The Red Hand Tavern was a low, squat building near the defunct docks, perpetually shrouded in the steam from nearby factories. It was exactly the kind of place where a Grounder assassin would blend in, and a High Lady would be instantly spotted, or worse, taken.
Elias shoved Lyra into a narrow, filthy alleyway beside the tavern, the smell of sour ale and woodsmoke replacing the caustic stench of the chute.
"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't move. Don't speak. Don't think anything loud. I'm finding you clothes."
"I can't stay here," Lyra countered, though her voice trembled. "Your people are looking for you, Elias. If I'm spotted alone, you're compromised. Besides," she added, lifting her wrist, "I'm still cold. And I can feel your heart rate increasing. We need to stabilize."
The connection was a tether of mutual vulnerability. Elias realized he couldn't leave her. Her physical discomfort was a drain, and her panicked thoughts were a distraction. He needed her functioning.
He pulled her deeper into the shadows, his eyes scanning the alley. He quickly stripped a dark, stained canvas awning from a window frame and wrapped it around her like a rough cloak, completely obscuring the expensive velvet beneath. He took a bottle of discarded, oily soot from a heap of industrial waste and, ignoring Lyra's sharp inhale of disgust, swiftly smeared it across her pale face, neck, and hands.
"There. You look less like an heiress and more like a dock worker," Elias observed, stepping back.
As he worked, their proximity was unavoidable. The heat radiating off his body was the only source of warmth for her chilled skin, and Lyra found herself leaning into his space, drawn by his sheer, focused competence. A new sensation filtered through the link into Elias's mind: Curiosity. A fascination with his ruthless efficiency, the subtle movements of his hands, and the unwavering resolve in his eyes.
It was not romantic yet, but it was an undeniable shift—the recognition of a unique, powerful masculinity in the face of chaos.
"You're very thorough," Lyra murmured, the words hitting the link like a gentle touch, rather than a spoken sentence.
"Survival is thorough," Elias replied, ignoring the strange warmth the observation sparked. "Now, we walk in. You are my hired field assistant, covered in oil, and you speak only in monosyllables. Understand?"
They entered the Red Hand. The interior was a cavern of noise, steam, and low-grade electric lighting. Ironwood's populace—miners, dock workers, factory hands, and the occasional shadowy revolutionary—was crammed into rough wooden booths. The air was thick with smoke from cheap, dried herbs and the smell of fermented grain liquor.
Elias pushed them toward a secluded, darkened booth in the back corner. The moment they sat, Elias felt the subtle shift in the room's energy—the way three different people paused their conversations and tracked their movement.
Kaelen's men. Elias recognized the signs of his former guild. They were hunting him already.
"We're compromised," Elias thought, pushing the thought sharply toward Lyra. "Three shadows—one near the bar, two by the fireplace. They know The Ghost when they see him, even disguised."
Lyra received the thought instantly, her gaze drifting casually toward the bar, confirming the tall, leather-clad figure by the counter. "We need a distraction, or they will make a move when you stand. We can't fight three experienced assassins here."
Elias ordered two bitter ales from the serving girl, maintaining the façade. He felt Lyra's mind working, processing their limited options, her scholar's logic now terrifyingly focused on tactical survival.
"The ale," Lyra projected. "The sediment on the bottom of these glasses is pulverized Aether-Dust, residue from the local factories. It's unstable. If mixed with the right pressure wave—a small, focused sound—it will combust briefly."
Elias looked at her, his expression a mask of cold skepticism. "A bomb from a beer glass? You're insane."
"Necessity is the mother of magical invention," Lyra retorted, her mental voice surprisingly dry. "I know the frequency. You have the skills to create the pressure wave. Do you trust my calculations, Elias?"
The challenge hung heavy in the bond. Trusting her meant betting his life—and now, hers—on her obscure knowledge of forbidden magical physics. But his own options were dwindling.
Elias took the risk. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
He picked up his glass of ale, holding it loose. Lyra closed her eyes for a split second, mentally visualizing the precise frequency. Elias felt the calculation—a complex, rapid-fire wave pattern—flood the link. He then reached under the table, pulled out a small, tuned whistle he used for covert signaling, and, placing it against the tabletop, emitted a nearly inaudible, controlled click of highly focused sound.
The reaction was instantaneous. Not a full explosion, but a localized, violent flash. The sediment in the three glasses on the bar (and a few others nearby) ignited in bright blue-white bursts of Aether-light and heat.
Screams erupted. Chaos reigned. The air filled with the smell of scorched grain and fear.
Elias grabbed Lyra's hand—not for comfort, but for the necessary physical tether of the bond. "Go!"
They bolted out the back entrance, leaving behind a tavern reeling from the sudden, silent combustion.