Marlow sat on the edge of the market fountain, chewing idly on an apple core as crowds wove their way through the bustling square. Above him, Whitestone Castle glimmered in the sunlight, its tall spires thrusting up from the white-marbled cliffs of the upper district. Market day always drew the richest and poorest together-coin moved quickly, and so did hands like his.

  His target for the afternoon was a plump jeweller with rings on every finger and a heavy purse swinging at his belt. Marlow had followed him for almost an hour, waiting for the right moment-when his attention wandered too long over velvet bolts of cloth or ivory combs. But just as he slid from the shadow of a spice cart, the mood changed in the square.

  Guards in white and green livery moved ahead of a slim, pale figure in a silken cloak, flanked closely by two women in modest robes. The crowd moved aside carefully and quietly, showing respect and caution.. Marlow’s eyes narrowed.

  Reyna Alagaster.

  He'd seen her only once before-at a distance during some festival speech-but today, the sun caught the red-gold of her hair, like the colour of autumn leaves. She moved with a quiet grace, chin high, but not haughty. Not like her father. Her eyes were searching, curious. Taking in the people, the stalls, the colours of the city. Not flinching from the grime and noise of it.

  As she passed the fishmonger’s stall, she turned slightly. Marlow didn’t move. Their eyes nearly met-just a flicker across the space between them. And in that heartbeat, something caught.

  She didn’t scowl, didn’t sneer. Just looked. Like she was trying to remember something.

  And then she was gone, her escorts guiding her smoothly away from the market stalls and out of the square.

  Marlow exhaled, only then realising he’d been holding his breath. The jeweller had already disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t care. His thoughts stuck on her - Reyna. The Lord’s fifteen year old daughter. Untouchable, unreachable.

  Yet here he was, heart pounding, as if she'd actually seen him.

  Later that afternoon, Marlow sat cross-legged in the temple gardens, feeling the warm sun on his skin and his brown hair gently blowing in the soft breeze. Birds chattered in the high cypress branches, and bees moved casually through clusters of flowering sage. The Druid temple, with its ivy-covered stone and scent of moss and incense, was the one place in Whitestone where time slowed down.

  He shouldn't have been here, of course. No thief belonged within hallowed walls. But the gardens were quiet, and no one ever questioned a boy with dirt under his nails and a look of quiet contemplation. Not here.

  Besides, Reyna came here.

  She visited the temple more often than her father likely approved-Marlow had overheard that once, from two acolytes gossiping behind the woodpile. Said she found comfort here. Solace. Whatever that meant. He didn’t understand people who chose silence. He lived by noise, motion, the fast beat of feet against rooftops and the whisper of a stolen purse.

  But still… he came. Just in case.

  A bee buzzed near his ear. He flicked it away gently and tilted his head back, eyes half-closed against the afternoon sun. A breeze rustled the grass, cool against his neck. He almost nodded off-

  Movement.

  Marlow’s eyes snapped open.

  Someone was there. Not close. Across the garden path, just beyond the carved standing stones that ringed the inner sanctum. A figure - faint, shadowy, almost like mist caught in human shape. Female, by the curve of her form, but hard to be sure. She didn’t walk so much as… drift.

  He sat up slowly, watching.

  The figure turned-though he wasn’t sure how he could tell, since her face wasn’t clear. She looked almost translucent. As light passed through her, it dimmed and warped, casting distorted shapes behind her. His skin prickled, hairs rising on his arms. She moved again-gliding behind the old stone arch at the garden’s edge-and vanished.

  He stared at the empty space where she’d been. Nothing. No sound. Not even the usual rustle of robes or creak of sandals on stone.

  Was it the heat? A trick of the light? He rubbed his eyes, heart thudding.

  Then he felt it.

  A shiver, sliding across his skin like a breath of winter. Not outside. Inside. Cold crept down his spine, prickling his fingers and curling into the pit of his stomach. He stood, scanning the garden, every leaf and vine suddenly too still.

  The feeling wasn’t fear. Not quite. But something ancient. A whisper with no sound, pressing just behind his ears. You are not alone.

  He turned sharply-but no one stood behind him.

  The sun still shone. The bees still buzzed. But something felt wrong, and he knew - with the same certainty he used to spot a hidden guard or a pickpocket’s sleight of hand - that he was being watched.

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  He remained there a moment longer, scanning the carved runes on the standing stones, as if they might offer answers. Druidic script. Old as the city. Older, maybe. He’d never paid attention to the stories of the revered ancestors, the Old Ones. It was all just superstition. But now…

  He touched one of the stones lightly with his fingers. It pulsed cold, as if answering.

  The sensation passed. The garden returned to itself.

  He exhaled shakily and turned to leave, slipping between hedgerows and past the inner colonnade. No one stopped him.

  He kept to the alleys on the way back, even though the light was still good. Something clung to him, like cobwebs he couldn’t brush away. That figure - not flesh, not a ghost. Something in between.

  He hated not knowing.

  By the time he reached the broken archway near the old tannery, dusk was creeping across the rooftops. He ducked into the hidden entrance, letting the shadows swallow him. The sounds of the city faded behind him.

  He’d ask Nerissa-she believed in all the old superstitions. Yet, part of him hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Still, the chill hadn't left him.

  Something strange had touched him in that garden.

  And deep in his gut, Marlow knew: it wouldn't be the last time.

  Damp clung to the stone walls of the tannery, and even in the candle-lit gloom, the Silver Daggers moved through the space with practised ease-quiet voices, quieter steps. Marlow stood with his back against a cracked beam, arms folded, as Gareth sketched quick lines on a piece of oiled parchment spread across the table.

