Children, do you believe that you are ready for the final part of this story, or would it be better if we waited for tomorrow?

Alright then, give me but a moment to clear my throat. There we are. Let us continue with the grand heist at the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires.

It was during the middle of a clouded afternoon on the last day of the Month of Growth that dozens upon dozens of carriages – some more extravagant than others – rolled into the courtyard of that magnificent place, for it was the day after that the new year would begin with the coming of summer. Abandoning their original calendar for the common Tarensian one was one of the only traditions that Költonos has ever changed, and of course it was to make commerce easier with the rest of the continent. Nevertheless, many a noble from all over the nation and even some from the Summerlands, Valis, Therem and Grogen found themselves invited to the Frosted Queen’s celebration, and it was safe to say that all that received an invitation accepted it immediately. Getting two for a couple of merchants from Karn must have been quite the challenge for Mistress Orithea, but she had evidently done it, because one of the carriages – a modest, black and white thing – carried sir Horai and miss Erin with no complaint. The two, dressed in similarly fine clothing as they had when attending Evelynn’s party, though the lady had insisted that they would under no circumstance attend the Queen’s soiree in outfits that had already seen use, were currently going through their plan for what was probably the seventeenth time during the ride around the Yeti Gaze Peaks. Both of them knew exactly what their roles would be, but a reminder never hurt anyone, or so the twins believed.

“This will get dicey,” Gileth remarked, his nerves fraying the usual humor in his voice.

“It will. There is much that we do not know. We are going to have to improvise a lot of the way. You’re good at that, though.” Kyla said, her nerves keeping her eyes fixed on the mountains just outside the window.

“Yeah… Do you remember where Nina stored the bow?”

“I do. North Guest Tower. Living room, inside the hearth. The knife?”

“She should have put it in the third stall in the small men’s room on the first floor of the Queen’s Tower.”

“That’s what she said.”

“What happens if the weapons aren’t there, Kyla? Do we have a plan for that?”

“We get our asses out of there. No reward is worth dying for. I would rather work my entire life to pay off our debt than die tonight.”

“Agreed. But hey, on the bright side, Nina’s request was a lot less unpleasant than Evelynn’s – I’m sorry, Lady Orithea’s.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Murdering a random man being worse than picking up a friend’s suit and tie? Nonsense!”

“True.” The frayed edges were smoothed over. “She infiltrated this place so easily, though. Why not go for the contract herself?”

“She is a mind mage. Illusions, tricks… People often don’t see her as herself. There is a difference between pretending to be, and I’m just giving an example here, a maid and then going for the apparently most heavily protected and most private room in the entire Palace. Not to mention, the room that is the least accessible.”

“That’s fair. Anyway, we are here.”

“Indeed. Mask on, brother.”

“Literally, this time.”

The carriage came to a standstill within the space between the five main towers of the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires, the air hanging heavier on the shoulders of the thieves than anybody else, considering the risk that they were about to take – that they were already taking. In silence, they both reached for their masks, given to them by Evelynn; both owls, birds associated with Oron the merchant god, with Gileth’s being black and Kyla’s white. They then stepped out into a sea of velvet and silk, a forest of birds and theatrics, all in various colors – black, white, blue, purple, red, green, yellow. Some meant to fit the Költonian color scheme, some meant to provoke. The immediate impression was chaotic, the many noble guests seemingly moving around at random, chatting up an old acquaintance here or complaining about something to another there. Upon further observation, however, it became clear that the chaotic waters were running down stream, towards the awe-imposing Tower of the Queen, the inside of which was barely visible above the many heads, even for tall Highlanders. Their driver, a reliable friend of Knud’s from the Thoroughfare, had already shown their credentials at the main gate, but a servant at the door to the tower asked for their names nonetheless. Once given by miss Erin Velstan, he replied:

“The Frosted Queen welcomes you both to her home for tonight’s celebration, and hopes that the dance and the food will find you fulfilling and that the ice will forever be refreshing.” It might seem strange here in warm Therem, but ice is revered quite a lot in the North. Perhaps to no one’s surprise.

