Papers descended from the heavens like a swarm of locusts, blotting out the sun with a storm of ink and parchment. They spun on impossible winds, threading through chimney flues, erupting from water barrels, and latching onto faces as if cursed. What should have been a tranquil evening now resembled twilight, painted in hues of ash and ink.
Guards barked orders over the thunderous whisper of pages, each one a lie or a threat. Horses screamed and thrashed, their vision drowned in the blizzard of words. An old woman sobbed as her home was swallowed in drifting script. Children, curious and fearless, sprinted after the floating sheets, reading aloud the message that echoed through every square and alley.
"I will steal everything..."
Again and again, the phrase repeated—etched in blood-red strokes, carved in golden vellum, stamped in jagged scripts foreign and familiar. No one could trace its origin. No one understood how it had spread. But every page declared the same sentence with chilling certainty.
"I will steal every treasure this kingdom has to offer. Stop me if you can. I am coming for the auction."
In the office of the city's enforcement division, the air was already heavy when Frank began.
Frank: "Isaac... what did you do this time? I've received more complaints than I can count."
Isaac: "Complaints about what?"
Frank: "Who did you arrest today?"
Isaac: "A few people. A thief, an illegal goods dealer, and... a public disturbance."
Frank: "And who was the public disturbance?"
Isaac: "A public disturbance."
Frank: "He was the son of a royal knight. Not just any knight—one of the King's personal men."
Isaac: "So? Am I supposed to treat him differently because of that?"
Frank: "You really don't understand politics, do you? You're lucky I'm influential enough to clean up after you. If anyone else had made that mistake, they wouldn't have lived to see morning."
Isaac: "Did you release him?"
Frank: "Yes."
Isaac: "Why? Just—"
Before the tension could explode further, a junior officer burst into the room, breathless, hands full of parchment.
Frank: "What's wrong? You look like death is chasing you. Speak. Now."
Isaac: "Father, let him breathe first."
The young officer handed over the stack of letters he had gathered from across the city. Frank read them quickly, his face shifting from composed to grim fury.
Isaac: "That guy sent another challenge? Didn't he get enough satisfaction the last time?"
Junior Officer: "It's not just a challenge. If it was before, this time... these letters are everywhere. All over the city."
Isaac: "What? Then this isn't a mere provocation. What's he trying to pull?"
Frank: "He's mocking us. But not like before. This time, it's calculated. Strategic. He's trying to humiliate the Empire itself."
The city had been shaken before, but this time was different. The psychological assault—the chaos stitched through words and symbolism—was more effective than blades. The sheer scale of this act, combined with the recent physical attacks, left no doubt in Frank's mind.
Someone immense, hidden behind curtains of shadows and riddles, was moving the pieces of a much larger game.
And they were losing ground.
The exclusive boutique café remained a sanctuary of subdued luxury. Fine porcelain clinked gently under careful hands, soft classical melodies whispering from hidden instruments. Outside, unrest churned, but within, it was as though the world dared not breathe too loudly.
James sat stiffly, one leg propped on a cushioned stool. The usual arrogance in his expression was replaced by a tight scowl. Around him sat Barbara, Alice, George, Robert, and John. Cleanet was present as well, silent as ever, the soft rustle of her teacup lid the only proof she acknowledged the world around her.
"It was a complete outrage!" James snapped, voice brittle with pain and bruised pride. "That... that filthy peasant!"
He waved his hand in agitation. "I was only teaching him a lesson. A bit of discipline. Disrespected a lady in broad daylight, right there in the plaza."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "We heard there was some sort of... disturbance."
"Disturbance? It was assault!" James shouted, shifting and wincing. "The brat tripped me. Shattered my leg like it was dry bark and then just disappeared!"
Cleanet didn't look up from her tea. "He didn't trip you, James. He struck your knee directly."
James shot her a glare. "Same thing! And then, of all people, that Isaac shows up! Walks up like he owns the streets and says I'm under arrest for public nuisance!"
George chuckled without warmth, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Arrested? By a guard? James, surely you protested."
"Of course I did! Do you even need to ask?" James said, voice cracking with frustration. "I told him who I was! And he just looked at me like I was dirt and—he struck me! Right in the neck! Didn't say a word. Just hit me. I dropped like a sack."
