The Twilight Thief: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Thrones of Midgard Book 1)

by J. Levi

  “Why should I trust you? You’re fae!” He spits.

  There it is.

  I groan into my open palms and walk away, trying to put as much space between us as possible before I become overwhelmed by the raging urge to strangle the annoying life from his eyes. I hear the prince grunt and scoff as he pulls my boots onto his feet and runs after me.

  Incredible, he’s following me now.

  I stop and turn full circle, the prince crashing into me, his face pelting my chest until he stumbles backward and shakes off the stupor.

  “Can I help you?” I gruel.

  The prince watches me abashed before saying incredulously, “You can’t leave me here!”

  “Of course I can,” I deadpan. “After all, why should you trust me, I’m fae.” I nearly faulter at the last words, finally admitting them out loud, but the satisfaction of spitting the princes words back at him is too sweet.

  The prince takes another step back, his voice smaller than before but still laced with indignant privilege.

  “But I am your prince.”

  I look around the dead forest and back at the man before me and mutter, “Not out here, you aren’t.”

  “This is absurd! Surely you don’t mean to leave me stranded! You’re the one who brought me here in the first place,” the prince nearly shouts. I almost wince, realizing he has a point, but I won’t let him know that.

  “I saved your life,” I argue.

  “After skulking about my aunt and uncles stables and chateau with deciept in your step!”

  “I didn’t take anything.”

  “Because I interrupted your intrigues, surely.”

  I throw my hands in the air in defeat. There’s no point in arguing. I turn, already itching to remove myself from the situation when the prince blurts out, “I’ll pay you! Handsomely—as a reward for my safe return.”

  I shift on my feet as I mule over his offer. This could go sour real quick. What’s to stop him from turning me in the moment we step foot in Edonia? Without the ability to wisp, I’ll be at the princes mercy, and by the looks of him, he probably doesn’t have much for a thief.

  “No.” I say and continue to walk away.

  “P—please,” he says which forces me to stop once again, half turning to look at the pained expression on his face.

  I sniff, casually rolling my shoulder and snicker, “I didn’t think rich folk like you even knew that word.”

  The conflicted grimace on the prince swiftly turns to exasperation. I’d almost consider it cute how flustered he gets.

  Releasing a tense sigh in my chest, I turn fully, facing him with indifference.

  “Swear by it then.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I take two long strides until I’m standing in his space, my nose nearly inches from his forehead. He cranes his neck just to look up at me and I notice the smooth stretch of skin on his neck, barely a hint of a beard.

  “Swear by it. I return you to Edonia, and you pay me…” I take another step forward as if it were physically possible to occupy the same space. “Handsomely.”

  I watch as the princes neck twist as he swallows audibly. He nods but that isn’t good enough. I lean forward, inching closer to his ear and nearly whisper, “Swear by it.”

  “I—I swear,” he stumbles. “I swear on my honor, you shall be paid reward for my safe return.”

  The shivers coursing through the princes body isn’t lost on me. I search his eyes for signs of farce. I wish Ricon were here. He could tell a lie.

  The cold image of Ricon lying on the floor, his shoulder disfigured. I push down the sweltering guilt and look away from the pine forest green eyes which stare at me in earnest.

  “If you think to cross me—” I start.

  “—I won’t,” the prince says with indignation.

  With a terse nod, I turn away and continue the trek through dead trees. What have I gotten myself into?

  12

  Leluna

  “Nautica loved the humans of Midgard. She admired the strongest and wept for the weakest, always watching from far above the stars, hidden from the human eye. But when Nautica’s siblings cast her from the heavens for her disloyalty to the gods, she became the queen of man and sea of Midgard, Nautica the Anchor.

  – archives of the pirate treaty of Azureon 41 B.A.

  I wait for Kael in our usual spot at the usual time. An hour later, I realize he isn’t going to show. Fuming with anger, I decide to break protocol and slip from the castle sewers to storm through the capital streets.

