The Accidental Saint of the Kingdom

Chapter 6: The Heist That Went Wrong

The silence of the palace was not the quiet of a sleeping house; it was the suffocating, heavy stillness of a tomb. Every step Rhovek took on the marble floor felt like a thunderclap. Beside him, Kervos was a ghost, his hand locked onto his hilt, his eyes darting through the ink-black corridors.

"Remind me," Kervos whispered, his voice barely a breath. "Why exactly are we breaking into the most heavily fortified vault in the kingdom during a magical blackout?"

"Because, you simpleton," Rhovek hissed, sliding past a frozen suit of armor, "if the lights are out, the alarm runes are dead. It is the only time the crown jewels are actually vulnerable. I didn't spend my life learning how to crack locks just to end up as a glorified social worker for the Silt."

"You seem pretty committed to the role, My Lord," Kervos muttered. "Especially considering you spent the last hour worrying about whether or not the orphanage had enough firewood."

Rhovek stopped, his face contorting in the darkness. "That was the body, Kervos. That was not me. If I could tear this conscience out of my ribs, I’d do it with a dull butter knife."

"Right. And I’m sure if we found a mountain of gold, your 'conscience' would just let you walk out with it?"

"My conscience is going to learn who is boss, or I’ll stop feeding it," Rhovek growled.

They reached the heavy iron doors of the royal vault. Even without the magical hum of the protective wards, the steel was imposing. Rhovek pulled a set of thin, delicate picks from his sleeve, his fingers twitching with a familiar, hungry excitement.

"Finally," he breathed. "The payout."

As the lock clicked—a sound as sweet as a lover’s whisper—the door creaked open. But the room beyond wasn't filled with the golden glow of the treasury. Instead, it was bathed in the sickly, rhythmic pulse of violet light.

"What in the hell is that?" Kervos whispered, his sword finally leaving its scabbard.

Rhovek peered into the vault. It wasn't empty, but the gold was pushed aside, forming a crude circle around a group of five figures draped in jagged, charcoal-colored robes. In the center, a man stood holding a dagger that seemed to drink the meager light in the room.

"Cultists," Rhovek spat, his stomach dropping. "Are you joking? I’m here for the bullion, not to break up a demonic slumber party."

"We should go, Rhovek," Kervos said, grabbing his arm. "That’s dark magic. That stuff doesn't play by the rules of thievery."

"No," Rhovek said, his eyes narrowing. "That’s the King’s vault. If they damage the floorboards, that’s coming out of the city’s tax revenue. My revenue."

"You’re really going to fight a coven of dark mages for the sake of your property taxes?" Kervos asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.

"I’m going to rob them, then I’m going to throw them out," Rhovek snapped.

He stepped forward, ready to strike, but his body betrayed him. His right hand, which had been reaching for his concealed blade, suddenly splayed open. His shoulders squared, his chin lifted into a posture of righteous, annoying indignation.

"Hey! You lot!" his body shouted, his voice ringing with a booming, heroic command he hadn't intended to use. "That floor is for currency, not for blood sacrifices! Get out!"

Kervos facepalmed in the shadows. "Oh, brilliant. That’ll teach them."

The cultists spun around, their eyes glowing with a faint, violet luminescence. The leader, a gaunt man with a jagged scar across his throat, pointed a trembling finger at Rhovek.

"The Protector of the Silt," the leader rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves. "You were supposed to be at the gala, not in the belly of the beast."

"Change of plans," Rhovek muttered, his body taking a graceful, leaping step forward. "And let me tell you, your interior design choices are appalling."

"Kill him!" the leader shrieked.

As the cultists lunged with jagged obsidian daggers, Rhovek felt the sickening, familiar surge of forced agility. He didn't want to fight; he wanted to slip out the back and come back when the blood was dry. But his body didn't care.

He parried a strike with an effortless flick of his wrist, his hand then moving to shove a heavy gold bar into the path of a second attacker, sending the man sprawling.

"I didn't want to do that!" Rhovek yelled at the ceiling as he performed a perfect, spinning kick that sent a third cultist flying into the wall. "Stop it! Just let me walk away!"

"You’re doing great, My Lord!" Kervos shouted, hacking at a cultist who tried to flank them. "Keep up the heroics!"

"I am a thief! I steal things! I don't punch fanatics!" Rhovek roared, his body expertly disarming the leader with a move that looked like it belonged in a royal guard training manual.

The leader slammed into the vault floor, his obsidian blade shattering. The remaining cultists, seeing their leader downed by the man who had been the talk of the city, scrambled back in terror.