Another servant placed almost directly after the first asked for their outer garb. Gileth slipped off his coat to reveal the immaculate, sleek suit underneath. Kyla took off her short cape that covered only the top half of her back alongside her shoulders. The sleeveless dress that she wore had been crafted specifically by the Familiar Fashions Guild’s best tailor on orders from Evelynn, who had apparently taken some slight offence by the simple and modest design of Kyla’s previous wear. The shadow did not complain: It would be easier to wield her bow with no fabric to restrain her arms. Only issue was that her left forearm was bound to be bruised the next day: She had no way of concealing her bracer this way, nor had she had the presence of mind to have Nina hide it alongside the Bow of Whispers.

Being herded further in by the pressure of the crowd around them, the twins were led down a broad flight of stairs, illuminated by the crystals in the icy walls, which gave the area an atmosphere of cool calm: One would have a hard time in such an environment to not admire and even venerate the many figures of Költonian history and myth that was depicted in busts and paintings placed in what looked to be protected bubbles within the ice. Previous Frosted Queens, great pioneers of industry, many a scholar. Even a stained glass mural showing the blue palm and burning fingers of the Frostflame’s Hand could be seen, showing appreciation towards the keepers of one of the four Elementals, the cold fire of the Land of Ice and Snow. Eventually, the stairs broadened and flattened out, revealing an enormous ballroom in the same white and ice-blue colors. The floor was decorated with patterns meant to resemble beautiful snowflakes, every single one unique and special; the walls were of ice and alight with that same colored light; and all around were placed tables in many shapes filled with food of so many kinds that it took the twins a moment to even notice it all, being incapable of paying attention to a single tree in the great forest ahead of them. In here, the guests that had seemed so numerous outside spread out, and while the room was still filled, it was nowhere near packed. Evelynn Orithea had stood out when the twins had gone to her, but if she was wearing the same here as then, she would be one amongst many, simply another ruby in a grand pile of precious stones collected in the Palace that night. The twins, although they visually played the part, both felt like pieces of coal in comparison.

However, sober lamenting was not their way, at least not for long, and so the twins found the floor. They had beforehand decided that it was best to stick together, until their plan was to begin at midnight, and so they did. Moving into the hall, they each picked their poison amongst the exquisite assortment of various wines and ciders, before picking small conversations with those that showed an interest in the relatively unknown Highlanders invited to the soiree. They revealed not much more than what was necessary, being as vague as possible whenever they could, for there was a very real possibility that they could be conversing with someone actually from Karn, who would recognize that the Velstans were nothing but a façade. Thankfully, no such person seemed to notice, or perhaps they simple did not call the twins out on it. New money was, after all, generally considered to be flukes, not worthy of an established noble’s full attention.

As the twins slowly spent all their reserves for small talk and had repeated their story a score times over, the first floor – consisting of a ring overseeing the room with a railing seemingly made of ice preventing any fall – suddenly became occupied. Where before, the party had been kept on the ground floor of the ballroom, a group of around ten older gentlemen emerged from the left hallway adjacent to the hall. Amongst the white and pink skin and the grey hair, two figures stood out to the twins: One had caramel skin with almond-brown eyes, a well-trimmed beard and a bald head. A Theremian, by all accounts, and one that Kyla recognized as Yoruk Islar. His was a very unique case, one of the few non-Költonians to ever hold a seat on the ruling council, even if his position was more honorary than traditionally earnest. The other noticeable individual was one that Gileth had had a rather intimate experience with: The Debauched Banker himself, Ilwariu Marsen. Pulling his sister slightly to whatever could substitute a side in the crowded party, Gileth started inspected deliciously looking cookies while whispering:

“He could be an issue.”

“He is here with the rest of the council. I presume that is who is standing up there.”

“Intimidating in of itself.”

“I don’t disagree. Keep an eye out.”

