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

  THE TWILIGHT THIEF

  Thrones of Midgard

  BOOK ONE

  J. LEVI

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Twilight Thief

  Copyright 2021 by J. Levi

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: [email protected]

  Cover Art – Ravindu Marasinghe

  Cover Design – Germancreative

  Editor – Ck_korfo

  Beta Readers – Becca Gardner, Lena Galvan, Keri_haddrill, nikkib89

  Paperback Edition available

  ISBN: 979-8-5130166-9-4 (paper-back)

  To Addison, may you always remember to dream of magic and stuff.

  Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.

  Lloyd Alexander

  Table of Contents

  1. Nova

  2. Casaell

  3. Nova

  4. Merida

  5. Nova

  6. Leluna

  7. Nova

  8. Leluna

  9. Nova

  10. Merida

  11. Nova

  12. Leluna

  13. Nova

  14. Leluna

  15. Nova

  16. Casaell

  17. Nova

  18. Casaell

  19. Merida

  20. Nova

  21. Merida

  22. Leluna

  23. Nova

  24. Casaell

  25. Leluna

  26. Merida

  27. Nova

  28. Casaell

  29. Merida

  30. Nova

  31. Casaell

  32. Nova

  33. Leluna

  34. Merida

  35. Nova

  1

  Nova

  “…little is known about the phenomenon. Recorded accounts describe the sky bleeding into pure white light, and the earth shook asunder. Then they came from the mists, offering tools and crop. But their most affluential resource was magic. This event is cataloged by historical archivists as B.M. (Birth of Magic)

  – History of Magic from the lost archives 670 B.M.

  “—and then I said, ‘there’s my shoe!’” the drunkard bellows from across our table. Ale sloshes from the brim of his mug, spilling onto the tacky wood table. The man’s mangy red beard, soaked in ale, shines in the torchlight. He balances his wooden mug on the peak of his belly while his raucous laughter settles. “Oh, lemme tell you about the time I lost my other shoe and then found it in a tree—a tree by gods.”

  “Kill me now,” I whisper to my companion, Ricon, who finds the surly stranger amusing.

  Ricon approached me at my coastal villa in Richtenfel with a job only days ago. We hadn’t worked together since Coldwater Bay, so it didn’t take much convincing. I agreed to the job, which led us here at some tavern called Twisted Candles, waiting for our client.

  I turn to my friend now, who conceals his smug face behind a gloved hand. “You’ve done this to me, you know. You’ve brought this into my life,” I say pointedly, which only inspires more laughter.

  “I could be lounging in my cozy villa right now,” I remind him.

  Ricon recovers enough to reply, “And where would be the fun in that?”

  I take a swig of my ale. Its bite is sharp with hints of sweet apple and barley. I’m more accustomed to the more refined wines of Ritchenfel, but ale will do in a pinch. Laenberg, the city of Cathedrals, isn’t known for its variety of alcohol since half of the city claims abstinence.

  I scan the tavern for the hundredth time. Everything is still the same. We sit at a table near the unlit hearth. The summer breeze ruffles the torchlight and candles every time the tavern door opens. On a platform near the bar, a bard sings a fabled tale of the sacred six in the spirit of the Summers Eve, a festival that marks the summer solstice. All of Laenberg prepares for the week-long festivities. I’ve attended the festival in the past. Large crowds are the perfect playground for a thief.

  “That’s our guy,” Ricon leans in to whisper. My gaze tracks to the figure at the tavern door. A slender man, short and perfectly hidden behind his burlap cloak. His face is cast in shadows from his hood, but I can make out the outline of a dark beard.

  I turn back to the drunkard who’s slurping at the remnants of his empty mug. I toss a single silver mark across the table and say, “Tell you what, why don’t you get us another round.” The drunkard doesn’t hesitate for more ale, especially free ale. He staggers away from our table, whistling a jolly tune in line with the bard’s song.

