The road to Laudendale was long, but not long enough.

  Finn had spent the better part of a decade avoiding this city, staying out of its reach, ensuring that his past remained buried beneath tavern walls and the smell of cooking fires. But now, as the distant silhouette of Laudendale’s stone walls finally rose on the horizon, his chest felt tight.

  The city had always been too large, too controlled, too full of rules and people willing to enforce them. Where Puddlebrook was quiet, tucked away, a place where people could disappear if they knew how to keep their heads down, Laudendale was a city of scrutiny.

  And right now?

  That scrutiny was the last thing he needed.

  Marla sat beside him at the front of the carriage, elbows resting on her knees, watching as they drew closer. "You look like you're about to be sick," she mused.

  Finn exhaled through his nose. "Just remembering why I left."

  Grog, from the back of the carriage, grunted. "Big city. Lots of guards. Bad idea."

  Marla smirked. "You say that every time we do something stupid."

  Grog grunted again. "Always right."

  Finn couldn't argue with that.

  Still, this was necessary.

  Somewhere beneath the city—tucked away in the vaults of the treasury, hidden in stacks of neatly filed records—was the only real evidence that could tie Finn to his past crimes.

  As long as that ledger existed, he wasn’t free.

  And Finn had spent too long clawing his way out of the underworld to let some paper and ink drag him back down.

  "We go in, we find the ledger, we get out," Finn said. "Simple."

  Marla chuckled. "Oh, sure. Nothing complicated about breaking into one of the most secure buildings in the city."

  Finn smirked. "Wouldn't be fun otherwise."

  Marla groaned. "Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

  Finn didn’t answer.

  Because the closer they got to Laudendale’s towering gates, the more he realized…

  There was no turning back now.

  The entrance to Laudendale was a monument to discipline.

  The walls were high, thick, and lined with steel-plated guards standing at rigid attention. Long banners in the royal colors of gold and deep navy fluttered against the wind, displaying the sigil of the ruling family—the Crestwell Crown.

  The gates were already open, welcoming the morning influx of merchants, travelers, and messengers heading into the city.

  But despite the traffic, Finn felt the weight of the city pressing down on him.

  He had been here once before, long ago, back when he still worked in the underworld. He remembered the watchful eyes, the unspoken rules, the suffocating sense that this was a place where power meant everything.

  And right now?

  He had none of it.

  “Alright,” Marla muttered, adjusting her gloves as she sat straighter. “Just act natural.”

  Finn forced himself to relax, gripping the reins as they eased into the line of incoming carriages.

  The guards weren’t stopping everyone.

  Just a few merchants here and there, checking carts for smuggled goods, verifying travel papers.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Still, Finn’s fingers itched toward the dagger hidden beneath his coat.

  Just in case.

  Marla shot him a look. "Finn, if you stab a city guard five minutes after getting here, I swear to the gods—"

  "I won't," Finn muttered. "Unless they give me a reason."

  Marla sighed.

  When it was their turn, a guard in polished armor stepped forward, his eyes scanning them with well-practiced scrutiny.

  "State your business in Laudendale," he said flatly.

  Finn kept his expression neutral. "Trade."

  The guard raised a brow. "What kind of trade?"

  "Food supplies," Finn answered smoothly. "Puddlebrook’s merchants sent us for a bulk order of rare spices and enchanted grains. My friend’s tavern specializes in unique dishes."

  The guard studied him for a beat too long.

  Then, his gaze flicked to Marla and Grog. "And them?"

  "Kitchen staff," Finn said without missing a beat. "She’s the sous chef, and he’s my—"

  "Muscle," Grog rumbled.

  The guard squinted.

  For a moment, Finn thought he was going to press further.

  But then, another wagon behind them caught the guard’s attention—one carrying several large barrels labeled "Aged Elven Wine." A much more interesting target for a bribe.

  The guard exhaled, waving them through. "Go on."

  Finn tipped his head. "Much appreciated."

  As soon as they were clear of the gate, Finn let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  Marla grinned. "See? That wasn’t so hard."

  Finn shot her a dry look.

  Grog grunted. "Too many guards."

  Marla patted his arm. "Good thing we’re not planning on stabbing any of them. Right, Finn?"

  Finn ignored her.

  Because now that they were inside the city, the real challenge began.

  Laudendale was busier than Finn remembered.

