Night did not pass easily.
Drea spent it crouched in the narrow throat of an alley where two stone walls leaned toward each other like conspirators. The smell of salt from the wrecked ship still clung to her clothes, mixed with rot and damp moss. Somewhere far away, waves broke against the shore of Valenford, steady and indifferent.
Ace slept fitfully against her chest, wrapped in a scrap of sailcloth she'd torn free from the wreckage. Every time he stirred, Drea's grip tightened, her body already coiled to run, to fight, to disappear. She did not sleep. She counted footsteps instead. Boots on stone, voices drifting past, the scrape of armor, the occasional barked order.
Syndicate. Guards. Sometimes both.
She kept her dagger in her hand the entire night, fingers numb around the hilt. When dawn finally crept in, pale and cold, it felt less like relief and more like a warning.
Morning meant eyes.
As soon as the streets began to breathe again, vendors shouting, carts rattling, shutters lifting. Drea moved. She waited until the alley emptied, then slipped out like a shadow loosening itself from the wall.
She hid Ace behind a stack of abandoned crates near a loading yard, tucking him deep between barrels and broken planks. He looked up at her with wide eyes.
"Don't move," she whispered. "No matter what."
He nodded, lips pressed together in the serious way he had when he was scared but trying to be brave.
Drea pulled her hood lower and walked toward the market.
Valenford was unlike any city she had seen. Even the lower ring, grimier, crowded, loud, carried a sense of weight, of permanence. Stone buildings rose higher here, windows framed with ironwork instead of cloth. The people moved with purpose, not desperation. Coins changed hands more often than glances.
And everything was expensive.
She stopped at a small bread stall, the smell of fresh loaves making her stomach ache. When she placed her coins on the counter, the shopkeeper barely looked at her face.
"That'll be three coppers, boy."
Boy!?
Drea froze for half a heartbeat.
She said nothing, took the bread, and turned away quickly. Only when she was back with Ace did she let out the breath she'd been holding.
Boy.
The word echoed in her mind, not with offense, but with realization.
No woman here wore trousers and shirts. No woman walked alone with soot-stained hands and a hard stare. She had already been seen. Already noticed.
And that could get them killed.
As Ace tore into the bread hungrily, Drea's thoughts raced. Coins counted themselves in her mind. Days measured. Risks weighed.
Then the idea struck, sharp and sudden, like a spark catching dry tinder.
That same morning, she rented a room.
It was small, tucked above a tavern that smelled of ale and smoke, but it had a door that locked and a window that looked onto a quiet courtyard. She hid Kai beneath the bed at first, then in the narrow wardrobe once she'd cleared it out, making sure no one else could hear him breathe.
She left him with strict instructions and went back out.
This time, she bought clothes.
Dark wool. Simple cuts. Nothing ornate. She bought black ink, cheap, strong, staining. She returned quickly, heart pounding every step of the way.
Inside the room, they worked in silence.
She cut and adjusted the clothes with a precision born of necessity. When they pulled them on, Ace looked almost unrecognizable, small but sharp, his posture instinctively mimicking what he saw others do. She poured the ink into a basin and worked it through their hair, scrubbing until the silver vanished beneath deep black. She combed it back tightly, exposing their faces, changing the angles of who they appeared to be.
When she stepped back and looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
The girl with silver curls and soot-streaked skin was gone.
In her place stood a lean young man in a neat suit, eyes sharp, jaw set, movements contained. Ace looked like her shadow, smaller, quieter, but no less alert.
Drea bundled their old clothes into a sack and slung it over her shoulder.
Erase the past. Hide the trail. And they stepped back into the city.
They wandered first, learning and observing. Merchants called out prices. Buyers haggled loudly. Children ran between legs. The lower ring bustled, but Drea knew instantly it wasn't where they belonged.
Too many eyes.
Too many Syndicate agents blending in.
She needed the upper ring. Better work. Better pay. Better protection. And the capital beyond that where her work could blend in with them.
Her coins were already dwindling. A week, maybe less.
