Night draped its threadbare shawl over the broken spine of Ozoroth. The town, weathered and sagging, breathed slow under a veil of smoke and starlight. Faint torchlight flickered from crooked sconces nailed to stone walls, their flames casting long shadows across dirt-packed streets. Wagons were locked down. Merchants rolled up stall cloths with stiff, calloused hands. Farmers muttered to themselves as they limped home, tired eyes dull from another long day of scraping coin from dust.

A sewer grate shifted.

Not loudly—but enough to stir a rat, which scurried off, squeaking.

Then came a glint. Two amber eyes, round and catlike, peered through the slit between stone and street. A moment later, a figure hoisted herself up through the gap like oil slipping from a jar.

A goblin.

Small, wiry, caked in mud and soot. Her dark green skin shimmered faintly with sweat. Her wild black hair was tied in a crooked ponytail, bouncing behind her as she moved low to the ground. Her chest was wrapped with a faded linen strip, barely covering the necessary, and her lower body was hidden beneath a tangled, ragged cloth skirt patched with stolen bits of silk, leather, and burlap.

Across her back: a sack. Dirty. Frayed. Stained with blood and wine. Empty—for now.

She moved through the alleys like shadow given form, clinging to walls and crates, using the shifting noises of the city to cover her steps. A closing tavern door. The clatter of hooves. A snoring drunk collapsed against a barrel.

She stopped near a broken window frame and pulled the sack off her shoulder, spinning it in the air once before slipping it over herself like a makeshift cloak. Her small shape bent low, completely hidden in the filth and folds. Only her glowing eyes remained visible, blinking slowly as she watched the corner ahead.

Silence.

A merchant locked up a side door, grumbling. He dropped a key. Bent to pick it up. Didn’t notice the glint of sharp teeth smiling from the dark.

The goblin darted forward, swift and near-silent. Her fingers—thin and clawed—moved like practiced knives. She didn’t need to see the purse. She felt it. The tug, the weight, the drag of leather string. In a flash, it was hers.

She disappeared just as quick, vanishing into the darkness with a muted giggle.

Behind a cart, under crates, back into shadow.

She crouched, opening the purse just enough to peek inside. Five silver. One chipped gold. A wooden token. She licked the gold coin and pressed it to her forehead with a delighted hum, eyes half-lidded like a beast enjoying its kill.

— Mmm. Hello, lovely. You’re comin’ home with me...

She closed the purse and tucked it into the folds of her sack, already hungry for more. She wasn’t done. Not even close.

From her cloak, she withdrew a cracked brass spyglass and peered toward the upper row of buildings on the hill. A guardhouse. An apothecary. The outer walls of the King’s granary.

She grinned. Her teeth were small and jagged, but white—surprisingly so.

— Big folk always leave the pantry half-open. All it takes is a little slip... and a bit of luck.

She hoisted the sack again and ran along the alley wall, quick as a fox in heat. Every movement was practiced—leaning into shadows, freezing at sound, ducking beneath laundry lines and broken boards.

She scaled a half-cracked wall using clawed fingers and slipped into the eaves of an abandoned home. From there, she waited, watching the windows of the apothecary glow faint green with alchemical light.

No one inside. Candle flickering. Herbs left hanging too close to an open window.

Her breath slowed. Eyes narrowed.

She dropped from the roof into a pile of hay without a sound. A second later, she was gone again, sack flapping behind her.

And through it all, her mind sang one refrain. One craving.

— Gold... gold... gold...

She’d die for it. Had almost done so, once or twice. But every coin stolen was a coin that proved she could still win. Still outwit. Still take.

— Tonight’s a good night... for thievin’