Kywen can’t stop fidgeting as she sits alone in her room. Her stomach grumbles, and she chastises herself for the lack of sweets stuffed within the hidden pockets she had sewn into the sari’s skirts after Yamma selected them.

No longer able to resist the various aromas of baked goods wafting up from the kitchens, she slips into the hallway and takes the wide staircase leading to the underground pathways.

She quickly reaches the expansive storeroom, stocked with dry goods and cured meats, but more importantly, it’s where the fresh pastries and other desserts wait to replace the items baked earlier in the day. Flickering torches brighten the red clay walls around her, and she hops over the handles of a large cart loaded with goods.

She wonders why supplies are being delivered this late as she looks around the dimly lit room with its rows of wooden racks and calls out, “Sneaky little runner, where are you? I don’t care if you’re shirking your duties. Come tell me some rumors, and I’ll let you help me eat some cakes!”

When she gets no response, she shrugs and steps quickly past the sacks of flour and grains to start loading her pockets with sweet rolls, chocolate truffles, and spongy squares of corn-cake from each tray, wrapping each morsel carefully in cheesecloth. She’s nearly finished when she remembers the raspberry-cream tarts her uncles only make for the Collaboration. She can already taste their delicately rich sweetness as she rummages through several shelves and containers, but with each platter she uncovers, they continue to elude her.

After wandering deeper into the bowels of the substructure, she eventually finds herself at the back, facing a set of closed doors. The dancing flames send shapes flitting across the walls, but a shadow sliding along the bottom of the door, cast from inside the room, snags her attention. Tarts forgotten, she leans close, placing her ear against the cool metal. Straining, she can make out a faint ticking sound, and she gently pulls at the handle only to be met with the clunk of an engaged bolt.

She listens again and finds only silence. Convincing herself she is going delusional from ravenous hunger, she makes her way back through the racks and cheers up the moment her eyes land on a tray of cekodok pisang sitting above a layer of warming stones. She loads a few into the cheesecloth and stuffs one of the crispy balls of fried banana dough into each cheek, the gooey insides melting over her tongue as soon as she bites into them. Reveling in their decadence, she turns and nearly spits out the fritters in surprise when she hears the pattering of quick footsteps near the entrance.

With a plan to leap out and startle the runner, she creeps a short distance forward, getting close enough to crouch behind a pillar that is half-cloaked in darkness. She quickly realizes the stranger is too tall to be a boy, and though his back is to her, she can tell he is hastily filling a large sack with ropes of sausage and chunks of salted mutton instead of emptying it. Kywen’s heart thumps wildly in her chest as she realizes the cart outside isn’t a delivery.

A thief! A silent scream echoes in her mind, and her hands shake with excitement. Any trouble outside of drunken brawls during rowdy feasts and festivals rarely happens, especially in the larger freeholds. Fingers tingling, Kywen continues to edge closer, but within seconds, booming laughter from outside the storeroom freeze both Kywen and the thief in place.

Before she can blink, the thief lets go of his sack, hunching over. From her position, Kywen can just barely see the changes taking place. His shoulder-length locks lighten and shimmer into the close-cropped style of young runners, and the air around his lanky frame ripples as he shrinks a few inches in height. He grabs the sack and starts to load the food back onto shelves and hooks, whistling a cheerful tune. He replaces the fat string of wood-smoked sausages just as a pair of guards stop in the doorway.

The trio speak quietly, and Kywen can only catch snippets of what they’re saying. She knows she should speak up, call attention to watch she saw, but his transformation has her rooted in place. She knows it has to be Shade magic, but she’s never seen anything like it. Where once stood a man stands a much younger runner, now pretending to stock the storeroom.

Her curiosity prevails over any sense of duty to prevent petty crime as she vows right then and there to find out just how he pulled off such a fantastic feat. Thinking of a plan, she slinks further into the corners to work her way up and around to where she could gain a better vantage point, and as she pads softly beneath the hanging herbs, she sees one of the guards lean over, whispering something to the thief. All three of them glance around the storeroom.

The fake runner looks directly at the spot she had just been crouching in, and though she's now completely hidden by shadows, she stops and presses herself into the cold wall behind her, wishing she could perform Sundeera’s Inaru bending. Being able to channel a pinch of Shade magic would be enough to steady the racing of her heart, but she is stuck with only a well of Root magic, equal parts powerful and useless right now.

Satisfied with the scan, the squat guard snaps her fingers at the other guard and holds out her hand. The taller guard pulls a cinched cloth from his belt and plops it noisily into his partner’s waiting palm. The jingling pouch changes hands one more time, and the faux-runner produces a slim jug of fire-rum, holding it out to them.

The squat guard grabs the bottle, and both cheer, each taking a long swig before clamoring off to drain it over the course of their rounds. Neither give a proper thanks or bid the boy well despite knowing he'd be given a good thrashing if anyone found out about the exchange.

Kywen had long been aware of how often the guards don’t take their duties seriously, unable to avoid the endless squabbling between her parents over whether or not to do something about it, and until now, she hadn’t blamed them for it.

The thief continues to play at restocking the goods until his legs start to tremble. He leans over to release his binding, letting out a long, shuddering breath, but when he stands, he is no longer facing away from her.

The strangled sound of her shock is only blocked from blowing her cover by the forgotten banana-mush in her mouth as she finds herself staring at the Heir to Watcher of Clans standing in her storeroom.

Well, she thinks, the second Heir Watcher behind his older sister, Amina Airmala. And Jorrel is the Heir stealing from my storeroom this very second.

Transfixed, Kywen mechanically chews her mouthful of congealed fritter, no longer tasting anything as she watches Jorrel grab a few more things before tying up the large sack and slipping out the door.

Swallowing the last bits, Kywen slowly moves toward the hall, listening to the sounds of the creaking cart rolling away. It's then she spots a basket of the raspberry cream tarts tucked into the front corner. She counts to ten while stuffing a pair of the tarts into her last empty pocket and peers cautiously out the door just as he turns a corner. Taking a few slow, deep breaths, she wipes her hands on her thighs and smiles.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she says to herself and races down the hallway.