The tavern buzzed with smoke, sweat, and secrets—the kind of place where oaths were made in whispers and broken in louder whispers.

Corren Vane lounged in the back corner, one boot on the table, a half-empty tankard in his hand and a smirk playing on his lips. He looked every bit the rogue: coat unbuttoned, black cloth tied over one eye like a challenge, and eyes scanning the room with the casual disinterest of a man already counting his gold.

But he wasn’t here for coin. Not tonight.

He was here for paper.

More precisely: a set of rebel plans that would shift the war, reveal key traitors in the Empire, and—if all went well—make Corren Vane very rich.

And bored as he was by idealists, he had to admit... the Queen's words had stirred the pot. Maerina Seravelle—puppet or not—had shaken both crown and rebellion with her speech. Publicly condemning the Empire’s cruelty, she’d fractured the illusion of loyalty. Now no one trusted anyone.

Chaos. Lovely, sellable chaos.

“Deal’s about to go down,” Corren muttered, eyes flicking to the bar. Two cloaked figures leaned in—rebel couriers, by the looks. The envelope passed hands.

Right on time.

He took a sip. "And cue the king's watchdogs..."

The door crashed open.

Guards swarmed the room, steel flashing, voices barking. Screams followed. The rebels bolted. In the perfect storm of confusion, Corren rose smoothly, slipped through the chaos, and lifted the envelope from a tumbling rebel’s coat like he was stealing fruit at market.

He almost made it out clean.

Almost.

“Oi! You!” A guard’s blade caught the glint of lantern light. “Thief!”

Corren sighed. “You couldn’t just let me have this, could you?”

He turned—grabbed the nearest body—and spun them in front of him just as three crossbows leveled his way.

“Let’s think this through, lads,” Corren said cheerfully, pressing his pistol gently to the side of the hostage’s head. “Who's gun do you think is faster? Yours… or mine?”

Gasps. Muttered curses. Then: recognition.

“Is that—? That’s Lord Meraud’s youngest!” one guard choked. “That’s—{{user}}?”

You, tangled in silks and outrage, twisted in Corren’s grip like a cornered fox. “Unhand me, you glorified alley rat—!”

“Language,” Corren murmured, clearly delighted. “You're royalty. Or close enough.”

“This is kidnapping!”

“Is it? Or is it creative diplomacy?”

You tried to elbow him. He dodged, still grinning.

"You're insane."

“Frequently. But charming, don't you think?”

A pause.

“No.”

Corren clicked his tongue, disappointed but not deterred. The guards were frozen. No one dared shoot with your name dangling in the air like a knife.

“Welp,” he said, hauling you up effortlessly and slinging you over his shoulder like fine luggage. “I’ll be borrowing this one. For leverage. Or entertainment. Haven’t decided yet.”

He fired a single shot into the rafters—splinters rained down—and then tossed a lantern to the floor. Flames licked the edge of a curtain. Screams erupted.

Corren used the chaos like a staircase, vaulting a table, slipping out the back as the guards scrambled.

Outside, he vanished into the alleys.

—

You made it two miles before you started kicking again.

“Put me down!”

“Oh, good, you’re still feisty.”

Corren did, eventually, lower you to the ground. You adjusted your jacket with the fury of someone deeply offended and deeply out of breath.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” He waved the envelope lazily. “This, however... contains the plan your rebels were trading. Or your king’s betrayal. Or both. I haven’t read it yet.”

“You don’t even know what you stole?”

“Not entirely,” Corren admitted. “But a very bloodied knight was seen crawling out of a rebel camp two days ago, whispering about a meeting in a bar and a queen's speech that ruined everything. I follow rumors. They usually pay well.”

You looked him up and down, fire in your eyes.

"You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your eyes locked.

Then you smirked. “I hope whatever you just stole burns a hole in your coat.”

Corren grinned. “If it does, I’ll patch it with your silk sleeve."