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

  “Fleet Commander Riggers,” Gail offers.

  “Seriously? I’m posing as a handmaiden, not a fucking ship wench,” I snap.

  “He’s visiting with the king. His fleet sets sail tomorrow.”

  “What’s the deal? I thought I’m looking for evidence on the city disappearances?”

  “Consider this a side job. Your mission is still a priority. However, our implants have revealed the queen’s plans for her naval fleet. She plans on assaulting a legion on Coldwater Bay.”

  Juicy. I recall my rundown with Ceryna, the Queen of Pirates. I smile at the shenanigans Nova, Ricon, and I encountered in there. When Nova told me he was stealing from Ceryna, I laughed so hard my ale sprayed from my nose. He stared at me, unmoved by my hubris, which only made me laugh harder. It took half the evening and four mugs later until I finally believed him.

  “Great. Now, why are we working for Ceryna?” I ask.

  “We aren’t.”

  “Right, because that makes perfect sense.”

  “Consider it as a preemptive favor. We don’t have a naval presence. The goal is to avoid war at all costs. However, we need to prepare for the worst. If we can rally the Queen of Pirates into the rebellion, we’ll stand a chance.”

  “So, the death of the fleet commander is because?” I ask.

  “Destabilize their leadership, and they’ll falter in their ranks. It’ll provide Coldwater Bay an advantage against any seafaring siege.”

  “Got it. Any requests on methods?”

  “Do what you do best,” Gail replies.

  I turn to leave when Gail calls my name. I look over my shoulder, and she says, “Try and not get killed, would you? I don’t feel like dealing with your daddy dearest when he throws a tantrum.”

  I smirk at the predilection and salute her when I leave.

  ***

  The journey back to the castle took just as long as my trek to the safehouse. I used illusions more frequently this time as the patrol routes seem far more condensed. When I reach the ragged path leading to the sewer opening, I take a moment to gaze at the ocean horizon. The twilight colors slowly fade into dawn. The stars bleed into their violet and blue canvas. I sing a silent prayer in my heart for the loss of a guildmate. A personal ritual I perform, more for myself than anything else.

  I slip back into the castle, dodging as many servants already awake and scurrying about the castle to perform their duties.

  I pull my magic from within and cast a glamour across my body. I change from my golden skin tone to pale snow, and my hair shortens and glimmers gold in the light. I command my willpower to change my eyes into deep ocean blues and double my breast size. Of course, these changes are only imagery. If someone were to touch me, they’d feel through the illusion.

  When I reach the kitchen, I shed my cloak in a broom closet and splash cold water on my face to chase away a night of no sleep. I approach one of the maids preparing the food routinely served to the guest quarters.

  “Which one is for Commander Riggers?” I ask. The kitchen-maid eyes me suspiciously, so I wink at her and give her a slight shrug.

  “He enjoys my company,” I say, barely above a whisper. The wench gives me that look before pointing to a silver tray on the long prep table.

  “He told me he was going to switch rooms. Do you know which is his new quarters?”

  “He’s still in the guest suite onlooking the inner courtyard,” The wench says, confused.

  “Oh, right. Silly me, I must have misheard the commander,” I offer and slip from the kitchen.

  It’s like stealing candy from a baby.

  I traipse through the servant halls, passing by maidens and butlers, each focused on their own tasks. No one will recognize me, which is the perfect alibi.

  I reach the commander’s personal quarters, locking the door as I walk inside. I’m not quiet or cautious as I wander through the chamber. He walks from the ensuite bathroom, a towel sashed around his waist. For a split second, I gawk at his physique and scold myself for what I’m about to do with such a beautiful specimen. I can’t help the moment of weakness. I am mostly human, after all.

  “Haven’t seen those tits before. Why don’t you give me a show? Maybe I’ll give you something, real nice,” he says as he gropes his crotch through the towel.

  Moment of weakness officially suffocated, nay decimated. I swallow through my disgust as I swiftly pull my dagger from under my apron, hurl it with a flick of my wrist, and watch as the blade sinks deep into his jugular. His cocky grin still plastered on his lips as the life slowly drains from his eyes. Blood pools from his neck, spilling across his chest. His languid body crashes to the floor with a loud thud.