  “I swear, if that man tells one more story about his gods damned shoes, I’m going to lose it, Ricon,” I scold my companion. He chuckles another bout of laughter.

  I admire the glint in his eye, its melancholy, almost reminiscent of the good ol’ days when we ran amuck in Rhenstadt. To the average onlooker, Ricon is a sight to behold, a tree trunk of intimidation, which isn’t the prime characteristic for a thief. I’m no halfing by any comparison. Our statures share some similarities, though Ricon certainly towers over me.

  Ricon settles just in time for our guest to slip into a chair across from us. He removes his hood, revealing a heavy mop of black hair tied back in a knot. The man’s beard is thicker now that I have a closer look, speckled with early signs of grey. Around his eyes are heavy lines showing his age. Beneath his tattered cloak, the man wears an elegant tunic with gold rope and a white frock, attempting to remain anonymous by concealing his rank. I catch the barest glimpse of an insignia pinned to the mans collar. It’s the depiction of a mongoose, the crest of house Donhagen.

  “Rags,” the man nods to my companion, using Ricon’s alias and looks at me. “This him?”

  “Aye,” Ricon says, careful not to use my name. “Let me introduce you to the Twilight Thief.”

  “Ugh,” I groan at the title. “Do you really have to call me that?”

  “Why not? It’s cool.”

  “It’s pretentious. That’s what it is.”

  The Twilight Thief, a title I adorned during my stent in Rhenstadt, the city of Guilds. I learned how to pickpocket unseen at the young age of eight. I had to for survival. I met Ricon in the Little Loo, what the locals called the slums. Attached at the hip, we did everything together. “Street-rats,” Madam Posie from the tea house would call us when we failed to pilfer enough coin for supper. She took pity on us and offered scraps from the trash.

  The year we turned ten, we were recruited by the prestigious Guild of Thieves. I never made it past the initiation. “Issues with authority,” their reasoning. Ricon climbed the ranks of the guild while I climbed the trellises of noble estates. We both succeeded in our own adventures but always remained close.

  I made a name for myself as the most renowned thief of Rhenstadt. There wasn’t a lock safe or cache I couldn’t pilfer. The nickname was penned by the local tabloid, which proclaimed my favoritism of stealing during the slim transition of night to dawn, at the hour of twilight. It’s true, I do have a
n odd fascination for twilight. It’s far enough into the night that everyone is fast asleep. Even the drunkards are passed out somewhere by that time. It’s far enough away from dawn that the coverage of shadow remains. Guards in the nightpost are tired, eager to meet their beds or bury themselves in their wives. Either way, the hour of twilight is the perfect time for mischief.

  At the meager age of fourteen, I soaked in the attention and let the fame go to my head. I went as far as stealing the ledgers straight from the Thieves Guild, sniping their job lists before they could even dispatch a guildmate. This didn’t sit well with the Guild leaders. To spare Ricon any backlash, we had to put some distance between us, though our friendship never faltered. That’s when I suffered my first encounter with the Order of Assassins. An eager young acolyte named Leluna Dahahl was given my mark. The assassin chased me across Edonia before cornering me in Hjornholm. I’m not sure what she saw in me, but it was enough to deter her from carrying out her mark. But that’s a tale for another time.

  The black-bearded stranger offers a hand across the table. I take it in a firm grip.

  “Don,” the man says. I nod, even though I know it isn’t his name.

  “Pleasure,” I reply. “My companion here says you have a job for us.” Don nods before pulling a silk purse from his waist and discreetly slides it across the table. I pull the purse into my hand, testing the weight of coin. I shake it lightly, gauging about ten gold marks.

  “You’ll get the other half after the job is done,” Don says.

  I pocket the silk purse and ask, “and what is the job, exactly?”

  “I lost my ring by wager a fortnight ago,” Don says. “You will steal it back.”

  “Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a ring,” I muse.

  “It’s a family heirloom. Priceless in the eyes of my clansman.”

