Chapter Text
The key to becoming a great thief was not to lurk in the shadows. Ajax, also known as the thief Tartaglia, never saw the point in this. Turning to stealing to support yourself or others was a tired old tale, and most never rose beyond petty pickpocketing or low-risk break-ins. It was sad. Pathetic. Boring.
True greatness was beating impossible odds, climbing higher than anyone could have ever dreamed. It was pushing yourself harder and harder, until you surpassed your breaking point. Pressure makes diamonds from coal, and coal from decay. To win, you must be broken over and over again, until you heal stronger than you ever were.
This was why Ajax thought of himself as a “great” thief. He wasn’t like the common pickpocket, or an average lock-picker. He did not operate in the shadows. No, Ajax thrived under the spotlight, lived for the chase. The higher the stakes, the faster he ran, the better he became. Next time, he would be extra careful of tripwires. Next time, he would carry a first aid pack. Next time, next time, next time.
The thrill of his next heist was intoxicating. It was almost like a drug, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, or knocked out a guard to impersonate them. He was never excited that he was getting away. Rather, he was excited because of the possibility of getting caught. Each time a rough hand nearly grabbed the mask from his face, he felt a spark of ecstasy.
The only thing that grounded him in those moments was remembering who he did this for.
In this moment, however, Ajax pushed his family from his mind. He couldn’t afford any distractions today. For today, he was planning his biggest, most exciting heist yet: breaking into Zapolyarny Palace, the home of the queen of Snezhnaya.
Known to her kingdom as the Tsaritsa, she ruled with a fist of iron, and a tongue of silver. For those who deserved it, she held infinite kindness. For those who slighted her, she showed exactly why Snezhnaya was one of the most feared kingdoms in the Fellowship. The Tsaritsa was a force of nature, a snowstorm in the winter. If she so desired, she could tear her allied kingdoms to shreds in the blink of an eye.
Ajax adored his queen. To him, she was both a great warrior, and a fearsome ruler. In this moment, however, as donned a gray cloak, she was his biggest target.
One thing Ajax had learned throughout the years was that, if he walked with confidence, most people would assume he belonged wherever he was. It certainly helped when he was truly allowed to be there. As he marched past the palace walls, he nodded jovially at the guards, following the slow trickle of people marching through the front doors of the palace.
The Tsaritsa holding court was a rare event. Many of the older citizens could only remember one time in which she opened the palace doors, and those in younger generations had no recollection of this at all. She was reclusive, compared to her counterparts in most kingdoms. When her court jester had announced to the public that she would be holding court in two weeks, the kingdom had fallen into an uproar of whispers.
People of all walks of life immediately began preparations. Peddlers began to hike up their prices, eagerly anticipating the nobles from afar who would travel to have an audience with the Tsaritsa. It was truly an occasion for them to even have the chance to see her, so they flocked to Snezhnaya in droves.
Ajax, too, made preparations. He found ways to learn the layout of the palace, cashing in a few favors he was owed. He mapped out the guard routes, memorized them until he knew them like the back of his hand. He studied tirelessly, listening to wives’ tales and rumors about the contents of the Tsaritsa’s treasury.
There were many that were obviously fake— a vase that would make anything you placed inside vanish, a cursed ruby that would burn you alive. The biggest, most solid lead, however— and the most enticing— was the most prized possession that all kings and queens in the Fellowship had.
It was known as a “gnosis.” Rumored to be enchanted by sorcerers blessed by Celestia herself, these jewels were said to give unimaginable power to those who held them. Unlike most of the other trinkets falsified in scrolls and books, the gnoses were real. Tales told by former soldiers with specters of the past drifting before their eyes spoke of leveled mountains, hurricanes that began in the blink of an eye. Every thief of note coveted these arcane focuses, for the power they held, or for the money they could make by selling them to the highest bidder.
Ajax sought the Tsaritsa’s gnosis. That was his real prize. Anything else the queen may have had paled in comparison to the sheer excitement the gnosis offered. No, Ajax did not desire power or wealth any more than the average man. He craved the challenge, the glory. To steal a king or queen’s gnosis was to make history.
