The Forgotten Crown

Chapter One

So deep into the night, the city of Molwreeth was more of a graveyard than an overpopulated township. Morana Stavenger perched on a rooftop, hidden between a pair of brick chimneys that pumped smoke into the dark sky above. Beneath the black hood of her leathers, amber eyes scanned the cobblestone streets below, studying the few drunks who meandered from pub to pub. They occasionally bartered with the block's courtesans. A few city guards patrolled the area, but she had taken meticulous care over the past weeks to learn their routes and knew when to move. No one knew she was there. No one would look up.

She watched a pair of guards chatting amongst themselves. Their breath pooled into the frigid air through the holes in their helmets, their bodies bound in leather and heavy iron plates. Their faces were plump with youth, eyes constantly scanning for danger. The Lord of Molwreeth hired children, barely over sixteen, to patrol his city. Perhaps it was a better fate for them than freezing to death in the derelict slums just a few blocks away.

Morana eyed them until they disappeared around the corner. Within seconds, she tightened the strap on her satchel and then positioned herself on the eave. She dropped her leg in front of a second-story window. It came loose easily with the nuzzle of her boot. She lowered herself inside and crouched low. And then she listened.

The house groaned as it settled, but there were no other sounds. Save for the quiet steps of the household guards beneath her, stationed at the bottom level. Morana kept to the walls, covered in gaudy wallpaper, and allowed the shadows of the narrow corridor to conceal her entirely. The alcoves were wide enough for her body to squeeze into. Quick places to hide in case the guards traversed upstairs. The full moon's light spilled in through the windows, cascading over the hardwood floor like a phantom's essence. She floated down the hall, from alcove to alcove toward his bedroom.

Lydia had told her where to look—second floor, the farthest room to the left. There, she would find the lord alone in his too-big house. The wife was long gone, attending an aristocratic party, and his servants retired home for the night. Her movements were silent as she crept, keeping low beneath the windows. Not even the white drapes moved as she passed.

Morana reached his bedroom door and pressed her ear to the wood. Soft snores and the slight pops of a fire wafted from inside. With a gloved hand, she reached up and turned the handle. The door opened without a creak.

She stood, her shadow rising over Lord Rennard Silvergraft snoring on the four-poster bed. As she stepped through the doorway, she smiled beneath the leather cowl covering her nose and mouth. He wore nothing but his underwear, his stomach heavy on a green duvet. The orange glow from the hearth cast unflattering shadows over his large body. His eyes shifted beneath the lids, lost in dreams that he would not enjoy for much longer. Black hair, peppered in silver, clung to the right side of his wide face.

Morana surveyed the room as she silently eased the door shut. The bedroom was larger than the family homes within the slums. Ornate portraits of nobility hung on the alabaster walls, likely members of Silvergraft's family. The one positioned over the bed portrayed a much younger, more attractive man than what lay on the bed. The brick hearth, at the back of the space, dried out the air. A set of glass doors to the right led to a small balcony. Through the slit in the champagne drapes, she could make out a pair of wire chairs and a glass table covered in remnants of yesterday's snowstorm. Morana's attention settled on the dressing room just beyond the hearth where Lydia had calculated he hid the prize. A grin curved her mouth as she crossed over the plush carpet at the foot of the bed.

Morana paused in front of the hearth. Warmth caressed her cheeks while she watched the orange, red, and yellow flames dance intimately together. Then she was moving into the dressing room, pushing aside the sheer curtain with a wraith's hand. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust back to the dark, but when they finally did, her smile widened at what lay before her—a garish armoire.