A month and two weeks had passed since Rowan arrived in that new world. His life was still just as harsh, although now he worked in more places than before. Even so, the pay was miserable, and the food barely lasted long enough for him to survive. He lived on water, fruit, and dry bread. At night, he slept in the stable alongside the horses, the cold biting into his bones.
Sometimes, as the wind slipped through the cracks in the roof, he thought of home. How, in his previous world, he never imagined he would end up sleeping among straw and beasts just to have a roof over his head. But now… he had no choice.
That was when he made a decision that would weigh on him forever: becoming a thief.
Lyra —the mysterious thief he had met weeks earlier— had sought him out. She offered him a way out of his misery, even though he knew it was the most dangerous path.
"Are you sure?" she asked one night as she handed him a bag of clothes.
"I have no other choice," Rowan replied, looking at the garments. "I'm tired of living just to avoid starving."
Lyra watched him for a moment, and for the first time, her tone softened.
"Then welcome to the other side of life."
She gave him a belt with hidden compartments, leather gloves, and a wine‑colored scarf. She also taught him how to move silently, how to observe without being seen, how to disappear into shadows. For two weeks she trained him relentlessly. Rowan learned quickly; his physical condition was already good, but now he was becoming more agile, more calculated.
Each night after training, Lyra would tell him with a half‑smile:
"Don't worry, with time you'll even enjoy the adrenaline."
And Rowan would only answer in silence, eyes on the floor, knowing he would never enjoy stealing from anyone.
The day of the first heist arrived.
A nearby kingdom, a mansion belonging to a wealthy noble. Midnight.
Lyra and Rowan climbed up to one of the windows with care. The moon barely lit them, and the silence was so deep they could hear their own breathing.
"Don't touch anything that makes noise," Lyra whispered.
"I'll try," he answered, struggling to stay calm.
Inside, the air smelled of wood and expensive perfume. Rowan felt his heart pounding. He walked down the hallways, taking some paintings and small objects that could be worth a lot. Every time a board creaked under his foot, he held his breath.
Meanwhile, Lyra entered the owner's bedroom. The man slept deeply. She took jewels, chains, and bracelets, moving like a shadow in the darkness.
When they met again near the window, Rowan whispered:
"I can't believe I'm doing this…"
"Believe it. Sometimes life forces us to get our hands dirty," Lyra replied without looking at him. "But if it keeps you alive, it's worth it."
He lowered his gaze. "Alive, yes," he thought, "but hollow."
They left without being seen. They ran until the mansion was out of sight, and once in the forest, they breathed heavily. The moon shone above them, reflecting off the jewels they carried.
"We did it," Lyra said, smiling sincerely for the first time.
"Yes, but I don't feel good about this," Rowan replied.
"In time it will pass. When you start eating hot meat and sleeping in a bed, you'll forget the guilt."
Rowan didn't answer.
Hours later, they arrived at a hidden alley. Behind an old door was the black market. The atmosphere was suffocating: the air smelled of humidity, sweat, and old metal. Voices whispered offers and prices while torches illuminated covered faces.
They waited their turn and handed the stolen goods to a merchant with a tired yet greedy look. He examined each jewel, each painting, with a tiny magnifying glass.
"All authentic," he finally said, with a yellowish smile. "I'll give you one hundred and fifty‑three gold coins."
Lyra accepted without hesitation. They split the pay: 91 for Lyra, 61 for Rowan.
Rowan stared at the coins in his hand, shining under the torchlight. He had never seen so much gold together… yet he couldn't avoid feeling that its shine stained him on the inside.
Lyra noticed his silence.
"Don't punish yourself so much. Here, no one survives by being 'good'."
"Maybe," he replied. "But being a thief doesn't make me feel alive… just less human."
She looked at him with an expression that mixed sadness with experience.
"I thought the same my first time. Then I understood that morality doesn't feed you."
That night, Rowan returned to his village. He stored half the coins and used the rest to buy some food and a new blanket. For the first time in weeks, he ate until he was full.
But as the wind blew outside the stable and the gold glimmered weakly inside the bag, he thought:
"Maybe now I'll survive… but I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for how I'm doing it."
Rowan entered his stable.
And so, as he closed his eyes to sleep, he understood something with bitterness:
sometimes, living costs more than dying.