The Moonlight Harp

It began with a song. Not one played in the street for coin, but a whispered tune passed between shadows. Talk of a harp, encrusted with moonstone, and silver strings said to sing by themselves when drenched in the light of a full moon.

Celia heard the rumor first. She always did. Her ears were attuned to more than music – they caught opportunity in passing murmurs like wind in a flute.

She leaned against a rain-darkened pillar that night, twirling a twig between her fingers like a conductor’s baton. »There’s a noble up in Ashmark who collects magical instruments. Keeps ‘em locked up like prisoners in his manor.« Leona arched an eyebrow. »And I assume we’re going to liberate them?« »Just one. The harp. Everything else is… a distraction.« Celia grinned, and that grin – wide, reckless, infectious – was the one thing Leona had never been able to resist.

Ashmark Manor was all jagged towers and ivy-covered walls, perched like a vulture on the city’s edge. The guards were well-trained, but not inventive. Celia and Leona had seen the same routines, the same mistakes, in at least half a dozen estates before.

Celia wore black; not for stealth but for drama. Her lute was strapped to her back, and a hidden dagger lay in her boot. Leona moved like a shadow beside her, quiet as breath, her flute tucked into her belt like a thief’s tool.

They scaled the outer wall, slipping between thorned hedges and moonlit statues. At the base of the music wing Celia whispered: »Three minutes. Then meet me in the west hall. If I’m not there… improvise.« »As I always do.« Leona answered with a smirk.

Celia found the harp in a glass case on a dais of polished marble. It shimmered in the moonlight pouring through the skylight above, its strings vibrating ever so softly – like it knew she was coming. She stepped forward, heart pounding, and pulled a tuning fork from her coat. When struck, it would disrupt magical wards – as long as timed perfectly. She counted the beats of her own pulse. Then struck.

The sound that followed was beautiful – too beautiful. The harp responded with a haunting chord that echoed through the hall like a scream in a cathedral.

Alarms flared to life.

»Shit!« Celia muttered, wrenching the harp free. She ran. She skidded into the west hallway to find Leona already waiting, calmly flipping a coin between her fingers. »What took you so long?« Leona asked, utterly unbothered by the clanging bells and shouting voices behind her. Celia held up the harp with a triumphant grin. »I wanted to make sure it really sang.«

Together, they raced through servant corridors and dove out a stained-glass window into a carefully placed hay cart below. They didn’t stop running until they reached the rooftop of their crumbling safehouse near the docks, panting, laughing, clutching bruises like medals.

Later that night, Celia tuned the harp while Leona quetly watched her. The moonlight caught in Celia’s hair, her fingers dancing over the strings as if they belonged there. The harp sang for her – a low, mournful hum that filled the attic with something just shy of magic.

»You knew it would sound like that« Leona said softly. »I hoped« Celia replied. »But it’s not just about the harp.« She turned to Leona with that same spark in her eyes – the one that turned every crime into an art, every risk into a performance. »It’s about playing the world like an instrument. You just have to know where the strings are.«

That was the night Leona fell in love.
Not just with the music. Not just with the thrill. But with the girl who could turn a heist into a symphony and make even even the most reckless plan feel like destiny.

She never forgot the sound of that harp. Even now, when she plays, she wonders if its last note still lingers somewhere in the air, waiting to be answered.