No portrait exists of Poiret. No two descriptions of their appearance match. Some say they are a woman with silver hair and a scar across her throat, earned in a duel with a prince who is no longer among the living. Others swear they are a man with golden eyes and hands like a pianist, capable of picking any lock ever forged. A few claim Poiret is not one person but many—a title passed down through generations of master thieves, a legacy of larceny that stretches back to the first kingdom.
The truth is simpler and more terrifying: Poiret is whoever they need to be.
What is known, verified by court records and wanted posters and the testimony of victims across every faction: Poiret has stolen from everyone. The crown jewels of the Human Kingdom vanished from a vault that required three keys held by three different officials. The sacred texts of Zunartha's temple disappeared between one prayer and the next. Even Utaria's mountain has been burgled—twice—though no one knows what was taken or how the thief survived.
Poiret has infiltrated the most secure facilities in Cordragia. The Obsidian Tower, protected by magical wards that killed a thousand mages who tried to breach them. The Sunken Archives, accessible only through underwater tunnels patrolled by creatures of the deep. The Palace of Whispers, where every room is monitored by psychic observers who can read thoughts as easily as spoken words. Poiret walked into each one, took what they wanted, and walked out. No one saw them enter. No one saw them leave.
They have assassinated targets deemed untouchable. The Immortal Lord, who had survived seventeen previous attempts and grown complacent in his invincibility. The Shadow Council, five mages who had woven their consciousnesses together so that killing one required killing all. The Dreaming King, who never truly slept and whose eyes saw everything that happened within a thousand miles of his throne.
Poiret vanished from prisons that had never known an escape. Not by digging tunnels or bribing guards—simply by walking out the front door as though the walls and bars had never existed. The warden of Blackstone Keep went mad trying to understand how it happened. He's still in a asylum, muttering about shadows that smiled.
Their network spans the entire realm. Every tavern has ears that report to Poiret. Every guard has a price that Poiret knows. Every noble has a secret that Poiret holds in reserve, waiting for the day it becomes useful.
Poiret's interest in the Crimson Chest seems straightforward on the surface. It is the ultimate prize—treasure that armies have died trying to claim, protected by a guardian who has killed gods. To steal it would be the greatest heist in history. Poiret's legend, already immense, would become immortal.
But the thieves who serve under Poiret whisper of deeper motives.
They say Poiret was once nobility—a child of the highest houses, born to silk sheets and silver spoons. They say a cruel king took everything: title, lands, family, future. They say the young noble who would become Poiret watched their parents executed for a crime they didn't commit, watched their siblings sold into slavery, watched their ancestral home burned to the ground while courtiers applauded.
They say Poiret's first theft was the executioner's blade, taken from his hand mid-swing.
They say the second theft was the king's crown, lifted from his head while he slept.
They say the third theft was the king's life, taken so quietly that his advisors thought he'd died of natural causes.
If these whispers are true, then the Crimson Chest is not about glory at all. It's about returning to power in a way that could never be taken away again. Enough gold to buy armies. Enough influence to topple kingdoms. Enough leverage to ensure that what happened to Poiret's family never happens to anyone again.
Or perhaps the whispers are wrong. Perhaps Poiret is exactly what they appear to be: the greatest thief in history, pursuing the greatest prize.
Either way, they're already closer to the Chest than anyone realizes.
They always are.