The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the world outside ceased to exist. Lutz stood motionless in the foyer of Yevgeny Andariel's house, every sense stretched to a razor's edge. The silence inside was absolute and heavy, a stark contrast to the faint, distant sounds of the city he had just left. It was the silence of a place abandoned, but he knew better than to trust it. A house like this, belonging to someone of Yevgeny's temperament, was never truly empty of danger.
He stood there for a full minute, just listening, his breathing shallow and controlled. The air was stale, carrying the faint, dusty scent of old wood, polished brass, and something else…
Feeling his hands through the leather gloves, he started.
'Alright, Fischer. Move.'
His first priority was to clear the house of any human presence. He moved like a wisp of shadow, his agility making his steps utterly silent on the rich, patterned rug of the foyer. He hugged the walls, avoiding the centers of rooms where floorboards were most likely to creak. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, scanned constantly—not just for people, but for anomalies. He remembered the rudimentary alarm in the upstairs hallway from his first heist; Yevgeny was a man who believed in security, however flawed.
He checked the main floor first: a formal guest-room filled with heavy, dark furniture, a dining room with a long, barren table, a study that made his Thief's nose itch with potential.
He moved to the second floor, his ears straining for the sound of breathing, the rustle of sheets. The bedrooms were opulent but cold, untouched. He checked under beds, inside wardrobes, his movements a study in paranoid efficiency.
Finally, he descended to the ground floor, satisfied that he was alone. The house was a shell, its hermit crab of an owner gone, leaving only the echo of his malice.
Now, for the prize. He returned to the study, the room he had mentally bookmarked. His target was the safe, hidden behind a large, grim-looking landscape painting depicting a storm-wracked sea. He approached it with the focus of a surgeon. First, the floor. He remembered the loose floorboard from before, the one that hid a crude bell-alarm. He skirted its edge, his weight distributed on the solid planks around it.
He reached the painting. With his dexterous fingers, he lifted it carefully, silently, from its hook and set it aside, leaning it against a bookcase. There was the safe, set into the wall, its dull grey metal face a promise of secrets. The dial was cold under his fingertips.
He had cracked it once before, and the memory of the combination was a tactile ghost in his muscles. But safes could be changed. He leaned in, his ear almost touching the cold metal, and began to turn the dial. The clicks and tumbles were faint, a secret language of mechanics. He worked by memory and feel, his mind a perfect repository for the sequence. Right to 32… left, past zero, to 15… right again to 47…
It took three minutes of intense, silent concentration. Then, with a final, solid clunk, the locking bolt retracted. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and grasped the handle.
He swung the heavy door open.
The interior was exactly as he remembered, yet fundamentally different. The small, velvet-lined indentation where the psychically disruptive seal had once rested was now a void. It seemed to mock him, this empty space that had been the catalyst for so much trouble. His eyes quickly scanned past it, his intuition of value pulling him toward the other contents.
There was a medium-sized leather pouch, bulging with a familiar, satisfying weight. He picked it up and loosened the drawstring. The glint of gold was unmistakable even in the dim light. He didn't need to count it precisely; Around seventy Gold Hammers. A significant sum. He tucked the pouch securely into his leather bag.
Next to where the pouch had been was a small, hinged case of polished wood. He opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a collection of precious gems. A few small, flawless diamonds, a deep blue sapphire, a couple of blood-red rubies. 'Wow, what would he need these for?'
His Intuition hummed pleasantly, a warm vibration confirming their substantial worth. They joined the gold in the bag.
His gaze fell on the final items in the safe: a neat stack of documents and papers. He scanned through them and there wasn't anything of value or anything that could hint at Yevgeny's secret life, just purchase receipts and things related to his work.
With a final, sweeping glance to ensure he hadn't missed anything, he closed the heavy safe door. The sound of the bolt sliding back into place was final. He spun the dial, obliterating the combination, and turned to face the silent, watchful house.
Hefting the painting of the dour ancestor. He slid it back into place, the ornate frame settling against the wall with a soft thud, perfectly obscuring the safe. A quick check confirmed it looked undisturbed. To any casual observer, it was just a piece of bad art in a wealthy man's study.
His eyes scanned the rest of the study. He checked the large mahogany desk. On top of it, next to an inkwell, was a small, twisted sculpture of tarnished silver. It looked like a deformed humanoid goat. 'How odd.'
He pocketed it anyway. On a drawer inside the desk, a handful of coins glinted. He scooped them out: seven Gold Hammers and 3 Shields.
He moved out of the study and into the main body of the house, his pace slower now, more methodical. The immediate threat was gone, the prize secured. Now was the time for thoroughness.
The dining room was a showpiece of polished dark wood and a long table that could seat twelve. A cabinet displayed sets of fine porcelain, painted with delicate red patterns. His intuition buzzed against them, a persistent, low-level static. 'Yes, yes, very nice. Probably cost a pretty penny.' He ran a finger over the smooth rim of a mug.
It was completely useless to him. How was he supposed to liquidate a full set of dinnerware? Haul it around St. Millom in a sack? Try to explain to a pawnbroker why a frivolous southern noble like James Morgan was selling off this? The risk outweighed the reward. He moved on.
