The streets of the courtyard at night were the kind of nightmare that makes you wonder if the gods ever truly cared for mankind, or if they just got drunk one evening, threw a bunch of rats, whores, and violent criminals in a pit, and then went to bed laughing.
The air stank of rust, piss, and fried mystery meat from the stalls we darted past, but beneath it all was that coppery tang of blood, faint yet persistent, like a perfume no one asked for but everyone wore.
My boots slapped against cobblestone in a rhythm too frantic for comfort, each stride rattling the ache in my bones, and yet beneath all the chaos—beneath the panic—there was a curious humming in my veins, a weight I hadn’t carried before.
It was only when Freya surged past me, her molten-gold eyes catching the torchlight, that I realized what it was: I’d stolen a fraction of her strength earlier, and gods, it was like trying on a suit of armor forged from pure storm.
I could feel it in my calves, in my chest, in the way my arms no longer trembled when I pumped them at my sides.
The power was intoxicating, raw and dangerous, and I hated how much I loved it. But more terrifying than that was the thought slipping slyly through my head like a thief through shadows: she might be stronger than Brutus.
Stronger than the brick wall of muscle I was beginning to call my friend. The notion was absurd, impossible, and yet my heart still quivered at it, imagining what it meant—that this scarred, snarling woman beside me wasn’t just dangerous. She was a living calamity wrapped in blonde hair and contempt.
And gods help me, that only made her hotter.
We pulled in close, crouching behind the sagging silhouette of an abandoned stall where fruit had once been sold, though now it held only dust, rat droppings, and a few forgotten peels that looked older than time itself.
Across the square, Malrick’s warehouse loomed, three stories tall, its black stone walls catching the faint gleam of lanterns that bobbed on hooks. Men patrolled in lazy arcs, though lazy here still meant armed with blades longer than my patience and eyes sharper than my tongue.
They leaned against rails, traded jokes, and occasionally spat over the edge with enough force to make me wonder what kind of lung exercises they practiced. Watching them felt like watching wolves circle the mouth of their den—casual, yes, but deadly casual, the sort that only gets honed from years of cutting throats.
Brutus crouched beside me, his bulk pressed into shadow like a slab of carved granite pretending to be inconspicuous.
"There. Six on the north side balcony. Four by the main door. Two more circling back every ten minutes." His voice was low, steady, like someone giving weather reports, though in this case the weather was entirely shit with a high chance of stabbing.
"Aw, Brutus," I whispered, leaning against his arm with a grin, "I love when you talk numbers to me. Gets me all hot."
He glared, which was impressive given how little of his face was visible in the dark, but I swear I felt the burn of that look across my cheek.
Dregan, meanwhile, crouched on my other side, his beard catching stray moonlight as he snorted like a hog choking on mead. "Heh. I say we charge in screaming, swing till our arms break, then drink the survivors under the table. Quick. Bloody. Perfect."
Freya hissed, sharp and low. "You’re an idiot."
"Thank you," he said cheerfully, as though she’d just offered him a medal.
Atticus was last, crouching just behind us, map in hand even now, his cracked glasses catching the faint glow of a lantern in the distance. He moved like he belonged in a study, not skulking outside a den of cutthroats, but the seriousness etched in his face gave him the look of a priest presiding over heretics.
"We’ve gone over this," he murmured. "Dregan, you’ll create the distraction. Loud enough to pull their numbers away. Brutus, you wait here. If everything collapses, you’re the hammer. Freya and Loona..." His eyes flicked to us, measured and cool. "You take the vents along the east side. Slip in quietly. Secure a room. Begin the search. I’ll coordinate from here."
I grinned, throwing him a salute I knew he’d hate. "Aye aye, captain. Into the vents we crawl, me and my lovely golden storm."
Freya’s lip curled in what might have been the start of a snarl, but she didn’t reply.
Probably for the best.
The dash to the warehouse was a blur of pounding footsteps, darting between shadows, the beat of my heart threatening to outpace the drumline of my thoughts.
Dregan veered off before us, vanishing into an alley with the reckless glee of a man about to shout fire in a crowded theater. I didn’t even want to imagine what kind of distraction he’d conjure, though with him it was always a mix of nudity, screaming, and heavy objects breaking where they shouldn’t.
Freya led me to the east side, her muscles tense beneath the moonlight as she dropped into a crouch, prying up a rusted grate that groaned like it hadn’t been touched since the gods first cursed this place.
She slipped inside first without hesitation, vanishing into the narrow vent with all the grace of a hunting cat.
I followed, of course, though calling it following was generous—it was more like I wedged myself after her, elbows scraping, skirt riding up, and my face uncomfortably close to places I really shouldn’t be staring at but absolutely was.
