“Hey! What are you doing?!”

  I winced and turned. A slave with a longsword was jogging toward me, eyes not blinking. “Step away from that! Identify yourself!”

  I flashed a nervous, too-wide smile and gave the guy a cheerful nod. “Sorry, friend! I was—”

  He swung his sword.

  He swung his sword.

  I yelped and dove to the right. The blade slammed into the metal bars with a jarring clang! that echoed through the tunnel like a cursed dinner bell. My heart lurched into my throat. I bit my lip and scanned the corridor. No witnesses. Lucky me. No one to see me get murdered in a sewer.

  A stupid idea sparked. Which, let’s be honest, was my specialty.

  I reached for my mana and froze a ring of ice right around the leather strap of his helmet. The frost crept fast, tightening, sickening, and then whoosh, the helmet slid sideways like a poorly fastened bowl.

  He finally turned to face me, sword raised again.

  I could practically hear his brain buffer. His swing came down fast but wild, like a toddler with a baseball bat and no hand-eye coordination. He overextended like crazy, his whole body following the arc of the swing. It was pathetic. Worse than Don’s attempt at a lunge back on the duke’s ship.

  So I used his momentum. Grabbed the edge of his armor, yanked, and twisted with my full body weight. Which, okay, wasn’t much, but still. He stumbled straight into the stone wall, and I yanked the helmet fully down over his eyes as a bonus.

  Thunk. Headfirst. Skull met the stone like an unwanted surprise kiss, and he staggered. Wobbled like a resident drinker of Patrick’s.

  So I yanked him again.

  Second impact was the charm. He slumped to the floor, armor creaking, sword clattering beside him.

  I stared at him for a moment, breathing hard. Human. His leather armor looked like it had lost a fight with a cheese grater, and the helmet was more rust than metal.

  At the end of the narrow tunnel was something that was probably meant to be a guard station. If you could call that mess a station. One rickety table missing a leg, two mismatched chairs, a stack of grimy linens that might have once been bandages, and a few dusty jars of what I assumed were rations.

  Or expired soup. Maybe both.

  And, because fate hated me, a small runoff stream was cutting straight into the main sewer channel and down a different tunnel than I came from, except this one was practically bubbling with funk. I kinda stepped over it at first, thinking it was just water.

  A genius design, really. Who needed a toilet when you have guards in a literal sewer? I gagged, stepping over it fast again.

  But really… why was a slave guarding something this important? Like, binding-stone-adjacent levels of important. Who signs off on that? “Yes, Master, let’s give one of the oppressed a longsword and make him the doorman into a city-shaping relic.” Brilliant. Truly.

  Altandai logic at its finest: an overworked, under-trained, definitely unpaid slave guarding their most crucial relic. Because clearly, if an invading army showed up, they’d politely skip the sewers. Of course. Classic Altandai brilliance. Or more likely, just classic budget cuts.

  Slaves were cheap, disposable labor, right?

  I shook my head sharply, snapping out of that pointless spiral of irritation. With a grunt, I dragged the unconscious guard toward the chair. It wasn’t graceful. Dead weight and zero muscle strength made for an awkward combination, but eventually, he slumped into place, looking almost peaceful. Almost.

  Now what?

  I wandered back toward the barred gate, frowning. A wooden lever protruded from the wall, conveniently placed above an annoyingly obvious keyhole. Because of course there was a keyhole. I yanked on the lever experimentally, and naturally, it didn’t budge. Instead, it just clicked mockingly.

  Figures.

  Maybe the unconscious guard had the key? I jogged back down the tunnel, hopping gracelessly over the disgusting stream of sewage runoff. At the sad excuse for a guard station, I pawed through the stale-smelling rations and dusty bandages. Nothing. Great. Time to do the morally dubious thing: looting. Totally justified looting, I told myself.

  Jackpot. The key, a tarnished copper thing that looked about as reliable as a paper umbrella in a storm, was stuffed in his grubby pocket.

  Holding the key up to the faint light, I glanced between it and the barred gate, wheels turning in my head. Sure, slipping inside would be easy, but what about afterward? The guard would wake up, raise an alarm, and any clever sabotage I’d managed would be undone before my players even arrived.

  No good.

