---   Day One: The First Mark Glynhorn adjusted his hood as he slipped through the merchant quarter of Isondale just after noon. The sun was bright, the street chatter thick, and the smell of fresh pears made the alleyways feel deceptively clean. He didn’t care for the crowds much—never had—but they served a purpose.   He spotted his first mark quickly: a portly caravan master boasting too loudly about his shipment of imported wines. A coin purse swung heavy from his belt, a promise in every jingle. Glynhorn brushed past with an apology he didn’t mean and a hand that knew its craft. Moments later, fifty gleaming gold coins weighed down his own pouch instead.   That night, in a tavern on the riverfront, he heard the first whisper. A dockhand mentioned tremors felt down near the Wyrm Mountains. Said some kobolds claimed the earth itself had groaned in its sleep. Glynhorn chuckled into his drink. Sleep meant it could wake.   -----   Day Two: Equal Measures A silk-robed noblewoman clutched her ledger too tightly. She barked at her servant, scolded a guardsman, then huffed her way into a busy square. Glynhorn watched it all with narrowed eyes. She looked like someone who had never gone without a meal—or a roof. Time to fix that, if only for a few hours.   He let the crowd fold around them, moved like water, and made the snatch. Twenty-five gold this time. Not his best take, but the smile it brought to his face made it worthwhile.   Later, he visited the eastern wall and listened to a pair of watchmen talking under the lanternlight. A caravan from Titan’s Dream had arrived late—half-empty, with broken axles and no explanation beyond the driver’s pale face and muttered words about something massive moving underground.   -----   Day Three: The Fox and the Flock Mid-morning brought a festival in the lower boroughs, and Glynhorn dressed the part: rough cloak, muddy boots, and a crooked grin. He worked his way through the temporary market like a fox in a henhouse, plucking coins from the pockets of distracted revelers. One overindulgent brewer provided the best bounty of the day—another forty gold coins, and a full wheel of cheese for good measure.   As the music died down, he caught a half-drunk bard tuning his lute and singing the Ballad of the Backwards Delvers. But before the usual chorus, the bard muttered a newer verse—something about fire beneath the dreaming hills and plumewind carrying screams. The hair on Glynhorn’s neck prickled, though he said nothing.   -----   Day Four: Trouble in Dewbreak Glynhorn woke early and took to the outskirts of Isondale where the traders packed their carts. An argument between two dwarves caught his attention—not because of what they said, but because of what they didn’t say. There was fear in their silence, the kind born not of war, but of something deeper.   He didn’t pick any pockets that day. Instead, he bartered for news. Word from Dewbreak said the lake had gone still. No birds. No frogs. Just silence and the sensation of being watched.   He sat with his thoughts that night, counting his growing pile of gold in a dim-lit cellar. Two hundred now, all told. Enough to buy a new blade. Or a fast horse.   ------   Day Five: The Shadow of the Beast Glynhorn followed an overly confident street performer down a quiet alleyway after sunset. The man didn’t even notice him until Glynhorn vanished with his coin pouch. A small score. Just ten gold, but satisfying.   Later, he returned to his hideout and found a message scrawled into the wooden table where he stored his gear. It wasn’t a threat. It was a riddle.   The heart beneath our hills beats twice, then none. Wake it early and all is undone.   No signature. No context. But something about it felt old. Dangerous. Familiar.   -----   Day Six: Spooked Eyes and Sealed Lips The city was tense. Even the rats in the alleys seemed more skittish. Glynhorn tried for a mark near the noble quarter but found the guards more alert than usual. He abandoned the job, retreated to a local inn, and listened.   A courier from Brackenrest had arrived, bruised and dusty. He claimed the woods trembled. That the forest spirits had gone silent. That something ancient had moved beneath the soil, and the satyrs had begun burning strange herbs to ward it off.   Glynhorn stayed quiet in the shadows, watched the courier shake as he drank. No coin in his pocket—but no lies either.   ------   Day Seven: The Edge of the Storm Glynhorn sat on a rooftop, watching the city breathe in the twilight. Below him, torches flickered. People moved. Laughed. Argued. But the air was different now—thicker, like a storm about to break.   He had one last mark in mind: a corrupt merchant known for swindling poor families. Glynhorn slipped into the man’s estate, avoided the wards, and left with fifty gold coins and no regrets.   Later that night, in a gathering of adventurers and city leaders, the rumors were no longer whispers. Wyrmstone had been struck again. The beast had risen. Again.   He weighed his stolen gold in one hand and his conscience in the other. The time for light fingers had passed.   Now it was time for blades.