Sure enough.

  When Soren slipped out for a quick reconnaissance and then circled back, pretending to be a passerby, two fully armed guards had already taken position at the entrance.

  Whatever was inside had to be worth a great deal.

  Since that avenue was closed off, he moved on to the next target. The docks offered no shortage of locks to pick — more than enough to push his Rogue class to level 3 or beyond. After that, ordinary locks would no longer sharpen his skills. He'd need to find a way inside Amber City's walls and test himself against their higher-grade mechanisms.

  But level 3 would be sufficient for what he had in mind. According to everything he knew, every major city had a hidden treasure cave somewhere in its vicinity. Inside, beyond the traps and the monsters guarding them, there would be a chest — and the extraordinary items it contained were the only ones available at this stage of progression. Their value was staggering.

  Under normal circumstances, clearing such a cave required a full party of adventurers around level 5. But rogues had an edge. If your skills were sharp enough, a level-3 rogue could infiltrate solo. Caves counted as a special terrain type — stealth received a hidden +5 bonus in their confines, and the darkness only made it easier to move unseen.

  He dumped every available skill point into Stealth, pushing it to 68 in one go.

  Theft was a lower priority. Thirty-five points was more than enough to lift goods from slow-witted targets, and for a former legendary-tier rogue, reading which potbellied merchants wouldn't notice a thing was second nature. Lockpicking sat at 45 — plenty for the basic locks he was dealing with now, though he'd need to invest more once he got inside the city. Trap Disarming was the weakest link. It could handle simple alarm mechanisms, but it wouldn't be enough for whatever waited in a treasure cave.

  Next time his Rogue class leveled, he'd push Trap Disarming to 30.

  "At this rate," he murmured to himself, "once the Rogue class hits 3, I'll unlock an extra class feat too."

  Soren wove through the dockside crowds. By the time he emerged on the other side, several silver Dalers had found their way into his hands. With a superhuman 20 points in Dexterity, he could lift whatever he wanted before the mark so much as blinked — and that wasn't even accounting for his two personal feats.

  Nimble Left Hand was the first: years of relentless training had given the original Soren impossibly deft fingers, a permanent +1 to Dexterity and an additional +3 bonus on all Theft, Lockpicking, and Trap Disarming checks.

  Perfect Recall was the second: the ability to memorize anything he'd ever seen, a permanent +1 to Intelligence with an extra +3 on memory-related checks. Plenty of spellcasters had invested serious effort trying to cultivate that particular feat. It didn't come easily.

  The day passed quickly.

  Soren picked more than a dozen locks across the dock district and pocketed a respectable haul. In the old days, someone would have shown up to collect the gang's cut by now. Kol's outfit had one or two warriors at professional level 5 — fighters with at least 15 Strength, solid weapon proficiency, and real combat training. At level 5 and above, warriors gained special combat talents and could push their Strength to 18 or higher. The original Soren, with no formal combat training, wouldn't have stood a chance against any of them.

  But the gangs were in shambles now. No one came to collect, and everything he took was his alone.

  Decent income, all told. Twelve silver Dalers — enough for him and Vivian to live on for more than a month — plus over 200 points of class experience in the bank.

  Reaching Rogue level 3 required 500 experience points.

  At this pace, one more day would be enough to level up again.

  Level 10 Commoner / Level 5 Rogue.

  That would push him into second-tier territory, and with it, he'd gain access to a devastating ability: Shadow Assassination.

  Among second-tier professionals, a stealth-focused rogue who wielded Shadow Assassination was the most dangerous thing walking. One strike. One kill.

  That was the goal.

  When Soren returned to the cramped shack he called home, voices were already drifting through the thin walls.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

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  A young priestess sat on the wooden stool — slight, pretty, with an air of quiet composure. The moment she spotted Soren, her expression cooled. She offered him a curt hum by way of greeting, then turned a warm smile on Vivian.

  "Well, he's back now," she said. "I'll be on my way."

  "Be careful here on your own. If anything happens, come find me at the Dawn Temple."

  Vivian nodded earnestly. "Thank you, Sister Anyali."

  The girl was a novice priestess at the Dawn Temple, devoted to Kalsoros — the god of the morning light, and one of the first deities to fall after the Chaos Years began. Kalsoros had served as a subordinate god within the Lord of Radiance's pantheon, and the Abyssal demons had struck that pantheon hardest of all. More than half its gods had perished.

  It was only a matter of time before Anyali began losing her divine abilities.

  She'd met Vivian by chance and taken an immediate liking to the girl. That was the only reason she helped Soren at all. Her priestly rank was too low to have healed the injuries that had kept him comatose, but she'd done what she could for Vivian in the meantime.

