On the western edge of the southern hemisphere lies the Holy Land, a revered domain where prophets—believed to be chosen by the Gods—founded The Church. To its followers, it is more than a place of worship; it is the heart of faith, a pillar of salvation, and the bridge between mortals and the divine. Pilgrims from distant lands journey to its towering cathedrals, seeking absolution, divine guidance, and blessings that only the ordained claim to bestow. For centuries, the sacred halls have echoed with prayers and hymns, the flickering glow of candlelight illuminating murals depicting the deeds of the divines and their chosen prophets.

  Yet The Church is not merely a sanctuary of faith—it is an institution of immense influence, one that has woven itself into the very fabric of the Imperial Kingdom. It is said that no monarch ascends the throne without the Church's blessing, for their rule is justified through divine will. High-ranking clergy whisper into the ears of emperors and kings, their counsel shaping laws and policies, ensuring that the Gods' influence—at least as they interpret it—remains ever-present in the kingdom's governance. The Church's reach extends far beyond the royal court; its authority dictates social order, enforces morality, and determines which truths are spoken and which are silenced.

  To the faithful, it is a beacon of hope, a guiding light in times of darkness, offering salvation to those who obey its teachings. For the devout, the Church's word is law, its doctrine an absolute truth that must never be questioned. But not all view it as a benevolent force. There are those who whisper of corruption lurking beneath its grand facade, of holy men who wield faith as both a shield and a weapon, ensuring their own power remains unchallenged. Some claim the Church's influence has long surpassed that of the Imperial family itself, that its true strength lies not in prayer but in control—over kings and commoners alike.

  Even so, its presence is undeniable, its authority unshaken. Whether seen as a divine institution or a force of oppression, one truth remains—The Church's power endures, and those who stand against it often find themselves facing not just exile, but damnation itself.

  Beneath the vaulted ceilings of a grand chamber, where golden chandeliers bathed the stone walls in warm light, a lone figure knelt in silence. The scent of burning incense thickened the air, mingling with the distant murmur of chanting priests. Shadows flickered along the marble floor as the heavy doors groaned open.

  A man in ornate white robes stepped forward, his eyes settling on the figure before him. A slow smile formed on his lips, though his gaze was unreadable.

  "Oh, what an unexpected surprise." His voice was calm, almost amused. "Eighteen years… and now, you stand before me, no longer a child but a grown woman."

  The figure stirred. Slowly, she lifted her hands, drawing back the hood of her black robe. Beneath it, her auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, and her expression remained unreadable as she met his gaze.

  "…Sister Esther," he murmured, recognition softening his tone.

  She met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I have come to declare that our duty is complete, Father."

  ~

  It had been five days since my sister left for work. In that time, I'd fallen into a routine—handling chores, working at the tavern, and trying not to dwell on the unfamiliar quiet that filled my days. For the first time in years, I wasn't out scouting for something to steal, my mind constantly weighing risks and rewards.

  But stability was... strange.

  I hadn't realized how much of my life had been spent in motion—searching, scheming, surviving. Now, the hours stretched long and uneventful, like I was waiting for something to happen.

  And in this city, something always did.

  Rogan stood behind the bar; his sharp gaze flicked to me as I stepped in. "You're late." His sharp gaze flicked to me as I stepped in.

  "I'm on time," I said, shaking off my cloak.

  "Late enough," he grunted. "Get to work."

  I bit back a sigh and moved toward the back, tying my apron around my waist. As I grabbed a tray and headed toward a table of sailors, a figure stepped into the tavern—a young woman, her presence striking against the dim lighting of the room. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves, catching the candlelight as if it were spun from gold. She moved with a quiet grace, her eyes scanning the room, searching.

  The tavern's low murmur seemed to quiet for a moment, as if the patrons sensed something different about her. I caught Rogan's glance—his eyes flicked toward her, then back to me, but he said nothing.