“Do you think Marsen is aware of our faces? I made sure not to show mine in his study.” Gileth picked a particular cake, inspected it, then put it back.

“We made a rapid escape. Maybe. I don’t know. But why would he expect us here tonight? Besides, it’s not like we are the only Highlanders around.”

“No, but there certainly aren’t that many. The masks should help, though. Let’s just try not to arouse suspicion. I did threaten his daughter, remember? He’ll be looking for revenge, probably ending with a knife between our ribs” Another cake picked, this one eaten.

“Agreed. Be careful.” Kyla made a show out of punching her brother’s shoulder lightly and laughing as if he had said something utterly hilarious. Gileth, picking up the ball kicked to him, shook his head while grinning. The show had to go on for a few hours still.

In that time, the twins became keenly aware of why they preferred parties in the Thoroughfare. There, the drink was strong, the company colorful and the music never ceased its beat. Here, the drink was practically just brightly colored water, the company was monochromatic and the music barely audible. That was, until an enchantment seemingly fell over the entirety of the crowd at once as a figure stepped out on the ring that constituted the second floor, high above the main ballroom. A young girl, maybe eleven winters old, with hip-long, blond hair and shining blue eyes visible even from afar. Dressed in a lithe, glittering, icy dress, there could be no mistaking her.

The Frosted Queen of Költonos, the Mother of the North, Freia herself.

Even those that do not know their history nor their culture would not mistake her for simply a girl. There was a gentle aura to her, one that at once demanded respect and made you feel welcome and loved. As young Freia stepped forward and into proper view of the entirety of the crowd, even though their necks were bent backwards to make it so, her voice rang out through the ballroom, amplified by some artifice.

“I bid all of you, dear guests from far and near, welcome to my Palace tonight to celebrate the new year’s coming.” Her voice, melodious and graceful, was captivating. The twins, unlike all others around them, did not pay full attention to their Frosted Queen. Instead, Kyla subtly pinched Gileth’s side. He repeated the signal. The meaning was clear: Get ready.

The Frosted Queen’s speech continued for some time, thanking the guests for their hard work throughout the year, bidding them eat to their heart’s content, and so on. The eyes of the twins, half covered by the faces of owls, were on a short staircase on their right, which they knew would lead into the hallway running through the walls between the Queen’s Tower and the North Guest Tower. Likewise, it was from here that one could ascend within the Tower of the Queen itself. It was, in other words, the path to both parts of their plan.

The speech was reaching its end, just as midnight was approaching. A herald appeared within the ballroom and began his countdown:

“10, 9, 8, 7…”

“It’s time, brother.”

“6, 5, 4, 3…”

“Right after the masks fall. I got it.”

“2, 1…”

Suddenly, the air was filled with dozens upon dozens of masks flung from as many faces, and the sound of their inevitable impact with the floor rang out like a short lived equivalent to the enormous drums that had been brought forward and upon which a burly, shirtless man now hammered furiously. Where before there had been small talk and aristocratic boredom, there were now chaos and high spirits. People grabbed each other and started spinning around the place in disorganized and yet somehow still practiced fervor, whilst others took this opportunity to alleviate the Palace of more than their fair share of cider and wine. Some were also seen leaving the party, having gotten sick after indulging perhaps a bit too much in the fine dining, if you will. Particularly, two taller figures with white hair left rather early into the dance, presumably because one of them had to lean sickly onto his sister’s shoulder, while she helped him towards the northern exit from the hall. The two continued in such a manner until they reached the men’s room, where Kyla – in complete breaking of Költonian standards – entered with Gileth in tow, dropped him in the third stall and said in a low voice:

“Is the knife here?”

Gileth searched for a moment, his drunkenness dispelled as the act that it was. Then, his hand found the familiar leather grip. “Yes.”

“Good. See you on the other side.”

“Yeah. Kyla, be careful, alright? Don’t do anything risky.”

“Why, cause that’s your domain?”

“Of course.”

