Entry 1 - 12th Day of Frost Moon,
Year 861 of the Second Age
Started this journal today. Not sure why, maybe because I turned thirty last week and realized I've been thieving for half my life with nothing to show for it but scars and a reputation that'll get me hanged if I'm not careful.
Ma always said I should keep records.
"You're clever with your hands, Marcus, but stupid with your memory," she'd say, right before cuffing me upside the head.
Found this book in a merchant's cart down by the docks. Beautiful thing, really, too nice to sell, which is how I know I'm a bad thief. A proper one would've fenced it immediately.
But the pages are blank and smooth, and when I hold it, I feel like maybe I could be someone who writes things down. Someone who matters enough to leave words behind.
Today's take: three silver crowns, a lady's brooch (paste, not real gems—disappointing), and a gentleman's pocket watch that stopped working two hours after I nicked it. Should've known better. The aristocrats in the Upper Heights carry nothing but broken, cursed trinkets these days. Something about the war making them paranoid, every single one of them walking around with talismans, luck charms, and warded jewelry that does nothing but weigh their necks down.
Cheap and bad for business I say.
Tomorrow I'm thinking about hitting the temple district. The monks of the Spiral Path have been collecting donations for the war orphans. Noble cause, sure, but those orphans won't miss a few coins. And I've got rent due.
Writing this feels strange—like I'm confessing to someone. Maybe that's good. Maybe I've needed to for a while.
Entry 7 – 18th Day of Frost Moon
Hit the temple like I planned. Almost got caught by a monk who moved faster than any holy man has a right to move. Had to duck through the catacombs beneath the sanctuary, came out three streets over covered in dust and smelling like the dead. The take was good though, forty silver crowns and a small jade figurine of some obscure deity named the Waiting god.
The fence, Old Tam, gave me twenty crowns for the lot. Not bad for a night's work.
Used half of it to pay rent. Used the other half to buy Ma some medicine. Her cough's gotten worse. She doesn't know where the money comes from, and I don't tell her. Let her think I'm working at the docks like I said. Let her die thinking I made something decent of myself.
Strangest thing happened down there under the temple. Found a corridor I'd never seen before, and I've been running those tunnels since I was twelve. There was a door... massive, old, carved with dark stone, covered in spiral patterns that hurt to look at. The same spiral patterns I've seen on those glowing purple mushrooms that grow in the ruins outside town. The door was warm to the touch, and I swear I heard whispering coming from behind it.
Didn't open it. Even I'm not that stupid.
But I keep thinking about it.
Entry 12 – 22nd Day of Frost Moon
Ma's medicine isn't helping. The apothecary says it's rot in the lungs. Said I should make her comfortable. How the hell do you make someone comfortable when they can't breathe?
Went back to the temple today, not to steal—just to think. There's a calm there I can't find anywhere else, even if it stinks of incense and guilt. Sat near the spiral murals for an hour and watched the light shift through the glass. I don't believe in gods, but maybe the monks are onto something. The world does seem to move in circles.
Everything I steal slips away eventually. Every bit of joy I find rots. Maybe that's what the spiral means. Not eternity—just repetition.
Entry 15 – 26th Day of Frost Moon
Ma died today..
The medicine didn't work. Nothing worked. She went peacefully at least, the priest said. Held my hand at the end, told me she was proud of me. Lied to her dying breath about my "honest work"
I used to think stealing was the worst sin I'd ever commit. Turns out lying to her for fifteen years was worse. She died thinking I was honest. That's the last lie I'll ever tell her.
Buried her in the pauper's field because that's all I could afford, even with all my thieving. Stood there in the rain while the gravedigger shoveled dirt onto a pine box that cost me everything I'd saved. A priest from the Spiral Path temple spoke words I didn't hear. Said something about her soul finding peace in the eternal turning..
I don't believe in souls. Or peace. Or anything much anymore.
Going back to work tomorrow. I need to keep my hands busy or I'll do something stupid. Maybe I'll finally see what's behind that door in the catacombs. Maybe I'll get caught and hanged and at least then I won't have to think about how the last fifteen years of thieving amounted to a hole in the ground and a headstone I couldn't afford.
This journal was a mistake. Writing things down just makes them hurt more.
Entry 19 – 2nd Day of Thaw Moon
I keep dreaming of the door. The spirals are glowing in my sleep now. I hear voices whispering just behind the stone, saying my name—not Marcus, though. Something older. Feels like they're trying to remind me who I was before I was born.
I wake up sweating, reach for the bottle, then for this pen. Writing feels better than drinking, at least for an hour. The ink stains my fingers blue now. I don't remember buying blue ink.
Every night the door opens a little wider. Every morning I swear I smell damp earth and candle wax. I think I'm going to go back there. Not to steal. Just to look. Just to know.
Entry 23 – 4th Day of Thaw Moon.
Been hitting the Upper Heights harder than usual. Took a nobleman's signet ring, a merchant's coin purse, a lady's pearl necklace. Fenced them all for good money and drank half of it away at the Drowned Crow tavern. Woke up in an alley with my head pounding and my pockets empty—someone robbed me while I was passed out. The irony isn't lost on me.
Keep thinking about that door. Dreaming about it, actually.
The same dream every night: I'm standing in the catacombs, and the door is open just a crack, and that pale blue light is spilling out, and the whispers are calling my name. Not Marcus. They're calling me something else, something I can't quite hear but that feels true in a way my real name never has.
I wake up shaking. I don't believe in omens. But I think I'm going to open it. I know I shouldn't, but I'm going to. I need to see what's behind that door, even if it kills me. Maybe that's the point.
If anyone finds this journal after I'm gone, don't follow me. Don't go looking.
But I know someone will.
Entry 24 – 5th Day of Thaw Moon
I opened it.
Gods help me, I opened the door.
I need to write this down before I forget, or before I convince myself it didn't happen.
The catacombs were quiet as a grave—no monks, no guards, no light except my lantern. The air was cold and wet, heavy with incense and old dust. I found the same corridor, the same door waiting. Only this time, it was already ajar.
The door led to a chamber I'd swear wasn't possible—too large to fit in the space beneath the temple, too perfectly carved to be natural. The walls were covered in those spiral symbols, all of them glowing with that same blue light I've seen in the mushrooms, in my dreams.
I'm not sure if I'm shaking from cold or fear. The chamber hums when I breathe, like it's echoing me.
In the center of the chamber was a pedestal, and on the pedestal was a book
Not just any book. A journal, identical to this one. Same leather binding, same smooth pages, same everything.
I opened it.
It was my journal. This journal. Every entry I'd written was there, word for word. But there were more entries after, entries I hadn't written yet. Entries dated days, weeks, months into the future.
I read them.
God help me, I read them.
End of Part 1 — The Thief's Journal