No one spoke after that. Not even Fynn dared to make a sound over the deafening silence.
At last, the sky's blue waned into a pale orange tint, the clouds a mellow swirl of blue and pink. Had the heat not exhausted him of caring, he might have thought the colors were beautiful. Instead, he kept his eyes down, watching the shadowed steps of fatigued Carpathians.
Monroe came to a slow once the stars scattered the sky. The day's heat soaked his skin, and he threw his bag into the dirt with a thud. "We'll rest here. Ceadercyne is just over there," He gestured lazily beyond the rolling hills south of them.
To the Carpathians beside him, across the sea was a foreign land they'd only heard stories of. But to Silas, what lay beyond was home.
He wondered what Pyra had said about him. Did she confess the truth? Or had she lied that he had been murdered or died at sea? He knew that very few of his associates would care. Not even Lady Belvine would mourn his death. If anything, she would have grieved a skilled thief. She had always delegated the more challenging work to him. Not that Silas minded. More coin in his pocket, after all. But it wasn't as if they were friends. Sure, she'd taken him in, but it was strictly business, like all things in the Outer Ring.
When Silas was left alone, hungry in the dark dripping rain, he watched as the terminally ill and sinful meandered the damp cobblestone. Days had passed him by without food. Any day, he knew he would be as pale as them. He had ached the first day. By the third, the pain had stopped, leaving him with an empty pit in his stomach. Clenching the sleeve of his wet and torn shirt, he decided he didn't want to die.
It was easy. Most people didn't suspect a little kid, and he made their time worth their while. He continued this time alone, performing street magic and robbing his audience blind. Soon he moved his business into their homes, taking gold and silver from anyone who had it. And he lived like a king.
That was until he stole from the wrong woman.
He'd been walking back to the Chapel when three burly men in black intercepted him. Despite the struggle, Silas wasn't a fighter. His vision went black. When he came to, he was in The Dal, tied to a chair and facing the black eyes of the Fence.
There was a certain elegance to her. Long golden embroidered silks barely covered her skin, framing her slim curves. Her long black hair was pinned up by a hairpiece, shimmering with a thousand lustrous gemstones. A gold-plated cigarette holder was snug between her jade-painted fingernails.
Before Silas could say anything, one of her men dropped a bag onto the desk with a clunk. Her head cocked to the side, her nose turned up, her movements slow and fluid. She glanced at the bag, not attempting to look through it.
"You stole my chalice and jewels." Her voice was just as smooth as her appearance. "How?"
The question stumped Silas. Not because he didn't know how he'd looted her. The job was effortless. Every door and window of The Dal was sealed and guarded. But Silas had learned long ago that there was always a hole to crawl through if you looked hard enough.
When he didn't reply immediately, the woman asked again. With the patience of a saint, she never once raised her voice at him. There was curiosity in her tone. Filled with awe and perhaps even impressed. "I had that lock custom designed," she went on to say. "Even my better thieves had trouble picking it, yet here you are. A child, barely approaching manhood, with the contents of my safe in your bag. How old are you?"
"Eleven..." Silas felt like he couldn't breathe. Her eyes were cold, glaring into his soul, directly contradicting the sweet honey drip of her voice.
Swallowing, praying to The Mother that this was not his end, he told her, "I-I picked the lock."
The corner of her lips rose into a smirk. It was fleeting, barely noticeable. She set her smoke down and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. "Curious. Forgive me if I don't quite believe you."
He could feel his heart hammering in his throat. "No. I really did. I can pick any lock. Honest."
She cocked her head to the other side, raising a brow. "Is this the first you've ever been interrogated?" She chuckled, amused. "You are quite adamant with your confession."
Silas froze.
"Don't look so pale, child." She raised her hand, elbow resting on the arm of her chair, and snapped her fingers. Two of the men left the room. "I'll cut you a deal. Prove you picked the lock, and I won't kill you."
They returned with the safe, setting it down. It was small. The sleek black metal body, gold plated corners, had an unusual round keyhole. Silas had never seen a lock like this until The Dal. They untied Silas from the chair and threw him down onto his knees.
Silas stared at it, turning up shyly at the men who towered above him, watching him closely. He felt like a timid bird in a cage, and the adults surrounding him were lions. Silas looked at the woman, who lazily gestured for him to get on with it.
Silas hesitated, his fingers trembling, but pulled a device from his jacket pocket that was as one of a kind as the lock presented to him.
What Silas held wasn't the traditional lock picks. Instead, he held an odd-looking screwdriver. The handle was the same but had a circular head with a circumference that matched the round lock. There was a ring that laid flat against the handle, and when he moved it, needles pushed down until they were flush against the head. The device reset.
Whispers passed around the room, yet the woman remained as straight-faced as before and watched him closely, her eyes narrowing with interest.
He inserted the device into the safe, rocking it back and forth each time he turned it. Very slowly, the needles pushed into the little divots of the lock, clicking as it moved. With the final click, the pins had set.
Then the lock turned.
The safe popped open.
"Where did you get that tool?"
Silas glanced down at his handiwork. "I made it." When he'd crawled into The Dal, he expected the job to be quick and easy. He considered giving up when he was first confronted with the bizarre lock. His usual lockpicks were useless. There was no hole to push his picks into, seemingly no pins to interact with. But then he saw the small circles around the lock's mouth. His brain began to turn.
This time, the smile stretched across the woman's face. "What is your name?"
"S-Silas Jax."
"Very well, Silas Jax," The chair creaked as she leaned down to him, reaching her hand out. "I'm Lady Belvine. Welcome to The Dal."
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