  But... maybe I could make myself “authorized”? If I could copy this key, talk my way back in with some bureaucratic nonsense, I might just buy enough time to get the job done.

  I focused, attempting to shape ice into an exact replica of the key. Turns out, intricate craftsmanship wasn’t exactly my thing. Every tiny imperfection mocked my efforts, turning what should’ve been a simple task into an exercise in frustration. Maybe after a few months of daily practice, but today? Nope.

  Fine. Plan B. Use the key itself as a mold.

  Carefully, I enveloped the key in a shell of ice, concentrating hard to freeze it solid. Success! Sort of. Now the damn key was stuck solidly in its ice prison.

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  “Goddess of Exploiters, stuck on a basic mold?!” I grumbled, irritation spiking.

  I thawed it and tried again, attempting a half-shell approach. Nope. Ice greedily swallowed the key whole again.

  “For Saevrin’s sake, why is this so hard?!” I snapped out loud, frustration echoing around me as I thawed it once more.

  Eventually, brute force was my saving grace. I slammed the key against the grimy stone wall, instantly freezing it in place. Extracting the resulting ice mold from the wall was a chore, but finally, I had my perfect ice mold… ready to use.

  I stashed the mold nearby and shook my head: how to actually turn it into a functioning metal key?

  Well, that sounded suspiciously like a Future Charlie problem.

  Present Charlie trudged reluctantly back toward the unconscious guard, the mold of the key feeling heavy and cold in my hand. His bearded face looked peaceful, annoyingly oblivious to my moral dilemma. With a resigned sigh, I slipped the rusty key back into his grimy pocket. Stage two.

  Wait… what exactly was stage two again?

  I scratched my head, glancing down at the guard sprawled awkwardly in the chair, his helmet still askew. With a cautious grimace, I straightened the battered helmet on his head, nudging it into position as if handling something mildly toxic. Maybe… yeah, this could work. With a thought, I shifted my appearance back into my princess-style clothing… flowing fabric, and especially my heels! They clicked… I miss wearing them.

  Drawing in a deep breath for courage, I—

  —immediately gagged.

  Right. Sewer. No deep breaths allowed.

  Pinching my nose shut, I placed a fingertip on his shoulder at arm’s length and cast [Healing]. Warmth surged from my hand, wrapping around his battered body. Immediately, his twisted leg straightened with a loud, unsettling pop.

  “Uh, okay?” I blinked, mildly startled. “Guess you needed more than I thought.”

  By the fourth heal, he jolted awake, eyes snapping open. I immediately stepped back, adopting an exaggerated look of royal disdain. “Finally,” I snapped, spitting dramatically onto the sewer floor. “Sleeping on the job, are we?”

  He opened his mouth, then promptly leaped from the chair and saluted, his hand smacking loudly against his rusty helmet. “I apologize, Lady! But… what are you doing here?” He glanced down, mouth falling open again in shock as he realized he was standing firmly. “Lady?”

  “Yeah, I healed you,” I said, feigning annoyance and letting out a long, theatrical sigh. “Clearly you needed it. I’m here testing the city’s defenses.”

  “You… you healed me?” His voice trembled, eyes growing suspiciously moist. “Even if I sold my entire family, I couldn’t afford—”

  “Free of charge,” I whispered reluctantly. Before I could even blink, the man lunged forward, wrapping me in a pungent hug.

  “Thank you, Lady!” he nearly shouted into my ear. “This is—this is—I was…” He broke down sobbing openly, shoulders shaking. “Five years of slavery was the only option for me, Lady. You should’ve seen me before, even more crippled!”

  I pried myself out of his embrace, fighting a gag, and jumped back with a horrified grimace. “You chose to become a slave voluntarily?” I hissed incredulously. “Why would anyone—”

  “Lady, my master is kind!” he blubbered. “I just guard this spot; no more than that! One year left, and—”

  “Alright, alright,” I interrupted impatiently, taking a deliberate step forward to silence him. “So you’ve been guarding this spot… What exactly happened?”

  He winced, clearly struggling to recall details. “I—I don’t remember. It’s all foggy… if my master finds out—”

  “Never mind that. What exactly are your orders?” I cut him off with a brisk gesture. “I’m feeling generous today. Maybe we can work something out.”