Alice leaned in, tilting her head. "Beaten by a kid... and taken down by a guard younger than you. Are you sure you're properly trained?"
"I am," James muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "They just caught me off guard. Dragged me off in front of everyone like I was some back-alley thief."
His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "I'll get him. Both of them. That brat, and Isaac. I'll shatter every bone in their bodies."
Cleanet set her cup down with a soft clink. "You say that, but do nothing. You're all talk."
His face darkened, lips parting for a retort, but Barbara stepped in smoothly.
"Cleanet is right. The guard's actions were outrageous, but the fact remains—this 'brat' managed to disable you with ease." She turned to Cleanet. "Do you know who he was?"
Cleanet nodded, her gaze distant. "It might surprise you. It was that Shaun kid."
The table fell into silence. The elegant room suddenly felt smaller, its walls too close, the delicate china too fragile.
John blinked. "So... not only did Shaun sell his title, but he broke James' leg?"
Alice leaned forward. "This is getting complicated."
James growled. "It's not a conspiracy, Alice. It's a peasant who doesn't know his place."
George's voice dripped with disdain. "A commoner daring to strike a noble... disgraceful."
Robert sighed. "The Empire isn't what it used to be. These incidents... they're chipping away at its foundations."
Barbara nodded, her eyes narrowing in thought. "And now even our circles feel the tremors. As Alice said, the question isn't whether they're dangerous. It's who they're dangerous to."
Cleanet stared into her tea.
George placed his cup down sharply. "We'll find this Shaun. Make an example of him."
A sudden murmur outside caught their attention.
Barbara raised a hand, beckoning her maid silently. "What's happening outside?"
The maid hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Letters, my lady. Dozens... hundreds. Falling from the sky. All over the city."
John leaned back. "A love letter from some deranged admirer, or a heartbroken poet throwing paper tantrums?"
Barbara studied the maid's nervous expression. "Bring one here."
A few minutes passed. The maid returned and gently placed a folded parchment on the table.
George snorted. "What is it now? Some cursed flyer about democracy?"
Robert read aloud, eyes narrowing.
There was a beat of silence.
John tapped the letter with a finger. "Alright, I take it back. Definitely not a love letter."
Alice's brows lifted slightly. "A declaration of war printed on stationery. Bold."
James scoffed, the stiffness in his posture forgotten. "It's a joke. A stunt from some street performer who thinks is funny."
George leaned forward, eyes glinting. "It's not joke. It's mockery. And we're the ones being laughed at our empires security is been looked down upon."
Robert folded his arms. "This city is turning into a theater. can you believe the audacity."
Barbara's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's deliberately provocative but all the more reason That we should prepare. Because anything is possible these days."
Cleanet reached for her cup again, but her fingers lingered just above the handle.
Outside, the paper storm still raged.
A man walked through the chaos, untouched by the storm that consumed the surrounding city. His presence alone was arresting. Draped in a coat of deep burgundy, woven with threads so fine they seemed soaked in nobility itself, he moved with a composure that made even the most dignified nobles seem poorly dressed. His glasses rested lightly upon his nose, eyes calm and observant beneath them. His ash-blond brows fluttered in the same wind that carried the cascading letters.
One such letter, caught in a gentle current, drifted toward him.
With no urgency, he raised a hand and plucked it from the air.
He read its contents in silence.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Hmm. That's strange. I'm not aware of this. That's not how it was supposed to go."
The paper slipped from his fingers and was claimed once more by the wind, joining the others in their eerie dance.
He resumed walking, boots clicking softly against the cobbled stone.
"Is someone trying to mimic my persona? Or... is this the Empire's idea of a trap? Which one is it? Either way..."
The idea didn't bother him. It amused him.
For him, challenges were no different than a lover's smile or a favored dish. He savored the unknown, lived for the thrill of the unpredictable. Obstacles didn't frustrate him—they delighted him. And when he could humiliate, when he could dismantle the pride others wrapped themselves in like armor, he found joy. No, not joy. Bliss.
"Seems fun. I accept the challenge."
The people may not know his true name. Not the aristocrats, not the guards, not even those who claim to hold the Empire's secrets.
But his victims?
They knew him by one name.
Glorious, the Stealer.