  The streets were paved with smooth, dark stone, the buildings lined with intricate carvings and gold-trimmed awnings. Merchants hawked wares from shaded stalls, noblemen in embroidered tunics rode past on finely-bred horses, and the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meats filled the air.

  It was a city of wealth and power.

  But power came with rules.

  And Finn had every intention of breaking them.

  He guided the carriage toward a quieter side street, finally pulling to a stop near a row of small warehouses.

  “Alright,” Finn said, hopping down. “First step: we find out how well-guarded the treasury is these days.”

  Marla raised a brow. “We’re casing the place?”

  Finn smirked. “What kind of thief would I be if I didn’t?”

  Grog grunted approvingly.

  The City Treasury was located near the Royal Courthouse, positioned right in the heart of the city. If they were going to break in, they needed details.

  Where the guards were stationed. When shifts changed. How tight security had become since Finn was last here.

  And for that?

  They needed information.

  Finn had a few ideas about where to start.

  Marla cracked her knuckles. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

  Finn grinned. “First? We find an old friend.”

  Marla rolled her eyes. “Of course we do.”

  Finn’s mind was already racing.

  He knew exactly who they needed to see.

  And if the old man still owed him a favor?

  They might just pull this off.

  The streets of Laudendale were too clean, too polished, too perfect.

  Even in the quieter districts, where the merchant stalls gave way to narrow alleyways and lesser-traveled roads, there was still an undeniable sense of order. The cobblestones were neatly arranged, the buildings well-maintained, and the guards patrolled regularly, their presence a constant reminder that this was not a city where mistakes were easily forgiven.

  Finn had always hated it here.

  He walked with his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, his head slightly down—not enough to seem suspicious, but enough to avoid unnecessary attention.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Grog followed a step behind, his large frame making it impossible to blend in entirely, while Marla walked beside Finn, keeping her gaze sharp, her fingers twitching slightly like she was itching for a weapon.

  “Alright,” Marla muttered under her breath, glancing toward Finn. “Who exactly is this ‘old friend’ of yours?”

  Finn’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  “His name’s Bartholomew Ecklund.”

  Marla scoffed. “That’s a terrible name.”

  Finn chuckled. “Yeah, well, we always just called him Old Bart.”

  Grog grunted. “What’s he do?”

  “Used to be a treasury clerk, back when I ran jobs in this city.” Finn exhaled slowly, weaving through the crowd. “Had sticky fingers. Skimmed a little off the top from tax ledgers, re-routed fines, pocketed a few coin purses from noble bribes.”

  Marla smirked. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  Finn shook his head. “He got caught.”

  That made her pause. “…And you’re sure he’s not rotting in a cell somewhere?”

  Finn smirked. “Oh, they didn’t lock him up. No, see, the city prefers quiet punishments.”

  Marla raised a brow. “Quiet punishments?”

  “They took his pension, blacklisted him from noble contracts, and left him with just enough coin to scrape by.” Finn turned down a smaller side street, where the buildings were more compact, the streets darker, the smell of old parchment and dust filling the air. “He used to be a man of wealth. Now?”

  He stopped in front of a small, rundown bookshop wedged between two larger buildings. The wooden sign above the door was half-faded, the lettering barely legible.

  “Now he sells books.”

  Marla squinted at the shop. “Oh, that is sad.”

  Finn pushed open the door.

  The inside of the bookshop smelled like old paper, ink, and a hint of pipe smoke. Shelves lined the walls, stacked not just with books but with ledgers, scrolls, and parchment. It was a place for people who needed to write things down—and for people who needed things to be erased.

  At the far end of the room, behind a narrow wooden counter, sat an older man with silver-streaked hair, a slightly wrinkled face, and round spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

  Old Bart.

  He was hunched over a massive ledger, scrawling notes with a thin quill, completely unbothered by the customers browsing through the stacks.

  Finn took a step forward, clearing his throat. “Still keeping bad records, Bart?”

  The old man didn’t even look up.

  “No refunds, no exchanges, and if you’re here about the missing pages, I already told you—”

  He froze.

  Slowly, Bart lifted his head, adjusting his spectacles as his gaze settled on Finn.

  “…Well, well,” Bart muttered. “If it isn’t the prodigal little rat.”

  Finn smirked. “Good to see you too.”

  Bart let out a low sigh, setting his quill down as he leaned back in his chair. “When I heard someone spiked a banquet and left a crime lord in a coma, I had a feeling you might be involved.”

