The rain fell in greasy sheets, smearing the shattered stones of the outer camps in a film of filth and ruin, turning the broken paths and crumbled walls into rivers of mud. Every gust of the foul wind carried the bitter scent of old ash and rust, remnants of a world that had long since fallen to ruin.
Lyra Vale crouched low in the muck, her slight frame nearly invisible in the gloom. The torn hem of her tunic clung stubbornly to her legs, sodden and heavy, outlining her lithe figure with every shiver of movement. The fabric, soaked through, molded to her body, accentuating the taut muscles and the curve of her hips—not that Lyra noticed or cared. Her hands were freezing around the worn leather strap of an empty satchel she had planned to fill with stolen treasures.
Another night. Another mark. Another chance to feed herself or end up bleeding out in a gutter.
Even after a thousand years, the ruins of Seresthos continued to call to the desperate and the greedy. Beneath the broken stones, beneath the blackened altars and moss-choked halls, relics of a dead empire whispered promises of power and wealth—stormglass shards, wyrmbone fragments, and old, forbidden magics that could still stir to life under the wrong hands. But Lyra Vale had learned early: never dig too deep where the gods had fallen. Some graves were left closed for good reason.
Better to rob those foolish enough to disturb them.
The Wyrmwatch knights—rich, proud, and heavy with relics salvaged from the ruins—had seemed easy prey. They moved through the camps weighed down by their loot, bloated with arrogance, more concerned with their holy duties than with the nimble-fingered rats that lurked just outside their torchlight.
They guarded Seresthos with grim devotion, patrolling the broken archways and ruined causeways, dragging out tomb-robbers and heretics, their saddlebags growing heavier with every relic they seized.
Lyra had crept through the crumbling outskirts with a thief's practiced grace, her Silver Fingers quick and certain, her Shadow Dance wrapping her in the mist and rain. She wove between abandoned shrines and cracked statues, her eyes sharp for the glint of a dropped relic or the sagging strap of an unattended pack.
Slip in. Snatch what she could. Melt back into the night before anyone noticed.
She got cocky. She got caught.
The first blow came without warning, a hammer of pain behind her knee that sent her sprawling into the mud. She barely had time to draw breath before a gauntleted fist slammed her face-first into the muck, grinding her cheek against the cold, wet stone.
Pain exploded across her jaw, flashing white behind her eyes. She felt the satchel ripped from her grasp, felt the sudden vulnerability of empty hands.
"You'll rot where you belong, gutter-rat," someone snarled above her, voice dripping with disdain, and spat at her feet.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't care who she was or what her story might be.
With mechanical efficiency, they shackled her wrists—thick iron biting into her skin—and dragged her bodily through the camp like a sack of broken refuse, down the rain-slicked slope toward the gaping wounds of the ruins below.
Past the shattered walls of the Shadowed Chapel, once a monument of ivory glory. Past the broken gates swallowed by floodwaters and creeping moss. Into the mouth of darkness that gaped like a broken tomb, hungry and patient.
At the side of the chapel, a heavy stone door sagged on rusted hinges, black with age and neglect. Without ceremony, the knights heaved it open, revealing a stairwell plunging into shadow and cold rainwater.
A rough shove between her shoulder blades sent Lyra stumbling down the steps. She caught herself hard against the wall, biting down on a cry as her shackled wrists twisted painfully. Her soaked tunic clung tighter with every movement, the fabric pressing against the contours of her chest and waist, adding insult to injury as the chill seeped deeper into her bones.
The door groaned shut behind her with a resounding boom. A bar dropped into place with a metallic scrape.
Silence descended. And the cold, wet dark swallowed her whole.
Lyra stayed motionless for a heartbeat, ears straining, every muscle tight. The years she'd spent surviving in the gutters of Ivory Hollow had honed her instincts to a razor's edge. Even in the oppressive dark, she could feel the wrongness in the air, like the crackling pressure before a storm breaks.
Slowly, cautiously, she pushed herself to her knees. The iron shackles clinked softly with the movement. She flexed her fingers—fingers that could lift a purse without a whisper, fingers that had once picked the lock of a magistrate's carriage in the middle of a crowded square.
Now, she was caged. Temporarily.
"Hey!" she shouted up at the door, voice echoing off the slick stone walls. "Come on! Don't leave me here! It stinks like a dead goat!"
For a moment, only the steady drip of rainwater answered her.
Then a voice, bored and muffled: "Stay put, gutter-rat. We'll take you to our wagon after the shift."
Boots scraped. A short bark of laughter. Silence again.
Lyra gritted her teeth, her mind racing, weighing options.
Quick Hands, Quicker Mind. That's what kept her breathing all these years.
She kicked at a loose rock near her foot, venting her frustration. The rock barely shifted. Instead, a sharp jolt of pain raced up her toes.
"Storm-eaten bastard," she hissed, hopping on one leg, barely keeping her balance on the slick floor.
She spun awkwardly, slipped, and crashed onto her back with a wet, graceless thud. Her soaked clothes clung to her frame, and the cold bit hard, seeping deeper under her skin.
For a moment, she lay there, panting, rain drumming above her like distant war drums.
Crack.
Somewhere beneath her, the floor groaned.
Another crack, sharper this time, splitting the silence like a whip.
Lyra didn't even have time to swear.
The stone gave way beneath her with a deafening crack, and Lyra plunged into darkness, the world spinning out from under her as she fell—