Logan's hand scratched behind Barrett's ears out of habit. The hound pressed against Logan's leg and moaned with pleasure. Barrett's weakness was his ears. A good rub or scratch under their soft floppy skin and he would melt at anyone's feet.

Barrett let out a particularly loud sigh, placing his large head on Logan's lap. Logan barely noticed. Months he had spent reading reports, ledgers and manifestos with no result, and finally he was on to something. For whatever reason, all his father's advisors and bookkeepers had remained tight-lipped about the matter. Pressing them was useless, all that ensured was his father putting a stop to his research. No, Logan wanted to know all the facts before approaching a plan and pursuing it.

The account he was reading was a financial one. A large order of medicinal ingredients had disappeared before reaching the healing houses. Having not seen the wares, Lethilian had refused to pay for them, angering the suppliers. The accounts Logan read contained the order placement and missing ticks on a list of items received.

Barrett whined and pressed his cold nose into Logan's hand.

"We just went for a walk, boy." Logan patted the dog's shoulder.

Barrett ambled to the door, then sat and stared at the wood filigree as if it entertained his canine senses.

"What is it, boy? You cannot possibly need another walk."

Barrett huffed.

Logan shook his head, stretching his arms over his head. "What is the time? You know Barrett, I may be wrong. Perhaps it is time for another walk. I will have you know that all this"—he indicated his desk and the multitude of parchment spread across its surface— "is riveting stuff. I wish you would give it a chance."

Barrett looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes seeming to disagree.

Logan sighed, rolling up the account. "Sometimes I wonder who is the prince in this relationship, you know. Who serves who?"

As he opened the door, Barrett pushed past and ran. Something was definitely bothering his usually placid hound. Logan shook his head and stared after him. About to retreat back into the library, he noticed the palace guard staring at him.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but you startled me."

Logan smiled, unsure why the guard's stare did not falter. "Is there something the matter?"

The guard cleared his throat. "No, no...uh. It is not my place."

"No, I suppose not." Logan stepped back into his library. Instinct stopped him. Years of watching men and women struggle to find words in front of him had developed in him a natural talent in knowing when there was more not being said. "Is there something on your mind, soldier?

"I—If they come looking for you, Your Highness, shall I send them elsewhere?"

"Send them elsewhere? Gods, why would you do that?"

The guard frowned. "Forgive me, I assumed you were wanting to avoid the whole procession by being here."

"The procession?" Realization dawned on him in rolling waves. "The arrival!" He ran after Barrett, dismissing all notions of propriety, and called out his thanks to the guard as he rounded the corner.

When he reached the palace's great hall, he found Barrett detained by a struggling palace guard. Logan relieved the man, calling Barrett to his side. The hound obeyed, his tongue lolling and his tail wagging furiously.

How he had managed to forget where his hound seemed to have remembered Logan would never know. The idea that Barrett was far more intelligent than Logan gave him credit for resurfaced. He patted the strutting hound at his side, murmuring a thanks.

Logan found his family and the Marshall on the verandah looking over the front gardens. During the summer, the men that worked the grounds transformed the now desolate and sodden land into a place of exquisite color and beauty, but winter made it impossible to keep the gardens from looking like a swamp.

The only thing that truly glowed was the central fountain. Covered in fractured icicles, it glittered in the day's weak sunlight and seemed almost to glow. The fountain usually spurted water from faucets in hidden recesses behind the figure that stood at its centre, the effect like wings sprouting from the warrior's back as if he was one swoop away from lifting off and joining his bird brethren. Four other ponds surrounded the main fountain, situated at each cardinal point, with a depiction of one of the old gods mosaic at its floor. Groomed hedges framed the smaller ponds, interspersed with winter spruces near twelve feet tall. Capped with a light layer of snow and bordered by the tall, pillared walls of the inner grounds, it was a beautiful prison.

"Logan!" His sister flittered towards him, grabbing him at the elbow. She lowered her voice. "Father is rather upset with you. Be warned."

"Forgive me, Sophia, I was detained."

