Praexa. The word sends a little thrill through me. The golden-winged elite, the ones who practically glow with divine favor. If there's a gathering of archangels in the building, there will be serious money changing hands tonight. The kind of wealth that makes my usual pickpocket targets look like street beggars.
"Sounds impressive," I say, but the server is already moving on, her attention pulled by someone else calling for drinks.
I melt back into the crowd, cradling my stolen prizes. The glasses are warm to the touch, their contents swirling with an inner light that suggests magic rather than simple alcohol. I take a cautious sip of the first one, and liquid fire blooms across my tongue. Not Amerinth—something smoother, sweeter, but with an edge that makes my pulse quicken.
Perfect for what I need tonight.
The second glass I keep for show, something to occupy my hands while I work the room. I need to look like I belong here, like just another patron enjoying Vestige's particular brand ofexcess. The drink serves as both prop and liquid courage for what comes next.
I find a position near one of the raised platforms, where I can watch the crowd while appearing to watch the performance. A xaphan dancer moves on the platform above, her wings spread wide as she wraps herself around a golden pole that pulses with its own inner heat. Her movements are hypnotic, drawing eyes and loosening purse strings in equal measure.
The crowd presses closer, and I let myself be carried with them, using the momentum to brush against potential marks. A male with copper-streaked wings has his attention fully absorbed by the dancer—perfect distraction. I drift past him, my fingers light as whispers against the coins hanging from his belt.
Three silver pieces, warm with xaphan magic. Not a fortune, but a start.
Next, a group of merchants arguing over territory rights. They're gesturing wildly, their focus entirely on their debate. The female on the left has a small purse tucked behind her wing joint—visible but forgotten in the heat of negotiation. I stumble slightly, catching myself against her shoulder with an apologetic murmur while my other hand relieves her of the burden.
"So sorry," I breathe, steadying myself with practiced embarrassment.
She waves me off without really looking, already turning back to her argument about shipping routes and tariff disputes.
The purse weighs heavy in my palm—more than silver this time. I can feel the distinct shape of nodals through the fabric, real money that could keep me fed for weeks if I'm careful with it.
This is what I live for. Not the violence, not the desperation of my early years on the streets, but this—the elegant dance of deception, the way I can move through crowds like smoke, taking what I need without leaving ripples behind. There's art init, skill that goes beyond mere survival. I'm good at this. Maybe the only thing I've ever been truly good at.
The music swells, and bodies press closer to the stage. I let the crowd carry me toward the bar, where well-dressed xaphan cluster three deep, shouting orders over the noise. Perfect hunting ground—lots of money, lots of distraction, lots of alcohol to dull their reflexes.
I squeeze between two males arguing over the merits of different Amerinth vintages, using the press of bodies to mask my work. The one on my left has a money clip tucked into his inside jacket pocket—visible when he gestures, accessible when he turns to signal the bartender. His companion is wearing enough jewelry to buy a small house, rings and chains that catch the light with every movement.
Too much, I decide. Jewelry is harder to fence than coin, and valuable enough that its absence would be noticed quickly. Better to stick with what I know, what I can turn into food and shelter without drawing attention.
The first male's money clip slides free as easily as breathing, my fingers finding the gap in his jacket and relieving him of the burden in one smooth motion. He's too focused on explaining why the 847 vintage is superior to notice the brief contact, his gestures growing more animated as he tries to make his point over the music.
I drift away before either of them can register my presence, the money clip already tucked safely against my ribs. Another successful extraction, another step toward the kind of payday that will let me disappear for weeks.
The energy of the place is infectious, and I find myself actually smiling as I move through the crowd. Not the practiced expressions I use for marks, but genuine pleasure at being here, at being good at what I do. The music pounds through my bones,the magical atmosphere makes my skin tingle, and my pockets grow heavier with each successful theft.
This is going to be a very good night indeed.
2
MIHALIS
The numbers blur together on the ledger before me, but my mind processes each line with mechanical precision. Seventeen cases of Amerinth at forty nodals each. Twenty-three bottles of enchanted wine from the Crimson Vineyards. Forty nodals for the new dancers who arrived this morning, their contracts signed in blood and binding magic.
I lean back in the obsidian chair behind my desk, letting the familiar weight of business settle around me like armor. This is what I understand—transactions, negotiations, the clean mathematics of profit and loss. Numbers don't lie, don't manipulate, don't leave you bleeding in the dark when they decide you're no longer useful.
"The pain parlors are booked solid through next week," Grix reports, his gray wings folded tight against his back as he stands before my desk. My head of security knows better than to sit uninvited, knows that familiarity breeds the kind of comfort that gets people killed in my line of work. "We'll need to expand to the third level if demand keeps up."
I make a note in the margin of the ledger. "What about the private suites?"
"Full. Had to turn away two merchant families and a minor lord from the eastern districts." He shifts slightly, his massive frame casting shadows across the enchanted flames that light my office. "They weren't happy about it."
"Their happiness isn't my concern." I close the ledger with a snap that echoes through the room. "Their money is. If they want guaranteed access, they can purchase annual memberships like everyone else."
Through the tall windows that line my office, Vestige spreads below us like a living organism. The main floor pulses with bodies and music, heat rising from the sunken dance pit in waves that make the air shimmer. From this height, the patrons look like insects drawn to flame—predictable, exploitable, ultimately disposable.
I built this place from nothing, carved it out of New Solas's underbelly before I ever had a daughter. A reason to come home. Every stone laid with purpose, every enchantment woven with precision. Vestige serves the city's need for darkness while providing me with the resources to give my daughter everything she could ever want. Clean money from dirty business, filtered through enough legitimate enterprises to withstand scrutiny.
