“Have you got it?”
An excited whisper. The drunkard’s breath hangs in the still air, reeking of cheap ale.
The hooded figure before him nods, presenting a pale, closed fist. Sinewy fingers open slowly, revealing a gold brooch no more than 15 centimetres in diameter. Inlaid filigree of the finest quality glistens despite the meagre light from the crescent moon.
“Good, good.”
The man begins to wipe spittle from the corner of his mouth, then pauses, staring at the lower half of the hooded figure’s smooth, unblemished face. “Heh. You’re just a fucking child.”
With surprising speed, the man snatches the pendant away. Xyrven’s fingers twitch in response, apparently too late to stop the manoeuvre.
The man smiles broadly as he pockets his prize, straightens to full height, turns and begins to walk away.
“My payment?” Xyrven whispers harshly.
The man grunts. “You’ve a lot to learn, boy. I say you have ten seconds to run away before my associates turn you inside out, Master… Lothien, isn’t it?”
“How did you…” Xyrven’s words trail off as six bulky figures emerge from the shadows, blades of all lengths sliding from their scabbards.
———-
Half an hour later, lying on his back on a marble plinth in the gardens of The Heights, Xyrven stares up at the winking stars. He smiles. Hand in his pocket, he gently runs the tips of his fingers along the detailed filigree on the finest brooch he had yet seen in his young life.
Elsewhere, a seething criminal vows to hunt down Lothien the thief, as the counterfeit brooch crumbles in his quivering fist.