A thief, vaunted treasure and murder
Print Edition
It was a door 2 meters high with an average knob and an inconspicuous gray coat of paint — the kind of door that was unremarkable and utterly forgettable in every aspect but paradoxically interesting, too. Why would such a door be hidden in this palace? It could be a service room or some such thing, but the sheer blandness of the place was suspicious. The door placidly stood at the end of a dark, mildewed corridor, and from the dark recesses of an alcove the thief emerged. He stepped cautiously, the result of years of thievery, and hesitated as he stood before the door. The thief had a distinct feeling he was not supposed to be there. He took a deep breath, quelling the vague sense of unease and opened the door.
The vaunted treasures of the duke’s ancient family were rumored to hold unimaginable quantities of gold, weapons to outfit an army and enough jewelry to satiate the greatest empress. The rickety wooden desk did not seem to be worth any of that. The thief looked over the otherwise empty room, angry and more than a little disappointed. The desk would not pay for his family’s meals, nor would it satisfy the tax collectors. As the thief approached the desk, he noticed a series of faint letters carved into the desk. He cleared the dust, coughed and froze. Tap. He looked around for the source as the sound continued. Tap. There. To the left. No, wait, the right. The thief shrugged, and squinted at the words on the desk. He twirled around, his knife slashing at empty air. He could have sworn that something was behind him. The thief paced through the room cautiously, deciding to stake his surroundings before approaching the desk again.
Something was preventing him from reading the letters carved into it. Whatever it was, it was important enough to warrant magical protections. As he reached the last corner, the thief stumbled upon an indistinct object. Sprawled painfully on the hard floor, he winced. The body, or what remained of it, had been mauled beyond recognition. Its mangled hands clutched at a sliver of torn paper. Scrawled in an almost intelligible spidery handwriting, “Run.” That’s when the sword swung. A touch of cliché dramatic timing.
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