Gods, the smell in here. Sweat, metal, dust—and Freya. That sharp, musky scent of her body, still lingering with faint traces of what we’d done earlier.
It was intoxicating in the way poison must be to moths, dangerous and irresistible. My hands braced against the sides of the vent, but my eyes—oh, my traitorous eyes—kept wandering, tracing the scars across her thighs, the flex of muscle beneath her skin, the way her body moved like a coiled spring even when crawling.
I felt myself harden embarrassingly fast, my breath catching, and for once I was grateful for the muffled clangs of Dregan’s chaos outside to cover the sound of my panting.
Loona, you’re a pervert. Yes, I know. But in my defense, I’m also a very enthusiastic pervert.
We dropped into the first side room with a soft thud, the vent spitting us out like rejected bones. Dust puffed into the air, choking my lungs, and I stifled a cough with the back of my hand. The room was stacked with crates, barrels, and an unmistakable smell of old spice and sweat—storage, but not the kind we wanted.
Freya rose first, silent as a predator, her eyes darting across the room. She moved with the certainty of someone who knew violence was always waiting just outside the door.
I, on the other hand, moved with the certainty of someone who knew he was about to trip over his own skirt at any moment.
The first fight came quicker than expected. The door slammed open, two of Malrick’s men stumbling in mid-argument, their laughter echoing before it cut short at the sight of us. I froze, halfway through a very seductive pose that was supposed to look like I belonged here, but judging by their faces, it failed miserably.
"Who the fu—" one began, but Freya didn’t let him finish.
She surged forward, fist connecting with his jaw in a crack that echoed off the walls, sending him sprawling into a crate. The second lunged at her with a dagger, only to be seized by the wrist and flipped so hard his spine might’ve reconsidered its life choices.
I clapped politely, whispering, "Ten out of ten. No notes."
She shot me a glare.
We pressed deeper, weaving through corridors lit by swinging lanterns. Voices echoed distantly, boots thudded against wood, but for the most part, we were shadows—two predators slipping through a den of prey too stupid to know they were prey.
At least, she was. I was more like the annoying parasite clinging to the predator’s back, hoping to survive off scraps and sass.
We reached a fork in the corridor, shadows swallowing the passage in both directions. Freya stopped dead, turning that golden glare on me.
"You go right," she whispered, voice sharp as her blade. "I’ll take left."
I gasped dramatically, clutching my chest. "Splitting up? Oh, darling, haven’t you ever seen a play? This is where the slutty side character dies first."
"Exactly," she muttered, already stepping into the dark.
"Excuse you! I am the protagonist here. People would riot if I died."
Her only reply was a dismissive wave of her hand before her body melted into shadow, gone as though she’d never been there at all.
And just like that, I was alone.
I could imagine myself the hero of this little escapade—the daring thief, the seductive trickster, the shadow slipping between worlds. Every step was exaggerated stealth, every corner peek a performance. My inner monologue narrated grandly, whispering lines like, Loona, the untouchable, the unseen, the unrivaled god of thieves.
Of course, the gods punished hubris.
It began with a shout, sharp and ragged, cutting through the air like a blade. Then came the screech of metal, nails-on-stone, the sound of fury being carved into the walls themselves. My skin prickled as I crept closer, peeking around the corner.
And there he was.
A man tall and gaunt, hair grey as stone and slicked back with such precision it looked carved from obsidian. His eyes were madness—crazed, burning with the fever of someone who’d swallowed too much of their own ego. In his hand he held a hooked blade, long and cruel, its edge buried into the wall just inches above another man’s head. The poor bastard was pressed against the stone, eyes wide, sweat dripping as he whimpered something I couldn’t hear.
The wicked man leaned close, smile stretched too thin. His body language screamed predator, and the air around him stank of bloodlust. I swallowed hard, every instinct in me shrieking the same thing: avoid him at all costs.
I turned to leave—only to bump chest-first into someone else.
Another guard. Yawning, stretching, blinking at me like I’d just popped out of the wall. His eyes dropped instantly to the bulge under my skirt, because of course they did, before narrowing in suspicion.
"Uh," I whispered, giving him my most dazzling smile, "housekeeping?"
He shoved me back. Right into the open.
The crazed man’s head snapped toward me, hooked blade wrenching free of the wall with a scream of tearing stone. The pinned man darted aside, forgotten, as those mad eyes fixed on me with gleeful hunger.
And if that weren’t enough, a voice shouted from the hall opposite us—another guard, calling out, "What the hell’s going on down there?!"
Just like that, three sets of eyes pinned me at once.
I froze, caught between predators, my heart thundering so loud it drowned my thoughts.
And all I could think was: Well, Loona, you’ve really fucked it up this time.