Kyla left the men’s room as dignified as anyone can be when one has just carried one’s sickly brother to privacy in the middle of the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires. Then, keeping her masquerade up to the best of her ability, she made her way past the staircase back down to the ballroom and further into the hallway leading to the North Tower of the Esteemed Guest. On her way, she passed a few other guests – mainly a couple of drunks who had forgotten where and in which company they were – and the odd Shield of Oron making their rounds within the hall. One such guard, a youngster it would seem, shot her an odd glance as she passed, one that Kyla could not quite make out the meaning of. No matter. Continuing, she entered the tower and headed straight for the living room there, but as she rounded the corner leading to the doors to that room, she found herself unexpectantly face to face with a Shield. Reacting with impulse and honed skill, Kyla immediately put on an expression of hurried worry:

“Oh, thank Oron that I found you!”

“Madam?”

“It’s my brother! He has fallen terribly ill and I don’t know what to do! Please, help me!”

“Calm down, madam.” The poor guardsman looked around feverishly, but alas, there was no one but him to handle the screaming noblewoman.

“Calm down!? My brother doesn’t breathe and you tell me to CALM DOWN!? He’s in the courtyard, please go help him!” Sometimes Kyla wondered how people ever fell for these types of performances.

“Alright, alright. Stay here, though, I can’t have you looking over my shoulder.” The soldier seemed to have regained a fraction of his composure, if just slightly.

“That’s fine! Just save my brother, please!”

Speaking some additional, unsavory words in a low voice, the guardsman left his post behind, convinced that he was about to either save a man’s life or be the one to take a corpse to his commander. Kyla gave it ten seconds before she opened the door and lightly stepped into the living room. A quick scan of the space revealed that it was empty, inhabited only by finely crafted couches, a low, largely impractical table and a cold fireplace. Quickly, she made her way to the latter, fishing around for a bit before her hand found what she was looking for: The grip of her familiar short bow. Pulling both it and her quiver of arrows from the hearth proved to be a bit of a challenge in of itself, as they were wedged quite tightly in there, but eventually she got both out, the only cost being the soot and ash now clinging to her dress. She quickly strapped the quiver around her waist and made for the staircase leading up from the living room. Her part of the plan was simple: Cause the biggest possible distraction available to her, hopefully pulling the Isouri and as many Shields as possible to the two northern towers, then get out as Gileth made for the Winter’s Warren. A simple sounding plan, but one that would require a lot of haste and a genuine miracle of luck to work properly. Moving up the stairs, she came upon an ornate door that had a three words written in ice upon it: Councilman Yoruk Islar. Kyla had taken a moment to admire the frozen script the first time that she was here, but now she had priorities. She pushed open the door, which she knew would not the locked thanks to Iyna, the blabbermouth, took five steps back and whispered: “Fire.”

The room became an inferno, Theremian decorations burning and the luxurious clothing, books and personal belongings of Councilman Islar melting away under the intense heat and destructive evocation of the Bow of Whispers. One arrow down, eleven to go. One shot spent. As the immediate heat of the blast quickly dissipated, Kyla ran into the ruined quarters, threw open the window looking over the courtyard and looked upon chaos. Dozens of Shields and servants ran around, shouting and attempting to organize. Practically all of them were running into the North Guest Tower, though a few where instead running for the Tower of the Queen. She could work with this. Waiting for a few additional seconds to allow the last remaining people to leave, Kyla shot a path-arrow onto the floor before climbing out of the window, using the ethereal rope of the infusion as one would any other. As she made it to the ground, she stroked her bowstring lightly, dispelling the rope. Then, she sprinted to the Tower of the Servant, hoping that any random eyes on her would not see the bow nor the arrows in the midnight dark and simply think her a guest running for her life.

To her luck, she found the Tower of the Servant empty, and so she simply bolted for the dining hall that she had been to when posing as Mikhaila the maid. Here, she once again unleashed a firebomb, using the same arrow as had made the path but a few heartbeats earlier. Ten left in the quiver, two whispers remaining. Once more, there was a calamity.