Ajax grinned as he stepped into Zapolyarny palace, his boots shuffling quietly on the hard wood floor. His light gray, hooded cloak blended in perfectly with the entourage he’d chosen to assimilate with. The noblewoman he followed, a tall, imposing blonde from the kingdom of Mondstadt, took no notice of the fact that she now had an odd number of attendants.
The palace was massive, and painted in shades of white, gray, and blue. The perfect representation of Snezhnaya in the winter, almost entirely devoid of decoration to the untrained eye. To one who had lived in the kingdom their entire life, however, it was beautiful. Subtle traces of silver lined the pillars, curling upwards in whorls of ice and snow. A painting of the Tsaritsa, her face covered by a white veil, hung above the stairs that the parade of visiting nobles now ascended.
Ajax casually inserted himself into a conversation happening between a different noble’s attendants. These men were dressed in Snezhnayan white and red, following a noble from the outskirts of the kingdom. They were easy enough to get along with, but Ajax barely paid attention to what was being said before he moved on to the next group.
He picked his way across the sea of nobles and servants. Among the chaos, he slipped through unnoticed. Even his hair— dyed black with a simple spell he’d purchased from a shady street enchanter— was discreet. As much as he loved his shiny orange locks, they had to go. They would be far too noticeable among the understated blondes and brunettes of the palace servants.
Soon, the procession of nobility was admitted through a pair of massive, ornately carved stone doors. Stone sea creatures chased and fought each other on the surface. Their eyes seemed to stare at Ajax as he steered away from the main group, following a few servants who spoke of needing to use the restroom. He merged with the visitors, striking up a conversation with them. Together, they made their way to the bathrooms, men and women splitting off until only a few remained.
The restrooms in the hall had multiple chambers. Perfect, Ajax thought to himself. His plan was going swimmingly thus far— as expected. He slipped quietly into one of the chambers, each with its own private latrine, and trailed off from the conversation still happening amongst the servants. Ajax listened as the men chatted, relieved themselves, washed, and left.
Then, he got to work.
Quickly, Ajax shrugged off the gray cloak he wore, revealing the palace servant uniform he’d pilfered the week before. He inverted the cloak, the lining a near-black shade of gray that would blend seamlessly with the rest of the servants. Then, he grabbed the stack of bath towels that sat near the toilet, left the chamber, and slowly made his way through the palace halls.
Ajax’s heart began to race, and he swallowed. The real work had begun, and despite the rush of adrenaline he felt, there was an underlying nervousness as well. This was the biggest heist he had ever attempted. While he had prepared for weeks, cashed in favors, and done everything he could to make his plan flawless, it was very, very different to actually execute it.
Ajax blinked hard, shoving his nerves away. He forced a smile onto his face, nodding at those who greeted him as if he were another nameless, faceless servant. He was not a scared child. He was the great thief Tartaglia, and today was the day he would become truly infamous. All he had to do was steal from one of the most guarded treasuries in the Fellowship of Teyvat.
A piece of cake, really.
Tartaglia smirked wryly, his strides becoming more confident. To anyone on the outside, he looked like someone who knew exactly where he was going as he carried the towels he held to the palace’s laundry room. This was an accurate assessment, but Tartaglia’s goal was far, far from the laundry room.
After dropping off the towels, Tartaglia began the next phase of his plan. He thought of the layout of the palace, recalling the route he’d mapped. Then, he set out, holding his head high and confident.
Nobody gave him a passing glance as he ascended another set of stairs, going up several flights before stopping outside the door to the sixth floor. These were the servants’ stairs, used only by palace staff.
Tartaglia waited with bated breath, listening for footsteps nearby. A minute passed, then two. He knew no servants would be coming from other parts of the palace, otherwise occupied by the visiting dignitaries. Busy locations always made for the easiest targets, he thought to himself amusedly.
It wasn’t long before Tartaglia’s ears picked up the clomping of heavy boots. They were rapid and loud, as if someone were running fast. Tartaglia grinned— right on time, he mused. Quickly, he gripped the doorknob of the sixth floor door, and after a split second of waiting, he swung it open as hard as he could.
CRASH!
A loud shout of pain echoed through the palace corridors, and Tartaglia stepped out of the stairwell, his face morphing into a mask of horror. “Oh my Celestia,” he gasped, bending over, “I’m so sorry, Lord Pantalone!”
