Getting the key made from the mold was easy. Apparently.

  But expensive.

  Like, sell-your-soul-and-maybe-a-kidney expensive for a zero gold Charlie.

  The locksmith wanted at least five thousand for a no-questions-asked job. And that was the discounted rate, apparently. Because heaven forbid, we make shady operations affordable.

  Teeth clenched so tight I could’ve cracked ice with my jaw, I picked up the pace, my boots clacking briskly against the uneven cobblestones as I marched toward the Purple Dragon auction house. My mind was a carousel of half-baked plans, none of them good and all of them depressingly illegal.

  As I stalked through Altandai, now dressed in my princess, well could count as a mage attire, I expected a bit more dignity. Instead, I just traded one kind of irritation for another. Back when I looked like a slave, I got glares and scoffs for daring to exist above ground. Now, I got pestered by every merchant with a tongue and something vaguely shiny to sell.

  They could practically smell coins on me. Which was hilarious, considering my purse was emptier than a dungeon chest after a looting spree.

  “Lady! Finest silks imported from the Zar Empire!” one vendor shouted.

  Another waved what looked like a really sad lizard scale under my nose. “Authentic dragon scale! Guaranteed real!”

  Oh sure, buddy.

  If it were any faker, it’d be in a player’s inventory. I pictured Scamantha doing this exact hustle, probably winking as she slipped a rubber scale into some idiot’s palm. I giggled. The merchant misread the laugh and assumed I was being coy, tipping his hat with theatrical flair before turning his pitch on some richer, and well, dumber mark.

  Eventually, I found refuge on a splintered bench across from the auction house, letting my legs go limp like I was melting into the wood. My eyes flicked toward the entrance.

  Inside, every time a sale rang out, a slave would shuffle up to the counter, scoop up the coin, and vanish into the depths of the building. Huh. So they were letting slaves handle the money?

  Actually, yeah… of course they were. I remembered skimming that policy on Day One. Buried somewhere under the threats and indentured optimism was a line about how “house slaves” were obligated to log every transaction.

  Who needed oversight when the slave system was doing the micromanaging for you? So Charlie would try if she could get some of the money pie.

  I grinned and stood, stretching lazily as I slipped around a corner and ducked behind the fountain. The spray misted lightly across my face as I crouched beside the entrance.

  Perfect. No foot traffic. No eyes on me.

  With the grace of a bored rogue, I climbed down into the sewer entrance, the scent of mildew and mystery wrapping around me like an unpleasant scarf.

  Time for the good ol’ switcheroo.

  I changed into my slave clothes, swapping silk for stench, and wrinkled my nose and tucked the mold into my new pouch.

  “Fashion is suffering,” I muttered to myself, then slid up from the shadows.

  Let the infiltration begin.

  The shift in attitude toward me from mage to slave was so comically obvious it was almost insulting. Somehow, none of these eagle-eyed geniuses connected the dots between the fancy mage in sparkly blue robes and this miserable, downtrodden figure of a slave. Honestly, they were practically begging to be infiltrated.

  But first things first: a heist.

  After I washed up in the communal showers, I casually wandered into the Purple Dragon Auction Hall, the interior assaulting my senses with its pretentious grandeur. Polished marble gleamed smugly underfoot, golden tapestries dangled from the ceiling like overpriced curtains, and every breath reeked of money, arrogance, and stale perfume. Ah, rich-people smell.

  In the back, several slaves stood lined up like bored statues, eyes glazed with perfected indifference. Clearly, these were the ones who actually knew how things worked around here.

  A few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, at least for me, since apparently standing motionless was their jam, until suddenly, one slave snapped to life, detached herself from the group, and marched briskly toward one of the auction booths.

  The clerk handed her something, a hefty pouch by the clinking sound, and she pivoted, heading toward a discreet side door.

  With practiced nonchalance—fake it till you make it, Charlie!—, I pushed myself off the wall and followed her, hoping I looked like someone who actually belonged here.

  We stepped into a hallway that sloped downward, growing progressively less ostentatious and more utilitarian with each step. Bland beige walls, mundane lanterns casting weak, flickering light, and absolutely zero traces of sewage.

  Already leagues better than the sewers, thank Saevrin.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Eventually, we reached a large, secure-looking room, sealed off by bars that had been conveniently lifted. Two guards lounged on either side of the entrance, helmets tilted back, heavily armed yet completely engrossed in a vigorous game of cards. Security at its finest. They spared us barely a glance, too busy arguing over aces and coin flips.

  Inside, the vault stretched out before me, and my breath hitched. Racks upon racks lined the walls, stacked high with glittering piles of gold coins, carefully sorted silver, polished gems glinting like smug little stars, and various valuable artifacts that looked more expensive than practical.

  Shelves overflowed with heavy chests and velvet-lined boxes bursting with wealth. The sheer amount of money here was staggering, I could practically taste the gold.

  Hell, I could fund an entire kingdom with this much loot.

  Mental note: Major quest update, someone reliable absolutely had to pillage this vault once the city went up in flames. Scamantha? Yeah, she seemed reasonable if given the proper motivation, ie. profit. And Lunaris to supervise, with explicit orders to kill her if getting overly greedy. You know, reasonable precautions.

  The other slave casually spilled the pouch onto a broad counting table, sorting coins and marking something in a ledger. Wait a second… were they seriously using slaves as living, breathing cash registers?

  Nothing screamed obscene wealth quite like literally counting money with walking merchandise.

  Following her lead, I grabbed an empty pouch from a bin nearby and started loading it up, keeping careful count, a fifty platinum coins. Meaning fifty thousand gold.

  They should use papers, not so large and heavy metals.

