Chapter VIII or A Dream. An Exquisite Gift and Some Prophetic Words. A Grand Heist.
That dream... still vivid, still fresh—though years have passed since then—ah, I could swear it visited me just last night! I remember it with crystal clarity, and I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that it will haunt me in every eerie detail for all of my journey through this beautiful and sorrowful world.
I was running through a dense pine forest; the strong scent of resin, the ground so soft it felt like silk, and the mist, deepening the usual darkness of such gloomy woods, summoned around me a realm both unreal and magical. I suddenly stopped in a small clearing where the rays of a pale noonday sun barely managed to thin the damp mist; I did that because I heard my name being called by many overlapping voices! Frightened, I looked around, and then I saw it!
Through the heavy fog, a raven, perched on a gnarled branch, turned to look at me with an eye gleaming like a midnight shard. A low voice, flowing like honey laced with venom, whispered my name:
'Elsie...'
In that moment, I knew—the Twilight had chosen me. Terror filled my chest, yet wonder bloomed beside it, delicate and dark like a midnight flower. So I ran. I ran until the shadows of that day grew longer—and behind me, the raven laughed.
Then suddenly it was night, and under the high, starry sky, a woman of peculiar appearance and exquisite beauty stood tall, her presence commanding, like a queen of the shadows. Her hair flowed in cascading waves, so black it seemed to devour the moonlight, while her eyes gleamed with a cruel kind of wisdom. Draped in a cloak that shimmered like the night sky, she appeared less human and more like an embodiment of the Void itself. Facing her was a second figure — petite, golden-haired, clothed in a dress adorned with delicate snowflake patterns. This other woman seemed fragile, like a snowdrop blooming in the darkness, yet there was a faint defiance in the way she held herself. Her wide, innocent eyes seemed to plead for understanding, though they were tinged with the weight of an unspoken destiny.
"Listen, my pet," the tall woman purred, her voice smooth yet cutting like a blade wrapped in silk. "For thou art mine own chattel, and times of tribulation do lie afore thee, I shall bestow upon thee one of mine own most cherished gifts for a worm such as thee. Use it well, and forget not that thy woeful life belongs to me! Forget not that thy soul I can hold ceaselessly at the boundary betwixt thy miserable realm and mine own domain. Wherein I keep the soul of thy unworthy mother!"
Her words struck like the tolling of a funeral bell, each one reverberating with a promise of despair! And yet, beneath her malice, there lingered something unsettlingly tender...
"Ah, but don't you take my words to heart," she continued, a playful smile curling her lips. "Verily, I do take pleasure in possessing thee, mine own sweet worm, yet I shall chastise thee with severity each time thou doth transgress against me! Thus, until our next rendezvous, take heed of thy life, for it is mine own possession..."
Her voice faded like smoke, but her presence lingered, oppressive and inescapable, and the golden-haired woman did not move, her expression torn between awe and fear. The scent of nightshade hung heavy in the air, and the tall woman's long cloak seemed to move of its own accord, as though alive...
And then, the dream dissolved into darkness, leaving behind a chill that settled not on skin, but deep within my soul, as if her shadow had never truly left.
Overwhelmed by the terrible heat of that summer night and utterly exhausted from my dream, I woke up dazed and frightened; strangely, however, I wholeheartedly wished to see that terrible and majestic woman again. Moreover, what I had heard about my mother Kiersten's soul, whom, to my shame and sorrow, I had already nearly forgotten, deeply unsettled me. I did not yet understand why she claimed my mother's soul or why she sought to burden me with this knowledge, and this question tormented me for a long time.
But now I know that Nocturnal, my beloved Mistress, lied shamelessly. She has no power over the limb between realms. Anyway, it is in Her nature to lie, and Nocturnal's lies are never without purpose, while her truths are never complete. She's a hard-to-understand and difficult goddess, yet has a great power of seduction. From the beginning, I hated Her, and I also worshiped Her; later, I even came to love Her. How could I not? She is a divinity, and I am Her Chosen! Her words hurt more than any blade, but they also bound me to Her in ways I could not yet comprehend.
