A Lord's Promise to a Thief

Lina's consciousness returned in slow, disorienting waves.

First came the smell... woodsmoke and old parchment. Not the damp alley stench she was used to. Then the warmth. Actual warmth, not the meager heat of a stolen cloak wrapped too tight.

Her fingers twitched against something soft. A blanket?

When was the last time I touched fabric this clean?

Her eyes flew open.

Stone ceilings. Flickering torchlight. A fire crackling in a hearth large enough to roast an entire boar.

Panic seized her chest.

This isn't the holding cell.

She bolted upright—or tried to. A wave of dizziness slammed her back down. Her ribs screamed in protest, her stomach a hollow pit of gnawing pain. The bread she'd stolen yesterday (had it been yesterday?) was long gone.

"Easy."

The voice came from her left. Deep. Calm.

Lina turned her head slowly, every instinct screaming at her to run.

Two figures sat at a heavy oak table. The first was an older man—silver hair, immaculate butler's attire, hands folded neatly. The other...

Oh gods.

Black armor. No face. Just darkness where a helm's visor should be.

Memories crashed over her, the chase, the armored stranger's grip like iron, the way her dagger had shattered against that impossible armor—

She scrambled backward, blankets tangling around her legs. Her back hit something solid—the armrest of the couch she'd been laid out on. Nowhere to run.

The butler stood. "You're safe here."

"Like hell I am." Her voice came out hoarse, her throat raw. She'd bitten her tongue during the struggle. The coppery taste still lingered.

The armored figure didn't move. Just... watched.

Lina's fingers crept toward her boot. Empty. Of course they'd taken her knife.

The butler, the guards called him Sebas—took a careful step forward. "You've been unconscious for several hours. Lord Xertia—"

"Lord?" Lina barked a laugh. It hurt. "What lord? The only nobles in this town are the ones skimming coin while people starve!"

A heavy silence.

The armored figure—Lord Xertia?—tilted its head. The movement was strangely human.

Sebas's expression didn't change. "You were injured during your... altercation. His lordship saw fit to bring you here rather than turn you over to the town guard."

Lina's stomach twisted. That was worse. So much worse.

She knew what happened to thieves in noble mansions. The "justice" dealt behind closed doors.

Her eyes darted to the door. Too far. The window? Maybe if she—

"You're not a prisoner."

The voice came from the armored figure. Hollow. Echoing. But quiet. Almost... tired?

Lina froze.

The lord stood slowly, gauntlets raised in an almost placating gesture. He moved to a side table where a tray sat—bread, cheese, a steaming bowl of something that made Lina's mouth water against her will.

He pushed it toward her.

Lina didn't move.

"Poisoned?" she croaked.

The lord made a sound—a sigh? A laugh? It was hard to tell through that helm.

"Sebas," the lord said. "Would you...?"

The butler obediently took a bite of each item on the tray.

Lina watched, muscles coiled.

A full minute passed.

"...See?" the lord said.

Lina's pride warred with the ache in her stomach. Pride lost.

She snatched the bread, tearing into it like a wild animal. It was still warm. Fresh. When was the last time she'd had fresh bread?

The cheese followed. Then the stew—some kind of meat and root vegetables. She barely tasted it, shoveling it in so fast she nearly choked.

Only when the bowl was empty did she realize they were both still watching her.

Shame burned her cheeks. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"...Why?"

The lord tilted his head again.

"Why help me?" Lina clarified, voice hardening. "You nobles don't give a damn about street rats. What do you want?"

The armored figure was silent for a long moment. Then:

"Tell me about the town."

Lina blinked. "What?"

"The truth," the lord said. "Not the pretty lies the merchants tell. Not the official reports. What's really happening out there."

Lina's hands curled into fists.

"You want the truth?" She laughed bitterly. "People are dying. The granaries are empty. The guards take bribes to look the other way while kids disappear into the dungeon, chasing rumors of treasure." Her voice cracked. "And the so-called lords? They count their coin in mansions while the rest of us fight over scraps."

The room went still.

Then—

Clang.

The lord's armored fist struck his own helm. Once. Twice.

Lina flinched.

Sebas sighed. "My lord, please."

"Sorry," the lord muttered. "Old habit."

Lina stared.

The lord took a cold deep breath and leaned forward.

"What's your name?"

"Why? why do you need to know." 

The lord sighed and then shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm going to fix this," the lord said.

Something in his tone made her pause. Not the smooth lies of a noble. Not the empty promises of a politician. Just... certainty.

Lina wanted to laugh in his face.

She wanted to believe him.

"...Prove it," she whispered.

The lord nodded.