Chapter 143: Another Burglary

Another night, another opportunity dressed like a harlot and smelling faintly of roasted lamb from dinner.

I’m in the side street now—narrow, quiet, reeking of piss and wilted roses. The kind of place only strays and thieves walk after sunset. Perfect.

The townhouse is three stories, whitewashed, smug. I scouted it this morning while pretending to sell bracelets. Top floor. Balcony door slightly ajar. Some spoiled merchant’s daughter probably airing out her sheets. Or her secrets.

I pull the rope from my satchel—if you can call it that. A makeshift line of tied-together silk scarves, stolen over the course of several weeks and knotted tight, with a small bronze hook twisted from an old belt buckle. Looks ridiculous. Works beautifully.

I give it a good swing.

Miss. Clatters off the wall like a drunk moth.

I reel it back in. Deep breath. Second swing—clink.Hook catches on the wrought-iron railing.

I tug. It holds.

I slip off my sandals—quiet is everything. My bare feet grip the cobbles one last time before I push up, toes finding the first stone hold. Fingers tighten around silk. I start climbing.

Halfway up, I pause, listening.

Nothing. Just the breeze and the sound of some poor bastard snoring in the house next door.

My heart’s beating like a drum. Not from fear. From thrill.

I reach the balcony, press up against it, one toe hooking the edge, and lean carefully. One hand on the rail. I test the door.

It opens with a whisper.

Alright, Saya. Here we go.

I slip inside like a whisper.

Soft rug underfoot, heavy perfume in the air. Definitely someone rich and tasteless lives here. Perfect. I take three careful steps, eyes adjusting—

And trip over something soft and warm.

Ayelpexplodes near my ankle.

Dog.

Tiny. Furry. Now barking like it found a damn assassin.

I freeze, mid-stumble.

Bed sheets rustle. A groan. Then a familiar, cursed voice, heavy with half-sleep and full of regret:

“…Who’s there?”

My stomach drops.

Ogdan.

Are youshitting me.

Another voice now—female, young, high-born and half-panting:

“O-Ogdan? What’s going on?”

Candles flare. Someone lit a match. I squint.

And there he is.

Ogdan, that smug rat-faced scoundrel, half-naked and fully tangled in the silk sheets of some plump merchant’s absurdly young wife. He’s blinking at me with the wide-eyed horror of a man who just realized the woman standing barefoot in his lover’s bedroom isme.

“You havegotto be kidding,” I hiss.

“Saya?” he croaks, yanking the sheet higher, which doesabsolutely nothingto improve the situation.

The girl beside him squeals and tries to cover herself. “Who is she?!”

“Itoldyou about her!” he whispers. “The one with the—uh—dragon problem!”

“I do not have a dragonproblem,” I snap. “I have ayouproblem.”

The tiny dog is now in a full tantrum, trying to chew my ankle.

Ogdan gestures weakly. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh,Ihope it is,” I say. “Because otherwise I’ve climbed three stories and nearly got mauled by a lapdog for absolutely nothing.”

The girl gasps. “She’s athief!”

“Andyou’remarried,” I shoot back.

Ogdan tries to sit up, fails, flops back down. “Can wenotdo this now?”

I sigh. Loudly. Dramatically.

“Relax,” I mutter. “I’m not here for your virtue. Or hers. I was robbing the place. You just happen to be part of the décor.”

I turn to leave.

Ogdan’s face goes pale, then red. He scrambles off the bed, butt naked except for a dagger and poor decisions, and grabs his sword from the floor.

“Saya,sit!” he barks, like I’m one of his damn horses.

I lean against the dresser, arms crossed, grinning wide.

“What are you gonna do, dickhead?” I say sweetly. “Run me through? Here? In her bedroom?”

The merchant’s wife gasps, clutching the sheets tighter. “Ogdan—?”

I tilt my head toward her. “Andyou, darling—how exactly are you planning to explain a hooker corpse bleeding out on your rugs? Hmm? Intruder? Jealous lover? Former associate? That won’t go over well with your husband's spice syndicate.”

Ogdan hesitates. Sword still in hand, but shaking a little.

I step forward. “And what if I scream?” I whisper. “Loud. From the balcony. Wake the neighbors. Get thecity guardsto storm in here and find us likethis? You, bare-assed. Her, dripping guilt. Me, tied to the railing with a thief’s rope still swinging?”

His hand tightens on the hilt.

I take another step, toe ring glinting in the candlelight. “Don’t be dumb, Ogdan. Ihaveblackmailing potential. And I’m feelingveryentrepreneurial tonight.”

A long, brittle silence.

Then I hold out my hand.

“Off with the jewelry,” I say cheerfully. “And that pretty little sun medallion you keep pretending isn’t from a knight you didn’t stab in the back.”

He blinks. “That’s a family heirloom—”

“Off.” I say.

The wife starts fumbling with her bracelets. Ogdan sighs, defeated, and unclasps the chain.

“Quick now,” I snap. “Or Iwillstart screaming. You know I can beveryconvincing.”

He drops the medallion into my hand. I wink.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’ve been sogenerous.”

The merchant’s wife is still clutching the sheets, eyes wide, mouth trying to form words that just won’t come.

I flash her a grin full of teeth and sin.

“Now, sweet cheeks…” I purr, tapping the sun medallion against my chin, “where do you keep thegoodstuff?”

She stammers, points with a trembling hand toward a wardrobe carved with doves and bad taste.

“Bless you,” I say, already moving.

I throw open the doors—jackpot. Coin pouch. Gem-studded comb. Velvet box full of brooches shaped like birds mid-orgasm. A silk sash heavy with embroidered gold thread. I take it all. Even the little polished mirror. I want to see how fabulous I look while looting.

Ogdan groans into his hands. The wife starts sobbing about curses. I ignore them both.

One last look around—nothing left worth taking but the bedsheets and regrets.

I toss them a wink, blow a kiss just to be petty, and climb back over the balcony like a goddess of petty vengeance and fine accessory theft.

Rope in hand. Slide down. Barefoot hit the cobbles with a slap.

And Icackle.

Loud. Joyful. Completely unhinged.

This wasn’t just a score. This wasart.

Coins in my bag, medallion at my neck, and that smug bastard Ogdan wishing he’d never dropped his pants in this town.

Pure bliss.