I had to admit, Rocher made for a very smart-looking coat rack. He was hauling an entire wardrobe of clothes, plus the swimsuits I'd picked out for Lumiere and Seraphine. From some angles, he looked more bag than man.

  After spending all day modeling clothes, my legs were ready to give out. Seraphine nudged Rocher in the ribs, and he confessed that he could use a break too.

  Lumiere found a café where the two of us could rest, while she and Seraphine plotted their next round of shopping, still brimming with energy.

  "Enjoy your alone time," Seraphine said, her sly smile lingering as she slipped away.

  I accepted her invitation gdly and dug into an affogato—another sinful dessert I'd never tasted back in the convent. Rocher hadn't ordered anything, but the waitress had accidentally brought two spoons. I slid one toward him, and he accepted it, ears slightly red.

  I seized the opportunity to continue talking up how beautiful Lake Pcid was year-round. Rocher regarded me with quiet amusement.

  "Cire, have you ever been?"

  Yes, in the game. Many times. But that wasn't what he asked, so I shook my head.

  "You seem to know an awful lot about it," he said with a shy smile.

  "I've seen the paintings and read the books," I said, matter-of-factly.

  "Right—the mer-beasts. You mentioned once how they were vital to the ecosystem. You must've studied a lot."

  "Ever since I could remember." I licked my spoon clean. "I've always dreamed of going."

  He hesitated—then brushed a bit of cream from my mouth with his thumb, his voice softening.

  "Would you like to go someday? Together."

  My grin split wide. Mission accomplished.

  "Are you kidding? I'd love to!"

  Despite my excitement, our little detour through Lake Pcid would have to wait. Bigger matters loomed.

  By flickering candlelight, I opened my notebook to a fresh page. Sweetness still dancing on my tongue, I dipped my pen and began a new entry.

  In just a few days, the caravan guarding the Sacred Mask of Xolotl would depart—and with it, the trigger for Evelyn’s advancement quest. Everything hinged on one man's death.

  Ramón Huerta. The Lion's Pride. Guildmaster of the Mercenary Guild. He never missed a chance to funt himself on high-profile jobs, raising his guild's name—and his own. This time, his pride would be his undoing.

  To the public, he was steadfast and noble, the picture of chivalry. But I knew better. He was a domineering and vain bastard, dispensing vindictive cruelty to anyone who dared cross him.

  Oh, right—and he was Evelyn's younger brother.

  It was written in her backstory.

  Before she was Evelyn, she was Eva: rightful heir to the Huerta name. Dutiful, driven, and desperate to be worthy of her family’s legacy, she'd worked herself ragged to become a proper Guildmaster.

  But she harbored one fatal weakness—she'd fallen in love with a Thief named Dastan Malta. Dashing, gentlemanly, and reckless in all the ways that thrilled her. He was her escape. Stolen kisses in the moonlight, whispered dreams of running away, ughter in the dark. For the first time, Eva could be more than her father's heir.

  But Dastan was tragically indiscreet. He couldn't resist boasting about his beautiful paramour, and his fellows got curious. When they found out who she was, they happily sold the secret to Ramón.

  Ever the dutiful son, Ramón cut Dastan down in a duel—then tossed the body at Eva's feet. Whatever innocence she had left died that night. Ramón sneered that his proud sister should give up the Huerta name and take her lover’s instead—a family with no heritage, no prestige, no power.

  If he weren't destined for death already, I'd have throttled him myself.

  As it stood, the Thieves' Guild would botch the raid, and Ramón would die in the chaos. Then it would be mission accomplished.

  The ensuing war would force Evelyn to choose:

  Return as the rightful heir of the Mercenary Guild—unite it and crush the Thieves' Guild underfoot, or throw in her lot with the Thieves, and help the Mercenaries devour themselves in succession strife.

  Either way, she would emerge as the de facto leader of the surviving guild. I'd already begun making preparations to support her—no matter her choice. She was my friend, after all.

  Whoever remained, backed by Evelyn's power, would become a crucial ally in the coming war against the Demon Lord.

  For the next several days, the Royal Road was being prepared to receive the caravan from the Aurelian Duchy—a grand yearly spectacle marking the close of the season.

  While Rocher and Lumiere were practicing to receive and consecrate the Ceremonial Mask, Seraphine and I came down every day to browse the holiday-themed stalls and soak up the festive air.

  Of course, I had a secondary motive: gathering intel. Many merchants had ordered goods from the Aurelian Duchy, so they received semi-regur updates. Feigning interest in their wares, I slipped in questions about the health and progress of the caravan.

  But as the days dragged on with no news, unease grew in my chest. What were the Thieves' Guild waiting for?

  My inquiries grew bolder—sometimes slipping and asking about Ramón directly, earning baffled looks from Seraphine.

  Finally, the day of the parade arrived. From our vantage point overlooking the avenue, I watched the procession with tight-knit focus. I needed to see the aftermath of the raid.

  As the caravan passed, I counted under my breath.

  Twelve men bearing the Aurelian coat of arms. Thirty-six more in the lion-embzoned colors of the Mercenary Guild.

  I counted again, palms slick against the railing. The cheers of the crowd blurred into a single dull roar. Something was wrong.

  Twelve. Thirty-six—

  Then I saw him.

  The same golden eyes as Evelyn, but sharper and humorless. A luscious mane of wheat-colored hair. Ears that flicked subtly at the noise of the crowd. His expression was as cruel as it was arrogant.

  My heart dropped into my stomach. Why was Ramón still alive?

  I gripped the railing until my knuckles turned white, gring daggers into the back of his head. As if sensing me, he turned around for a moment to meet my eyes. His lips curved in the faintest smile.

  I looked away, heart pounding, daring only to gnce again once he’d turned forward.

  Seraphine leaned close, frowning. "You're staring awfully hard, Cire…"

  Before I could answer, a strange sensation brushed my temples—like invisible hands covering my eyes. A familiar voice purred behind me.

  "Guess who?"

  "Miss Evelyn!" I gasped.

  My face went pale. I needed answers.

  She stood there grinning, the vibrantly decorated Mask of Xolotl dangling from her hand. She fshed a victory sign, positively delighted with herself. Before she could unch into praise for my outfit, I cut in.

  "You... you got it?" I asked, my mouth dry.

  "Yuuuuuup," she said, stretching the word pyfully.

  I swallowed. "...And no one got hurt? I thought the Thieves' Guild pnned to strike while it was in transit."

  "That was the pn," she said breezily. "That's why that Harker guy charged so much at first—the risk was huge."

  She stuck out her tongue. "But I’m not the world’s best thief for nothing. I came up with a better way: had them infiltrate the Duchy’s staff and steal it before it even left. The one going into the vault now is a replica. Saved us a ton of trouble and coin."

  My breath caught. Every calcution, every safeguard—shattered.

  She spun the Mask around her finger, ughing innocently. "So... that's mission accomplished. Am I the best or what?"

  My pulse stuttered. The ground tilted beneath me.

  Evelyn stood there, eyes sparkling, waiting for my praise. I couldn’t even force a smile.

  The cheers of the crowd thundered on, but it was distant and hollow—like the world itself was sinking.