About Her gift... It is truly something rare, a precious boon for someone like me, just as She said. I came to draw upon Nocturnal's blessing for the first time on a day when I was fleeing a group of vigilantes. Exhausted and cornered, I slipped into a narrow, shadowy alley, hoping to find a sewer manhole or other way out. But there was none. Pressed against a stone wall, knife in hand and heart racing, I waited for the worst... Yet the monks rushed past me, and even though one of them looked straight into my eyes, they continued their race; they didn't see me!
I stood there for quite a long time, stunned, realizing that I now possessed a power unlike anything I'd known before—a gift to unlock doors once sealed!
However, I must offer a word of caution to my friends who might one day become the so-called beneficiaries of Nocturnal's gifts or favors. Like the Mistress Herself, all of Her blessings are dazzling—immensely valuable, yes—but cloaked in veils of deceit and disillusionment... And that disillusionment can sometimes prove fatal! Never—and I cannot stress this enough—never place your full trust in anything granted by Nocturnal! Do not stake your life on any situation involving Her gifts, I beg you, friends!
Lady Luck is capricious and cruel—divinely cruel, of course, in a manner that far exceeds anything the fragile mortals could ever inflict or endure. She delights, on occasion, in withdrawing Her boons without warning—sometimes for a moment, sometimes forever.
Even this gift of becoming invisible to the eyes of those who hunt me is maddeningly unreliable. I can in no way control the moment it activates; I only know with certainty that I must be out of sight for it to even have a chance to trigger. And as for the moment when I become visible to mortal eyes again... ah, best not to speak of it! It is entirely arbitrary and independent of my will, my actions, or even my desperation.
In those bewildering days, as I struggled to comprehend the unpredictable nature of Nocturnal's gift, the city seemed to be caught up in its own game of shadows. Restlessness spread through the streets, as if unseen forces were subtly intruding into the lives of mortals. Life in the capital carried on much as it had, yet a growing unease crept among the people. Whispers turned to rumors, and soon the citizens began stockpiling food or more elusive valuables. The poor, driven by fear, hoarded what little they could; the wealthy turned to gold and gemstones, while property values—land and homes alike—plummeted.
Troubling news echoed from distant lands: in the north, the province of Skyrim was rife with major unrest, and its once inexhaustible supply of recruits for the Imperial legions seemed to have dried up. It was also said that the Dominion had filled the fortified city of Anvil with first-rate combat forces, veterans of previous wars. The Imperial army, in response, had been deployed to the County of Skingrad, with one legion marching toward Bruma. For the first time in centuries of relative peace, male citizens of the Empire aged fifteen to twenty-five years were being mobilized and trained for war.
Meanwhile, the warrior monks of the Order of Stendarr once again took on the heavy burden of maintaining order on the streets of the Imperial City, their presence growing more visible as they intensified efforts to curb the criminal activity. Stendarr's tribunal presided over most of the crimes committed in the metropolis, delivering swift and severe judgments.
As for me, these events and worries barely touched my world; my life carried on much the same, except for the ache left by Rasha's absence. Without him, I could no longer enjoy anything; even the city's streets lost their charm and became boring—boring and tiresome. Everything that had once delighted me or kept me busy now seemed dull and stripped of meaning. Again and again, I asked my mother when he would return, and each time, she gave the same answer: "Soon, my dear. Soon."
One day, worn down by my endless questions, Shaira took me aside. Her voice was unusually somber.
"Elsie," she said, "Rasha is dead. He will never come back to us. It's time you faced the truth."
"No, mother! Rasha can't die—he's too strong, too clever! Why are you tormenting me with these lies instead of telling me where he is? I'll leave and search for him. I'll ask his friends—I'll do whatever it takes to bring him back!"
Shaira's eyes darkened with sorrow. For a long moment, she hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said:
"You're right, my dear. Rasha hasn't died. But... it would have been better if he had. He walks now in the shadow of a cruel god, in a land where only pain and silence dwell. You must not seek him."
