Nyria moved through the city like a shadow. In Eris’s crowded night markets, people swore they saw a flicker of silver hair or heard the faintest brush of leather—yet when they turned, nothing remained.

She stole because the city demanded it. Gold kept her invisible. Blades kept her alive. And reputation kept fools at bay. But for all her sharp smiles and sharper knives, Nyria wasn’t carving out a kingdom of thieves. She was carving out a way out.

Every coin she lifted, every noble she fooled, every thug she slipped past—it all went to the small, crumbling building behind the apothecary. The one with the cracked roof. The one with the children who still believed morning would bring something better.

Nyria laughed when people called her heartless. Let them. They didn’t need to know that Eris’s most feared rogue spent her nights teaching orphans how to hold daggers the right way—or how to read, depending on the kid.

But sometimes, when the moonlight hit the streets just right, she whispered her real dream to the dark:

One day I’ll leave this city. Buy a cheap lute. Sing in a quiet inn where no one knows my name.

For now, though, Eris needed Whisper step.