  “Simple lift,” he said. “Warehouse off the east quay. Third bell past sundown. No guards on the inside, just a pair of dockhands too thick to know better.”

  The map was rough, but clear enough. Gareth always made sure of that. He tapped a corner of the parchment with a callused finger. “You’re not to linger. In, out, no noise. The Watch are patrolling the quay. Last thing we need is another runner leading them to our front door.”

  A mutter of agreement rippled through the gathered thieves. Grint grunted, Nerissa nodded. Callun just rubbed the edge of his blade with a cloth, saying nothing.

  “The Blades?” Keyla asked, perched on a stack of crates, legs swinging.

  Gareth’s jaw tightened slightly. “Still sniffing round the edges. Someone marked one of ours near Hollow Street yesterday.”

  “But we don’t think they’ll press it,” he continued. “Not yet. There’s tension, aye, but no one’s silly enough to want a real war. Not with the city watch sniffing around.”

  “Unless someone’s really dumb,” Keyla muttered, but Gareth ignored her.

  “We keep our heads down. That means no heroics, no skimming, no half-planned vengeance jobs. Understood?”

  Nods all around.

  “All right. You’ve got the plan. Marlow-”

  But the boy was already moving. He slipped from the edge of the circle, Gareth’s words trailing behind him. He knew the job, knew the routine. He didn’t need it spelled out again.

  The east quay reeked of salt, tar, and the muddy smell of the river. Marlow crouched behind a stack of old barrels, watching as Grint muttered curses under his breath and tested the tension on a coil of rope. Keyla, casually perched atop a crate, twirling a dagger idly between her fingers.

  “Could do this blindfolded,” she said, smirking. “Be faster, too, if you two didn’t stomp like oxen.”

  “Say that again when you’re the one prying open the fish crates,” Grint growled, his voice low.

  Marlow ignored them both. He kept his focus on the warehouse door-squat and unguarded, just as Gareth had promised. The lanterns along the quay were dim, and no watch patrols had passed in nearly ten minutes.

  “In, out,” Marlow said under his breath. “No noise. No fuss.”

  He darted forward first, boots silent on the damp cobblestones. Grint and Keyla followed a heartbeat later, slipping through the side window one by one. Inside, the air was thick with old wood and river damp, the dark interrupted only by the thin glow of Keyla’s covered lantern.

  “Back wall,” Marlow whispered, nodding towards the far row of crates. “Third one down-chalk mark.”

  Grint hefted his crowbar, moved forward, and got to work. Keyla hung back, blade drawn, watching the shadows.

  The lid came free with a soft crack. Inside, just as Gareth said-salted fish stacked neatly, and beneath them, a false bottom. Marlow reached in, fingers closing around the large coin pouch with a thud of quiet satisfaction.

  “Easy coin,” Keyla murmured.

  “Too easy,” Marlow replied, voice low.

  And then, like a bad joke, the door creaked open.

  Four figures slipped into the warehouse-one holding a shuttered black-lantern, its sliver of light cutting a line across the floor. They moved quiet, but not quiet enough.

  “Crimson Blades,” Marlow hissed.

  He recognised the lead man immediately-Silas, a thug with a rough, weathered face and a dark-plaited braid wound around one ear. A butcher of back alleys and ambushes. His voice was coarse and raspy.

  “They’ll be here,” Silas said. “Silver scum don’t pass up a stash this fat.”

  “Crap,” Grint muttered. “They were waiting.”

  “Or tipped,” Keyla added, eyes sharp.

  Marlow held up a hand for silence, crouched low behind the crates. But Grint was already shifting his grip on the crowbar.

  “Don’t,” Marlow warned under his breath. “We’re outnumbered.”

  Keyla’s mouth twisted. “So what’s the play?”

  Marlow opened his mouth to answer-when outside, a sharp crack rang out. Steel against stone. A guard of the watch called out firmly to halt.

  Silas’s head snapped round. “You led them here?!” he barked at his nearest man.

  “I didn’t!” the Blade snapped. “I-”

  “Run,” Marlow hissed.

  Grint didn’t need telling twice. He shoved the crate aside, sending it crashing to the floor in a spray of salted fish, and made for the back door. Keyla was already moving, blade drawn, eyes flashing with glee.

  “Warehouse breach!” someone shouted from outside. The unmistakable clatter of guards’ boots echoed down the quay.

  “Bloody hell!” Silas cursed, lunging forward.

  Marlow spun, tossing a small pouch of crushed powder at the ground. It burst in a blinding cloud of fine dust, buying them seconds.

  “Go!” he shouted, grabbing Keyla’s wrist and dragging her back.

  They burst through the rear loading door together, moonlight spilling across the narrow river ledge behind the warehouse. Grint was already halfway down the slope, slipping on wet moss, clutching the rope he’d rigged earlier.

  Lanterns bobbed in the distance. The watch were coming fast.

  Keyla looked over the ledge, then at Marlow. “We swim?”

  He nodded. “We swim.”

  A crash behind them-Silas had broken through the cloud of dust and was screaming for blood.

  Marlow leapt. He hit the river hard, the breath forced from his lungs as he sank beneath the surface into darkness. He surfaced gasping, clutching the pouch tight to his chest, ears ringing with the shouts and splashes behind.

  By the time he reached the far bank, Grint was already dragging himself onto the mud, coughing up river water. Keyla landed beside them moments later, soaked but laughing breathlessly.

  “Well,” she said, pushing her hair back, “that wasn’t clean.”

  Marlow said nothing. He looked back across the water, where red-lantern light flickered and steel shone in the dark.

  “They weren’t there by chance,” he muttered.

  Keyla’s smirk faded. Grint only nodded grimly.

  The truce wouldn’t hold much longer.

  And tonight, it had nearly cost them all.