By the time I pried open and slipped through the high-set window, dropping soundlessly onto the plush rug beneath it, night had fully claimed the palace. I froze, listening intently, every sense sharpened. The silence around me was not quite absolute.
I searched the quiet and detected the faintest breath of motion three corridors down. Guards—they weren’t close enough to pose a threat, but if they followed the standard patrol formation I’d memorized from countless noble estates, I had a few minutes. Enough to explore this wing undisturbed.
The first door I tried was locked tightly, but for all their gilded splendor, royal locks were rarely complicated. With a flick of my wrist and a delicate twist of my pick, the bolt gave way with a satisfyingclick. The door swung open on hinges so well-oiled they barely sighed. I slipped inside like a shadow.
A shaft of moonlight streamed through the large window to my right, painting the chamber in a soft glow. I paused just inside the threshold, scanning for signs of life. Everything was immaculate—no dust or disorder, the kind of cleanliness that suggested preparation rather than abandonment.
I moved silently across the polished floor, leaving no trace.
The room was a grand gallery, lined floor to ceiling with priceless paintings. Even I, with no formal education in the arts, recognized several at a glance—works spoken of in awe in taverns and auction houses alike.
Impressive, yes. Valuable, undoubtedly. But though such famous works would fetch a heavy price to be sure, their theft would prove entirely uninteresting.
I sighed. Even if I managed to sneak out with a piece, every collector in the kingdom would know where it came from.
Art of this ostentatious nature was nothing more than paint on canvas, purchased to match a wall or impress a rival. Rarely touched, never loved. A fancy decoration did not a story make. Sometimes, a painting might carry a whisper of something beyond the artist who created it—a gift from a lover, a relic of a lost parent, a moment captured in grief or longing. But most were just symbols of status.
I wasn’t a collector of objects that had no soul; I was here forsecrets. For the forgotten. The hidden. The personal. Things worn, held, cherished—a comb still tangled with strands of hair, a pen that had recorded desperate letters, a cracked mirror that had once reflected someone’s sorrow.Thosewere the treasures I sought, those etched in memories.
A distant noise—so faint I almost missed it—pricked my attention. I tilted my head, waiting. The silence had shifted again, as if someone was listening carefully in pursuit of intruders. Soundlessly I moved to press my ear against the door,letting every breath still as I strained to hear the faintest sign of movement in the stillness beyond the polished wood.
Soft footsteps, a murmured exchange. The guards passed down the corridor, the measured sound of their boots fading into the far end of the hall. I waited longer than necessary—long enough to count my own heartbeat and then some—before easing the door open and slipping back into the corridor on silent tiptoe.
I kept to the shadows as I glided from room to room. It didn’t take long to realize the entire floor was a museum of ostentation, every chamber I explored another variation of elegance, entirely impersonal.
An antechamber of velvet chairs and gilded mirrors, clearly meant for entertaining. A breakfast salon with porcelain untouched by tea or crumb. A drawing room with a harp strung with dustless strings and a fireplace that hadn’t seen flame in years. There were glass cases of ceremonial swords no hand had ever held in battle, shelves of books whose spines cracked with disuse, vases arranged for symmetry, not sentiment.
Rooms meant for show, not for living. And therefore, utterly useless to me. None of these artifacts held stories worth stealing—they were nothing more than lifeless ornaments, hollowed of memory.
I gnawed the inside of my lip, considering the dilemma. My gaze lifted toward the ceiling above me, the only barrier between myself and the floor above that likely housed the royal family’s private chambers…and hopefully the kind of objects I was seeking.
Temptation beckoned, urging me to explore what promised to be rooms of far greater interest than this empty elegance. Even for an experienced thief, exploring the heart of the palace felt foolhardy and reckless; the risk of guards, traps, and protective enchantments practically invited disaster.
But temptation whispered louder than reason…along with a strange internal urge like a compass, steering me towards the stairs. I couldn’t ignore it. The personal items hidden upstairs would hold real meaning—secrets tucked beneath pillows, fears scratched into journals, love stored in lockets. Countless possibilities, awaiting my discovery. I hesitated only a moment before smirking. The greater the risk, the more reason to do it.
I slipped through a servants’ stairwell tucked behind a tapestry and ascended the narrow, spiraling steps with the silent confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. Every creak was calculated, every corner checked. The hush in the air felt different now, almost expectant.
I paused at the top to listen. I detected no footsteps, no flicker of candlelight. Only the hush of velvet curtains and the distant tick of a clock I couldn’t see.
I chose the nearest door on the right. No lock barred my way this time, almost as if the room had been waiting for someone to return. I let the door fall closed behind me without a sound. Without a blueprint of the castle’s layout, I had no way of knowing whose chamber I’d entered, but the mystery excited me; I would learn all I needed to know from the room itself.
My eyes had long since adjusted to the dark and I swept my eager, calculating gaze around the room. Starlight shimmered through parted satin drapes, scattering silver across a chamber cloaked in deep blue and mahogany, just enough to navigate my search. I stepped farther into the room, my eyes scanning each object to see which to investigate first. Each detail whispered hints of the room’s elusive occupant.
This was no impersonal guest chamber, but a sanctuary, masculine and commanding. The furniture was carved from dark mahogany with clean, unembellished lines that spoke of restraint and control. No floral flourishes softened the space, nosoft feminine perfumes lingered in the air—only the faint scent of leather, aged paper, and spicy cologne.
The canopy bed was broad and crisply made, the navy duvet stretched taut with military precision. Tailored fabrics and muted tones accented the room like a uniform. A ceremonial sword rested against the sideboard, the hilt worn smooth from frequent use, not just display.
My eye rested momentarily on the sword before drifting to a high-backed chair, its arms scuffed and polished by frequent use. Near it rested a small table overflowing with books, the most chaotic thing in this room of strict order: titles on military strategy and diplomacy stacked neatly beside volumes of poetry, their pages marked with slips of paper and a pencil laid across the top as if recently set down.
A golden signet ring glinted faintly on a velvet tray and I leaned forward to examine it, immediately recognizing the crest on its face as belonging to the royal family. Its sight should have invited apprehension, but only a smile tugged at my lips. Now this was worth the risk.
I didn’t reach for the ring, not yet, even though I felt a strange sensation as I looked at it, as though perhaps I’d stolen something similar before. It was always a fine art choosing the right object. I wasn’t someone who carelessly stole just any object; I wanted it to be the most meaningful, whose value I could ascertain before I even picked it up. I let my fingers drift near the ring and the books, not quite touching anything but feeling, searching.
Magic like mine had a cost. It wasn’t as simple as touching something and watching the past play out like a play on a stage. The memories came in fragments—flashes and flickers of feeling, taste, smell, emotion. Each vision took something from me—strength, focus. Sometimes more.
So I’d learned how to read the signs.
Objects that pulsed with memory had a subtle weight to them—not physical, but experienced through warmth or a chill, a tingle in my fingertips before I even made contact. The strongest secrets left echoes in the air—faint scents, subtle impressions, the way a drawer refused to stay shut or a journal lay just slightly askew. Like being drawn in by a thread of invisible silk.