Father snorted. "Perhaps if I had every library turned into a weapons room you would see to your duties as crown prince instead of burrowing yourself in ink and parchment whenever duty requires your presence."

"I was not burrowing." Logan clenched his jaw. "I lost track of time."

"Ah." Father shook his head, jutting his protruding belly. "A favourite pastime of yours. The gods have cursed me with a recluse."

"Look!" Sophia pointed towards the gates. "They are here." Logan gave her a thankful smile.

"Took them long enough," Marshall Fourdin mumbled. He turned to Logan. "Perhaps a new timepiece is needed for His Highness, or a squire?"

"I cannot name a noble family who would subject one of their blood sons to a life linked to a man dedicated to books rather than the sword."

Logan cleared his throat. "Not that I want or need a squire, I daresay you may find yourself incorrect in such regard, Father." Logan regretted his words as soon as they were said. "But then, what do I know of swords and shields. I am merely a disappointing scholar to you. Pity no war was struck during my youth. Perhaps I would have turned out differently."

"If it is war you want, son—"

"Oh my!" Sophia exclaimed. "Are those holes in their carriage? Whatever could have made such damage?"

The men turned their attention to the approaching procession, now close enough to see small, dark spots marring the wood.

"Arrows," Logan murmured. He may not be a decent warrior, but he had enough training to know an arrow's mark.

The carriage stopped before the wide, marble steps leading to the verandah. A footman stepped closer and opened the carriage doors with a gracious bow.

All present held their breaths before a short, portly man stepped out, took a deep breath of the fresh air, and sighed. His bushy brows moved in a manner that reminded Logan of a caterpillar inching up a delicate stem. And like a stem, the man was dressed in the most ostentatious, emerald suit Logan had ever seen. Was the Grey Mountain fashion to pair as many patterns as possible or was it merely Sir Weatherstone's way of presenting his wealth. From the thin line his father's lips made, Logan knew his father was just as perturbed by the bright colours and patterns. Sir Weatherstone bowed and stepped aside, his head still lowered.

A woman followed, rather a vision. Unlike her father's flat face and thinning white hair, she was beautiful, her attire far more subdued. She bowed, fanning pale yellow skirts aside and lowering her warm amber gaze. Father made an agreeing sound at his side, making Logan both hopeful that perhaps the current King would prefer a new wife of his own, and resentful that such a possibility existed.

"My dear Lord Walter Weatherstone," King Warrick boomed. "Welcome to Lethilian."

Walter Weatherstone straightened from his bow, as did his daughter from her curtsy. "Your majesty, it brings me great relief to finally be in your presence. I do apologies for our tardiness. We happened to stumble upon a bit of trouble."

"Nothing too tragic I hope?" Father eyed the arrow holes despite his words.

"Tragic, no. Traumatic, however—"

"Father—"

"Hush, Gemima." Sir Walter looked at each of them in turn. "We were ambushed by highwaymen. Bandits of the worst kind. Why, it was only our wits and cautious minds that found us leaving with not only a fraction of our possessions, but our lives as well."

Logan suppressed the urge to snort at Sir Walter's dramatic narrative. Highwaymen were no laughing matter, and indeed they were lucky to have escaped with their lives, but from the look Lady Weatherstone was giving her father, he assumed there was room enough for exaggeration in the tale.

"Marshall," the King's voice held no humour. "Send men to the North Road. Have them scour the area. These thieves should know better than to attack guests of their King." A statement which held no weight. Father knew as well as Logan did that thieves honoured no ties to the anointed King. They'd take from anyone who had something to lose if the opportunity presented itself.

"I assure you Lord Weatherstone, everything possible will be done to catch these fiends. In the meantime I offer you my deepest apologies. Please, come inside. We have arranged that quarters in the west wing be prepared, and dinner should be served within the hour if you are interested in joining my family and I for a bite. Perhaps you could share your tale then, once settled and sated with drink and food."

"Your majesty, you are too kind. We'd be honoured to join you."

