I.
BRYNN
Brynn pressed her ear against cold metal, blocking out her own breathing and the creak of the manor settling into the night. She listened for the pins shifting inside, each click telling her what to do next.
Fifth pin catching. Seventh needed pressure from below. The third had been filed down. Sloppy work from whoever had serviced it last.
Listen to the lock, Brynn. Every lock has a voice. Learn to hear it, and no door in the kingdom can keep you out.
Two years since they'd strung Gareth up in the square, and his voice still lived in her head. Kept her fed. Kept her one step ahead of the noose.
Barely.
She adjusted her grip on the tension wrench and slid her rake deeper into the lock. Her picks were works of art, each one shaped and filed to specifications that had taken months to perfect. In the darkness of this cellar, they were extensions of her fingertips.
Sixth pin. Stubborn little bastard.
The kingdom's laws were clear about thieves: the first offense cost you a hand, the second cost you your head. Those who survived thefirst punishment had two choices: starve in the streets or take the king's coin to die on some foreign battlefield.
She'd seen too many of Gareth's students take that coin. The lucky ones came back with more missing limbs. The unlucky ones didn't come back at all.
Better to be very, very good at not getting caught.
The seventh pin surrendered with a satisfying click. Too easy.
She froze, tension wrench halfway through its final turn.
In ten years of this work, easy meant trapped.
Behind her, the corridor was silent. No footsteps, no hushed conversations, no jingle of weapons announcing guards. Just the manor settling and her own pulse hammering in her ears.
But she was already inside the mechanism, and backing out empty-handed meant another week of watered-down stew that tasted like dishwater and regret. The merchant who'd hired her had been specific: Roderick's private vault, third level down, behind the wine cellar. Take the small strongbox, leave everything else, and then disappear.
Twenty silver pieces. A month of real food and a bed that didn't smell like horses.
Worth it.
She finished the turn. The lock clicked open. She eased the door back on well-oiled hinges, and the silence sent ice flooding her veins.
She pushed the door open slowly, every instinct screaming that she should be running in the opposite direction.
The vault should have reeked of metal and coin. Instead, this place smelled like stone and age. Her breath misted in the darkness, which made no sense three levels underground in late spring.
She fumbled for the oil lamp at her belt, hands steady despite the growing certainty that she was somewhere she absolutely should not be.
The flame caught, casting shadows across the walls of black stone. Carvings covered every surface. Skulls with empty eye sockets. Ribs like ladder rungs. Bones arranged in patterns she didn't recognize.
Get out.The voice in her head sounded like Gareth.Get out now.
She took a step backward toward the door.
It slammed shut.
She spun, grabbed the handle, and pulled.
Locked. From the outside.
She cursed the merchant who'd hired her. The suspiciously detailed intelligence about Roderick's vault. The conveniently easy locks that led her down to this exact spot.