  I casually trail towards his body, which still twitches as he gurgles on blood and cold blade. I run my fingers across the furniture and I in the room, rubbing my fingers at the dust they collect. Someone has been slacking in their maid duties, I judge.

  I kneel beside him, his eyes wide in fear and his mouth no longer smirking. A trembling hand reaches for me, and I swat it away.

  “See, now if you’d been a gentleman, I would have made your death a little less miserable,” I confess to him, a serene smile on my lips.

  He tries to reply, but instead of words, only blood spills from his lips until his body goes entirely still, a final breath escapes his teeth, and then he’s dead.

  I tilt my head as I retrieve my blade and wipe his soiled blood on the towel that’s slightly askew around his waist. Out of curiosity, I lift the towel just to gauge a peek, and I whistle softly.

  “What a shame,” I say aloud.

  Just as quickly as I entered the chamber, I flee. I saunter, casual, and without urgency. The commander’s body will be found soon, but the blonde servant girl will be nowhere to be seen.

  I begrudgingly weave my way to the lady Vaneeda’s chambers, wishing I had some semblance of sleep. Tonight, I’ll be paying my first visit to the dungeons. I doubt I’ll get any sleep either.

  13

  Nova

  “A swig of ale, a tally of mead, hey and ho, the wind in our sail. When we cast our anchor low, we set upon the land. Hey and ho, our mugs are low, when we sleep upon the sand.…”

  – a ballad of the Pirates of Coldwater Bay 382 B.M.

  I now know everything I ever need to know about the princes. They whine incessantly. Albeit I don’t have much experience around princes, and I’m sure my experience is situational. After hours of walking through the dead forest with Cas—the prince, I begin to fantasize wicked ways for him to die and making it look like a complete accident.

  “It’s like you want me to die out here,” the prince whines.

  Was I talking out loud, or can he read thoughts now?

  I turn to him, head tilted in curiosity, waiting for him to elaborate. The prince, who is staring at his feet, brushes against me and startles. He takes half a step back and stares. Since I’m petty, I stare back and use my mean stare to intimidate him.

  “You look like you’re constipated,” the prince snides.

  Note to self, never trust Leluna when she claims your “intimidating face” is adequate.

  “You said something about dying?” I ask inquisitively, ignoring his sly remark.

  He stumbles on his words before finally managing, “I need water. I’m thirsty.”

  “Well, join the fucking party,” I chide, looking around for dramatic effect before I continue, “when I find some, you’ll be the first I inform, your imminence.”

  I take a half step back and fall into a deep bow with my vine-covered arm tucked against my waist. The prince scoffs, and I giggle. Yes, actually giggle.

  I gaze at the thorned vines and roses on my forearm for a moment. The barren rosebuds have grown larger, like an early spring’s promise of growth, soon to blossom. It’s mesmerizing, but I remind myself it’s the manifestation of a curse. When I get back to Hjornholm, I’ll have Terran take a look at it, along
with the runic cuffs.

  “Does it hurt?” The prince asks. I tuck my forearm to my side, concealing the magical tattoo.

  “Not much,” I answer.

  “What is it?” He asks, his pretentious demeanor masked with curiosity. He looks younger with his brows raised, his eyes bright, and his lips tucked toward the side like a noncommittal smirk. I’m staring again, gods damnit.

  “It’s magic,” I retort.

  The prince’s inquisition is quickly replaced with a privileged attitude.

  “I bet you don’t even know yourself,” he scoffs. “Some fae you are.”

  I snap, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and slam him against a nearby tree husk. I snarl, my face a mere hair width from his.

  Without the concealment of my fae form, my instinctual tendencies will surely surface the longer I’m this way. The magic behind the black stone I wore, which Terran once classified as black sapphire, nullifies a fae’s physical characteristics as well as some instinct. It’s more transfiguration than an illusion, I’ve come to understand.