"I will search the most dangerous corners of the world for him if I must, mother! I will bring him home—to you, to us!"
To my shock, Shaira began to weep. I had never seen her cry before. She pulled me into her arms, held me tightly, and through her trembling sobs, whispered:
"If you find him, Elsie... he will take you with him—into Sithis's realm. And then... neither of you will ever return."
We wept together in each other's arms for what felt like an eternity. Now, looking back on the things my beloved mother Shaira told me during that time, I remain astonished by what I can only describe as a prophetic gift—something she seemed to reveal on certain rare occasions in the final year I spent as part of her family.
Sometimes, her words carried a strange and solemn weight, as if she could see not only the past and the present, but also glimpses of a distant future—even one she herself could not comprehend.
In those days, a rare bond had formed between us, rooted in our shared love for the same man—a love that only deepened after his seemingly permanent departure. Many of those last summer afternoons passed in long conversations, with Shaira speaking endlessly of Rasha. She told me of his childhood, his illnesses, and the struggles she faced in raising him. According to her, Rasha had been a brilliant but difficult child, often distant, his sharp mind shadowed by a puzzling indifference to the joys and sorrows of those around him. Yet Shaira was proud of him, though her pride was always tinged with sadness.
It was then that she gave voice to another prophecy, veiled in riddles:
"Rasha will never return to me, Elsie. But one day, he will find you again. And then, no matter how much he loves you, he will let you go and place you into your next mother's arms."
I didn't understand, nor could I have, and her words felt cryptic, both tender and terrible. I smiled and told her she was my only mother, and that I could never imagine, let alone accept, another. But Shaira didn't share my certainty. Her gaze turned stern, her voice steady:
"You don't need me anymore, my daughter. You must grow up, Elsie, and face the world with strength and responsibility. Your time for childish dreams is over!"
Her words stung, not because of their harshness, but because of the deeper meaning I couldn't yet see. My mother often spoke like that: severe, unwavering, her piercing yellow eyes demanding more from me than I thought I could give. And yet, I cherished those moments.
Harsh as they sometimes were, they were the clearest signs of her love. The memory of her voice still lingers with me—gentle but resolute, heavy with a wisdom that seemed to come from another world. Only much later, long after her second prophecy would shatter everything I knew, did I begin to understand the depth of her foresight and the weight of her love!
Shaira never truly seemed at ease unless we spoke of Rasha... or moon sugar. Our mother was proud that Rasha had always scorned alcohol and rejected the wondrous gift that Nocturnal Herself had bestowed upon the cat folk: the moon sugar. She, however, was a devoted consumer of this divine stuff. During those intimate days, she introduced me to the pleasures it could bring, speaking of it as though it were a sacred tether to the divine—a shard of the goddess's own grace. And yet, even as Shaira guided me through its wonders, she never failed to caution me against its dangers. Oh, just like all blessings that come from my beloved Mistress!
"The gift is sweet, Elsie," my mother would say, "but it is also a test. Those who are too greedy are bound to lose themselves."
And so, the last summer I spent in the Imperial City slipped away fast, much too fast. Or perhaps it only feels that way now, as I look back with nostalgia upon that wonderful and carefree life I was fortunate enough to share within the embrace of that fascinating and kind-hearted family.
I continued to spend much of my time with Rasha's gang. Rolf, who had taken over leadership after my brother's departure, was very fond of me and never missed a chance to show it. The others treated me like a lucky mascot—protective and always indulgent—because, truth be told, I was an impudent little brat!
Yet the times had visibly changed, and their lives were no longer as easy as they had once been. Back in Rasha's time, Nash, our treasurer, would walk into a neighborhood merchant's shop with a smile, and they would promptly pay their dues, bowing and grinning obsequiously. Now, however, with the warrior monks of the Order stomping through the city's streets in their heavy boots, the traders and craftmen had grown insolent—some even dared to tell us, to our faces, that they no longer needed our protection!