  The woman was clearly out of place here. Her clothes were fine, much too refined for the docks, yet she wore a simple elegance that didn't scream noble—more like someone trying to blend in without quite succeeding.

  She paused, and then her eyes landed on me.

  "Dawn," she called, her voice soft but firm.

  I stopped mid-step, my fingers tightening around the tray I was holding. How did she know my name? I glanced around, but the patrons were pretending to mind their own business again, clearly uninterested in this unfamiliar face. But I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone in the room had noticed her arrival.

  She took a few steps closer, her gaze never wavering. "I'm looking for Dawn," she repeated, this time more directly.

  I swallowed, unsure how to respond. "I'm Dawn," I said, cautiously. "Can I help you?"

  She nodded, a flicker of relief passing across her features. "I thought it was you," she said, offering a small but genuine smile. "I'm Arty."

  Arty. The name rang no immediate bells, but the way she carried herself—like someone used to being heard—told me she wasn't just some lost noblewoman wandering into the wrong part of town.

  She looked around the tavern, then back at me. "Do you mind if we talk?" she asked.

  I hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Rogan. He was already turning to tend to the next customer, uninterested in our interaction. "Sure," I said, leading her to a quieter corner of the tavern where a few empty stools waited.

  As we settled into the space, she glanced over her shoulder before speaking again. "You don't know me yet, but I need your help."

  "Help?" I repeated, a mix of curiosity and caution creeping into my voice.

  "You are a thief, right?"

  I went still.

  Her words lingered between us, heavy and deliberate.

  I should've denied it. Most people in my position would have. Instead, I just looked at her, searching for any sign of deception.

  No fear. No hesitation.

  Only certainty.

  "Not anymore," I said evenly. "What of it?"

  Arty's gaze softened, but there was a certain urgency behind it, one that didn't leave much room for hesitation. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough that only I could hear.

  "I need you to sneak something in," she said. "A letter. It's important, and I don't want it falling into the wrong hands."

  I exhaled through my nose. "And who told you I was the kind of person who'd take that job?"

  Arty hesitated, then sighed. "Jax."

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  I tensed.

  Of course.

  That damn alley rat never knew when to shut up.

  "Jax?" I repeated, irritation threading through my voice. "And how do you know him?"

  Arty tilted her head slightly, studying me. "He's a friend—of sorts," she admitted. "Though I doubt he'd call it that."

  That sounded like Jax. Never one to get too attached yet always tangled up in something.

  She continued, "He and his group are preoccupied with something bigger right now. Something that can't wait. Otherwise, he would've handled this himself. But this letter—it's urgent. It has to be delivered tonight, and it has to be done quietly."

  I crossed my arms. "And you trust him enough to take his word that I'm the right person?"

  Arty met my gaze evenly. "Yes. Jax told me that if I needed someone who could slip past locked doors and get something where it needs to go, I should find you."

  I exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against my arm. "Where does it need to go?"

  She leaned in slightly. "The Black Griffin."

  I stiffened.

  Not just any location. The Black Griffin was the place for powerful merchants, nobles, and spies. The kind of place where a misplaced letter could be worth more than gold.

  The Black Griffin was more than just an inn—it was a bastion of power, whispers, and shadowy dealings. Nestled in the heart of the city, just beyond the reach of the docks, its exterior was deceptively unassuming—stone walls, dimly lit lanterns, and a weathered sign depicting a majestic black griffin with outstretched wings. But inside, it was a different world entirely.

  My gaze sharpened. "What's in it?"

  Arty hesitated. "Something that could change the course of things."

  Cryptic. Jax's kind of cryptic.

  I narrowed my eyes. "If it's so important, why not just use a courier?"

  "Because I don't know who I can trust," she admitted, voice quieter now. "I barely know you either, but Jax swore you were the best. Said you had instincts sharper than a knife."

  I clenched my jaw. Jax really didn't know when to shut up.

  I leaned back in my seat, arms still crossed. "Well, he was wrong. I don't do that anymore. I have a job—a legitimate one."