Warrick beamed. "Logan," he stepped aside, a signal for Logan to move forward. "My son, would you assist the lady to the west wing? Sophia, my daughter, be a dear and do the same for the Lord. Come Sir Walter, we can discuss more on the way."

Sophia was first to curtsey and tiptoe down the steps to meet the old man. She placed a delicate hand on his withering forearm and immediately began to comment on his attire. Logan followed, keeping his eyes on the ground as if wary of tripping on any hidden roots form trees far away.

When Lady Gemima was before him he bowed and crooked his elbow before meeting her gaze. "My Lady."

She smiled, curtsied, and lowered her gaze. "Does your hound follow you everywhere, Your Highness?"

Logan's brows jumped. He had forgotten to stay Barrett. At his side sat Barrett, wagging his tail. "Barrett, inside," he ordered.

"Oh no!" Gemima placed her hand on his forearm, her touch as delicate as a snowflake. "Please, I am not fond of hounds, but he seems gentle and obedient. I'd hate to be the reason he is ordered away."

Logan found himself slightly lost for words and so nodded, clicking for Barrett to remain at his side. "You need only say the word and I will send him to my rooms, but I do assure you he is harmless."

Her lips stretched into a tight lipped smile. Logan's breath caught. When he had been told a possible bride was arriving, his mind had conjured up two possibilities. One, a plain, interesting scholar like himself, whose beauty was nothing remarkable but whose mind was something he could connect with and respect. The second was of a large, gregarious, pugnacious woman who lived for the richer things in life and whose mind was not only superficial but whose beauty was a far stretch from acceptable.

He had met his share of both in the past. Even met a few beauties who took one look at him and turned to his right, preferring the dashing warrior that had stood at his side for most of his youth. Apparently not even royalty was as attractive as the Marshall's heroic son.

Logan wondered if Bastian was still training in Four Winds, where Gemima's gaze would land. She was exotic with her light features and pale skin and it was that quality that made Logan uncomfortable. He was used to beauty, he had lived amongst it his whole life. Yet Gemima's beauty was different and it unnerved him.

"Barrett, is that his name?" she asked. He realised she was eyeing the dog at his side as they ascended the stairs. "Have you had him long?"

"Since a pup. I trained him myself."

"How old is he?"

"Coming on nine I think." Logan smiled at his companion and then at his charge. "Have you never owned a dog, Milady?"

Gemima sniffed. "There was a time a lapdog ran around the estate. It looked more rodent than canine, but it was a sweet little thing and I allowed it respite on my knees whenever it demanded. It much preferred my maids. I think it saw through my tolerance and recognised their affection."

"I have never been one for smaller dogs myself. I worry they will break."

Gemima shrugged, her free hand going to a dragonfly pendant at her throat.

Logan wondered for a moment if she had been wearing the piece during their attack. It was rather large and striking, encrusted with sparkling jewels—a prize for any thief no doubt and a piece that would fetch for the most lucrative deal. "Forgive me, my father seems to have forgotten his manners. Was anyone hurt during your altercation on the road? Should I order some soothing teas to your room?"

Gemima did not answer for a moment, watching the three figures ahead talking softly. "A kind thought, Milord, but unnecessary." She fell silent, gliding beside him like a skater across a frozen lake. He tried to glimpse her feet beneath her skirts. They made her skirts flick forward and back where they met the fabric, but other than their undulating impression, no feet appeared.

"May I ask something somewhat uncouth for someone in my position?"

Logan smirked. An atypical question out of a pretty mouth that—on any other occasion—would utter only niceties and frivolous banter was a welcomed possibility. "I must insist you do. Those are my favourite type of questions."

Her lips parted in surprise, revealing the misinterpretation behind his words.

"Oh, I did not mean..." He cleared his throat. "I only meant it as..."

Gemima's cheeks flushed and her tinted lashes lowered.

"I should have rather said that such questions are always welcome in my presence. I enjoy stimulating discussion." He clenched his jaw as her breath caught. He could not tell if she was trying to hide her horror or amusement. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Please, ask."

