Date: The 1st Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Steps of the Grand Temple of Aethelgard.
The city of Aethelgard held its breath. The winter snows had melted, revealing the grime of the streets and the gold of the palace spires. Spring had arrived, and with it, the Emperor's Selection.
Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, the five most beautiful maidens in the kingdom would stand before King Darius.
But today was the Day of Blessings. Tradition dictated that the candidates visit the Grand Temple to offer incense to the Goddess of Fortune. It was a spectacle, a parade of wealth and beauty designed to whip the common people into a frenzy of adoration.
Veer stood in the shadow of a gargoyle near the base of the temple steps.
He was eighteen now. He had grown into his height—lean, wiry, with broad shoulders that strained against his rough wool tunic. The iron rod strapped to his back was no longer a piece of scrap metal; he had wrapped the handle in leather and sharpened the tip. It was a weapon.
He wasn't here to steal purses. He was here to steal a look.
"They say she is healed," a beggar whispered to a cripple nearby. "The Merchant's daughter. They say a wizard from the West gave her a new face."
"Bah," the cripple spat. "You can't heal fire marks. It's just paint."
Veer said nothing. He leaned against the cold stone, his arms crossed. His heart was a drum beating a slow, painful rhythm against his ribs.
He remembered the carriage in the snow. He remembered the single violet eye peering out from the darkness—sad, lonely, and scarred. That was the girl he had sworn to save. That was the girl he was gathering gold for.
If she is still scarred, Veer thought, gripping his own arm, if she is still hiding... then I will take her tonight. I don't care about the guards. I will climb her wall and take her away from that house of madmen.
It was a foolish plan. A suicide mission. But Veer was tired of waiting.
"They are coming!"
A shout rippled through the crowd. The city guards pushed the rabble back with the shafts of their spears, clearing a path for the carriages.
The first carriage arrived—gold and crimson. The Duke's daughter. She was pretty, blonde, and waved at the crowd like they were pets.
Veer didn't look at her.
The second carriage. The General's niece. Tall, athletic, sharp-eyed.
Veer ignored her.
Then, the third carriage rolled to a stop. It was black, polished to a mirror sheen. The crest of the Kael Merchant House was painted on the door in fresh silver paint.
The silence that fell over the crowd was heavy. Everyone knew the story. The girl who burned. The monster in the attic. They wanted to see the freak show.
The door opened.
First came Kael, looking proud and arrogant in new robes that he likely couldn't afford. Then came Elara, her face flushed with triumph.
Then, a hand reached out. A pale, delicate hand.
Aanya stepped down.
The collective gasp of the crowd sucked the air out of the square.
Veer pushed off the wall. He stood on his tiptoes, craning his neck over the shoulder of a blacksmith.
He saw her.
And his world shattered.
She was not hiding. She wore no veil. She wore a gown of shimmering violet silk that matched her eyes. Her hair was piled high in an intricate braid woven with pearls.
But her face...
Veer stared. He looked for the red welt. He looked for the twisted lip. He looked for the tragedy he had seen through the kitchen window seven years ago.
It was gone.
Her face was a masterpiece of porcelain perfection. The sunlight hit her cheek—the right cheek—and it glowed. It was smooth. It was flawless. She looked like a statue carved by the gods themselves.
She didn't look down at her feet like a shy girl. She looked up. She scanned the crowd with a calm, regal expression. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown. She looked... untouchable.
"By the Gods," the blacksmith in front of Veer whispered. "She is an angel."
"A miracle!" a woman cried out. "The Goddess has blessed her!"
Veer felt a cold knot form in his stomach. It wasn't relief. It was a strange, hollow devastation.
She is fixed, he thought. The realization hit him like a physical blow. They fixed her.
He watched as Aanya walked up the stairs. She moved with a fluid grace, her head held high. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like an Empress.
Veer looked at his own hands. They were dirty. His fingernails were broken. He had a bruise on his forearm from a fight over a loaf of bread two days ago. He smelled of the tannery cellar where he slept.
He looked back at Aanya. She was radiant. She belonged to the light. She belonged to the silk, the pearls, the cheers.
She doesn't need to run away, Veer realized. The thought tasted like ash. Why would she run with a thief? Look at her. She has won.
He had spent years telling himself that he was her only hope. That she was trapped in a nightmare and he was the only one who could wake her up. But looking at her now, ascending the temple steps while the crowd threw flower petals at her feet... it looked like a dream.
He was the nightmare.
"Veer?"
Aanya paused on the stairs. She didn't say it out loud, but Veer saw her lips move. She stopped, halfway up. She turned her head toward the crowd. Her violet eyes swept over the sea of faces, searching.
She was looking for someone.
Veer saw her gaze moving toward his section of the crowd.
Panic seized him.
Don't look at me, he thought desperately. Don't look at this filth.
If she saw him now—a gutter rat standing among beggars—it would break the illusion. It would remind her of the apple core and the mud. It would shame her.
And worse... what if she looked at him with pity? Veer could handle her sadness. He could handle her scars. But he couldn't handle her pity.
Aanya's gaze drifted closer. She was ten feet away, elevated on the stairs.
Veer made his choice.
He reached up and pulled the hood of his rough cloak deep over his face. He turned his back to the stairs. He made himself small. He became just another shadow in the crowd.
He felt her gaze pass over his back. It lingered for a second—a hesitation in the air—and then moved on.
"Come, Aanya," Elara's voice drifted down. "The Goddess waits."
"Yes, Mother."
The footsteps continued up the stairs. The heavy wooden doors of the temple groaned open and then slammed shut, sealing the beautiful girl inside with the incense and the gold.
Veer stood with his back to the temple for a long time. The crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly about the "Miracle Girl."
"Did you see her skin?"
"She will be the Empress for sure."
"Her parents must be so proud."
Veer slowly lowered his hood. He looked at the closed doors.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the seven silver coins he had been saving. The "war chest" to buy her freedom.
It seemed like a joke now. Seven coins? Her dress alone probably cost a thousand.
"She's happy," Veer whispered to himself. He tried to force a smile, but his lips trembled. "She's beautiful again. She doesn't need an apple from a thief."
He took the coin pouch out of his pocket. He looked at it for a moment, then walked over to a beggar sitting by the temple gate—an old man with no legs.
Veer dropped the pouch into the beggar's bowl.
The old man's eyes widened. "Boy? This is silver! Are you mad?"
"I don't need it anymore," Veer said, his voice flat and dead. "The war is over."
He turned and walked away. He didn't head toward the Merchant District. He didn't head toward the walls to plot a rescue.
He headed down. Down toward the river. Down toward the slums. Down toward the darkness where he belonged.
Goodbye, Aanya, he thought, the image of her perfect, porcelain face burning in his mind. Be an Empress. Be happy. And never, ever look back at the mud.
He didn't know it was a mask. He didn't know that under that resin, she was screaming. He didn't know that she had looked for him not to show off, but to beg for help.
He only saw the reflection. And like everyone else, he was fooled by the porcelain lie.
He walked into the shadows, and for the first time in years, Veer the Thief was truly alone.