By the time Lorian drifted deeper into the city, the sun had begun its slow descent, turning the white marble streets a warmer shade of gold and casting long shadows that made everything feel just a little less honest. This was his favorite time of day, when people grew distracted by hunger, anticipation, and the promise of night, when guards relaxed their posture and merchants argued louder than necessary over prices they had already decided on.
He slowed his pace deliberately, letting his breathing settle as he slipped back into something familiar, something comfortable. Theft was never about desperation for him, not really. It was about control. About reminding himself that no matter how badly things went, no matter how many people looked at him like a liability or a mistake, he was still good at something.
Lorian scanned the crowd without appearing to, his eyes gliding over stalls, hands, jewelry clasps, belt pouches, and the subtle tension in people's shoulders that told him where their attention was not.
The apple stand came first.
The merchant was old, thick-bearded, and already irritated, his voice raised as he argued with a woman over the price of dried figs, neither of them willing to concede an inch. Lorian drifted closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the stall as if he were simply another passerby considering his options. He murmured under his breath, resonance blooming quietly, harmlessly, shaping itself into a small illusion behind the merchant's shoulder.
A spill. A clatter. Something urgent.
The merchant snapped his head around instinctively.
That was all it took.
Lorian's hand closed around the apple and slipped it into his pocket so smoothly that even he barely registered the motion, his body already moving away before the illusion faded and the merchant turned back, none the wiser.
'Too easy.'
Lorian bit into the apple as he walked, juice running down his thumb, and smiled to himself.
'Still got it,' he thought, chewing slowly.
He didn't stop there.
A jewelry stall caught his eye next, positioned strategically near the corner of a fountain plaza where people tended to linger. The display was modest but tasteful, gold and silver arranged carefully beneath glass, warding runes etched faintly into the metal, more symbolic than effective. The merchant was younger, sharper, watching the crowd closely, and that made it interesting.
Lorian approached openly, leaning over the glass with genuine interest as he struck up conversation, asking about the craftsmanship, the origins of the runes, nodding appreciatively at the answers. All the while, his resonance whispered outward in thin threads, barely noticeable, bending reflections just enough to create blind spots where his hands could move unseen.
The ring he chose was small and elegant, its weight familiar and reassuring as it slid into his palm.
"Festival night," he said casually, meeting the merchant's eyes as if nothing had happened. "It has to be good for business."
The merchant nodded, smiling. "Best night of the year."
Lorian smiled back, thanked him, and walked away, the ring already warming in his pocket.
He didn't rush.
That was the mistake amateurs made.
Instead, he took his time, weaving through the crowd, letting the city swallow him again as he listened to laughter, smelled spiced wine, and felt the familiar thrill settle into his bones. Stealing wasn't just about greed for him, it was about proof, about reminding himself that he was still sharp, still capable, still someone who could slip through the cracks without being caught.
By the time the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched across the streets, his pockets held more than just trinkets. They held reassurance.
Eventually, Lorian had walked past a tavern in the lesser polished part of town.
Lorian slowed as he passed the tavern, his steps faltering when a familiar voice cut through the din inside, followed by another, then another, all too recognizable. The Deathforged, laughing and talking together.
He stopped completely, standing just outside the open doors as the warmth and noise spilled into the street. His jaw tightened.
"Great," he muttered. "A reunion."
He smacked his lips, exhaled through his nose, and forced his shoulders to square. "Fine. I need a drink anyway."
He stepped forward—
And slammed into someone solid enough to knock the air from his chest.
"Sorry—" he started, then froze when he looked up.
Atlas stood there in his cloak, dark circles beneath his eyes, posture stiff and tired, his presence heavy in a way that made Lorian's irritation flare instantly.
"Oh," Atlas said flatly. "It's you, Hybrid."
Lorian straightened, bristling. "My name's Lorian."
Atlas didn't react. "Move."
"Wow," Lorian scoffed. "Still charming, I see."
"I'm not in the mood," Atlas said, already stepping past him.
Lorian didn't move.
"You're a real piece of shit, you know that right?" he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.
Atlas stopped, turned slowly, and looked at him with an expression that was utterly exhausted rather than angry. "No one likes you either," he said evenly. "So we're in the same boat."
The words landed harder than Lorian expected.
"Fuck you," Lorian hissed, raising a hand as if to shove him.
Atlas caught his wrist effortlessly, his grip firm but controlled, and in the same motion kicked Lorian's legs out from under him. Lorian hit the ground hard, breath rushing from his lungs as Atlas leaned down just enough for his voice to carry.
"Don't touch me again."
Atlas released him and walked into the tavern without another glance.
Lorian stayed on the ground for a moment, staring up at the fading light between buildings, his chest rising and falling as something uncomfortably close to hurt settled in.
"Fine," he muttered, pushing himself up. "Fuck you too."
He slapped his own cheeks, forcing his usual grin back into place, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Whatever. I'm going to dip in some Elven waters at the festival anyway! Two in one night, asshole!" he shouted toward the tavern, knowing no one could hear him. "See if you can do better. You lonely, short prick! "
He turned away before the silence could answer him, hands sliding back into his pockets as he headed toward the eastern plaza.
"At least," he muttered, fingers brushing the stolen ring, "I stole some loot."