Mouthy wench, she calls me.

“Oh? A whore, you say?” she said. "I think you wish I was.” Her eyes darted to Waysira, quick and sharp. Then it flicked to Santiago, just long enough to see the twitch in his jaw. A stack of scrolls brushed her arm as she walked about like the curious cat she was. Her eyes scanned the far wall, high curtains, the glimmer of candlelight on glass behind them.

"What meaning..."

She leaned slightly to Cleric Santiago. “Father preserve me, I can’t imagine...” Tilting her head toward Waysira. “Judging by the look on her face and honestly, I’ve lost count of how many ‘harlot’ insinuations Cleric Waysira has tossed my way. Door locked behind us, a little note to the Legate saying you’d be late... I’d say she’ve entertained… some strange notions in this very room." Grinning as she toyed with the sleeve of her robe.

“Though,” she added, tilting her head, “I’d think a far more interesting question for the both of you…” she gestured vaguely at the room. “...would be how exactly I got in." Playing it casual, like she’d wandered in off the street for tea rather than trespass.

"Which windows, which doors, which blind spots your legionnaires have…? Of course, I get it, rolling around in the hay seems far more entertaining. Real tempting. But naaah, I got standards, you know?”
 
Head swimming, perhaps from the wine, perhaps from hunger, and definitely from the show presented to him, Santiago's patience reached a swift end.

"Enough!" he shouted, recoiling from the woman, from both women.

Waysira clicked her tongue at him.

"Watch yourself, boy. I've no liking to the tone you're taking with me."

He ignored her.

"You came through the gate," he said, "dressed in robes some launderer left unattended. What need have we to question our security? Who would be foolish enough to question the rigor of the Kharmic Legion, under Ko's own guidance?"
 
She paced a lazy half-circle around the room, fingers trailing across a shelf like she was checking its pockets and still fiddling with a frayed thread on her stolen robe. Flinched surprised at the "Enough!". Her head cocked, watching him sputter his outrage. Oh, this, she thought, this is music! Men shouting like that, losing their shit, veins ticking, teeth bared... it was her favorite sound in the world.

"Holy thunder.” she drawled, smirking.

Silk let the priest ramble on about the unquestionable might of Imperial security. She’d heard more convincing claims from rats. While he rattled his saber made of hot air, she drifted to Waysira’s desk. Her fingers slid over parchment and prayer-slates until they found the steel-tipped quill. Lovely little needle. Balanced, sharp, whisper-light.

“Here’s what I will tell you,” she said as she spun the quill once, quick and deft. Waysira clocked it, Silk didn’t meet her stare. Didn’t have to. She felt that look. Nine Lives always did like his sleepers planted deep in the Empire's asshole. So far in the sun did not shine.

“Every enemy you’ve ever made is questioning it.” she simply said. “Every smuggler, rebel, pissed-off deserter, starving citizen, and half-dead prisoner out there. Hell, half the countryside if you’ve taxed ’em this week." Silk tucked the quill behind her ear like she meant to copy scripture later. Jumped up and planted her ass squarely on the desk.

“An’ some of ’em? They’d pay real coin to know how I ghosted past your shiny, disciplined, empire-trained hardcases. I damn near strolled in whistlin’.”

Thieves were eternal opportunists. Every shadow, every whisper, every crack in a doorframe was a chance, a coin, a secret waiting to be fished out and sold back with interest.

The grey gaze drifted between them. “Words are cheap,” she said, leaning back, feet dangling lazily over the edge.

"But silence? That's worth something.”
 
In losing control of himself, Santiago lost control of the situation.

He pressed a heavy thumb into his temple. Maddening. The drone of voices, the earlier pursuit, this entire situation served but as a trial for his patience... the veneer of which had long stripped bare to frustration, given way to anger unbecoming of his station.

"I've had enough of this farce," he said, turning from the woman.

"Cleric Waysira, the door. I'll fetch the legionnaires myself. It was foolish to send them away. Waysira?"

The Cleric was frowning at him, lost in reverie that laid placid upon her brow. Her hands fidgeted with the key, its pronged head dancing between fingers and clicking against iron rings. It took a second calling of her name to right her from thought. She shook herself slowly, too slowly to be entirely honest, before acknowledging him.

Without as much as a mumble she made for the door. Setting key to lock, she fumbled it, watching blankly as it slipped to the floor. Only then did she startle, loose a breath, and bent to pick it up.

Santiago, jaw clenched and eyes near squinted shut, hastened after.
 
Ko’s holy idiots. Silk watched the little pantomime with the key like it was a puppet show. Silk let out a sharp click of her tongue after the Cleric stormed out.

“Storms and piss, Waysira,” she hissed. "You owe me compensation for that trash map you sent me in with. Might as well have been drawn by a toddler. Four new walls, three new doors, and one gods-cursed corridor that dead-ended me into a broom closet." Silk’s smile thinned, sharpened into something that could peel bark off a tree. "You trying to get me caught?"

Waysira’s jaw twitched. “Renovations.”

“Mm-hm,” Silk said and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze needle-sharp. “Now,” she continued, “where are the fucking reports?"

“They’ll be in the Officiate Records Annex,” Waysira said, voice clipped. “East wing. Third floor. The office with the bronze shutters."

Silk smirked. “Finally. Useful information. Now, I need a new cloak...” Waysira groaned like the gods were personally punishing her. By the time Waysira lifted the lid and leaned into a chest, Silk was already behind her. One fluid motion: her arm hooking around the cleric’s throat, elbow snug beneath the jaw, forearm pressing the carotid thight. Waysira gasped.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Silk murmured near her ear. Waysira flailed once, more offended than struggling, then sagged like a sack of potatoes. “Sleep tight, Cleric” She dragged the unconscious cleric across the rug, grunting at how deceptively solid the woman was. Propped her onto the bed. Silk arranged her arms so it looked like someone who’d simply collapsed after a long day.

She cracked the door open a sliver. Empty. Silk slipped out, posture shifting immediately, chin down, shoulders forward, gait light and quick, the fast-skittering stride of a servant running errands and praying not to be noticed. Her face settled into blank meekness. The thief kept going. Up the stairs. Silk hit the third-floor landing with the same stride she used when cutting purses, fast enough to look purposeful, slow enough not to draw heat.

The hall was quiet at this hour, just the faint groan of timbers and the flutter of distant candlelight. And there it was: a narrow office tucked between two larger chambers, its windows shuttered with tarnished bronze plates. The metal caught the lamplight in streaks.
 
At this hour, Silk would meet with the conceit of the XL Legion: emptied nests, halls patrolled under the pretense of discipline, cursory rather than probing eyes. Villa Sutr, after all, was monolithic, the venerable abode of the garrison in command of the Black Fort.

As Santiago had said in full earnest, who would dare challenge the might of the Kharmic Legion? This long held belief proved their hubris, reflected on their security.

Meanwhile, Santiago made his meandering way to the ground level. A slow journey, bereft of haste to deliver his report to the legionnaires Waysira had sent away.
 
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