A pink tongue ran along her top lip, retreating behind her teeth. Every moment felt like a moment in free fall towards an unknown end.

"When my father told me we were to travel here I did some reading."

"Oh?"

"Well, you see, Lethilian is known for many things, not all very pleasant. There are fine stories beyond the Southlands' borders of cruel thief lords, vicious bandits, and a mysterious man that rules them all."

"The Thief King?"

"So it's true? He exists?"

Logan took in a long, deep breath. "Yes and no. It is true what they tell you about our underworld. It is both a bone in the city's throat and a banner to which men herald. There are many stories of a Thief King. Some told at night to nurture misguided children, others to instil hope in those having none. The truth I suppose is buried somewhere in the myths and blood that has been shed over the title."

"So you do not know if there is one?"

"Oh no, there is always a Thief King. But he changes. He has to. There are reports in the libraries that date back to the founding years of this city that speak of the King of the Underworld. Unless there are powers on this earth we are unaware of, that man cannot exist anymore besides for in tale and legacy."

Gemima bit her lip. "I see."

Logan could tell she was fascinated. He had been just as entranced by the history behind the two kings of his city as a boy. "What I have gathered is that the title changed with bloodshed. A man who kills a Thief King becomes a Thief King."

"That seems... how can he trust to not be killed in an act of revenge?"

"I suppose he cannot. Trust amongst thieves is as rare as a winter without rain. The old saying about loyalty amongst thieves may be true. Perhaps it swings with the tides of fortune and there are those that follow and those that lead, as it is in the noble ranks. Not everyone wishes responsibility. Some are happy with a portion while others are never satisfied."

Gemima made an agreeing sound, her eyes fixed on the portraits hung on the walls of the west wing up to the vaulted ceilings with their frescoes and gold inlays. "What of the current Thief King? What do the reports say about him? Is he menacing?"

Logan chuckled. "My father would have most of the population believe he is a weasel hiding among wolves."

"You do not think so?"

He turned to her and found her staring at him with wide, openly interested eyes. "I think..." Logan frowned. What did he think? For years the reports had claimed that black coins had stripped the capital of its wealth, frightened away traders, emptied the city's noble populace and isolated the city from the rest of the Southlands. His father may call the man a weasel, but in truth he was a lion waiting for a challenger. He sighed and patted the back of her hand. "I think he poses no threat to you or I for the time being."

She seemed to deflate, her eyes losing the shine they had captured moments before. "Oh. But, how do you know this? How do you know that all crime is not commanded by him?"

Logan shrugged. "He leaves a mark when he wants us to know it was him."

"Oh? What mark? Do all thieves have a mark they leave?"

"In a way. When they are notorious enough, they like to leave souvenirs. We are not aware of all of them as not all are meant for our attention."

"But the Thief King's is meant for your attention?"

"Yes," Logan smiled. "Our current Thief King has built up quite the reputation as a hero amongst the poor. Whether that is true or not we cannot be sure. Rumour is he steals from nobles and the King to give to the starving."

"Those do not sound like the works of an evil man."

"No, but they are the acts of a man who does not know any better. Without noble wealth, the city has no investors. Businesses suffer because there is no one to support them. Therefore jobs are scarce, and thus coin limited. It is a vicious cycle and one more complicated than you or I could summarise or fully understand."

Gemima licked her lips once more, nodding. "I see. So he is a thief, the Thief King I mean."

"Indeed."

"Not a murderer?"

"Perhaps not a renowned one. But no, he is known for his thievery. His mark for example is a black coin."

Gemima stopped in her tracks. He looked back and came to a hesitant halt. "Are you alright?"

She sniffed, and from a pocket extracted something. "I..." she opened her palm slowly, her fingers uncurling like a blooming flower.

Logan stepped forward. On her palm was a black coin. Upon it a feline face snarled, divided by a lightning bolt that spread at its chin like a disease. "Where did you get that?" he breathed.

Gemima looked up into his eyes. He already knew the answer.