Then, she heard footsteps right behind her.

She immediately spun, just in time to place a kick in the groin of a Shield who would otherwise have put a knife to her throat. The man recoiled for a second, which was time enough for Kyla to notice the second assailant quickly approaching from her right. As the attacker, dressed as a maid, closed in with a shiv in hand, Kyla danced away, just barely dodging the blade. The young girl sliced again, however, and Kyla was not as fast this time. A spray of crimson drew a tangent to the arc of the knife, adding an unintended contrast to the walls, as the attack found purchase, albeit shallow, in Kyla’s left upper arm. However, the knife-wielding maid had knocked herself just enough out of balance – the cost of improper footwork – for Kyla to draw on arrow, not that she had the time to knock it. Instead, she dropped the bow and stepped towards the man that she had winded, only now recognizing him as the one that had shot her a strange glance earlier, and attempted to ram him with both her superior, Highlander brawn and with the arrowhead. The situation was fortuitous for her: The man’s feet stood parallel and facing her, so as they collided, he had no strength to combat her. Thus, he was pushed against the cold wall, the light of a crystal presenting itself as a halo behind him. It would not matter, for the arrowhead had been driven in deep just above his clavicle. He was not to survive the night and would find Moonshadow’s embrace soon enough.

Kyla, uncaring in her moment of stressful instinct and perhaps uncaring unconditionally, grabbed the man’s hair and spun in a circle, holding him close. Then, at the right angle, she released the dying man, sending him tumbling towards the girl that was dashing in from behind. Earning herself a moment, Kyla pulled another arrow – eight left – and shot forward. Usually, she would have gone with a sidekick in a situation like this, but her dress restricted her movement to much for that, so instead she moved in from the right, thrusting the arrow towards the girl – whom she towered over with a head’s height – and her currently exposed neck. It was all the girl could do to hold her hand up to block the arrowhead… and it did, at least the harshest impact of it. Kyla then immediately decked the girl with her left hand, the punch drawn in a straight line from her hip. The proverbial lights went out in an instant. Out of the corner of her eye and behind a filter of pumping blood, Kyla registered an oddly dressed figure approaching, but she paid it no mind, instead focusing on catching her breath…

The temperature was dropping, rapidly, unnaturally.

Oh no. A sudden dread and reemerging of adrenaline roused her to action. She would run, but her left foot was stuck to the floor, a ring of ice growing around it. The approaching figure turned its hand and curled its fingers in a beckoning motion. The ring grew tighter. Kyla knew that she had but a moment to react. She lowered herself slightly, then half-jumped, half-tumbled upwards and backwards, pulling her foot from the cryomancer’s grasp and moving into a backwards roll. Getting back on her feet, she locked eyes with the mage, as she made to turn and run, recognizing them as Sera, the Isouri that she had seen during her last infiltration of the Palace.

“Not so fast!” she heard yelled behind her, as she had taken her first few steps away from the figure. Suddenly, the walls grew outwards, the air instantaneously commanded to phase shift to a solid. Her way was blocked by a sheet of ice, which then, as she watched, started to grow spikes. She had no doubt about the trajectory that they were about to follow, so she follow her gut, tossed herself backwards towards Sera and her bow. Landed hard on the stone, she grasped for the weapon as Sera stopped their current hand motion to begin another. Hand found wood, while another grabbed an arrow, one of the few still intact after Kyla’s acrobatic efforts. A shaft was knocked, a string pulled and a word shouted:

“FIRE!”