"He is blessed!" one of them wailed, diving into the shadows. "The saint of the Silt protects the light!"

"I am not a saint!" Rhovek screamed, his body chasing them down and delivering a final, stunning blow to the last straggler’s shoulder. "I am a career criminal! Why won't anyone listen?"

Silence returned to the vault. Rhovek stood panting, his hair slightly disheveled, his clothes spotless despite the chaotic brawl. His body was standing tall, chest heaving with pride—a feeling that disgusted him to his very core.

"Well," Kervos said, looking at the unconscious cultists. "The treasury is safe. And you’ve saved the city from a dark ritual. You’re definitely getting a statue for this one."

"If they build a statue, I’m going to steal the nose off it," Rhovek grumbled, wiping a speck of dust off his sleeve.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Not the heavy, rhythmic thud of the guard, but the hurried, frantic pace of the royal household. A torchlight flickered at the entrance of the vault.

"Lord Dalmarys?"

It was the King. Behind him stood Deyrik Solan, the rival noble, his face pale as he surveyed the carnage.

Rhovek turned, his body immediately bowing with a flourish so smooth it made his teeth ache. "Your Majesty. I apologize for the intrusion. I was just... conducting a late-night inspection of your security protocols."

The King stepped into the room, his gaze moving from the unconscious cultists to the undisturbed, gleaming mountains of gold. His eyes widened, and he looked at Rhovek with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.

"You knew," the King whispered, stepping closer. "You knew they would target the vault. You stayed behind, alone, in the dark, to protect the heart of my kingdom."

"I... well," Rhovek started, his internal voice screaming. Tell him you were robbing the place! Tell him you’re a fraud!

"It was my duty, Your Majesty," his body said, the voice smooth, rich, and infuriatingly noble. "The safety of the realm comes before all else."

Deyrik Solan moved forward, his hands trembling. "I saw them, Your Majesty. I saw them entering the wing. I thought we were lost. But Lord Dalmarys... he fought them all single-handedly, without a guard, to protect the crown's treasure."

The King placed a firm, heavy hand on Rhovek’s shoulder. "You are more than a supervisor, Rhovek. You are a guardian. My city has been rotting, and you have been the only light in the darkness."

Rhovek felt his eye twitch. "I’m really just trying to stay out of trouble, Your Majesty."

"Humility," the King beamed, gesturing to his guards to seize the cultists. "The mark of a true leader. I cannot allow you to remain merely the supervisor of a single district. The cabinet is in shambles, filled with men who only care for their own purses. I need you in the palace. I need you at my right hand."

Rhovek felt the world tilt. "Cabinet position? Your Majesty, I don't think I’m quite... qualified for the inner workings of statecraft."

"Nonsense," the King said, his voice echoing off the gold bars. "You have the trust of the people and the steel of a hero. Tomorrow, you will be sworn in as the Minister of Internal Security. You will oversee not just the Silt, but the entire city’s stability."

Rhovek looked at Kervos. His guard was struggling to maintain a straight face, his shoulders shaking with silent, stifled laughter.

"Minister," Rhovek muttered, his voice hollow. "I’m the Minister of Security."

"The most important job in the land," the King said, turning to leave. "Get some rest, my friend. You have a long day of governance ahead of you."

As the King and his entourage disappeared into the hallway, leaving the vault open and filled with more gold than Rhovek had ever seen in his life, he finally collapsed onto a pile of silk cushions.

"Minister," Kervos said, stepping forward. "That’s a hell of a promotion. You have the keys to the kingdom now. Are you going to rob it?"

Rhovek looked at his hands. They were steady, clean, and entirely beyond his control. He stared at the mountain of gold, feeling a profound, deep-seated resentment that he was now too important to steal it.

"I’m going to rob the whole damn government," Rhovek whispered, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "If I’m the Minister of Security, I’m the one who decides who is watched and who isn't. And Kervos?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"I’m going to make sure the state treasury is the safest place in the world—so safe that nobody will ever look for the holes I’m about to drill into the bottom of it."

"So, you’re in?"

Rhovek stood up, his posture perfect, his movements regal. "I’m in. I’ll run this city until the coffers are dry. And if my conscience wants to be a hero, I’ll just have to make sure the villainy is so well-hidden that even the saints won't notice."

He walked out of the vault, his cape fluttering behind him with a grace that was entirely, infuriatingly perfect. The Minister of Security had arrived, and the city of Oakhaven didn't stand a chance.