  As a priestess of the dawn's light, Anyali made no secret of her disdain for thieves. In her eyes, it was men like Soren who kept Amber City's streets so dangerous.

  "What happened?" Soren asked once the priestess had gone. He crouched down and rested a hand on Vivian's head. "Why was she here?"

  Vivian's voice dropped. "Someone was lurking around the shack today."

  "I think they were Kol's men."

  "Sister Anyali showed up just in time and scared them off."

  "She healed the mark on my back, too!"

  Vivian tugged up the hem of her shirt and turned to show him. The ugly, dark-purple bruise was gone — which made the mild healing potion Soren had purchased through a black-market contact entirely redundant. There were no blacksmith shops or apothecaries in the slums. If you wanted potions or weapons, you had to buy from underground dealers, and that was exactly how most arms ended up circulating down here.

  "Kol."

  The name came out flat and cold. Killing intent flickered behind Soren's eyes. He hadn't expected the man to move this quickly — sending people to sniff around the shack the same day Soren had refused him.

  Did Kol really think he was someone who could be pushed around?

  "I'm taking you into the city tomorrow," Soren said. "We'll find an inn. There are guards on patrol inside the walls, and the streets are much safer than here. You'll be all right."

  He held out a piece of candy he'd palmed off a merchant's display earlier that day.

  Vivian's eyes lit up. She took it with both hands, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into her mouth. Her whole face broke into a grin — dimples and all.

  "Brother! It's so sweet!"

  "You have one too."

  Her small palm pressed a second candy into his mouth before he could protest. She was like that — impossibly easy to please. Cheap malt candy that any city noble would have sneered at, and she acted like he'd handed her treasure.

  Soren let the sweetness dissolve on his tongue. Grainy and cloying, the kind of confection no one with money would touch.

  It was all the slums had to offer.

  Vivian hopped off the bench and brushed the dust from his clothes with her small hands. "Sister Anyali is a good person," she said softly. "When you were unconscious, nobody would help us. She was the only one."

  Soren smiled and gave her nose a gentle flick. "I know. She's a good person. When we get the chance, we'll repay her."

  The priestess might dislike him, but he couldn't deny the debt. Soren kept careful accounts — of kindnesses owed and of grudges unresolved.

  The sky dimmed.

  They busied themselves with dinner. Soren had brought back smoked meat, along with oil, salt, and seasonings — luxuries that hadn't existed in this shack for weeks.

  Word had already spread about the corpse found at the Burning Hearth Tavern. The neighbors' gazes carried a new undertone of wariness, even respect. When the smell of cooking meat drifted through the walls, Soren caught more than one of them swallowing hard.

  Vivian ate until her belly was round and tight. When she caught Soren's teasing look, her cheeks flushed pink and she waved her tiny fists at him in mock outrage.

  She hadn't tasted meat in a very long time.

  Today, she was content.

  Soren stroked her hair as they talked about nothing in particular — small, easy things, the kind of conversation that made the world feel briefly safe. When the last light bled from the sky, they climbed into bed.

  Night fell.

  Soren lay still with his eyes closed, listening to Vivian's breathing slow and deepen. When he was certain she was asleep, he eased his arm free of her grip, one careful inch at a time.

  He slid out of bed without a sound, dressed in the dark, and tucked his dagger into the back of his waistband.

  There were problems that needed solving.

  Better to handle them now.

  He glanced once at Vivian's sleeping form — small, curled up, utterly defenseless — then slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

  Night was the hour of the blade.

  Soren had no interest in wasting energy on petty turf disputes, and he certainly wasn't going to sit idle while these people threatened Vivian's safety.

  They'd set their sights on her.

  So let every last one of them rot in hell.

  His expression emptied as he stepped into the darkness. The shadows welcomed him like an old friend, swallowing his outline until he was little more than a smear of movement against the black. A cold, surgical intent settled behind his eyes.

  Crossroads Alley was still busy.

  It was the most prosperous stretch of the slums — though "prosperous" was a generous word for a place like this. Relative to the surrounding ruin, it qualified.

  Kol had crowned himself the new boss. He'd rallied a crew of slum toughs and petty criminals and seized the alley as his own — the fattest cut of territory in the district.

  The draw was obvious. Crossroads Alley had its share of working women, some of them attractive enough to pull customers from as far as the docks. Controlling the alley meant controlling one of the slums' few reliable revenue streams. But a turf war with a rival gang only days ago had left the place on edge. Most of Kol's men went armed. Customers were scarce. The women stood idle along the lane, bored and restless, and every now and then one of Kol's thugs would grab a girl by the wrist and drag her into one of the low shacks that lined the alley.

  In the darkness, a figure materialized without a sound.

  He moved along the wall's edge, keeping to the deepest shadows, closing the distance step by silent step.

  The slaughter was about to begin.