  Marla blinked. “Wait, people are already talking about that?”

  Bart snorted. “Oh, sweet girl. This is Laudendale. People here write down their secrets just in case they need to sell them later.”

  Finn ignored that. He stepped forward, resting his hands on the counter. “We need to get into the treasury archives.”

  Bart froze.

  Then, very slowly, he took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and sighed. “You always ask for the worst possible favors.”

  Finn smirked. “And yet, you always come through.”

  Bart muttered something under his breath, but he was already reaching for another book—this one smaller, bound in cracked leather. He flipped through the pages, running his fingers along the lines of names and dates.

  “Security’s tight these days,” Bart said. “Ever since the king cracked down on forged ledgers and missing tax records, they’ve doubled the guards and reinforced the vault doors.” He shot Finn a pointed look. “And I’d bet your name is still sitting on one of those pages.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened. “That’s why I need to get in.”

  Bart exhaled, flipping another page. “The treasury archives are kept in the lower levels of the courthouse. Not open to the public. You need a royal permit just to access the halls, and only certain officials have keys to the vaults.”

  Grog grunted. “Who has keys?”

  Bart adjusted his glasses. “High-ranking clerks. A few city officials. And the Royal Treasurer himself.”

  Marla sighed. “Oh, fantastic. So all we have to do is steal from someone who definitely has guards watching their every move.”

  Finn wasn’t discouraged.

  Because while Bart was busy listing obstacles, Finn’s mind was already working through solutions.

  “How often do the records get updated?” Finn asked.

  Bart scratched his chin. “Every two weeks.”

  Finn’s eyes lit up. “And when’s the next update?”

  Bart hesitated. “…Tomorrow.”

  Finn grinned. “Perfect.”

  Marla stared at him. “Oh no. No, no, no. I know that look. That is a stupid plan forming.”

  Finn ignored her. He turned back to Bart. “They have to move the ledgers, right? Transfer the updated records from one office to another?”

  Bart nodded slowly. “A small group of clerks carry them in sealed cases. Always under guard escort.”

  Finn tapped his fingers against the counter. “Where does the transfer happen?”

  Bart sighed. “Courthouse main entrance. They walk the ledgers across the plaza, through the main doors, and down into the archives.”

  Finn’s grin widened.

  Marla groaned. “Finn. Please.”

  Finn turned to her. “We intercept the ledgers before they make it to the archives.”

  Bart stared at him.

  Then, he laughed.

  “Oh, you little bastard,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s bold.”

  Finn smirked. “I like to think so.”

  Grog grunted. “Guards?”

  Bart nodded. “Two. Maybe three.”

  Finn shrugged. “We’ve handled worse.”

  Marla groaned again, running a hand through her hair. “And how do you suggest we just casually take a ledger from a heavily guarded transfer?”

  Finn’s smirk deepened.

  “Easy.” He straightened, turning back toward the door. “We stage a distraction.”

  Bart leaned back in his chair, watching them go. “You’re going to get yourselves killed.”

  Finn didn’t look back.

  Because he had one night to prepare.

  And by tomorrow?

  That ledger was as good as gone.

  That night, Finn didn’t sleep.

  He sat at the corner table of The Rusty Anvil, an old tavern near the edge of the city, where the drinks were cheap and the patrons minded their own business. The scent of stale ale and burnt bread clung to the air, but Finn barely noticed.

  Across from him, Marla sat nursing a tankard, her fingers drumming absently against the wood. Grog was sharpening a dagger, his eyes half-lidded, but Finn knew he was listening.

  “We have to hit them fast,” Finn murmured, rolling a coin between his fingers. “The ledgers will be in sealed cases, carried by clerks under guard escort. We need to take them before they reach the courthouse doors.”

  Marla exhaled, rubbing her temples. “And you’re sure this is the best way?”

  Finn flicked the coin into the air, catching it. “You got a better one?”

  Marla grumbled something under her breath but didn’t argue.

  Finn leaned forward. “We only get one shot at this. If we screw it up, we’re dead.”

  Grog grunted. “What’s the distraction?”

  Finn smirked. “A fire.”

  Marla arched a brow. “You want to burn something down?”

  “Not exactly,” Finn said. “Just enough smoke and chaos to pull the guards away from the clerks.”

  Marla considered it. “And how do we set it?”

  Finn’s smirk widened. “We don’t.”

  Marla blinked.