  I turn to Ricon, who’s studying our guest. While I excel in the proclivities of thievery, Ricon is a master in reading people. He offers me a faint nod.

  “Alright. Who are we stealing this family heirloom from?” I ask while taking a sip of ale.

  “The lord of Laenberg.”

  I startle at the omission and choke on my ale which sprays from my nose. The burn is enough to swell tears behind my eyes. Ricon slaps my back heavily until I recover. When my coughing fit settles, I look to Don with grim seriousness.

  “You mean to steal from lord Montares?”

  “Nay. I mean for you to steal,” Don answers. “If you are caught, I will deny any knowledge of who you are.”

  The drunkard finally returns, balancing three mugs of ale in his plump arms. “I didn’t know we had company. I only got three, I’ll go get another for your friend.” The drunkard leaves faster than he came.

  “Triple,” I say to Don as I take my new mug. Don raises a brow in question.

  “We’ll accept triple the promised pay when we deliver your family heirloom.”

  “We agreed twenty gold marks,” Don snaps. “I’ve given you ten, and ten is what will be owed when you deliver.”

  “No, you agreed twenty marks,” I say while hooking a thumb at Don and Ricon. “I’ve agreed to nothing here.”

  “I didn’t call for his services,” Don sneers at Ricon.

  I hold up a hand before Ricon can respond. “You’ll be thankful my companion included me. Any other common thief would be caught and lynched faster than they could wipe their ass.”

  Don glares for a long while until he nods in agreement. “Aye, very well. Fifty gold marks.”

  “Now that’s settled. What’s it look like?” Ricon asks. Don takes his time describing the garish ring, a silver band with carved horses seating a single river quartz garnet. Dwarven runes etched the inner ring. The ring belonged to a maiden of Loch Mordanr, a river nylph. Feisty little water sprites that love shiny things and riddles. Don’s ancestor tricked the nylph and won a match of riddles, and the nylph reluctantly gave away her most prized possession. The ring is the only thing that keeps the nylph’s of Mordanr away from Don’s family estate on the lake edge. Since he lost the ring, their lands have been harassed by the river creatures.

  “And above all else, I want anonymity. Not a word of this to anyone, or I’ll send my battalion after your head,” Don warns. When I scoff, Ricon kicks his leather boot against mine as a warning.

  “Do not mock me, boy,” Don sneers.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I know the reason why Don fears the prospect of gossip. I was only fourteen when the King of Edonia issued the first Purge of Arcana. The late queen Maeve had just passed, and the King remarried not even a fortnight after. It’s no secret that queen Morda is the true villain behind the purge. “An assault against abominations,” the queen called it. I call it genocide. Hundreds of thousands of humans and fae have been massacred in the name of the crown. The fact that Don and his clansman rely on an artifact that possesses some inkling of magic is enough for his entire heritage to be wiped from the kingdom.

  Don stands from the table, bunching his burlap cloak tightly around his front to conceal his attire. “I expect delivery in no less than two nights before the end of Summer’s Eve, or I’ll consider myself swindled.” Without waiting for a reply, Don stomps out of the tavern.

  “That could have gone better,” Ricon sighs.

  I turn to him in confusion, “I think that went splendid.”

  “Where’d yer friend go?” The drunkard asks while he collapses into Don’s empty seat. He sets the fourth serving of ale on the table next to his still untouched mug.

  “He left,” Ricon answers.

  The drunkard nods and says, “so, ‘bout that story. You’ll get a crack out of this one. It all began when—”

  I slam a hand against the grimy table. The mugs slosh at the force.

  “Would you look at the time? We must get to bed soon—it’s late,” I mutter. I toss a single copper mark at the drunkard and stand from the table. The man grips my forearm and pulls me into an embrace of camaraderie. I pat him on the back begrudgingly once, then twice, and a third time before releasing. I walk away smoothly with the drunkard’s leather coin purse tucked into my sleeve with a sense of satisfaction.