Kyla had already turned her face away from the inferno that never came. A moment’s confusion was replaced with horror as Kyla saw the now mundane arrow kept in frozen abeyance within a solid block of ice currently lying at Sera’s feet, but she had escaped from dire situations before and her body knew how to react, even if her conscious mind was not present. She immediately pulled another arrow and, using her last infusion before the Bow of Whispers required time to recharge, she commanded its aberrant light to appear as she release the arrow aimed a few meters to the left of the mage. The light shone bright, like a shooting star, and the Isouri did not have Kyla’s foreknowledge to cover their eyes. Thus, they were blinded and when they came to their senses again, the intruder and chaos-maker was gone. Kyla had understood her cue, and had ran as fast as she could away from the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires. She simply prayed, perhaps for the first time and to no deliberate deity, that her efforts had been enough.

Gileth praised his lucky stars that toilets of the Palace was kept so clean. He waited within the stall for what the tension made feel like an eternity for the sign that Kyla’s distraction had worked, though it was in reality only about ten minutes or so. Eventually, just as his legs started to go numb, he heard it. A loud explosion, so very familiar to him. Then, hurried footfalls and frightful, confused screams. People running down the corridor right outside the men’s room. With the knife concealing somewhat within his jacket, he resumed his act and entered the flood of people outside. He grabbed one man, who was currently trying to direct others, and asked:

“What is happening?” Gileth did his best to appear as hysterical as the majority of those around him.

“I don’t know. For now, the Shields of Oron have bid us exit the Palace. They’ll protect us in the courtyard.” The man did an excellent job of remaining coherent under pressure. Gileth was impressed, although he did not show it. Instead, he put on an expression of horror and desperation.

“My sister!” he shouted dramatically, before running against the flood.

“Sir! Wait!” The man’s shouts fell on willingly deaf ears.

Gileth pushed and shoved his way through the crowd, eventually making it to a relatively empty part of the hallway. From here, he could continue straight forward into a space that he did not know what was used for, or he could use a spiraling staircase to ascend to the first floor. Taking the latter option, he rushed up the stairs, the mask of desperation left behind. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could practically hear his sister scolding him for such sloppy deception. He felt a slight tuck at the corner of his mouth before falling back into focus. Then, his feet found the first floor.

Kyla’s information stated that the stairs to the second floor was placed at the end of the corridor to Gileth’s current right, so that was the direction that he started running in. The Palace seemed oddly silent here, the hysteria of below not really reaching this floor. That was broken, however, when the second explosion rang throughout the walls. Not for the first time, Gileth was in awe of the Bow’s destructive ability, even if it was limited. A part of him was very happy with how unique and expensive it was, just so that he would never have to be on the receiving end of it.

A majority of the second floor of the Tower of the Queen was dedicated to the ruling council, as Gileth quickly deduced from the scores of immaculately detailed portraits of various Költonian lords, all captured in a dignified pose against a cold, blue background. Gileth couldn’t help but to think how easy it would be to switch two nameplates around without anyone ever being the wiser. Only a few paintings stood out: One had golden skin, probably from the Summer Lands south of Költonos; another was brown, a Theremian most likely. This was near the end of the hallway, which had proven to Gileth that the Tower of the Queen was far more spacious than what was immediately apparent from the outside. It turned out to more oval in shape than completely round, not that it mattered much to Gileth in the moment.

In front of him, a dual staircase led up, mirrored to either side. He leapt up the right one, two steps at a time, emerging on the second floor with haste. While all parts of the Tower of the Queen had been beautiful, this was by far the most decorated section that Gileth had seen. Figures were sculpted within the ice in a way impossible without magic, replicas of battles and important events of Költonos’ history. As he moved towards where he expected to find the room with the Warren, astutely aware now of any approaching Shields or Isouri, he saw in the ice a presentation of the Sacking of Yggrisa, the establishing of the Frostflame’s Hand, even a rebirth of Oron on the winter solstice, the day that Költonos used to call the end of the year and still consider to be most holy. It was mesmerizing to behold, especially for someone like Gileth, who had always been an appreciator of fine arts. There quickly came a time, however, where he had to refocus on the task ahead, as he found himself at the foot of yet another set of stairs, these formed in ice and covered only with a thin sheet of stone to prevent one from slipping. The opening was lit from within by two dimmed crystals placed at the front of each step, and the entire portal was framed by an ornate carving of bird’s wings on either side with an owl’s head gazing upon any that would dare enter the Frosted Queen’s sanctum. Gileth breathed heavily as he crouched slightly. His boots had been made to muffle his steps, so he carefully took one silent step, then another, then another… then he stopped. He heard voices from above.

