Rain dripped from the roofs of Oldbridge like a thousand lazy leaks, trickling down stone walls slick with grime. The city still slept — mostly. A few bakers stirred fires, a drunk snored beneath a wagon, and somewhere, a rat squealed over a crust of bread.
High above, crouched on a slippery rooftop, Rowan Hale grinned through the drizzle. His breath misted in the cold air, his fingers numb around the handle of a worn dagger. Below him, behind a grand set of carved shutters, lay the house of Lord Ferren, a pompous noble rumored to keep a coffer full of silver trinkets.
"Third time's the charm," Rowan whispered to himself, smirking."First time, the dog bit me. Second time, the floor collapsed. This time… perfection."
He tugged his hood tighter, glanced down the street — two guards chatting by a lamp post, oblivious. Perfect. He hooked his rope over the balcony rail and lowered himself silently. For once, things were going smooth.
Until his boot slipped.
The rope jerked, the balcony creaked, and before he could curse, the shutter swung open — revealing a pale-faced young woman in a nightgown, holding a candle.
They stared at each other.
"...Good evening," Rowan said with forced charm."GHOST!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.
The candle flew, hit him square in the face, and went out. Rowan, half-blinded, lost his balance and crashed backward into the rain barrel below with a splash loud enough to wake the dead.
A bell started ringing inside the house. Dogs barked. Voices shouted.
"Oh, bloody wonderful," Rowan muttered, hauling himself out of the barrel, dripping and smelling like a brewery. "Smooth as butter, Hale. Smooth as—"
A door burst open. Two guards stormed out, swords drawn. Rowan darted down the alley, bare feet slapping mud. He leapt over a fence, slipped on a cabbage, and crashed straight into a fish cart.
The fishmonger screamed, "Thief!"The guards shouted, "After him!"The fish just stared, lifeless and unimpressed.
Rowan scrambled to his feet, covered in scales, clutching a single silver spoon he'd somehow managed to grab. His grand haul. He ran through the market, weaving between stalls, knocking over apples and curses alike.
"Move, peasants! Master thief at work!" he yelled — earning a cabbage to the face.
He darted into a narrow alley, heart pounding. Behind him, the clanking of armor grew louder. He turned a corner — and stopped dead. A wall.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
He spun around as two guards appeared, panting. Their armor gleamed with rain; their faces, not with amusement.
"Drop the spoon, lad," one said, leveling his spear."This?" Rowan held it up like a trophy. "My prized possession. Hard-earned, legally obtained—""You fell through Lord Ferren's window.""Did I? Ah, windows are tricky things. Always jumping out at people."
They advanced. Rowan sighed, flicked his dagger from his belt, and gave his most confident grin.
"Now, I don't want trouble," he said."Then stop stealing.""That's slander. I'm merely… redistributing wealth."
A guard stepped forward. Rowan's grin faded.
"Alright, fine. I'm terrible at this."
They threw him face-first into the mud, tied his hands, and dragged him off. The silver spoon clattered to the ground — his greatest achievement of the night.
Later, in the dungeon
Rowan sat on a damp straw mat, dripping and shivering, across from a drunk monk humming an off-key hymn. The air smelled like mold and despair.
"Blessed be the poor in spirit," the monk sang."Oh, shut it," Rowan muttered."Why so gloomy, my son?""Because I'm sitting in piss water listening to divine karaoke."
He leaned back against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and sighed.
"One day," he said softly, "they'll tell tales of Rowan Hale. The man who nearly stole everything… and always got caught."
A rat squeaked beside him, nibbling on his boot strap. He looked down at it.
"Even you're doing better than me."
The rat ignored him. The monk hiccupped and started another verse. And as the rain drummed faintly above, Rowan smiled in the dark — the grin of a man too stupid, or too stubborn, to give up.
"Next time," he whispered to himself, "next time will be different."
He didn't believe it. But saying it felt better than silence.
The dungeon smelled worse than yesterday's market. Worse than the fish cart he had once fallen into. Rowan Hale considered that an achievement.
He sat cross-legged on the damp straw, watching rats scurry past, occasionally nibbling on something they shouldn't. The drunk monk across from him had finally passed out mid-hymn, snoring like a dying pig.
"Perfect audience," Rowan muttered. "Nothing like an attentive, silent crowd."
A shadow fell across the doorway. Rowan looked up. A figure stood there — tall, cloaked, hood pulled low over their face. The guards at the entrance hesitated.
"Visiting hours," one guard muttered."I have business," the cloaked figure said. Their voice was calm, clipped, and entirely unamused. The guards shrugged and stepped back.
The figure walked closer, hands tucked inside the folds of their cloak. Rowan tilted his head, trying to appear nonchalant despite sitting in ankle-deep mud.
"Who are you?" he asked."Someone who can get you out," the figure replied. "For a price."
Rowan's eyes widened. Not in surprise — he had learned to expect betrayal, pain, or embarrassment — but because the sheer idea of getting out seemed impossible.
"Out of this lovely establishment?" he asked, gesturing to the grimy cell. "Are you offering magic? A key hidden in my dreams? A bird to fly me home?"
"No. You're free," the figure said, "if you agree to a job. One job. One chance to prove yourself, if you survive."
Rowan leaned back on the wet straw, trying to act casual. His overconfidence never left him, even in the face of chains and guards.
"Job, huh? Dangerous, I presume?""Highly. Profitable.""And by profitable, you mean I either die or end up poorer than before?""Either that, or you finally make a name for yourself."
Rowan's grin spread slowly, like honey dripping from a comb.
"Finally. A chance to prove I'm more than a glorified street rat! Or at least get a good story before dying horribly."
The figure leaned closer, lowering their voice.
"I need someone who can… get in and out without being noticed. Someone clever, quick, and adaptable. Someone with a particular kind of luck."
Rowan snorted.
"Luck? Oh, I've got luck. It's just… really, really bad luck."
"Good," the figure said. "Perfect. That's exactly what I need."
The guards grumbled outside, but the figure paid them no attention.
"One night, one target," they said. "If you succeed, there's enough coin to make you live comfortably for a year. Fail, and… well."
Rowan tapped his chin, pretending to think deeply, though in truth he was already imagining every possible way it could go wrong.
"And why me? Why not hire someone competent?""Because competent people are predictable," the figure said. "Unlucky fools like you… unpredictable. Useful unpredictability can be an asset."
Rowan's grin widened. The absurdity of it thrilled him. Finally, someone recognized his talent.
"Consider me… unpredictably employed," he said.
The figure handed him a small, folded note.
"Details. Read it, prepare yourself, and be ready tonight."
With that, they turned and vanished into the shadowed corridor. The guards blinked, shrugged, and returned to their posts.
Rowan stared at the note in his damp hands. Rainwater dripped from his hair, ran down his face, and yet he didn't care.
"Tonight, I either become a legend… or a puddle of failure," he muttered.
He stuffed the note into his cloak, stood, and dusted off his mud-caked trousers. The drunk monk snored on. Rowan grinned down at him.
"Don't worry, friend. If I fail, you'll get a great story for your next hymn."
Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, a thief prepared for the most important disaster of his life.