Nessa sat motionless in her corner of The Floating Flagon, back to the wall, eyes measuring each patron through the veil of her pipe smoke. She noted the subtle tells—a nervous hand adjusting a collar, eyes that lingered too long on the exit, the careful distance maintained between supposed strangers. In the shifting allegiances of Blackhaven's underworld, survival hinged on observation—on seeing before being seen.
The tavern's evening crowd reflected the usual tide of desperation that washed through the district after sundown. Workers with coal-stained hands clutched at mugs as though they contained salvation rather than watered ale. A trio of merchants conducted their business in a fractured argot of numbers and euphemisms. Two women with the hard eyes of Harbor District enforcers surveyed the room with professional detachment, hands never straying far from concealed weapons.
And her crew—her responsibility—scattered like compass points around the room's perimeter.
Luka perched on a stool near the bar, clever fingers occupied with a deck of marked cards, performing sleight-of-hand exercises that would eventually separate some fool from his coin. The movement appeared casual, but his stool provided a clear view of both entrances.
Eliza held court near the hearth, having transformed herself completely. Gone was the aristocratic poise, replaced by the easy familiarity of a woman who had grown up in rooms like this. She laughed at a dockworker's crude joke, her hand lingering on his arm just long enough to suggest interest without promising anything. The man would spend the night buying her drinks, grateful for the attention, never suspecting she was mining him for information about shipping manifests.
These were professionals, Nessa acknowledged. Not just thieves—anyone could steal—but architects of opportunity. They had survived in a city that swallowed the careless whole.
And then there was Rook.
He descended the stairs like a cat finding footholds in shadows, his body registering threats and opportunities before his mind processed them. Heads turned in his wake, a ripple of awareness that annoyed Nessa precisely because Rook never seemed to notice the effect. His disregard for the impression he created only amplified it.
Three months of planning this operation, of carefully nurturing contacts and mapping routines. Three months of discipline and restraint—and Rook had nearly unraveled it all with his afternoon escapade. The thought sent a current of irritation through her that she suppressed. She felt her fingers tightening around her pipe and deliberately relaxed them. Emotion was a territory she couldn't afford to enter, not with what she had discovered..
Rook caught her eye and changed course. He dropped into the chair opposite her without invitation, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You're wearing your planning face," he said, reaching for the pitcher. He poured ale without asking. "That frown means you've either solved a problem or discovered a new one."
"Observant," she replied, the word falling between them like a small stone. She tapped her pipe against the edge of the table. "Tell me, was your little exhibition across the Harbor District rooftops part of some strategy I failed to grasp, or merely your chronic inability to evaluate risk?"
His smile vanished. "The Watch was interrogating one of our informants near the Bricks. I created a diversion."
"You created a spectacle." She leaned forward. "There are six new Watch patrols between here and the Crown District, all carrying your description. Whatever you accomplished, the cost was excessive."
"The boy would have talked. He doesn't have your tolerance for discomfort." Rook's expression darkened. "They were using persuasion methods that fall outside official protocols."
Something in his tone—a dangerous softness—made Nessa pause. Rook's impulsivity had always been his greatest liability, but it stemmed from a moral framework she had never fully decoded. He would risk everything to protect a child he'd never met, yet systematically empty the pockets of a grieving widow if the job required it.
"The boy's safety wasn't worth your exposure," she said.
"We value different things." Rook drained his glass and set it down with deliberate care. "But something else is eating at you. What is it?"
Nessa studied him, weighing variables, calculating outcomes. Trust was a currency more precious than gold in their profession, easier to squander than to earn. But they had weathered seven years of partnerships, betrayals weathered and forgiven, successes shared and failures shouldered.
"We need to talk," she said. "All of us. Not here."
She rose without waiting for his response. A subtle gesture toward Luka, a meeting of eyes with Eliza—signals developed over years, a language of survival. Within minutes, they had converged in the back room, Old Man Brix scowling as he locked the door behind them.
"This had better justify interrupting a profitable evening," Eliza said, shedding her common persona. Her posture straightened, voice crisping around the edges. "I was three drinks away from learning which warehouse will receive the Serkonan silk shipment."
"You'll want to hear this," Nessa said. She moved to the scarred table at the room's center and unrolled a leather tube secured against her side. The blueprints inside had been meticulously copied on expensive drafting paper, the lines rendered in precise detail.
