It was as easy as fishing in the desert.

"You want me to break into one of the most impenetrable places on Earth?" Silas twirled the hilt of his knife between his fingers; the blade tip pressed into the arm of the wooden chair. Clothes as black as night and covered every inch of skin, he'd at least pushed down the scarf that had hidden his clean-shaven face. He looked at her with bright emerald eyes.

Lady Belvine chuckled to herself, tapping the bud of her cigarette into a ceramic dish. "I know that the Silas Jax isn't implying there exists a lock he can't pick?"

Expression unchanging, his blade stilled. "What am I stealing?"

A wicked smile coiled around the fence's bright violet lips. "Cres Isle's Retribution."

"The painting that was lost at sea sixty-seven years ago?" He remarked, more as fact than a question.

"Right. Or, at least that was the whisper from the sea. I have it on good authority that it is in General Marx Duke's personal collection."

Silas stared blankly, uncaring. "How much for the job?"

Anything for a bit of coin, he would say. It was a mantra that brought about more trouble than not.

Which was precisely how he found himself suspended from the roof of a Carpathian warlord's mansion a few weeks after meeting with Belvine.

His clothes were wet and heavy from the downpour. Air so frigid he could see his breath, he tried to focus, understanding the easiest part of the heist was over.

"Pick the lock, Jax!" A shadow hissed from his right. Pyra's voice paled against the relentless rain.

Silas quickly got to work on the windows lock. Once the final pin had set, the girl shoved passed him and fell onto the marble with a thud. She hadn't noticed Silas crawled in until the lock clicked.

The General's mansion was an extraordinary example of opulence among the Carpathian army, three stories tall with vaulted ceilings and flawlessly composed marble. Portraits of prior war leaders adorned the halls in perfect alignment.

"Be quiet," Silas warned, glaring at the girl as she wrung her black clothes. The driblets resonated against the marble, calling for attention. His hand clenched the dagger at his waist. But rather than stabbing her right then and there, he paused and grabbed her with his other hand. Pyra stilled, but not before reflecting the same fierce glare into his eyes.

Silas held a finger to his lips. Pushing past her, he guided them down the carpeted hallway.

It wasn't like the thief bringing along company on a job. On the contrary, the man had made quite the reputation as the lone wolf of The Dal. But although he was self-reliant, there were specific securities he enforced. Namely, ensuring he knew exactly where the item was. Going into a job blind wasn't a good prospect, especially when that target involved a Carpathian.

"Which way?" Silas glanced over his shoulder at Pyra. She was quite a few years younger than he. But even though she was a free citizen of Ezterra, he couldn't help but take note of the bright tattooed numbers branded on her slim wrists.

Her past did not concern him. Nor did her affiliation to the Carpathian General. She was just a tool; he reminded himself. As was he to anyone who could pay him well enough. That was life in the slums of Ezterra's Outer Ring.

Pyra examined the halls slowly. Anger snuffed out any fear she might have felt coming back to this dreadful place. Despite the calm night, barring the light pitter-pat of rain against stained glass, she could hear it. Their screams. The way they begged for mercy and freedom for the lives stolen from them. Memories stung at her nose, and the corners of her eyes welled. Then she saw it. In a low voice, she took the lead. "This way…"

Coming to a pair of large, pale blue doors, she stopped. This hallway was different, a significant contradiction to the rest of the mansion's interior. Rotten, the wooden walls had begun to sag. No longer marble floors, but uneven stone. And the lanterns were no longer illuminated by electricity. Instead, the pair's silhouettes danced off a faint, flickering flame. It looked something akin to the back alleys and brothels of the Outer Ring.

Unlocked, they walked right in. Silas took everything in quickly, then once more slowly. Nothing glowed or made the air feel heavy. It was, by all accounts, normal.

With a breath, Silas dared to relax.

"There," Pyra pointed, bringing him out of thought and back to the task at hand.

Cres Isle's Retribution.

Silas had never seen the painting, but he knew the story. Every Ezterrian did. The work depicted one of his people bathed in blood. Triumphantly he held a sword in one hand and with the other, to the heavens, the decapitated head of the Carpathian King.