The silver cutlery in a felt-lined box received the same assessment. Heavy, ornate, and undoubtedly valuable. And just as impractical. 'A shame. The Vipers would have melted this down in a heartbeat.'
The street rat he used to be would have taken it all and figured it out later. James Morgan, the noble, couldn't afford the association. Pragmatism over greed. He left it all sitting in the dark, silent room.
He passed through a formal sitting room, all plush velvet and stiff-backed chairs. Nothing. A small smoking room smelled faintly of old tobacco and leather. A few decent decanters of liquor, but again, nothing worth the trouble of carrying out. The house was a tomb, and he was the grave robber with very specific tastes.
Finally, he stood before the last door on the upper floor: the bedroom. It was locked. Of course it was. He pulled the key ring from his pocket, the one he'd taken from Yevgeny's cooling body. Two keys left. The first was small, brass, and looked like it might fit a diary or a small strongbox. It didn't fit the lock. The second was larger, heavier. He slid it into the keyhole. It turned with a smooth, well-oiled clunk.
Lutz pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was a study in opulent gloom. Heavy, dark velvet curtains were drawn, allowing only slivers of the afternoon light to slice through the dust motes in the air. The bed was a massive four-poster affair with black silk sheets. The air was thick, carrying a base note of expensive sandalwood soap undercut by something else, something acrid and faint. Ash. It was the smell of a fireplace, but also the smell that had clung to Yevgeny himself.
"Charming," Lutz muttered under his breath, his voice the only sound in the oppressive silence.
He started with the closet, a walk-in affair lined with cedar. Rows of fine suits in somber colors—charcoal, navy, black. Tailored shirts. A shelf of polished shoes. It was the wardrobe of a wealthy, tasteful man who preferred to blend into the shadows.
In the back, hanging separately, was a set of practical, dark clothing: sturdy trousers, a tight-fitting tunic, and a long, dark coat. A similar outfit to the one Yevgeny had worn to break into his house.
Lutz picked up the tunic, bringing the fabric to his nose. Beneath the scent of cedar and clean cloth, it was there. Faint, but unmistakable to his heightened senses. The metallic tang of old blood. It wasn't fresh, but it had been soaked in and never fully washed out.
'I guess I'm not his first target,' he thought, the words flat and cold in his mind. It was just a data point, a confirmation of the man's secrets. He dropped the tunic back onto its hanger, the motion devoid of emotion.
He moved to the nightstand, a heavy piece of furniture made of the same dark wood as the bed. The first drawer contained the usual detritus: a spare cufflink, a broken watch fob. The second drawer held more promise. A small sheaf of papers.
He pulled them out and sat on the edge of the bed, the black silk sighing under his weight. The top document was an identification card. Yevgeny Andariel. Citizenship: Feysacian. Place of Birth: St. Millom. Date of birth: June 10th, 1321.
"Seems pretty normal, huh," he said to the empty room. A perfectly ordinary identity for a man who could produce black smoke and had veins that ran with liquid fire.
Beneath the ID, tucked into a small leather folio, was more money. His fingers, nimble and sure, counted it out. Fourteen Gold Hammers. Four Silver Shields. Seven copper Pfennige. He added it to the seven Hammers from the study. Twenty-one Hammers total, plus change, adding it to the roughly 70 Hammers of the safe, around 90, It was breathing room.
He placed the money neatly inside the leather bag along with the gem box and the small silver statue, the weight of the coins a tangible comfort against his chest.
The bedroom had yielded its obvious secrets, but the silence felt… incomplete. Lutz stood in the center of the room, his gaze sweeping over the dark velvet drapes, the massive bed, the heavy nightstand. There was always another layer, a secret behind the secret. His eyes, sharpened by a life of looking for what others tried to hide, scanned every surface, every corner.
'Come on, you miserable bastard. You're a Beyonder, where did you hide the good stuff?You didn't just have a safe. You had a safe and a locked room. So what's in the room?'
His attention snagged on the nightstand again. Not on the object itself, but on the space it occupied. A small, worn rug lay beneath it, its edges flattened by the furniture's weight. It was too perfectly positioned, its sole purpose seeming to be not just decoration.
"It's worth taking a look I guess," he muttered, the words a soft challenge to the room's oppressive stillness.
He gripped the sides of the heavy nightstand. The effort that should have been considerable was trivial now; his body made it feel like moving a piece of cardboard furniture. He slid it aside with a low, grating rumble that was obscenely loud in the hush. He then pulled the rug away, revealing the unvarnished, dusty floorboards beneath.
He knelt, his fingers tracing the seams between the planks. They were tight, well-fitted. But one, directly in the center of the space the nightstand had occupied, felt different. The wood was slightly less worn, the gap on one side a hair wider. He slipped the tip of Creed into the seam and levered it upwards. With a soft, reluctant creak, the floorboard lifted cleanly, like a piece from a puzzle. Beneath it was a dark, rectangular hollow, smelling of dry, undisturbed air.
Nestled inside was a chest. It wasn't large, but it was dense and heavy, constructed from a wood so dark it seemed to swallow the light, banded with polished metal that had a dull, silvery gleam. The lock was a serious, intricate piece of ironwork.