The crew gathered around as the papers settled, weighted at the corners by mismatched glasses. Silence descended as they registered what they were seeing.
"These are partial schematics of the royal palace," Nessa said. "The eastern wing. Service corridors, guard rotations, security measures. Everything we need to access the chambers where they'll be keeping the artifact."
"Where did you get these?" Rook asked, voice hushed.
"Questions like that are why you're the rooftop runner and I'm the planner." Nessa traced a path with her finger across the blueprint. "What matters is their accuracy, which I've verified through independent sources."
"The palace?" Luka's voice held uncharacteristic tension. "You're proposing we rob the Crown itself?"
"I'm proposing we claim the opportunity of a lifetime." Nessa pulled out a second document—a formal invitation rendered in flowing calligraphy on thick cardstock. "Three nights from now, the royal family will host an unveiling ceremony for an artifact recently acquired from the ruins on the Pandyssian continent. The guest list includes foreign dignitaries, merchants, and Academy representatives."
"And you believe we can simply walk in and take it?" Eliza asked, her expression balanced between skepticism and intrigue.
"Not simply, no." Nessa laid out additional papers—guard schedules, servant rotations, detailed notes on security protocols. "But with proper preparation and exact timing, yes."
The crew leaned closer, professional instincts overwhelming their reservations. They had built their reputations on executing the impossible—on entering spaces designed to be impenetrable, on acquiring items protected by the best security wealth could purchase.
"Even with these schematics, we're talking about the most heavily guarded building in the Empire," Luka said, fingers tracing the security measures.
"Which is why the reward is unprecedented," Nessa replied. "This artifact predates the founding of the Empire itself. Its value can't be measured in coin—we'd name our price to the right collector."
Rook had remained silent, studying the blueprints with unusual intensity. Now he looked up, meeting Nessa's gaze. "What aren't you telling us? This information shouldn't exist outside the palace."
The question hung between them, sharp as a blade. Nessa felt the others shift their attention from the plans to her face, searching for the answer.
"My source has personal reasons for wanting this particular item to disappear," she admitted. "Political considerations I didn't inquire about."
"We're being used as pieces in someone else's game," Rook said, straightening. "And you know how I feel about being a pawn."
"I know how you feel about wasted opportunities," she replied. "One job, Rook. One night's work that could set all of us up for life."
Something changed in his expression—a flicker of something internal that Nessa couldn't interpret. She had anticipated resistance, had prepared arguments to counter his usual objections. But this was something else.
"Tell us about the security around the artifact itself," he said.
Nessa blinked, thrown by his sudden shift. "Standard protocol for royal treasures." She tapped the blueprint. "The artifact will be displayed during the ceremony, then secured in the eastern vault. Mechanical locks, pressure plates, and two guard rotations with overlapping schedules."
"Possible," Luka said, professional pride overriding caution. "I'd need to examine the mechanism type, but with proper preparation—"
"It's suicide," Old Man Brix interrupted from his position near the doorway. The crew turned, having nearly forgotten his presence. The old man's face had settled into deeper lines than usual, his perpetual frown carving valleys into weather-worn skin.
"Nobody asked you, old man," Eliza said.
"Nobody ever does, which is why fools like you end up decorating the gallows." Brix approached the table with uncharacteristic intensity. "You think you're the first to dream of robbing the Crown? The cells of Coldridge are filled with the ambitious. The graveyards are filled with the clever."
"We're not common cutpurses," Rook said.
"No," Brix said, "you're uncommon ones. Which is why you've survived this long." His gnarled finger jabbed at the blueprint. "But this? This is different. The Crown doesn't simply execute those who steal from the royal family. They make examples. Spectacular, public examples."
An uncomfortable silence followed. Despite his complaints, Brix had provided the crew with both sanctuary and information for years. His wisdom had kept them alive on more than one occasion.
"I appreciate the concern," Nessa said, "but the decision isn't yours."
Brix held her gaze, then glanced at each crew member in turn. His expression softened almost immediately when it reached Rook. Then he sighed, a sound like wind through empty rooms.
"You'll at least need to know about the private entrance through the old servant's corridor," he said resignedly. "And the blind spots in the garden patrol pattern. Hasn't changed in forty years, not since—" He caught himself, shaking his head. "Never mind. Wait here."
