In the mystical realm of Rivenholm, where dark enchantments and treacherous intrigue rule, a young half-blood thief known as Mirk lives a life of cunning and survival on the shadowy streets. His nimble fingers have never failed him, and he's stolen...
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Rivenholm, a kingdom filled with wealthy nobles and elegant archidecture that radiated opulence, presented a stark contrast between its upper and lower regions. The upper town, resplendent in gold and clean streets, appeared welcoming and safe on the surface. Yet, the same could not be said for the grimy backstreets of the lower Kingdom. In these dark alleys, where even the bravest aristocrats dared not venture, chaos reigned. Vigilantes, avaricious thieves, and ruthless murderers thrived in the shadows, while the ruling class attempted to quell the unrest.
Finding himself in such proximity to the Royal Palace was a rarity for Mirk, as guards maintained a vigilant watch. But there he was, under the cover of the night, staring down at the stoic soldiers who had yet to notice him.
Mirk, crouched in a tree, watched as a plain-looking carriage rolled into view. Two large horses, drenched by the pouring rain, pulled it along. The two coachmen in front, though disguised as common laborers, were actually well-groomed guards, keeping a vigilant watch despite the inclement weather and being soaked to the bone. The horses came to a halt, and the heavy carriage door swung open promptly.
A man emerged, tall and seemingly slender, though his broad shoulders were noticeable even beneath the thick fabric. The dark cape billowed in the wind, showing off the tall boots and golden undercoat of the cloak, hardly the attire for subtlety. He pulled the hood low over his eyes and carried a cane as he hurried toward the castle's rear entrance.
Mirk couldn't tell much about the stranger, but his height and grace alone indicated he was not an ordinary human. There was something unsettling about him that sent a shiver down Mirk's spine, but a job was a job, and he was intent on securing his payment.
He tapped his fingers against the wet tree anxiously, green eyes flashing left and right, looking for the distraction that was already late. The man had gone inside, they only had seconds left. Rain soaked through his clothing, and the cold seeped into his bones as he had been on watch for hours.
Where were they?
The horses pawed at the ground nervously, eyes flashing with fright every time the thunder rumbled over the lands. It was as though they could feel the tension in the air, lightning illuminated their anxiety.
Swiftly, Mirk slid down the tree, falling into a crouching position to make sure his fluid movements hadn't raised any suspicion. As always, it hadn't. Stealthily, he ran towards the carriage, the sound of approaching angry hounds reaching his ears, catching the attention of the two coachman guards who immediately stood from their seats.
They were nearly late, but the distraction did its job. The pack of ten aggressive strays were immediately a threatening sight to the already anxious horses, taking all the attention that could have fallen to Mirk, away. The two guards jumped down, swords drawn as they protectively stood next to the frightened horses.
Mirk forcefully pulled open the carriage door, noting that it had been securely locked. The lock gave way easily to his unnatural strength. Frantically, he jumped inside, leaving the door open as he roamed every inch of the small carriage, His fingers traced the worn leather of the seats, the wooden floor, and ceiling. A hollow echo confirmed that something was concealed, flinching as thunder hit nearby. He located a concealed latch on the carriage's side and yanked it open.