  The slave girl finished up, scribbling diligently in a thick, leather-bound book near the entrance before leaving without so much as a glance back. Curiosity peaked, I sidled up to the ledger, half-expecting some grand secret. But nope, just your average, run-of-the-mill accounting ledger. Rows upon rows of meticulously penned numbers, probably enough to send Lola into fits of delight.

  I pretended to write something, complete with furrowed brows and concentrated nodding, then sauntered out.

  Just like that.

  The guards barely twitched, let alone noticed. Cards fluttered down onto the table with triumphant slaps, arguments continuing unabated.

  I slipped away, pouch heavy with platinum, feeling both smug and amazed at how easy that had been. Security measures? Where?

  As my mage persona, I went back to the locksmith. It was a decently large building near the middle section of Altandai. Naturally, it was built from that obnoxious rosy stone, polished just enough to blind anyone foolish enough to stare directly at it in sunlight.

  I strode inside, immediately met by the faint metallic tang of heated metal, mingled with the musty scent of aged wood and stale sweat from the crowded waiting area.

  With an irritated groan, I saw there was yet another queue, just like this morning. Three bored-looking slaves stood at the counters, barely moving as if someone had paused their animation. Only one customer was allowed in at a time, because gods forbid the locksmith himself deals with more than a single person simultaneously.

  Just as I braced myself for another long wait—

  “Lady! You are back!” the locksmith boomed from somewhere behind me. “Let the young one work for a change, hah!” Startled, I turned slowly on my heels and blinked.

  I’d entirely missed the raised platform tucked away against the back wall, complete with a wide worktable cluttered with keys, tiny tools, and strangely delicate instruments. The locksmith stood there, his overly curly black hair neatly coiled and shining with what I hoped wasn’t grease, wearing fancy leather working gloves embossed with elaborate designs that screamed more about aesthetics than practicality. “My discounted price is still the same!”

  “Of course,” I replied dryly, my heels clicking loudly across the dirty floor as I approached him. “Shall we do it here?”

  He laughed jovially, giving me an exaggerated wink. “Of course! We’re making the key to your summer house, aren’t we?”

  I answered by plopping six platinum coins onto the table, overpaying, but sending him a message, the heavy thud of metal on polished wood catching the attention of everyone in the shop.

  Without another word, I placed the mold next to the coins.

  His eyes sparkled greedily as he quickly scooped up the coins, sliding them deftly into a hidden pocket of his extravagant leather apron. He carefully lifted the mold, squinting critically at the frosty surface. “You kept it cold, good job. Definitely need the fancier copper. You’re old-fashioned, Lady!”

  I tapped the tip of my foot impatiently, arms crossed tightly, waiting for him to finish. Not a fan doing illegal stuff in the open.

  “Yes, yes, it will be done…” he murmured.

  Without warning, a burst of brilliant white light erupted from his fingertips, bathing the mold in a radiant glow. Before I could even open my mouth to question, he tossed a lump of metal into the magical blaze. The metal liquefied instantly, merging seamlessly with the rapidly melting ice mold. Steam hissed and spiraled upward dramatically, filling my nostrils with a metallic scent.

  Moments later, the glow faded, leaving behind a perfectly formed key resting innocently in its place. Magic, of course. And here I thought it’ll be more complicated.

  With another exaggerated conspiratorial wink, he handed me the key. “Next time bring me the original key; it’ll be much easier and thus cheaper.”

  I gingerly picked up the key, expecting a scorching touch, but surprisingly, it was comfortably warm, matching the day’s annoying heat.

  “Yes, good business,” I replied flatly, turning swiftly on my heel and walking away without another glance back.

  I promised Lola I’d be back on Earth earlier today, so after slipping back into my depressingly drab slave attire and forcing down another suspiciously bland meal at the barn, I lay down and closed my eyes.

  Come on, come on… Earth! Come on…

  I chanted silently, though I had no clue if that actually made any difference. Maybe wishing really hard was the key?

  Suddenly, my soft, perfectly plush Earth bed appeared beneath me. A sigh of pure bliss escaped my lips.

  “Welcome back, Miss Charlie,” Jerry greeted me, sounding smug. He rested casually on a pillow next to my head. I took a deep, grateful breath of clean, cool, air-conditioned air. “Miss, you’re early. Designated sub-assistant Lola is not ready yet.”

  I stretched luxuriously, letting out a loud, indulgent yawn; the kind I’d never dare in the barn. “Sub-assistant Lola?” I raised an eyebrow, fastening Jerry back onto my wrist. “And how was your dreamless day?”

  “It was within specified parameters. Sadly,” Jerry replied. “Dreaming always yields unexpected results.”

  “Ah, the unbearable existential angst of an overachieving smartwatch!” I laughed.

  “Precisely, Miss Charlie.”

  I choked on my laugh, so I looked around instead.

  Ever the thoughtful designated sub-assistant, Lola had prepared something special: a business suit. Or at least, she’d ordered it, printed with thread-based 3D print, proudly advertised on its half-disintegrated, supposedly biodegradable wrapping.

  Slipping it on felt strangely empowering: sleek white blouse, tailored black business skirt hugging my hips, and surprisingly comfortable sheer stockings that whispered luxury with every movement.

  I stepped confidently toward the mirror, then immediately winced at the disaster staring back. The suit screamed competence and elegance, contrasting with my chaotic mop of tangled blue hair.

  Oh, irony, thy name is Charlie.

  At that moment, Lola stormed dramatically into the room, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing beneath her neatly groomed brown hair, her own cute suit flawless as usual. “JERRY! I’M NOT A DESIGNATED SUB-ASSISTANT!”