  I climb the tavern stairs, Ricon close behind. On the third floor and down a narrow, windowless hallway, we reach the room we prepaid for two nights. It’s the largest room in the tavern, though it still only has one bed. There’s a large window with a perfect view of the Laenberg Cathedral, a grand structure built into the palace.

  The cathedral is the largest in the kingdom. When the first settlers came to the land, Laenberg was their first foothold, according to scholars. As more land was conquered, the Four Boroughs of Gedaley was erected in the north and anointed the kingdom’s capital to the kingdom of Edonia. I’ve only suffered a few jobs in Gedaley. The place smells more like piss than anything else.

  I casually pour the drunkard’s coin into my palm and count. Two silver marks and ten copper. Stingy bastard.

  “We should scout tomorrow—” Ricon starts, but I stop him with a hand and signal a finger to my ear. Ricon rolls his eyes but nods in agreement. I ensure the room is locked and barricaded before snuffing out the lit candles. I find Ricon waiting by the window.

  “Ready?”

  “No,” Ricon grimaces. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I dive into my river of magic that swells beneath my skin. Its static cling is familiar and seductive. I pull the incandescent whirls of violet and blue until it radiates from my body. I command it to consume Ricon as well. Only a heartbeat passes before we’re both enveloped by magic. I envision my villa in Richtenfel with a mere thought and my magic wisps us into the foyer of my home. Ricon stammers a bit, bracing a hand on the rustic wallpaper until nausea passes.

  My magic is my most precious asset as much as my greatest secret. It’s a wonder why the tabloids of Rhenstadt still haven’t figured it out. My magic allows me to wisp anywhere I can see o
r that I’ve been and can picture in my mind’s eye clearly. It’s managed to keep me alive in some precarious situations, like battling cutthroats in Coldwater Bay after stealing a pirate ship.

  I waste no time removing my black gossamer cloak and head straight for my bedroom ensuite. I pull my leathers off, each layer like a breath of fresh air. I draw water into the masoned bathtub, thankful for the summer heat that warms the water in the pipes. Ricon steps into the ensuite just as I’m climbing into the bath.

  I’ve never been modest with my body, which doesn’t bother Ricon. I prefer the company of men, as does Ricon, though his needs are for companionship rather than sexual. We’ve only ever considered each other friends, brothers.

  “Ready to talk?” Ricon asks.

  I hum, “Mhm. Just need to wash that grimy tavern off.”

  “You’re spoiled.”

  I scoff and say, “I’ve never said otherwise.”

  Ricon crosses the ensuite and leaps onto the counter that stages a long-framed mirror. Ricon inspects the gold leaf trimmed piece, carefully mounted on the wall. Ricon rubs a finger against the frame in admiration. He whistles softly and says, “this is new.”

  “I stole it from a general’s countryside estate near Auninhelm a few weeks ago,” I brag.

  “No shit, general Briggn or Castor?”

  “Neither. Feveroe”

  “I heard she breeds Swelks—those horsey swan-lookin’ things.”

  “Horrible creatures if you ask me. They shit everywhere.”

  “Couldn’t have anything that’ll make a mess in your fancy place,” Ricon muses.

  I’m the first to admit, I have expensive taste. But I’ll argue that I don’t steal out of greed, not entirely. It started as survival and blossomed into chasing the thrill. I donate the spoils I make from fencing after I pay myself a hefty finder’s fee. Because I’m still a thief.

  “What do you think, Nova. A routine wisp and search?” Ricon asks. I let his question mull over a bit before answering.

  I fiddle with a black gemstone threaded by a braided leather cord around my neck. It’s the only sentimental possession I have—the only memory of my mother, who I lost when I was six. I wear the piece of memory for many reasons now. Mostly to conceal my true identity, but also because it reminds me of her. I wrestle the reveries to focus on the task at hand. I say, “Summer’s Eve Gala.”