He's running, swiftly, quietly, as only a thief can. He has no time for games today, the palace surrounded by more guards than usual. Any other day, he wouldn't be so prudent. He'd have a bit of fun; he'd leave those guards breadcrumbs, hints of his whereabouts. He'd relish in their chase, making them think they'd caught him only to lose him again. He'd rejoice in their frustration.
But today is not one of those days.
Today, he finds himself running to the point of needing to catch his breath every so often, to hide and assess, to actually plan ahead. He runs from shadow to shadow, hides behind grotesque statues and beneath lavish staircases.
He thinks, not for the first time, that maybe coming here today was a mistake. Maybe his lust had finally turned into his doom. Not a lust for gold or riches, but for the crime itself. For the thrill of the heist. The thrill that comes from taking from those undeserving of what they have. Or sometimes from a poor bastard simply finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He needs to get out of here. He hears the heavy footsteps of guards approaching. Three guards, he counts, glad to find them lacking his stealth.
He leaves his spot behind a conveniently placed column and proceeds down a silent hallway. He only has a few more corners to turn before he's in the clear and, as he heads for the first one, he freezes.
He stays hidden, listening to the soft pitter-patter, almost unnoticeable if he'd not been watching out for it. Feet, he recognizes, unmistakable. But they're unhurried. Not a guard then. He imagines them small, delicate, almost caressing the floor beneath its soles. A woman's. And a noble woman at that, someone trained to glide rather than walk, to float as if an angel, to be as light as a feather. He waits with bated breath for the source of the sound to manifest itself. And then it does.
At once, he forgets everything else around him, save for the mysterious woman whose back he only manages to see. He takes in her dark curls, her wine-colored cloak and her brown riding boots.
Her hair looks untamed after what he suspects is a day spent outside. Horse riding, maybe? Her cloak carries a few grass stains and her boots are covered in mud. Yet, she doesn't seem to mind.
She walks, her head held high, without a care as to her most unladylike appearance, without rushing to make herself presentable. Perhaps this is her act of rebellion, however small, against the confines her status no doubt keeps her eternally within.
He likes her, he thinks. This woman who holds herself with such grace and poise, and yet with a hint of defiance, of arrogance.
She reminds him of himself not too long ago, back when fleeing his own restraints was but a dream. He wonders how long it will take before it becomes too much for her, the opulence and the corruption. How long before darkness seems like her only escape. How long until it destroys her like it did him.
Maybe they could revel in the ruin together.
Any other day, he would consider stealing her too. Maybe she would actually be missed, unlike the silver pieces he doubts the King will mourn too deeply.
Cursing, once more, at his rotten luck that brought him here at a time when he can't afford to linger, he watches her leave the gallery, never taking his eyes off her, and reluctantly presses on until he meets the gate and is greeted by the cool evening breeze.
…
When he's finally close enough to his camp, out of any immediate danger, his thoughts drift back to the young woman (did they ever leave her?).
How he wishes he could have glimpsed her face, just for a moment, a stilled second. Long enough to see her eyes, dark, he fancies, her smile, maybe even a blush. If only he'd have been quicker, stepped into the corridor earlier, he might have gotten the privilege.
Damn his timing. Damn it to the seven hells.