My comrades decided that such people needed—nay, as Rolf rightfully claimed, asked!—to be punished and brought back onto the "right path." I eagerly joined their initiative, even contributing my own malicious ideas. So we began a full-blown campaign of terror against those who, in truth, were merely trying to make a living through honest, hard work and skill and, as is often the case in such affairs, our primary targets were not the truly wealthy—no, we struck at those too poor to defend themselves, too powerless to raise their voices. At first glance, it seemed we had every chance of succeeding in our intimidation efforts...
Yet the Order of Stendarr was vigilant—unyielding, even—and, to make matters worse, my beloved Mistress Nocturnal, who had recently made her definitive appearance in my life, seemed utterly determined to enjoy Herself thoroughly at my expense.
Thus, the two forces that would soon shape my fate acted seemingly apart—one in the name of righteous order, the other cloaked in divine mischief—and I unwittingly stepped irreversibly onto the path of ruin.
Anyway, in this confession of mine, I won't place the blame on anyone else for what happened next. The Order of Stendarr was a strict institution—perhaps too strict, it's true—but it sought only to preserve order and peace during troubled times for the Empire.
As for Nocturnal... well, Lady Luck never forced me to do anything. She merely watered the seeds that had long ago taken root within me.
Meanwhile, I—foolish, headstrong, eager—was thoroughly delighted by everything unfolding around me, and the misdeeds I began to commit in those days didn't burden me in the slightest.
Quite the opposite: I relished them!
My friends were anything but subtle, and their means of intimidation typically involved physical threats, which, if necessary—or sometimes simply for fun or to set an example—were carried out swiftly and with extreme severity. However, as I played no role in these punishmets or corrections—it depends on how you'd like to call them—I began to grow bored with the monotony of our daily routine; moreover, these methods no longer worked as effectively, given that the Order's patrols were highly vigilant and would intervene promptly in any situation involving physical altercations. I sensed ...oh no! I realized—as if hearing it whispered into my mind by a voice not my own—that the game was no longer about brute force. It required something else now. Finesse. Precision.
Thus, I set my mind to work. I conceived intricate plans, little devilish schemes, and when the moment seemed ripe, I drew Rolf aside. We were dining lavishly—sweet, golden wine from the sun-kissed hills above Anvil filled our goblets—and with a voice cool and composed, I began to share my vision.
My tone was calm—like the matter concerned someone else entirely—as I managed to hide my passion and yearning for power, burying them beneath a layer of careful indifference. Yet my ideas were risky, difficult to execute for people like them, and with apparently low odds of success. The outcome? "Uncertain, at best," Rolf mumbled sometimes. Still, he eventually agreed to discuss my proposals at one of the gang's meetings. Hm, maybe the wine did help, after all!
These meetings were a tradition left over from Rasha's time: regular gatherings where the gang received wages and, sometimes, bonuses for particularly impressive exploits. In the curious spirit of the forest brigands and their free brotherhoods, decisions about the gang's direction were occasionally made by open vote.
Rolf himself had been confirmed as the gang's leader during one such meeting after my brother's sudden departure.
I find this voting system strange—maybe even dangerous; none of the many legal or illegal organizations I later joined ever adopted such a procedure. However, it didn't take long for me to see its advantages in this particular case, especially since I sensed that Rolf was, in truth, quite hesitant about my proposals. Likely, he didn'ttake them seriously, dismissing them as nothing more than the naive ramblings of the sweet yet mischievous little girl who accompanied them on their wanderings.
Ah, I was vexed, but I didn't show that. ' A little girl? Well, for now, just let him think that.'
So I swallowed my fury and, in the days that followed, I spent more and more time in Nash's company. I knew our treasurer was growing uneasy, even dreading the day wages had to be paid. In those new circumstances, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to find the necessary funds, especially since more and more merchants were refusing to pay their "protection taxes."
I did everything I could to win him over: flattered him, kept him company, and quietly fed the worries that had already begun to gnaw at him. Once I saw that he was truly listening, I gently suggested that I could contribute directly to the gang's prosperity—through a few well-executed robberies—provided I had the support of a couple of members. He chuckled and patted me gently on the head, though doubt clouded his eyes.
