Chapter 1 The Heist of Tasha Klein pt1

Table of Contents

The bouquet of flowers felt wrong in Vincent’s hands—too large, too fragrant, too alive for someone like him. But that was precisely why they worked.

They were a mask.

The job was Michael Keeps’ idea—a simple retrieval mission, or so he claimed. His ex-fiancée, Tasha Klein, had kicked him out of her apartment after a blowout argument, and in the process, he had left behind a ring. He called it his late mother’s wedding ring, but Vincent wasn’t buying it.

Not with the way Michael had lingered on its description.

Not with the way he had offered far too much gold for a job that should have been a simple break-in.

But that was how it went with noble clients—they lied, they schemed, and most of all, they hated being told no.

Vincent approached the gilded entrance of the student housing complex, its marble façade pulsing faintly with the golden and amethyst veins of runic magic woven into its foundation.

A monument to Adonian arrogance. The structure exuded power and precision, more display than dwelling, more art than architecture. Even standing near it made his skin prickle—the sheer density of Weaving Magic embedded in its walls was suffocating.

Two navy-coated guards flanked the entrance, their postures stiff but comfortable.

Vincent adjusted his stance, letting his shoulders slump slightly, his expression shifting into wide-eyed nervousness—the look of a lowly servant out of his depth in noble territory.

“I’ve got a delivery for Miss Tasha Klein, apartment 507,” he said, keeping his voice measured, with just the right mix of respect and self-effacing humility. The tone that made servants invisible in places like this.

One of the guards, broad-shouldered, with a steel bracelet clasped around his wrist, stepped forward and produced a thin obsidian slate.

He muttered an incantation, and the stone pulsed—a soft hum of power rippling through the air.

A moment later, a delicate lattice of Azure runes unfurled around Vincent like an arcane web, shifting through complex script as it probed him for contraband.

Vincent held still. He could feel the weave brushing against him—a phantom touch, pressing at his clothes, testing for residual magic, for concealed weapons, and for volatile substances.

The scan was thorough but shallow—surface-level at best. It would detect magic in plain sight, but not the layered misdirection runes woven into the buckle of his belt.

After a tense pause, the first guard grunted. “Nothing dangerous.”

The second guard—younger, sharper—didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed.

“That doesn’t mean he gets in.” He pulled a heavy club from his belt and raised it slightly. “Hand me the flowers and step back.”

Vincent blinked in genuine surprise. “I—I'm sorry.” He swallowed, letting his voice crack slightly. “It’s my first time delivering here. Did I… do something wrong?”

The older guard smirked and clapped his partner on the back. “Relax, Jim. The kid’s harmless.”

He grabbed the bouquet from Vincent’s hands, gave it a quick inspection, and then shoved it back at him.

“Looks clean. Get on in there.”

Vincent nodded his thanks and stepped inside.