He shuffled to a cabinet in the corner, extracting a key from his waistcoat. The cabinet yielded a dusty roll of yellowed paper, which Brix brought to the table.
"These are older," he explained, "but some things don't change. Stone doesn't move. Old passages get forgotten, not destroyed."
The crew stared at him.
"What?" he growled. "You think I was born behind this bar? I had a life before I started pouring drinks for ungrateful thieves."
"Why help us now?" Rook asked. "You just said it was suicide."
Brix's weathered face creased into resignation. "Because you'll go anyway. Might as well improve your odds." He unrolled the aged schematics beside Nessa's more recent ones. "Besides, I owe someone a debt. Consider this partial payment."
Before anyone could question this cryptic statement, he turned and gestured toward the door. "Now get out. I need to find someplace to drink myself into forgetfulness, so when the Watch comes to question me, my ignorance will be genuine."
They left him muttering over his aged blueprints.
Back at Nessa's corner table, the crew huddled close, voices lowered despite the tavern's ambient noise.
"We should take time to consider this," Luka said. "A job of this magnitude requires weeks of preparation, not days."
"The ceremony is in three nights," Nessa replied. "The opportunity exists in that window, not after."
"It's too much risk for uncertain reward," Eliza said. "We don't even know what this artifact is."
"It's enough," Rook said quietly. All eyes turned to him. "Whatever it is, it's enough. One job to set us all free from this city."
Nessa studied him, sensing the shift in his demeanor. Rook had always been the most reluctant participant in their larger operations, preferring quick strikes to complex schemes. His sudden support raised questions she couldn't ignore.
"You've changed your mind rather quickly," she said. "A moment ago, you objected to being a pawn."
"I still do," he replied. "But I know opportunity when I see it." His eyes met hers. "This is it, Nessa. The last job. After this, we all get what we want."
The words hung between them, laden with implications. Nessa felt something twist in her chest. For seven years, she had been the planner to his executor, the caution to his impulse. Their partnership thrived on this balance. Yet beneath the professional arrangement lurked something more complicated, an attachment neither would articulate.
One final job. After which Rook would leave Blackhaven forever—and leave her behind.
She pushed the thought away. Sentiment was a luxury in their profession, an indulgence that dulled edges and clouded judgment.
"Three days to prepare," she said. "We start tonight. Luka, acquire uniforms for the palace staff. Eliza, compile dossiers on the expected guests—we'll need to identify potential covers." She turned to Rook. "You'll reconnaissance the exterior. Memorize guard patterns, identify exit routes."
They nodded, professionals accepting assignments. But as they dispersed, Nessa noticed Rook lingering near the stairs. His gaze had fixed on some middle distance, a furrow between his brows.
She approached, standing just close enough to speak without being overheard. "Second thoughts already?"
He refocused on her face, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "No. Just calculating. You're right about this being the opportunity of a lifetime."
"But?"
"But something feels wrong. This kind of information doesn't simply find its way to people like us. We're being positioned, Nessa."
"I'm aware of the possibility," she said. "I've taken precautions."
"Have you?" His voice dropped. "Because I know you. You've wanted a shot at the Crown District since that job with the Chancellor went wrong. You've got something to prove."
The observation struck too close to truth, igniting a flare of defensive anger. "And you don't? Drawing attention, taking unnecessary risks—you're not exactly the model of restraint."
"My risks are controlled."
"Your risks are compulsive," she said. "And one day they'll get you—get all of us—killed."
The words came out harsher than intended. Rook studied her face, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself.
"Then let's make sure this job doesn't end that way," he said. "You handle the planning. I'll handle the execution. Same as always."
He turned to leave, but Nessa caught his arm, surprising them both. "Rook. Promise me something."
"Depends on what it is."
"This really will be the last one," she said. "Whatever happens—success or failure—we walk away after this. All of us."
He hesitated, then covered her hand with his. "I promise."
The touch lingered before he pulled away and ascended the stairs. Nessa watched him go, aware of the ache that accompanied his departures. Then she composed herself, returning to the table where her blueprints waited.
Three days to plan the impossible. Three days to prepare a caper that would either secure their freedom or end their careers permanently. Three days until everything changed.
She traced the path through the palace corridors once more, committing every turn to memory. Whatever happened, she was committed now. They all were.
One last job.
And then goodbye.