“I don’t feel good just standing here…”

“We have our orders. Protect this room with our lives. And we will.” Gileth pulled out the Knife of Paralysis.

“What if the Exalted Mother needs our help? What if she is in danger?” Then he slipped on the Obscure Ring.

“The Isouri guards the Frosted Queen better than we ever could. We’ve been over this.” The two Shields never noticed the shadow now standing between them.

One jab to the nervous one’s neck.

The illusion vanished, the Ring now dormant.

A push to the other’s chest as he recoiled. A slash, not lethal, but enough. Then, finish them both.

Gileth wiped the blood of the blade on one of the guards’ gambeson. Then he made to open the door, which was, perhaps naturally, locked. Foreseeing this, he had hidden his tools in an inner pocket, which he now took in hand and got to work. The lock, while masterfully crafted, was not innovative in any capacity, so the well-trained Gileth made short work of it. The door swung upon, revealing…

A tiny chamber with barely any decoration in it at all. It looked more akin to a child’s cozy hideout than the ruler of Költonos’ most well-protected room: A comfortable-looking chair stood invitingly off to the side, a few choice books placed on a small table next to it. The room looked nice, more than anything, much to Gileth’s surprise. For a moment, he was afraid that he had gone to the wrong one, that he had used the Ring’s limited infusion for nothing.

Then he saw it.

The tome lay open on a writing desk placed under a stained glass window depicting a blond, fair woman, its pages yellow with age. Stepping closer, Gileth put his hand under the cover and very gingerly closed the book, revealing a white cover with a charming depiction of a blue winter-rose.

“Half the job done…” he quietly muttered to himself, placing the book inside his jacket in a pocket made specifically to be large enough to hold a book of the expected proportions. The Warren was smaller than he had expected, and lighter to. He wondered what secrets it kept inside. What could be so valuable as to justify the contract given to the Guild?

Don’t look at me like that, children. I don’t know.

Anyway, with the book secured within his outfit, Gileth turned to leave the room. A part of him thought about waiting out the twenty minutes or so that it would take for the Ring to become active again, but reason quickly dispelled the idea. If someone, say an Isouri, noticed that the guards were gone, they would check the room, no doubt – that’s assuming that Gileth could even remove all evidence of his bloodshed –, and fighting an Isouri in such a small space would be his death, if he was right in his thoughts on their abilities. Hopefully, he would never have to find out. So, having made his decision, he descended the steps back into the hallway, a minor smirk having found its way to his face.

A man stared at him from across the hallway. A tall, lithe, pretty man with long, blond hair. He wore a silky shirt that was almost see through.

Oh no.

Gileth ran, sprinted as fast as he could and in the opposite direction of the man and therefore also the stairs that he had taken up. In his frightful haste, he barely noticed the walls trying to grab for him, nor did he feel his body desperately trying to adjust to the freezing temperatures that it suddenly found itself in. He sprinted past suddenly animated carvings of soldiers and merchants as their forms shifted and became conduits for the heat that was being moved into the walls. Once, he snuck a peak backwards to see his adversary likewise sprinting, the eldritch motions of his mind invisible to Gileth, yet the result of them nevertheless lethal in purpose. The thief kept running, his stamina impressive and all the more elevated in his dread.

Another flight of stairs was straight ahead of him.

Not daring to slow down even for a moment, Gileth bolted towards the wall to the side of the steps, jumped and kicked off of it, hoping to ricochet himself back onto horizontal ground. Unfortunately, his footwork was imprecise and he landed right on the edge of a step, his momentum sending him tumbling forward. Unable to manage the force with which he fell, he impacted painfully against the plateau at the middle of the descend. He saw glittering stars for a moment, before pushing himself to his feet and accelerating down the remaining stairs and back onto the first floor.

