Dawn broke over Ardwell in a haze of smoke and steam. Through narrow slits in his rented attic window, Lucent Wynn watched the city awaken: factories belching gray plumes, rickety streetcars clattering on iron rails, and dockworkers hauling crates under the watchful gaze of Convocation sentries. His head ached from last night's performance and the weight of new loyalties, but there was no time for rest. The Guild of Masks did not grant favors for idleness.
He dressed in muted leathers—soft enough to move silently, durable enough for a scuffle—and draped a dark cloak over his shoulders. In his satchel lay two talismans of false belief: a polished obsidian coin said to seed trust in those who handled it, and a vial of "Aegis Oil," rumored to make skin seem unassailable to blades and bullets alike—both trinkets supplied by the Guild. He tucked them away; small assurances for the greater gambit ahead.
A final glance in the warped mirror revealed pale eyes ringed with fatigue, a face sharpened by purpose. Lucent would not fail. Not when the Guild and his own ambitions pulsed through every vein.
In the squalid courtyard behind the Broken Spur tavern, Lucent found his contact waiting: a lean man named Kelmar, whose dark skin and hawk-like nose marked him as a former mercenary turned middleman. He lounged against a moss-slick wall, fingers drumming on a ledger.
"You're late," Kelmar rasped, voice like gravel.
Lucent offered a tight smile. "Traffic on Blackwater Street." He slipped the obsidian coin from his pocket and let it catch the pale morning light. "And I see you have my payment."
Kelmar's eyes glittered as he accepted three copper pieces. "And the job?"
From under his cloak, Lucent produced a folded parchment: the crest of House Trane embossed in wax. A minor noble, but well connected enough—Lucent's kind of target. "Lady Elira Trane. She wants her cousin's ledger purloined: debts owed, names of creditors, that sort of thing. Nothing you and I can't handle."
Kelmar nodded, studying the parchment. "A simple courier run. Two guards; shift changes at noon. Deliver this to their estate, swap the ledger inside for a forgery, and return. Good coin and no questions."
"Except," Lucent said, leaning in, "they suspect a leak. Someone's been feeding the Convocation intel on Trane's holdings. They'll be on high alert."
Kelmar's jaw tightened. "Then we'll need—"
"Distraction," Lucent finished. "A small crowd, a rumor. A charlatan in the market square. They'll rush to investigate, guards will abandon their posts. We slip in, slip out."
Kelmar raised an eyebrow. "You sure you can pull it off?"
Lucent folded his arms. "Trust me, I'm an actor."
Two hours later, in the heart of Ardwell's market district, Lucent set his plan in motion. He perched on an overturned barrel by a produce stall, donning a tattered traveling cloak and hat. In one hand, he clutched a battered wooden box—the fake "Relic of Lumis," said to glow when exposed to moonlight. Lucent lifted it high, voice booming:
"Citizens of Ardwell! Witness the miracle of the Relic of Lumis—handed down from the Old Blood themselves! A single touch grants prophetic dreams!"
A cluster of curious onlookers gathered, drawn by equal parts skepticism and wonder. Lucent opened the box. Inside, a chipped crystal caught stray sunbeams, refracting them into tiny prisms. He let rip a hushed exhalation, and at once the crowd leaned in—eyes wide, imaginations ignited.
"They say if you hold it 'neath your pillow, you'll see tomorrow's fate!"
A stout fruit vendor pushed forward. "That's hogwash!"
Lucent smiled, voice softening. "Perhaps. Would you test it for us?"
The vendor hesitated. Murmurs rippled through the crowd: What if it's true? One by one they clamored for a chance. Soon a small mob pressed around the barrel, jostling and shouting.
In the confusion, Lucent slipped away toward the side gate of House Trane's compound. Kelmar and two hired cutpurses blended into the crowd, slipping deftly through a narrow service entrance.
The interior of the courtyard was cool and silent. An iron lantern flickered beside a heavy oak door—the main archive of the Trane family. Lucent signaled his partners. Kelmar picked the lock with a battered set of files; in seconds the door groaned open.