  Torchlight flickers across the old cobblestone roads. Copper braziers stationed at every street corner. Slow-burning oil that wreaks of sour milk keeps the flames ablaze. The majority of the streets are usually cast in darkness at this hour. The entire city is ignited, no doubt by the king’s command for the new curfew.

  The summer ocean wind sweeps against the tudor style shops and manors. Lofts brazen the city heights, and their balcony doors open to the inviting sea kiss breeze. The city is in a lull as the sky swells with stars. Once again, I find myself admiring the colors of twilight and the saccharine thoughts of my friend. I’ll need to track Nova down after this shitshow is over. It’s been a while since I shared a pint with him and Ricon.

  I’m thankful for my silk slippers, which silently patter against the cobblestone passageways. I tuck my chin into my dark gossamer cloak, muffling the pants of my breath as I run through the streets. My heart drums within my chest. The anticipation of getting caught is almost exhilarating, but this isn’t the time to explore possible voyeurism.

  I halt at the brim of an alley, the clambering orchestra of soldier boots march along the main street. I hug against the cool brick wall, summoning my magic. As it slips across my body and cloak, it casts an illusion, allowing me to blend into the darkened alley wall. The soldiers march by without suspicion. I launch from the wall and barrel across the street behind the marching squadron, ducking into another alley.

  The capital is the largest city in Edonia, housing over a million citizens, even after the genocide. The capital palace hugs the coastal wall while the culmination of four boroughs makes up the city limits. The Coin, Brook, Heath, and Ivory boroughs partition the city by class and district, governed by lords.

  The safehouse used as a foothold within the limits of the Heath borough is located across the sea of buildings and streets, north of the palace along the coastline. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back to the castle just before sunrise. I silently kiss goodbye any hope I have of getting an ounce of sleep tonight. I cringe at the abhorrent insults lady Vaneeda will indeed cast my way in the morning for my tired and haggard appearance, but I can use a glamour to keep it hidden.

  I descend a stairway delving deeper into the city and away from the Ivory borough’s upper-class quadrant. I run along the sizably paved canal which weaves through the city. A soldier turns a corner abruptly. I don’t have enough time to dip into an alley, so I reach deep into my well of magic and command it to cast the illusion of a dog running along the street. The soldier stops as I scurry past. He whistles while praising “good doggy,” but I don’t stop.

  I turn the corner and release the illusion, dreading the several miles I still need to travel. Now I understand why Kael was late the other night. I almost want to feel guilty about it, but I don’t.

  It takes hours to navigate the soldier-infested streets of the two boroughs I pass through. Eventually, I consider murdering everyone instead of the intricacies of staying concealed or exhausting my magic to glamour. I’m astounded by my power of self-control when I reach the safehouse, and no blood is spilled in the process.

  The Heath borough is littered with industrial districts full of warehouses and factories located near the capital harbor. The warehouses sit unused and vacant, mostly just homeless squatters or black-market trades. The safehouse is an abandoned factory. Once used to tailor mass quantities of clothing, it was shut down during t
he purge. The owners were fae, which meant they were slaughtered. The property was quarantined to ensure the safety of the capital citizens from wild magic—propaganda bullshit.

  I approach the side door. The main entrance is boarded up, giving the illusion the place is still abandoned. I knock on the dull green door in a pattern, a secret code for entry. The door swings open aggressively, plumes of smoke fleeting from the doorway. A hooded figure towers above me, face concealed in darkness. Only the gentle glow of a smoke stick beneath the hood.

  “You’re not expected,” he says. I instantly recognize the brooding voice. His name is Jud, a captain in the guild, technically a colleague. The man removes his hood, revealing his filthy blonde hair, scarred brows, and thin pale lips pressed into a thin line while embracing the smoke stick. Jud inhales deeply before blowing the fumes in my face. My eyes swell from the burn, but I don’t wince. I duck under his arm that braces the doorway. He motions to grab my hood, but I avoid his grasp, and I swiftly weave through the maze of old tattered crates and equipment. I hear him command me to stop, but I ignore him. I don’t have time to stand around and comparing sizes, especially with machismo types like him.