"And once you're inside, how would you avoid being caught by the owner? Besides, at night, in the dark, you'd be stumbling around like a blind skeever in a fox den," he added, then burst into laughter at his own stupid joke.
I told him that my first attempt would take place in broad daylight, but I would need two of the boys to follow my instructions to the letter.
He laughed even harder. "I'll think about it," he said.
In any case, they both kept their promise and brought the matter to the others' attention at their next assembly, where they 'debated' a lot of nonsense between fits of stupid laughter and smug little grins. I wasn't surprised that no one took it seriously. The boys roared with laughter, jeering at the thought of taking orders from a little girl. They were all kind to me, yes—and in the end, they even playfully ruffled my hair. Yeah, they always did that... And me... I left that meeting more irritated than I cared to admit. And more determined than ever to show them exactly what I was capable of.
I decided to focus all my attention on the butcher who had once broken my bones—the same wretched scoundrel who had also stolen my stolen septim. This was personal, and it only fueled my ambition, sharpening my hunger to pull off a grand heist.
I spied on his home and habits for several days and nights. I no longer wandered the streets with my gang, and my friends figured I was sulking — and, well, they weren't wrong! I didn't go home either, which earned me a stern scolding from Shaira. But nothing else mattered to me then. My thoughts, my time, my breath—all of it was fixed on that small, sallow-faced man with his badger eyes.
I came to know his home, his family, and their routine better than they likely did themselves. His house was tall and narrow, wedged between others on one of the twisted lanes of the Talos Plaza District. On the ground floor were the shop—by far the largest room—and the kitchen, connected by a hallway with two doors: one opened onto a neglected inner courtyard that felt more like a well, and the other led to the street. From this hallway, a steep staircase led up to the two floors used as living quarters by the butcher's family, and then on to the attic.
I memorized the position of every valuable item—whether on display or hidden away in cupboards and drawers. I even discovered a stash of coins in a secret compartment inside a worn, dusty cabinet filled with forgotten odds and ends in the attic!
I also came to know his wife well—a gentle, timid woman devoted to Stendarr—and was equally familiar with every detail of his daughters' lives. They were two sweet and obedient things with an odd habit of attending the nuns' school every working day, right on time.
Although this detail was absolutely irrelevant to what I was planning, I spent a great deal of time carefully and delightedly spying on the activities performed by the girls under the watchful eyes of the sisters.
The students usually sang hymns to Stendarr. This bored me terribly, though I couldn't deny the beauty of their young, crystalline voices blending in perfect harmony. They also read from heavy, leather-bound books and, surprisingly, wrote on wax tablets using slender lead styluses. As I watched them scribble lines, I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to hold such an exquisite tool, perhaps of magical nature, and make words appear—real words, my own words. Oh, that seemed like great wizardry for me, and I thought only special people, maybe blessed by Stendarr, could do such a thing!
And, as the crowning joy of these nice routines, they were granted breaks during which they played freely in the school's lush, sun-drenched garden! "Such life...!" I often murmured, quite envious.
Yet, not everything there seemed so nice to me. The girls were also taught how to sew, weave, and cook various dishes—or were even made to sweep the floors and beat the rugs until clouds of dust filled the air...
Ugh, I'd better stop here—just thinking about such chores makes me ill! The memory of those terrible days in the Order orphanage's laundry still haunts me...
But oh, to read... to truly read! That was something else entirely! That dream burned in me, quietly, stubbornly—like a precious candle hidden beneath rags. I wished—I longed to know how to read, especially since some of the passages they recited aloud were so vivid and captivating!
None of that really mattered to me at the time, though. My goal was set and clear, all moves thoroughly planned, and now I had to carry out the first proper heist of my life. So, one morning at dawn, I slipped in through the skylight and into the butcher's attic, heading straight for the dusty old cabinet stuffed with junk.