Inside, shelves bowed under ledgers, scrolls, and tax records. A single guard—slumped in a corner, nose to page—dozed beside a lantern. His armor bore the barrister's crest of a rival noble. A glint of concern crossed Lucent's mind: either the Tranes trusted that guard implicitly, or someone had already capitulated. Still, Lucent could not dither.
Whispering leather steps carried Lucent to a high shelf. He extracted the correct ledger, matching the crest on the parchment, and replaced it with a near‐perfect facsimile. The cutpurses stuffed documents into satchels, their gloved fingertips deft and silent.
Then came the softest of breaths: the guard stirred. Lucent froze. Half a heartbeat later, the man's eyes fluttered open, disoriented.
"Who's there?" he croaked, hand drifting toward his sword.
Lucent stepped forward, palms raised. "I'm the new scribe, brother. You've been so kind as to nod off. I came to relieve you."
The guard blinked, gaze bleary. "New scribe?"
Lucent produced a small slip of parchment, stamped with the Trane signet. He let the guard perceive its heft and authority. "Lady Elira's orders. I have credentials."
He held the paper at eye level. Though blank, it bore Lucent's whispered suggestion: This is legitimate. The guard squinted, then nodded. "Thank you." He rolled away on his cot and sank back into slumber.
Lucent exhaled. "Too easy," he muttered, guiding Kelmar and the others back out into the courtyard.
They reunited in a narrow alley, satchels heavy with stolen secrets. Lucent watched Kelmar count the ledgers, corners curling with damp. Their faces were lit by the green glow of an overhead gas lamp, casting long shadows.
"Well done," Kelmar murmured, handing Lucent the original parchment back. "You risked a lot with that forged letter."
Lucent only smiled. "Words are power. Believe in them, and they become real."
But as they turned to leave, a soft footstep betrayed a presence behind them. A single figure emerged from the gloom: a young courier bearing House Trane's livery. In her hand, she clutched the very ledger they had just stolen.
Her eyes widened, recognition and fear entwined. "Stop!" she hissed. "That's mine—give it back!"
The cutpurses tensed, and Kelmar drew a blade. Lucent stepped between them and the courier, voice low but firm. "Mistress, I believe there's been a misunderstanding."
He produced the obsidian coin once more. The girl's gaze flickered to it, and Lucent felt the familiar tug—He speaks truth.
Instead of rage, confusion clouded her eyes. She let fall the ledger. Lucent caught it and tucked it away.
"Thank you," he said, tone gentle. "Now, disappear before someone sees you."
She blinked, shook her head, then melted into the shadows.
Kelmar exhaled, blade sliding home. "She nearly foiled us."
Lucent shrugged. "A reminder: even the smallest belief can alter events. Better that she saw only me, not the men with swords."
That night, back in his attic, Lucent examined the stolen ledger by candlelight. Names of creditors, amounts owed, and under‐the‐table exchanges jotted in precise ink. Enough to ruin more than one debt-slave ring—and valuable leverage against House Trane.
He rolled the pages and slid them into a leather tube. A subtle ache settled behind his eyes: the cost of each deception, each mental nudge, weighed on him more than most. The Guild of Masks had taught him the art of illusion, but this—this was something darker, something that left him hollow.
A soft rap at the door startled him. He opened it to find Jessa, cloak drawn tight, face pale. In her hand, a slip of paper bore the Convocation's seal: "A minor noble's estate breached. Seeking Beliefshaper responsible."
Her eyes flicked to the tube at his hip. "They know it happened. They'll scour every alleyway."
Lucent's pulse quickened—not with fear, but anticipation. The game was shifting. The Convocation would not stop until they found the one who bent belief itself.
Jessa met his gaze. "They'll kill for this."
He offered a thin, wry smile. "Then let them try. I have a favor owed."
Behind that calm promise lay an unspoken truth: in a world where belief shaped reality, debts of faith were the most dangerous currency of all. And Lucent Wynn intended to collect.