  I’ve never gone more than a few moments in fae form. The occasional replacement of the cord or an urge to witness the brief reminder of what I really am. I’ve spent eighteen years concealing it, and now I’m stuck this way. I’m unsure of how I’ll react to things, such as pinning the crowned royal prince of Edonia against the tree and snarling in his face. Unexpected.

  “Let me go,” he grits through his teeth.

  “Make me,” I challenge.

  I should have seen what was coming, but again, I didn’t expect the prince to be so bold. Before I realize what he’s doing, a burst of light explodes between us, and I’m hurling backward through the air.

  My body crashes into the dirt, skidding across the earth, and I tumble, limbs flailing and head-snapping until I crash into a fallen trunk.

  That hurt.

  I struggle off the ground, my limbs cracking. I groan loudly as I climb to my feet and brush off the dirt. I see the prince standing, nearly startled but mostly angry.

  “So, you wanna play?” I ask as I tilt my head and crack my neck. The prince resumes that stance he used before, though his stance is sloppy, his feet are too close, his knees are locked, his arms leave too many openings, and he looks cocky. This will be fun.

  I take off running directly toward him. The prince flinches but only for a moment, and the glowing in his hands brightens. I expect what comes next. I’ve seen the signs more than once now. Cas—the prince brings his hands together, his front leg turning half rotation and his arms thrust outward. Just as a pulse of energy bursts outward from the prince, I duck to the ground in a rolling tumble just as the wave passes over. I’m back on my feet, only a pace away from him as I jab my open palm against his gut. The prince heaves forward but not before another sloppy rotation of movement and a second pulse of light bursts free. I’m already behind the tree next to him, shielded from his attack. I roundabout kick him in the back of the head. I circle around the tree until I’m behind him, locking my hands around his head and kick my feet out, throwing myself onto my back, pulling the prince down with me, hard.

  I roll him over, shoving his face into the dirt, and pin his arms behind his back. He shouts in pain as I twist his arm. I bring my teeth to his ear, giving him a slight prick. I instinctively breathe him in, the scent of river rocks and tree moss. The smell is strong and captivating, and I chase it, breathing more, wanting more.

  “Are you sniffing me?” he asks incredulously.

  I lean in closer to his ear and whisper, “You have a lot to say about me being fae. I know it’s not because of magic.”

  Magic is complex and diverse. I’ve witnessed the igni and tidebreakers out of Coldwater Bay of pirates and the restorative magic of elmmen’s in the Nolbhan forest. The climancer’s who can summon lightning and thunder with just a breath or the linguinist’s of the forgotten word. I’ve witnessed the horrific and beautiful death magic only practiced in the darkest corners of the country. Even my friend Leluna harnesses a variation of light magic through illusions. Humans can wield the Arcana, though their craft is usually in the nature of runeologists, apothecaries, potion masters, ritualists, summoners, among other things.

  The prince squirms beneath me, so I lay on top of him, using my body weight to secure him. Just because I’m petty, I reach under him and wiggle my fingers under his armpit. He screams, wails, and laughs in frustration until he finally shouts, “Alkar the Light!”

  “A god?”

  “No—not a god. A saint of Azael the True.”

  I roll my eyes at the pretentious titles. With a fist full of the prince’s hair, I press his face harder into the dirt. “That doesn’t explain how you have magic or why you’re still alive, unless the king only kills those who isn’t a spoiled brat with a crown.”

  “You don’t know me,” the prince grovels.

  “I think I do. I know your kind—shallow, priviledged, egocentric.” My words are soaked with venom.

  “As opposed to a conniving, manipulative, dishonest…whatever in Eridh’s hell you are, I don’t even know.”

  “A thief,” I say.

  The prince scoffs and says, “not surprised. Get off me.” He wiggles beneath me again, trying to break from my hold.

  I pause, as if for the first time realizing my body is lying against his in a compromising position. I can feel my body reacting, and before the prince can feel it too, I shove off him and take several steps away. When I look at the prince clambering to his feet, I take a few additional steps, just to be safe.