The man in question was lying on the floor, surrounded by a sea of papers scattered by the force of the impact. He held his nose and groaned, blood spurting. He seemed dazed, accepting Tartaglia’s offered hand without a second thought.
“I’m so sorry,” Tartaglia repeated, bowing once the merchant was standing. “I-I wasn’t paying attention! Are you alright? Do you need me to get a medic? Would you like—“
He was interrupted by a swift slap in the face, gasping as cold hands impacted his cheek. “Shut your mouth, boy,” Pantalone growled, dusting off his coat and tilting his head forward. “I’m late enough as it is, and now you’ve made it worse! Pick up those papers, and stop your blathering!”
Tartaglia dropped to his knees obediently, his cheek stinging as he lowered his head. He continued to apologize, despite his orders, and despite the key that he now held in his left hand. As he gathered the papers on the floor, he slipped the key into his coat pocket. Then, he stood and handed the papers to Pantalone, who took them and blustered away, dripping blood from his nose as he made his way to the main stairs.
Tartaglia watched him go, then smiled and about-faced, moving a bit faster than before. For someone in charge of so many finances in the kingdom, Pantalone was very scatterbrained. Though, Tartaglia supposed, anyone would be frazzled after getting hit by a door at full force.
He broke into a grin, then forced his expression into one more serious. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. In fact, he had barely scratched the surface. The real hard part was yet to come, and it approached quickly as he made his way down the near-empty corridor.
The palace treasury was only two hallways away, and the second it came into view, Tartaglia was hit by just how difficult this job would be. Despite how empty the rest of the sixth floor was, the hall with the treasury was heavily guarded. Tartaglia had known that this would he no walk in the park, but seeing the twelve guards stationed outside gave him pause.
Normally, he would fight his way through. He had lived on the streets his entire life, and had fallen into darkness when he was barely a teenager. He could hold his own against multiple opponents. However, a scuffle would draw attention to his location. He couldn’t afford to get caught, not when he was so close.
He had planned for this, of course. Peeking into the hallway quickly, unnoticed, he judged the locations of the guards. Then, he ducked back around the corner, drew in a slow, deep breath, and raised two fingers into the air.
Tartaglia knew the motions like the back of his hand, allowing muscle memory to take over. He remembered a callused hand guiding his own in the same repeated circles and lines, connecting dots and shapes into intricate, unseen patterns. As he drew, water welled and collected at his fingers, forming the shapes that he traced in the air. The suspended liquid coalesced, then merged together as he completed the seal, building and taking shape.
Tartaglia stared at the silent silhouette of a man, made entirely of water. Its surface rippled, light reflecting onto the white walls. Tartaglia quickly and quietly shrugged off his cloak, tying it around the mimic. The fabric dampened slightly. Tartaglia didn’t have much practice in creating human-shaped mimics. The surface retention on this one was subpar, but it would have to do.
The mimic’s orders were built into the spell. Tartaglia inhaled, then grinned. He held up two fingers, counted to three internally, then snapped his hand to the left. The mimic immediately sprang into action, pulling up its hood, drawing the cloak around it, and sprinting into the treasury hall.
Shouts rose from the hall, and Tartaglia made a break for it. He slipped around the corner and through the chaos as his mimic fulfilled its purpose. It swung at the guards with blades made of water, allowing them to chase it through the hall. A few stayed behind, naturally, and one ran— presumably to report what was happening. That wouldn’t do.
Tartaglia reached into his boot and slipped out a throwing knife. He threw it at the back of the running guard, striking true. The guard fell just as he rounded the corner, unnoticed by his comrades, who joined the others as the sounds of struggle reached their climax. The hallway was now empty, and Tartaglia finally closed the distance between him and the treasury door.
He unlocked it swiftly with the pilfered key, his heart racing. The stone doors were heavy, but Tartaglia pushed them open and shut with ease. Once the doors were closed, he acted quickly, locking himself inside the room. Then, he dashed away, head on a swivel as he began his search.
The layout of the Tsaritsa’s hoard was close to that of a museum. Items were displayed in glass cases, glinting in the harsh white light created by enchanted lamps. Gold and silver swirled around Tartaglia, dots of colored gemstones flooding his vision as he raced to find his prize.