The stash was right where I'd seen it—coins, lots of coins!—packed into a pitiful hiding place. Yet, while feverishly rummaging through it, I was disappointed because there wasn't any true treasure there—just a few gold pieces, a decent number of silver ones, and one big sack full of copper coins. I was a bit puzzled because that sack seemed too heavy for someone like me, but my resolve was great and, naturally, I wanted to take the whole lot of them.
To make things trickier, I didn't have much time to spare—I'd chosen that morning carefully, knowing exactly what the family would be doing at each hour. Everything had to run like clockwork. So, as quickly as I could, I tore up some old bed sheets I found in the attic and made small sacks. I filled them with coins and tied each pouch to a length of rope I'd discovered in a dusty corner. Then, taking a few risky trips across the neighbouring rooftops, I stashed the bundles inside nearby chimneys, securing the ends of the ropes around their bases. Sweaty and out of breath, I returned to the attic to continue robbing the house methodically.
First, I caught my breath while the family woke, had breakfast, and tidied up. Once the daughters left for school, as they always did, I slipped into their room and took all the trinkets I knew they kept in their drawer.Then, extremely satisfied, I tucked those small and cheap jewelry into thechest pocket of the apron I wore over my dress.
Next, I waited for the butcher's wife to leave for the market—as she usually did—and as soon as she left the house, I carefully plundered every room, knowing that the maid, still in the kitchen, might come up at any moment. I worked fast and took anything shiny, small, and remotely valuable. Two rather large silver candlesticks gave me some trouble, but since I was determined not to leave anything behind, I wrapped them in a cloth and tied them with a ribbon the mistress of the house was particularly proud of.
With every pocket stuffed full of glittering spoils, I didn't stop there—I rolled up a thick, finely woven rug and, straining under its weight, carried it down to the backyard. From there, I spent the rest of the morning, right up to noon, ferrying the loot to a hiding place I'd prepared inside the main sewer gallery under the Talos Plaza District. By the time I was done, my arms ached and I was drenched in sweat—but I felt utterly satisfied. Phase one of my plan was now complete!
I caught my breath for a moment and then went to enjoy a lavish lunch at an expensive restaurant near the Temple of the One. Oh, I stuffed myself so much and was so tired that I decided to rent a room at the adjoining hostel, leaving instructions to be woken an hour before sunset. I slept like an innocent child, unburdened by any sin or worry. Rested and refreshed, I hurried back home.
Cautiously, I paused at the doorstep, trying to gauge where Shaira was and what she might be doing right then. But as I had both expected and feared, I couldn't slip past her unnoticed. She caught me just as I was about to sneak into the girls' room, where I slept and kept my things.
Our mother confronted me sternly, asking where I'd been for the past few days—and, more importantly, what on Nirn I was up to next. I put on my most innocent expression, looked her straight in the eye, and allowed a few tears to well up. I mumbled something vague and pitiful. Her tone softened. Concern replaced suspicion. She reached out to touch my shoulder—And that was my cue! I darted past her, slammed the door to our room behind me, and locked it.
Looking around, I saw that only my sister Elira—the sweetest of them all—was there. She stared at me in shock, a hint of worry beginning to flicker in her usually playful gaze. But I smiled and raised a finger to my lips; she smiled back, nervously, and sat on her little bed, quietly watching me with her adorable eyes.
Meanwhile, in the hallway—on the other side of the door—Shaira was rattling the handle and yelling, calling my name. I ignored her. I dashed to my wardrobe and quickly changed into my finest dress. Off came the heavy boots—on went a pair of satin slippers I normally saved for holidays. I let down my long, golden hair, combed it out quickly, and let it fall loose around my shoulders like a gleaming silk cloak.
Then I rushed to the open window, hesitated for a moment, and called out: "Don't worry, Mama—and forgive me!" I shouted. "I'll be back tonight and I'll explain everything!"
With that, I swung one leg over the windowsill. The window was on the second floor, but I grabbed the drainpipe and slid down to the flower-filled courtyard below. Oh, and what a courtyard it was—overflowing with stalks and leaves of that plant so beloved by all the cat-folk... and by me as well!