  “We get someone else to do it,” Finn explained. “Beggars, urchins—anyone desperate for coin.”

  Marla exhaled. “So we bribe someone to light a fire near the plaza, make the guards panic, and while they’re distracted—”

  “We take the ledgers,” Finn finished.

  Grog nodded approvingly. “Good plan.”

  Finn glanced at Marla. “Still worried?”

  Marla smirked. “Only that you enjoy this a little too much.”

  Finn leaned back. “Let’s get to work.”

  By morning, everything was in place.

  Finn had slipped ten silver coins to a street urchin named Tavi, instructing him to set a cart of hay on fire near the plaza at exactly midday.

  At the same time, Finn, Marla, and Grog positioned themselves near the courthouse steps, blending in among the merchants and pedestrians.

  The treasury clerks appeared exactly when Bart said they would—three men, dressed in fine robes, each carrying a locked case. Two armored guards flanked them.

  “Right on time,” Finn muttered.

  Grog cracked his knuckles. “When does the fire start?”

  Marla scanned the street. “Any second now.”

  And then—

  A plume of smoke erupted from the far end of the plaza.

  Shouts filled the air.

  A cart had been set ablaze, flames licking hungrily at the wooden frame. A vendor screamed, waving his arms, and suddenly—the panic spread.

  The guards reacted immediately.

  “Hey you—go help!” one of the guards barked. “I’ll handle the clerks!”

  One of the soldiers peeled away, rushing toward the growing fire and chaos.

  That left only one guard.

  Finn grinned. “Showtime.”

  As the smoke thickened, Finn moved.

  He strode up to the remaining guard, feigning urgency. “Sir! One of the clerks dropped a case in the panic—it almost fell into the fire!”

  The guard cursed. “Where?”

  Finn pointed. “By the statue, just past the fountain!”

  The guard hesitated.

  Then, muttering a curse, he turned his back and ran toward the smoke.

  And just like that—the clerks were unprotected.

  Finn moved swiftly.

  “Pardon me,” he said smoothly, grabbing one of the cases from a stunned clerk’s hands.

  The man spluttered. “Hey—!”

  Marla appeared beside Finn, clapping a hand on the other clerk’s shoulder. “Your guard called you,” she said sweetly. “Better go.”

  The clerks hesitated.

  Then, confused and rattled, they turned toward the chaos—leaving the ledgers behind.

  Finn didn’t waste time.

  “Move.”

  With the stolen case tucked under his arm, he and Marla slipped into the nearest alleyway, disappearing into the city’s labyrinth of streets.

  Grog followed, covering their escape.

  By the time the guards realized what had happened—

  Finn and the others were long gone.

  Back at their rented room above The Rusty Anvil, Finn set the ledger case down on the table.

  Marla let out a low whistle. “I can’t believe that worked.”

  Grog grunted. “It worked because of the fire.”

  Marla smirked. “Oh, sure. Let’s give all the credit to the flames.”

  Finn ignored them.

  His fingers hovered over the sealed lock on the case.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  This was it.

  Inside this case was his past, written in ink. The thing that had kept him trapped in his old life, even after he walked away from it.

  “Finn?” Marla’s voice was quieter now. “You ready?”

  Finn exhaled.

  Then, he broke the lock.

  The case snapped open, revealing neatly stacked parchment inside.

  Finn flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the names.

  And then—

  There.

  Tumblepot, Finnrick.

  Marla leaned over his shoulder, reading along. “Damn,” she muttered. “That’s a long list of charges.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened.

  Smuggling. Fraud. Conspiracy to commit larceny.

  Nothing he hadn’t already known.

  But the final page—

  That’s where he froze.

  Because stamped at the bottom, in fresh ink, was an official order.

  Finn’s blood ran cold.

  “To be submitted to the Royal Court for sentencing review.”

  Marla’s expression darkened. “They were about to reopen your case.”

  Finn clenched his fists. “They weren’t just keeping records. They were waiting.”

  Marla’s voice was tight. “Waiting for what?”

  Finn swallowed.

  “For the right moment to make an example out of me.”

  Silence.

  Then, slowly, Marla exhaled. “So. What now?”

  Finn closed the ledger.

  Then, without hesitation—he tossed it into the fireplace.

  The parchment curled and blackened, the ink bubbling away into nothing as the flames devoured it.

  Finn watched it burn.

  And for the first time in years— he felt free.