He immediately ruled out any artifact that had no jewels. The gnoses were unanimously described as gemstones, glowing with an otherworldly power. That narrowed his search to significantly fewer items in the treasury. He extended a hand as he ran, reaching for the feeling of power he knew the gnosis must have. Magic always gave off waves of energy, and something as feared as the gnoses were sure to be suns among a sea of candles.
Yet, there was nothing that stood out among the magical artifacts. Tartaglia skidded to a stop, his heart skipping so many beats, it nearly stopped too. Had his informants mislead him? He had worked tirelessly, cross-referencing every source. He’d even asked people on the inside, paying those who maintained the artifacts money that would make Lord Pantalone weep.
Despite his weeks of preparation and sleepless nights, however, Tartaglia had made a mistake. Somehow, he had gotten the gnosis’s location wrong. Had the Tsaritsa moved it in the single day since he’d last spoken to his informants? His heart leapt to his throat, and he felt a flash of panic. He had been so close—
No. The day wasn’t over yet. Tartaglia could still take the gnosis. He just needed to rework his plan a little. He would rely on his own senses this time, not the words of others. He inhaled deeply, and began to draw in the air again.
Fists pounded on the treasury door from the outside. It seemed that the guards had caught on to his plot. It was no matter. Tartaglia sighed and quickly drew another spell in the air. Years of practice had made him an expert at fast magic, and as the stone doors of the treasure burst open, Tartaglia vanished.
He watched invisibly as guards flooded the room. The men fanned out, barking orders at one another as they searched. Tartaglia bit back a laugh at the ants that scurried about, quietly tiptoeing toward the open doors. He was ten feet away, then five, then two. His feet brushed the threshold, barely sidestepping two more guards, and then—
“Excuse me.”
The voice rang out through the treasury, silencing the guards immediately. Tartaglia swallowed, compelled to look as a new figure pushed his way into the room. The man was tall, draped in a thick, indigo coat decorated with a ludicrous amount of feathers. He crossed his arms over his chest, his slightly curled shoes clicking to a stop on the tiled floors.
“What,” the man demanded, “is going on here?”
Immediately, one of the guards explained that there was a thief in the palace. Tartaglia rolled his eyes, his heart calming slightly. He turned to continue his journey through the palace, only for his blood to run cold as the feathered man laughed. “I think,” the man said wryly, “I may have an idea where our… little thief is.”
Quicker than the blink of an eye, a gloved hand clamped down on Tartaglia’s shoulder. The thief gasped, twisting in the feathered man’s grip. He wished he had packed more than one knife, swinging his other arm around quickly. The feathered man caught Tartaglia’s fist, and the ginger gasped as his legs were kicked out from under him.
The invisibility spell flickered, then died, and the guards gasped as their master’s target was revealed. Tartaglia gasped as his wrist twisted, but he was not one to back down. He thrust out his leg, attempting to kick his attacker in the knee, only to be sidestepped. Power welled in his hands as he prepared to release a concentrated blast of magic.
Suddenly, his hands were cold. Freezing, in fact. He yelped as the chill spread through his arms and down his spine. His breath came out in frigid puffs, steaming in the now sub-zero air. Tartaglia grunted, his movements becoming sluggish. He barely registered as his hands were released, allowing him to fall limply to the floor.
The feathered man was speaking incomprehensibly. Ajax groaned, unable to think. It was so cold. He couldn’t breathe. He could feel something flaking off of his hands as they trembled in the cold— frost? He curled up, almost on instinct. How had it gotten so cold so fast?
Darkness closed in, and Ajax could no longer hear voices. With the last bit of strength he had, he pried his eyes open. He could see indigo, white, and gray moving shapes. He groaned and closed his eyes again.
He just needed a nap. Then, he would move. He could stand the cold for a little while longer. In fact, he was beginning to feel a little warm. He smiled, more frost flaking from his cheeks. It felt like his mother was wrapping a warm blanket around him. Mama…
Ajax exhaled. He sank deeper into the floor. Then, as quickly as the cold had come, it vanished, and so did everything else as he fell into a deep, deep slumber.