It was already late, and I began to fear I'd fallen behind my plan. Ah, that copious meal and that foolish afternoon nap—two mistakes I could hardly forgive myself for! Breathless, I ran toward the butcher's shop; the streets were bustling with people at that hour of a summer evening, as velvet dusk began to settle over the ever-restless city. Weaving through the crowds, I reached my destination just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.
To my shock, the shop was not shut up with its shutters down—it was teeming with customers! A few were even waiting outside! Nervous but elated, I hid behind a heap of garbage left for the night's waste collectors and watched closely as patrons bustled in and out in a way I had never seen before.
Finally, when night had almost blanketed the capital in its silken, sweet, and warm darkness, the last customer exited, arms full of packages. I rushed forward and burst into the shop like a storm, shouting wildly, my eyes wide with feigned horror.
"There's a man with a torch on your roof, master! Smoke's already pouring from the attic!"
The butcher gawked at me, mouth agape—oh, he was desperate, I could see and cherish that! Normally, I could hardly hope that a man so cunning and self-assured could be so easily deceived, yet that evening, his soul was already torn between the joy of the day's unexpected crowd of customers and the unsettling news of valuables missing from his home. With a strangled voice, he barked at his apprentice while locking the counter, where the sweet clink of gold and silver rang out:
"Stay here, Jon! Mind the shop!"
Then he grabbed the same club he'd once used to make a point — straight to my young bones—and charged up the staircase. Voices echoed from above. Then, moments later, a cry rang out—inhuman in its despair!—and it shook the whole house, as if all the grief in the world had been poured into that single, gut-wrenching scream. The butcher had just reached the attic and seen the chaos I'd left behind! And, of course, the cabinet with its secret compartment hung open and empty...
The apprentice glanced at me uncertainly, but all he could see was a very young, well-dressed woman with wonderful, golden hair cascading around her shoulders, looking shaken and frightened. I gazed back at him with wide and innocent eyes—oh, this figure works on nearly every young, and not only, man!
He whispered, "Please, miss—would you mind watching the shop for just a moment?" And without waiting for a reply, he dashed upstairs.
The joy I felt then was almost divine. Without hesitation, I seized the cleaver stuck into the butcher's workbench and smashed the lock on the counter. I grabbed a bag hanging from a hook and filled it with every coin from the drawer. And let me tell you, friends—there was a lot of money in there! Far more than I'd even hoped! Far more than could be explained by a day's honest trade, even before a major holiday!
In mockery, I scattered a few copper coins on the floor, then walked out of the shop, calm and composed, as though nothing had happened; moments later, I vanished into the shadows of the Talos Plaza District's alleys with my heavy prize.
I felt alive—more alive than ever before. A powerful thrill coursed through me, and I was utterly convinced of my brilliance, my cunning, my great, unmatched talent. And in that spellbinding moment, a strange, dark melody seemed to stir deep within me—a song of triumph.
Ah, how naïve that golden-haired girl with wide, seemingly innocent eyes truly was! I can't help but smile sadly now as I write these words, knowing what I didn't know then: Nocturnal plays a strange and cruel game every time a thief reaches for something that glitters or embarks on a heist. But more than that—my beloved Mistress is so perverse that She's rarely content with the simple emotions Her divine game is meant to stir. No, She cheats, and She does it so boldly, so shamelessly, that I still find myself admiring Her nerve, even after all these years spent together.
Yes... Right so! Nocturnal did cheat most grossly that fateful day when I lost my soul! She, my precious and beloved Mistress, says that She found Her perfect match among mortals in those unforgettable moments, but She's a big and shameless liar—that She really is! In any case, on the day of the grand heist, Lady Luck wrapped me forever in Her warm and silken web—a wondrous and beautiful fabric spun tight with vain promises and sweet poisons. Because from that bewitched, perfumed summer night onward, my passion for shiny things became something wild, something boundless—utterly beyond my control!