  I pass rebellion members, squandering in groups. Some I recognize from the Order of Assassins, most of the others are probably freedom fighters recruited into the cause. I ignore the nods, waves, and greetings as I head for a steel staircase leading to the warehouse’s upper floor. In these bricked offices, the people in charge sit with their hierarchy attitudes. I understand better than anyone the importance of the rebellion, but it’s more politics at the end of the day. I find things are more straightforward when you poke them with pointy things and call that a day.

  Jud is still calling after me as I reach the last door down a dark hallway. I ignore him when I burst through the door. It’s a small room, well-lit by a quartz stone on a table with runic symbols etched into its smooth surface. Behind the desk is a halfling man wearing round spectacles, barely braced by the tip of his sharp nose, which curves into a downward droop. He glances at me briefly with his beady blue eyes before he returns his attention to the documents on his desk.

  “Where is he, Gymlette?” I ask. He knows who I’m asking for. The Grand Commander of the Order of Assassins. Also, my adoptive father, Theor.

  “Fondstadt,” Gymlette responds without looking up.

  Jud emerges from the hallway, immediately reaching for my shoulder. I swat his hand away, shift my foot against his heel, slam an open palm against his face and an elbow to the clavicle of his chest. He falls to his knees with a loud thud to the wood floor and a snarl from his lips. He’s about to retaliate when a woman steps into the room.

  Her name is Gail, second in command beneath Theor. She’s about twenty years older than me but just as deadly and fierce as the day she was my age. I have a concise list of people who can make me nervous, and Gail is high on that small list. I’ve known her since Theor took me under his wing. In a child’s faetale, she’d be the pseudo-mother figure I yearned for. However, this is reality, and she’s far from it. I can’t even consider her as an older sister. More like a distant cousin I only ever tolerate during holidays.

  Regardless of our disconnected relationship, she’s brilliant in command and a badass in the field. It’s hard enough being a woman in the Order of Assassins. It’s an entirely different league when it involves leadership.

  “Finally, someone with common sense here. Where’s Kael?” I ask Gail.

  “Hello to you too, Leluna,” she says, not unkindly but also not fondly. She crosses the room until she perches on the edge of the desk while Gymlette is still busy filtering through pages. Jud raises from the floor and obeys Gail’s orders. She offers him a minuscule nod and flicks her eyes to the doorway. A silent command to leave.

  Gods above, sometimes I wish I invoked that much power.

  I cross my arms defiantly, awaiting the answer to my question still lingering in the tense room. Gail stares at me, an intimidation tactic or pure observation. It’s hard to tell when it’s an assassin. We’re trained to always analyze and calculate.

  “Look, if Theor isn’t here, fine. But I will talk with Kael,” I demand.

  Gail flinches at his name, it’s subtle and nearly impossible to catch by the untrained eye, but I catch on.

  “What happened?” I ask, though, in my line of work, I already have an idea.

  “Dead,” Gail answers, short and precise. It’s my turn to flinch.

  “How?”

  “Scouts found him on a lynching wall near merchant square just before curfew,” she answers. Her words aren’t accusing, but they still offer little comfort.

  I didn’t know Kael beyond the confines of our missions. He was my handler, nothing else. So why does his death sting a little? Wasn’t I fantasizing the way I’d murder him on my way here when I thought he stood me up?

  I decide I’ll digest the flurry of emotions that swim through my mind later.

  “Did he deliver my last report from last night,” I ask?

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know why I’m here,” I say. Gail nods slowly, withdrawing a bundle of parchments rolled and bound by a leather cord. She hands it to me. I don’t hesitate to unfasten the binding and review the documents, the schematics to the palace dungeons.

  “Why didn’t you send someone else to deliver this? You know how fucking annoying it was trying to get here tonight?” I ask with more attitude than I intend.

