Veyn woke to the sound of Gideon muttering in his sleep. Something about towels.
He blinked at the ceiling, momentarily forgetting where he was. The mattress was thin, his back ached, and his breath misted in the cold air. Right. Not a dream. A manor, a job, a con, and, most importantly, a roof.
He slid down from the bunk, feet hitting the floor with a slap. He dressed quickly, slipping into his stiff servant's uniform and buttoning it with mechanical precision. The boots not fitting quite right.
In the hall, the morning bell echoed faintly through the servant wing. One chime. The wake up bell. He had maybe ten minutes to look sharp or risk catching Keene's full wrath.
But Veyn had other plans.
He veered left, ducking past the main washroom and heading toward the west hallway, near the drawing room. He moved with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly where he was going, even though he'd just memorized the layout the day before.
Reconnaissance before breakfast. That was how you stayed one step ahead.
The manor was quieter than expected. A few yawning maids shuffled down a corridor. Amos could be heard somewhere grumbling about his arm. Veyn ignored it all.
He reached the west wing's gallery, where portraits and decorative pieces were stored during seasonal rotation. A cramped little side room no one seemed to fuss over. Perfect.
Inside, the place smelled of dust. Paintings were stacked along the walls, most of them uninspired landscapes or portraits of forgotten cousins. Veyn crouched, flipping through frames like they were pages.
And then he saw it.
A small canvas, square and modest, tucked between two massive watercolor nightmares. He paused.
Unlike the others, this one wasn't flashy or important seeming. The brushwork was tight, deliberate. The light in the image, sunlight filtering through iron bars, had depth. The signature was faint, but he knew it. A. Veltrin.
Veyn's lips parted. "No way…"
Veltrin was rare. Obscure, but valuable. The man had died in a cell, and his works, what few remained, were hoarded by collectors too proud to admit they liked paintings done by criminals.
This piece alone could probably buy a week's stay in one of Frostpoint's nicer inns. With actual soap.
He turned the frame over. No catalogue number. Not even listed.
"Unsorted," he muttered, smiling. "Forgotten. Like me."
His fingers itched. But he didn't take it. Not yet. Too soon. He needed more information, who had keys, which door squeaked, when the house was quietest. Patience was the game.
He gently placed the painting back, marked the location in his memory, and slipped out just as the second bell rang.
By midmorning, Veyn was shadowing Amos again, helping to prep the ballroom. The manor's routines were beginning to hum with energy. More staff. More tension. More footsteps on the stairs.
"Guests today," Amos grunted, struggling to align a tray with one good arm. "Whole house is chewing its own tongue. Marriage thing."
"Ah, nothing says 'true love' like a guest list and political leverage," Veyn said dryly, adjusting a stack of polished cups.
Amos snorted. "You talk like someone who reads."
"I skim labels."
Later, while organizing a dusty side chamber off the east pantry, Veyn found another treasure, or what most would've missed.
The room was packed with battered trunks, chipped chairs, and forgotten holiday decorations. But in the corner, a small wooden chest sat tucked beneath a stack of moth eaten linens. Nothing special at first glance.
He brushed off the dust, revealing an old crest, House Brellin, an extinct noble line known for eccentric scholars and hoarding artifacts salvaged from shipwrecks. The kind of nobles who spent fortunes scraping the southern coasts for drowned treasure and publishing theses on salt flats.
Veyn popped the lid. Inside, nestled among rotting velvet and moldy cloth, were delicate glass spheres, still faintly iridescent, and a pendant shaped like a raven's skull carved from black drift glass.
To most? Junk. Pretty, maybe, but meaningless.
But Veyn knew that pendant.
He'd once seen a trader in the back stalls of Millner's Market arguing over a nearly identical piece, one salvaged from the wreck of the Hollow Star, a royal ship lost at sea seventy years ago. That pendant had fetched enough coin to buy the vendor a stall of his own, and a second coat.
Not magical. Not cursed. Just history. The kind of rare artifact collectors drooled over, especially when linked to old shipwreck lore and royal blood.
He closed the lid with deliberate calm, his heart pounding.
That chest alone could fund a month of warm beds and clean meals. Maybe even get him out of Frostpoint.
Two targets now.
The Veltrin painting.
And the Brellin shipwreck relics.
And still, he waited.