions of the kingdom, Cedric was said to keep his grip on the city with an iron fist. His mansion, nestled on the western ridge overlooking the city, was notorious for its impenetrability.
And now, the Guildmaster had issued a contract on him.
Kael shifted his gaze toward the Guildmaster’s table at the center of the cistern, where a small crowd had begun to gather. The Guildmaster himself sat behind it, his broad shoulders hunched as he scanned a parchment with furrowed brows. A faint flicker of torchlight highlighted his weathered face, etched with years of leadership and hard decisions.
“Word is,” one of the thieves near Kael whispered, “Cedric just got his hands on something big. Big enough for the Guildmaster to put this out. They say it’s worth a king’s ransom.”
“What is it?” someone asked.
“Nobody knows. Not yet. Only those who take the job find out.”
Kael’s pulse quickened. He’d been born on these streets, raised on the scraps of the city, but Lord Cedric’s wealth was the stuff of legend. A kings’ ransom? That was more than enough to feed the guild for years, to secure its place in the underworld as untouchable.
But it wasn’t the wealth that caught Kael’s attention. It was the challenge.
The murmurs grew louder as more thieves drifted toward the table, the room shifting into uneasy motion. Most of them weren’t there to volunteer. They were there to gawk, to hear the details, and to shake their heads at what they assumed was a suicide mission.
“Cedric’s mansion has its own guard,” someone muttered behind Kael. “Not just city watch—these are palace-trained. Rejects or not, they’re leagues above what we’re used to dealing with.”
“And traps,” another added. “I’ve heard stories. Cedric’s vault is said to be warded with devices so cruel even the most skilled locksmiths won’t go near it.”
Kael ignored the naysayers, his focus narrowing. The Guildmaster’s voice, low and gravelly, carried over the rising noise as he addressed those gathered around him.
“This contract is something special and will require a extraordinary team. Like every contract, it’s a choice to take it on. That being said, there’s one thing you all need to know…”
“This contract isn’t for everyone,” the Guildmaster said, his tone sharp enough to cut through the doubt. “You take this on, you accept not just the ris to yourself but the guild. Failure isn’t an option. We don’t cross Cedric unless we know we’ll succeed. I will oversee who actually goes. If there is no one stepping forward or not enough hands then I’ll start handpicking. Understand?”
A few of the older thieves exchanged uneasy glances before shuffling away, muttering to themselves. Kael didn’t move.
The Guildmaster’s eyes swept the room, his gaze heavy and discerning. He wasn’t the type to beg for volunteers, and Kael knew that for a job like this, the team would be handpicked. Elite only.
Kael straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He knew he wasn’t elite—not yet. But he wanted this.
No, needed this.
The thrill of the heist—the challenge of it—was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He could already picture the mansion, its labyrinth of guards and traps, the feeling of slipping through undetected, of outsmarting the best. The idea of facing something so dangerous, so impossible, made his heart race.
A voice nearby broke his thoughts. “This is madness. Only a fool would take it.”
Kael turned slightly, his expression neutral. “Or someone with the skill to pull it off.”
The older thief scoffed. “You think that’s you, kid?”
Kael didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the Guildmaster, silently willing the man to look his way.
The Guildmaster hadn’t made his selection yet, but Kael knew how these things worked. He had a reputation—not as one of the best, not yet, but as someone with potential. Someone who could rise to the challenge if given the chance.
He just had to make sure the Guildmaster saw it, too.
Kael lingered near the edge of the crowd, his mind already racing ahead. If he wasn’t picked outright, maybe he could find a way onto the team. It wasn’t arrogance—it was hunger. A restless drive that had been with him since he could remember.
The Guildmaster rolled up the parchment, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scanned the remaining faces. “You have until tomorrow to come forward,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “After that, I make the call. If you’re not ready, don’t bother wasting my time.”
The tension in the room thickened as the crowd began to disperse, murmurs of doubt and disbelief trailing behind them. Kael didn’t move.
He wouldn’t say it out loud—wouldn’t dare, not yet—but he already knew he’d be on that team. One way or another.
The thought sent a thrill through him, and for the first time in weeks, Kael allowed himself a small, fleeting smile.
The hunt was on.