  His eyes widened in desperate gratitude. “Thank you, Lady mage, thank you!” He made another move toward hugging me, but I hastily conjured a small ice wall between us. He skidded to a halt just short of a collision.

  “Orders. Speak,” I reminded him strongly.

  “My orders are simple,” he stammered, pulling himself together. “I guard for twelve hours, then change shifts with Akash. Report anything suspicious… that’s it! My master is generous, truly.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, taking another step back to regain my personal space. I might’ve become a hugger, but not in a sewer, and definitely not with him smelling like a rancid goblin’s boot. “Then you have nothing suspicious to report, right? Nothing happened here. Also… who exactly is your master?”

  He glanced at me, eyes narrowing in momentary confusion. “Master of the Green Dragon, Lady. But… sleeping is suspicious, right? Someone, including you, could slip in during my weakest hour.”

  I nodded, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, and how exactly would they slip in without a key?” I asked pointedly.

  His eyes widened in sudden panic, and he quickly patted his pocket. When his fingers brushed the reassuring lump of the key, he awkwardly turned the motion into a theatrical thigh-check, as if verifying his own leg hadn’t disappeared while he wasn’t looking.

  I almost winced at how painfully unsubtle he was.

  Clearly, this poor guy wasn’t exactly the clearest bottle in a bar. “If someone had a key, they’d stroll in whether you’re awake or napping,” I said, striding confidently toward the barred gate and tapping a bar with a fingernail. It rang with a dull metallic ping. “Without a key, they’d have to smash their way in, and from what I see, no broken bars.”

  He scratched his scruffy beard, a slow realization dawning on his face. “Huh. Guess you’re right. Then… nothing suspicious happened?”

  I smiled indulgently, approaching him with exaggerated regal grace. “Let me give you another heal, just in case.” Before he could protest or question, I touched his shoulder lightly and sent another surge of magic through him. Another loud pop echoed through the sewer tunnel, causing me to frown suspiciously. “Still broken? Really?”

  “You—” He started, breath hitching, but my spell interrupted him again, sending another wave of warmth through his battered body. His eyes went wide as saucers. “You’re a master mage!”

  “Hardly. Healing isn’t exactly advanced magic,” I replied with a casual shrug. “Pretty soon immortal beings, players, are going to swarm across the land. Tens of thousands of healers among them. The healing market is about to crash faster than an overpriced whiskey.” I grinned mischievously. “But for now, my work here is done.”

  He blinked in astonishment, his mouth flapping like a stranded fish. “Thank you, Lady—”

  “So,” I interrupted smoothly, “nothing to report, right? Your master probably hates being disturbed over trivial nonsense anyway. I’ll be back tomorrow with a proper key to inspect inside. Is that going to raise suspicion?”

  He snapped a rigid salute, shaking his head vigorously. “No suspicion at all, Lady! Key-bearers come here regularly!”

  “Good man. Rest up, and see you tomorrow.” I gave him a conspiratorial wink and strode briskly away, leaving him yelling grateful nonsense at my back. Better to leave quickly before he found an inconvenient urge to change his mind.

  Retrieving my carefully hidden ice mold, I reinforced its cold structure with another layer of frost magic to prevent any inconvenient melting disasters. Mold secure, I headed confidently toward the nearest sewer exit.

  Now for the hard part… getting an actual key made from an ice mold. Past Charlie, you lovable idiot. Why couldn’t you think these things through? Thieves made molds all the time, sure, but I’d always played a warrior.

  My lock-picking skills usually involved kicking down doors, not subtle crafting.

  I giggled suddenly, memories hitting me like a spiked drink, remembering all those reckless escapades robbing Rimelion blind alongside my prince last week.

  Even the DLC areas weren’t safe from our kleptomaniac spree. Screw those devs, especially Damon. That smug jerk would pay. And Count Itzel… damn him for stealing my prince’s ring. I’d promised to set him free, and instead, he was stuck in—

  My boot caught on a suspiciously squishy lump, snapping me back to the present. Grimacing, I whiffed my foot and hurried toward the exit, determination steeling my nerves.

  The plan was simple enough, in theory: craft a real key, check if Master Green Dragon was kind, go full spy-mode on that binding stone, and rig it to blow.

  Grinning wickedly, I stepped confidently out of the shadows and into the sunlight.