Chapter 3: The Thief’s Life

By the age of ten, Nyra was already infamous in the narrow circles of Halthor's underworld. She was small and quick, her brown eyes always scanning, always searching for the next opportunity. Her fingers were deft, slipping into pockets and plucking coins as though it were second nature. The locals had taken to calling her "Little Ghost", for she was rarely seen and never heard.

Saris was proud in her own gruff way. Nyra had become her best apprentice, her little shadow who could slip in and out of the most dangerous places. But for all of Nyra's skill as a thief, something gnawed at her—an emptiness that no amount of coin could fill. The streets were home, but they weren't enough. The life Saris had mapped out for her, a life of thievery and survival in the cracks, felt too small.

Her eyes kept wandering to the guards, to the training grounds, to the sharp, shining blades that danced in the sunlight. She began to practice in secret, sneaking discarded sticks from the refuse piles and mimicking the movements she had seen the guards perform. Her stances were sloppy, her strikes wild, but it felt like freedom—like the first taste of power she had ever known.

One day, while out on a job with Saris, Nyra made her first real mistake. It was supposed to be simple: a quick snatch of a merchant's purse while Saris distracted him with drunken banter. Nyra had done it a hundred times before. But this time, something caught her attention.

In the distance, beyond the stalls of the market, she saw a group of young guards sparring with wooden swords in the training grounds. She hesitated, her eyes locked on the clash of wood on wood, the sound of feet shuffling on the stone as they danced around each other. For a moment, she was lost in the sight, imagining herself there, holding a real blade, feeling the weight of it in her hand.

That was when the merchant grabbed her wrist.

Nyra snapped back to reality, but it was too late. The merchant, a heavyset man with quick reflexes, had caught her red-handed, his meaty fist wrapped around her arm.

"Thief!" he roared, raising a cry that drew the attention of the nearby guards.

Panic surged through Nyra's veins as the guards turned, their faces hard and unforgiving. She struggled against the merchant's grip, her mind racing. Saris was nowhere to be seen—likely vanished the moment the trouble started.

As the guards approached, one of them—a grizzled man with a scar down his cheek—drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the midday sun.

Nyra's breath caught in her throat. This was it. This was how people died in Halthor. She had seen it before, seen thieves caught and beaten, sometimes worse. The guards were merciless.

But just as the scarred guard reached for her, a voice broke through the chaos.

"Enough!"

A figure stepped between them—a tall man with graying hair and a thick, weathered cloak. His presence commanded immediate respect. The guards hesitated, lowering their weapons as he approached.

Nyra stared up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. His eyes were dark, piercing, and though he wore no uniform, the way he carried himself marked him as someone dangerous. Someone powerful.

The man glanced at the merchant, who still had a grip on Nyra's wrist. "Let the girl go," he said, his voice calm but firm.

The merchant sputtered, his grip tightening. "But she—"

"She's a child," the man said. "You've made your point. Let her go."

The merchant glared, but after a tense moment, he released Nyra, shoving her backward. She stumbled, barely keeping her balance. The guards muttered amongst themselves but did not intervene further.

Nyra's eyes stayed on the stranger, her breath still coming in shallow bursts. Why had he helped her? She had been caught. She deserved punishment. That was how the streets worked—there were no saviors in Halthor.

The man turned to her, his gaze sharp but not unkind. "Next time, be more careful," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "This city doesn't forgive mistakes."

Before she could say anything, the man walked away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he had come.