The chase continued with the cryomancer having gained a bit after Gileth’s accident. Once, in the middle of a step, his foot was suddenly stuck to the floor, and he thought that he was about to repeat the incident, before he managed to get it loose and just barely dodge an icicle. The mage slowed and furrowed his brow, while Gileth regained his balance. The walls in front of the thief suddenly grew perpendicular to their regular line. Realizing in a moment of horror that the mage was blocking his escape, Gileth turned, stepped forward into a longer stance and with a broad swing, he tossed the knife at his opponent. The knife was not made for throwing, the weight of it mainly being in the handle, but it did not have to be a clean hit: Any cut would still transfer the infusion, no matter what. A good, solid hit by the handle could have a similar effect, too.

The mage was not knocked out as cleanly as Gileth had hoped in his wildest dreams. The knife, handle first, did however catch him in the middle of the chest, his concentration on the ice wall preventing him from reacting fast enough to dodge or block it. It distracted him for a moment, an opportunity that Gileth did not waste. He jumped through the opening not yet frozen over and continued running down the hall towards the stairs to the ground floor. Perhaps he could disappear into the crowd, assuming that it was still there. Otherwise, he could hopefully disappear in the courtyard, protected by the shadows of midnight.

The crowd was in fact mostly gone from the ground floor as he made it there. Only a few Shields of Oron were still in the halls. One reacted to his running down the stairs:

“Sir! What are you still doing in here?” The voice was a combination of worry and annoyance.

“Got… lost. My… sister… still in here.” When everything else fails, play the desperation card. Kyla had always done so, so why shouldn’t it work for him?

“We’ll get her out, sir. The situation is under control again. Please join the others in the courtyard.”

“Thank you…” He overplayed how exhausted he was, an attempt to really sell the act.

He had gotten three steps away when a voice called out behind him:

“The Highlander! Seize him!” The voice did not sound desperate, just slightly winding and very used to commanding.

“Yessir!”

Gileth was in full sprint again as the temperature once again returned to a dangerously cold point, a metaphorical knife-edge that could be felt over his entire body. It was only a few strides of running before he was at the door that took him outside. From here, he ran into the crowd of nobles, pushing one aside, and somewhat throwing another by hooking his arm around her neck in his run, hoping to get her in the way of his pursuers. It seemed to work, as no more ice attempted to murder him, nor did any Shields get to him. Soon, he was free of the Palace walls, having survived his part of the mission and left the Palace with his quarry. Thus ended the most audacious and horrible heist of the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires in recorded history.

The twins would eventually rejoin each other in the Finder’s Thoroughfare, both ecstatic over their success. They celebrated for quite a while after having delivered the Winter’s Warren to Cecilia, who in turn made sure that it found the hands of the Guild’s client. Having been paid enough to purchase a life in luxury, the twins retired from their shadowed career and moved to Grogen, where they lived the remainder of their lives with all that their ill-earned coin could buy. They were last seen by any of my siblings in faith about five years ago, both now in their twilight years. Perhaps they still live, I do not know. As for Yggrisa, however, the intrusion and direct assault on the Palace of a Thousand Frozen Spires could not be overlooked. The actions of the twins forced the council’s hand into beginning a more active campaign against the Thief’s Guild and the Finder’s Thoroughfare. It turned out, in the end, that accepting the contract on the Winter’s Warren was the worst mistake that the Guild would ever make, for it lead to its eventual destruction. Though, as such organizations do, when there is a need for its services, the Guild will eventually reappear in some form, and the tunnels beneath the metropolis of Költonos will once again provide sanctuary for those that seek freedom and the indulging of sin. Perhaps it already does. Thus ends our tale, children, and it is late. Run to your beds and heed the lesson well. This is Moonshadow’s gift to you, and mine. Goodnight.