  The prince has a wounded face and averts my gaze. A page of guilt swells in my chest, and I sigh.

  “Who is that?’“ I ask.

  The Prince looks hesitant, but I wait until he answers.

  “My ancestor—among the first settlers of Edonia,” he explains.

  “Great, that explains everything,” I snark. “Get to the point.”

  The Prince is silent for long beats and says, “Alkar the Light was a warrior from the homelands. He was half-fae and wielded tremendous magic gifted by Azael the True, which enabled him to win the war for territory.”

  “More like a hostile takeover.”

  “I know that,” he exclaims. “I’m not glib to the very large closet of skeletons my bloodline carries.” He looks away, shy or apprehensive. It’s hard to tell with the dirt and grime smeared across his face.

  “I was fifteen when it manifested, just after the purge started. I was terrified my father would have me sent to the guillotine. My aunt’s soothsayer Hemle, sensed my magic during a visit, and my aunt instructed him to teach me how to use it properly.”

  “Those fancy moves?” I ask.

  Cas—the prince nods and says, “Sabai.”

  “Ah, Ishkarian. I thought I recognized it. Whatever your training, it worked,” I rebuke while massaging a few sore spots in my shoulder. Great, we’ve established the prince has magic and how he got it, magical mumbo jumbo. We need to find shelter before nightfall, I realize.

  “We need to keep going,” I say, but the prince hesitates.

  I’m not sure why but I want to reassure him, so I say, “I’ve kept you alive, yeah? I’m sorry about my part in all this. It was just a job. It was supposed to be a minor trinket and nothing else. Everything else was by Dana the Fate’s demise.”

  “Thank you,” the prince says.

  “For?” I ask because I’m unsure.

  “For keeping me alive. I know you have. Also, I’m sorry about my comment. About, you know—you being fae. I don’t mean it,” he says sheepishly.

  “Seriously? Aren’t all the royals anti-fae?” The moment I say the words aloud, I wince. I feel like the same words and tension just coming back in a full circle. We’ve already been over this. Why am I drudging it up again? Do I resent the prince because of his familial ties with the king?

  “I am not my father,” he snipes. I cringe because he’s righ
t. “I disagree with my family’s actions. I always have. I was only twelve when it started.”

  Damn, he’s right.

  “How did you do it?” the Prince asks, startling me out of my guilt.

  “Do what?”

  “Look human,” he says, almost shy.

  “Oh. That,” I say and fish the black stone from around my neck, holding it out so the sunlight catches against its dull surface. “Black sapphire. Magical properties in transfiguration magic. It was a gift from my mother. I guess she knew I’d need it or something.”

  “How long have you been wearing it?” He asks.

  “Since I was six? I guess that’s eighteen years,” I confess.

  “You’ve been masking yourself as a human for eighteen years?” He’s astounded but not accusing.

  “I had to survive somehow. I wasn’t going to make it during the Purge without looking human.

  “You can disappear and reappear anywhere on a whim. I think you’d have survived just fine.”

  “Yeah, you have a point, but it would be difficult, staying underground the entire time. Hidden away in the dark corners of the kingdom where the royal guard and soldiers wouldn’t look. At least, this way, I could hide in plain sight.”

  I continue walking through the petrified forest. The black husks of what used to be a sea of poplars sit jagged and sharp along the death earth. The stale scent of burnt wood and clay is enough to make my nose twice. The sky is dark, mostly clouded by a murky haze of ash clouds permeating from the volcano clearly visible through the dead forest clearing. The Prince falls into step beside me, glancing sideways on occasion until I can’t take it any longer and belt, “What?”

  “What kind of fae are you?” he asks inquisitively.

  “You like to ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” I snide.

  The prince looks away and says, “I’ve never been the physical type. Swordplay and roughhousing, I mean. I enjoy Sabai with Hemle, though I’m not very good at it. I much preferred sticking my nose in a book. I always volunteered for additional lessons and tutors. Learning so much only makes me want to know more—so yeah, I do ask a lot of questions,” he explains. I respect him for being honest about it rather than snarky.