  Arty studied me, her expression unreadable. Then, she reached into the small pouch at her hip and pulled out A handful of gold coins tumbled onto the table.

  I didn't move. Just stared.

  The candlelight caught the edges, casting glints of yellow across the dark wood. A few nearby patrons flicked their eyes our way, but none seemed to notice what she had just done. Not yet.

  I inhaled sharply and shot her a glare. "No, put that away! You do know you're inside of a tavern full of messed up people."

  She didn't flinch. "Take it. Consider it payment for a simple sneaking in."

  I scoffed. "If it were that simple, you wouldn't need me."

  "I beg of you."

  I stared at the gold, its weight pressing down on me. The soft clink of coins against the wood sounded louder than it should have. Arty's calm expression didn't change, but the quiet plea in her voice lingered like an unspoken promise.

  I dragged my hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. This wasn't how I planned to spend my day—certainly not with Jax's name on my lips again, and definitely not in this damn tavern, surrounded by people who had no business knowing anything about what I was—or used to be.

  But... if I let her leave here without doing something, things could go sideways. Fast. I'd seen it before. People with money and desperate looks got into trouble. And the kind of trouble that followed a woman like Arty... it was trouble that would swallow her whole.

  I exhaled sharply, leaning forward, my eyes narrowed at the pile of gold between us. "Fine," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck as I tried to shake the irritation out of my bones. "I'll do it."

  Arty's face softened, relief flashing across her features. "Thank you."

  I grimaced, still not sure what exactly I'd gotten myself into. "But don't get any ideas. I'm only doing this because you're standing here in the middle of a tavern full of people who could easily turn you into a target." I shot a glance around, aware of the occasional wary gaze lingering on our corner.

  The last thing I needed was for her to get snatched up because some wandering thug thought she was an easy mark. I didn't know her, but she wasn't stupid. I could see that much. She was just... out of place. And that made her vulnerable.

  Her lips parted, her smile barely there but full of quiet gratitude. "Understood," she said, her voice low but sincere. "It's just—there's no one else I can trust with this."

  "I don't trust you," I shot back without thinking. "But here we are."

  Arty didn't flinch. "I wouldn't expect you to. But Jax swore by you, and that's enough for me right now."

  The fact that I'd already agreed to this made me want to slap some sense into myself. But instead, I just straightened up, making a mental note of the task ahead.

  "Well? Can you please tell me, who should I give that to?"

  Arty hesitated for just a beat before speaking, her voice quiet and controlled. "Room 10." She glanced around the tavern once, her eyes flicking toward the door like she was considering if anyone might overhear. "There should be a coat or a table there, somewhere visible, but not too obvious. It needs to blend in."

  I frowned, trying to picture the inn. It wasn't far from here, but that didn't make the job any easier. "And who exactly is waiting for this letter?"

  Arty's gaze darkened slightly, but she quickly masked it with a neutral expression. "It does not matter, what matters is for that letter to be delivered."

  That didn't answer the question, but I didn't press her. If she didn't want to tell me, I couldn't force it out of her. Still, something about her words felt off. I didn't know her enough to trust her fully, but then again, I didn't have to. This wasn't about trust—it was about survival. And right now, it seemed like getting the letter to its destination was the easiest way to make sure no one got hurt.

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll get it to room 10, but don't expect anything more from me. Once I hand it off, I'm out. You're on your own after that."

  Arty nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "That's all I'm asking. Thank you, Dawn. You don't know how much this means."

  Before I could reply, she stood, reaching for the gold again, but I quickly placed my hand over it.

  "No more gold," I said firmly. "I don't need your money. This isn't about that."

  She hesitated but then let her hand fall away, her smile turning a little softer. "Then I'll consider it a favor, and I'll owe you one."

  I watched her turn and walk away, but something still gnawed at me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into something I shouldn't.