  “That’s exactly why we didn’t send someone. You are more adept at blending in or getting away if the situation calls for it. It’s less of a risk for you to come to us rather than us to you.”

  Logical, I admit. I want to hang onto my annoyance, but I digress. I breathe a heavy sigh and roll the schematics back into a tight roll before pocketing it.

  “Did you send a warning to the duchess?” I ask.

  “We did, though it would be nice to know what we are warning about,” Gail says coolly.

  I dive into my recount of events the other night. The path to the queen’s chamber being unguarded, the exchange with a foreign stranger, the sudden change of her physical appearance, everything. After I finished summarizing, I waited for Gail to respond. At some point during my debriefing, Gymlette stopped his sequence of tasks and gawked at me in disbelief.

  “You say the queen is fae? That is simply preposterous,” Gymlette chides. I roll my eyes and scoff.

  “Right, because I get a kick out of making shit up and report back just to see the looks on your face,” I say sardonically.

  Gail is still watching me, her brows pinched as she calculates her response.

  “We sent night crows to Laenberg in warning, but we’ve failed to receive any response. I’ve sent scouts on horseback,” Gail finally says monotone.

  “Well, given the fact the queen is fucking fae and talks to gods damned mirrors, there’s a good chance the duchess is already dead,” I say. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Kael ends up lynched either.”

  “Neither do I,” Gail agrees.

  “This is impossible. You’re telling me she’s a fae and responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands?” Gymlette is in utter shock.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I snap.

  I turn back to Gail and say, “Any update on the prince’s whereabouts?”

  “A Thieves Guild agent reports seeing him in Rhenstadt, but beyond that, we don’t know,” she replies.

  I consider for a moment before saying, “I don’t think the queen is behind the prince’s disappearance—not completely, at least.”

  “It’s quite obvious she’s behind it,” Gymlette snarks.

  “I agree with Leluna,” Gail interludes. “If what you’re saying is true, then the queen is searching for the prince as well.”

  “What does that mean?” Gymlette asks, astonished.

  “It means there’s more at play that we don’t know about. En
crypt a coded message to Theor in Fondstadt, send it through night crow tonight,” Gail orders.

  Gymlette shuffles through his parchments and begins his coding with a feather quill in hand.

  “Who do you think she’s referring to,” Gail asks, drowning out the subtle scribbles of the quill to parchment. I realize she’s referring to the nameless man that Morda requested be delivered to her.

  “I don’t know,” I say because I don’t.

  Gail nods, still filtering through her thoughts before she says, “We need to pull you out.”

  “The fuck you do,” I snap.

  “It’s too risky. We’ve already lost two agents, and now we’ve lost contact with our benefactor, and no one can locate the prince. We’re drowning here. I’m ordering everyone to vacate the capital and regroup in Fondstadt.”

  “Nymueh is still in that castle somewhere, and I’m not leaving here until I find her,” I shout, rage pulsating through my veins.

  Gail leans back on the desk, more weight into her posture as she crosses her arms and chews the inside of her cheek, a gesture I’ve never witnessed from her before. She almost looks nervous.

  “Theor will have my head if I let you back in there,” she says finally.

  I scoff and flip my hair out of my face when I say, “Since when did you become Theor’s lapdog?”

  It’s a cheap shot, but I’m not in the mood to obey blind orders. I know what it’s like being a woman in the Guild. Our commander tends to be open-minded and unprejudiced, but most members don’t share that same sentiment.

  I know I’ve struck a nerve when Gail rolls her eyes.

  “If you’re going back in, I can’t stop you. However, while you’re in there, I have a mark for you,” she says, pulling a small, folded piece of parchment from her coat.

  I feel the conflicting twinge of guilt and excitement. A sentiment that often plagues me when I get my marks.

  “Who?” I ask because I always do. I’ve made it a habit to learn as much about my mark before carrying out the task. Perhaps I need to know the wicked things they’ve done to help feel justified in taking their life. Or I might just be a sadist and want to put fuel on the fire of guilt that always swells after a kill.