  ~

  The moment the last patron stumbled out of the tavern, I grabbed my cloak and slipped into the cool night air. The streets of Ara stretched before me—dark, endless, and alive with secrets. Every alley, every shadow seemed to hide its own story. I kept my steps quick, determined to get this over with. The Black Griffin wasn't far, but tonight, it felt as though the entire city was conspiring to make me second-guess myself.

  As I approached the Black Griffin, an uneasy feeling settled in my gut. The inn stood before me, unassuming at first glance. Dim lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting fleeting glows over the sign—a black griffin perched against a stormy sky. But inside... inside was another matter. It was a place of whispers, secrets, and hidden dealings. Powerful merchants, spies, and nobles filtered in and out, all operating under the veil of anonymity. And the last thing I wanted was to be noticed.

  I drew a steadying breath and stepped inside, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The air felt heavy—charged with anticipation, like something was about to unfold. I moved casually through the tavern, as though I belonged, blending into the shadows. No one was supposed to know why I was here, or who I was.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I made my way to the back, toward the private rooms. Room 10. Arty had said it would be simple: slip the letter into a coat pocket, leave it on a table, and leave. Easy enough. But even as I threaded my way through the dim-lit room, I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. My gut twisted, telling me I was being watched, though no one seemed to be looking directly at me. Maybe I was just paranoid.

  I reached the hallway where the rooms were. The door to Room 10 stood, just as Arty had described. As I unlocked the door, a small table near the bed was empty, a perfect spot for a quick drop. I moved closer, my fingers grazing the smooth wood of the table as I set the letter down, careful to make it as discreet as possible.

  But then—just as I pulled my hand away—the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Someone was watching me. My breath hitched, and I froze, my hand hovering near the letter as I glanced over my shoulder.

  A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered. For a moment, we just stood there, locked in a silent standoff. His eyes—dark and intense—met mine, and I felt my heart stutter in my chest. Every instinct I had screamed to flee, but I couldn't move. There was something in the air, some invisible pressure pushing me to stay put. My breath came in shallow bursts as I tried to focus, but everything felt hazy, as if the room had suddenly shifted.

  "Who are you?"

  The words cut through the tension, but it wasn't just the question that made me freeze. It was the way he said it—authoritative, controlled. I could feel it in my bones: this man didn't ask questions he didn't already know the answers to. It was as if he were used to being in charge, to controlling every room he entered.

  I couldn't find my voice. I tried to move, to speak, but it was as though my body had betrayed me. The space between us felt impossibly thick, like the world had narrowed down to just him and me.

  Then, without warning, something inside me stirred—my curse. It surged to life with violent force, a jolt that rippled through every fiber of my being. The world around me distorted, twisting into a dizzying blur. Time itself seemed to fracture, splintering into fractured images. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move—my body frozen in place as I was pulled into the maelstrom of visions.

  And then I saw it.

  Not just the man before me—not just his imposing figure, his sharp, piercing gaze—but everything. His past. His present. His future. It crashed into my mind in a torrent of fleeting, fragmented images. Glimpses of triumph and tragedy, whispered secrets, and blood-soaked battles. The weight of years, of decisions made in shadowed rooms and beneath a crown, pressed upon me all at once.

  I could feel it—his every victory, his every loss—as if they were my own. The burning ambition, the cold determination, the unspoken truths hidden behind the mask of nobility. Each fragment blurred into the next, so fast, so overwhelming, I could barely catch my breath.

  And at the center of it all, like an undeniable force pulling everything into its orbit, was him.

  My knees buckled beneath me, my pulse hammering in my ears. I stumbled back, the weight of the revelation crashing into me like a physical blow. The room spun. The air felt thick, suffocating. I could barely comprehend what I had seen, let alone make sense of it. But one thing was clear—he was no mere noble, no faceless man in a crowd. He was power incarnate, a shadow that stretched far beyond the walls of this tavern.

  The Crown Prince, of the Imperial Kingdom of Celestia.