They turned down another street and that's when the hand brushed her side.
Drea reacted without a thought. She twisted, caught the wrist, and wrenched it hard. The thief yelped, blade flashing as it slipped free of his sleeve.
"Give it back," he hissed.
The knife darted forward. Drea stepped inside the strike.
Her forearm slammed into his wrist, knocking the blade loose. She pivoted, drove her elbow into his throat. He staggered back, choking. He was bigger than her, desperate, wild but desperation made movements sloppy.
He lunged again.
Pushing Ace aside, she ducked low, swept his legs out from under him, and followed him down. Her knee came down hard into his ribs once. Twice.
He tried to scramble up.
She grabbed his collar, yanked him close, and slammed her forehead into his nose.
Blood sprayed.
The crowd gasped.
The thief collapsed, groaning, clutching his face.
Picking up the pouch, Drea stood over him, breathing hard, fists clenched.
And she felt it again.
Eyes.
Whispers.
Interest.
The things she is running from are following her like a shadow.
"Come on," she muttered, grabbing Ace's hand. Run before they could remember our faces, she thought.
And they ran.
Not knowing where. Not caring.
They turned a corner and suddenly slammed straight into a wall of muscle.
Drea bounced back, nearly losing her footing. She looked up.
The man was massive. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A scar cutting across one cheek. He turned slowly, eyes sharp but not angry.
Before she could apologize, his hand settled heavily on her shoulder.
"Easy," he said, voice deep. "You look like you're running toward something… or away from it."
Drea stiffened, every instinct screaming. Her breathing, unstable.
"For work," the man continued, studying her closely. "Is that why you're here?"
"Huh?" She knitted her brows in confusion. "I was looking for this place to work," she lied to cover up.
"Good boy," the man slammed his hand on her back, shaking her whole form and continued, "let's go."
Sharing glances at each other, Drea and Ace followed the man.
The city hummed around them.
And somewhere, unseen, fate leaned closer.
*****
The Ackerman study was quieter than usual.
Tall windows overlooked Valenford's inner streets, sunlight slanting across shelves filled with ledgers, treaties, and maps marked by inked borders and red pins. Marcus Ackerman sat behind the heavy oak desk, his posture rigid despite the cane resting within reach. Years of command still lived in his spine.
Rovan sat opposite him, hands folded loosely in his lap, wheelchair angled slightly toward the window.
"The harbor reports are troubling," Marcus said, tapping a parchment with his finger. "Refugees from the wreck are scattering through the lower ring. Some are genuine. Others…" His mouth tightened. "Others carry the marks of the Syndicate."
"They always hide among the desperate," Rovan replied calmly. "Chaos gives them cover."
Marcus nodded. "Which is why we must move carefully. The council wants immediate sweeps, public arrests, shows of force. I disagree."
Rovan lifted his gaze. "You fear provoking them."
"I fear driving them underground," Marcus corrected. "The Syndicate thrives in shadows. If we strike blindly, we'll miss the real threat."
Rovan listened, but his focus wavered.
Unbidden, the image returned.
Soot-darkened skin. Fierce eyes. The weight of a body colliding with his chair. The way she had turned back, reluctant, irritated, yet unable to leave him fallen. And then the weapon.
The hairpin.
Perfectly balanced.
That mark.
Marcus's voice blurred slightly as Rovan's thumb brushed the inside of his coat pocket, where the metal stick now rested. He hadn't shown it to anyone. Not even his father.
"She wasn't afraid of me," Rovan thought. "She was afraid of being seen."
"Rovan."
He blinked.
"Yes, Father?"
Marcus studied him over steepled fingers. "You've been distracted since last night. Is your pain worsening?"
Rovan cleared his throat. "No. I'm fine."
"You're lying," Marcus said gently. "Or at least not telling me everything."
Rovan hesitated. He considered mentioning the girl, how absurd it would sound, how impossible. A stranger from the wreckage. A weapon bearing a forgotten sigil.
Instead, he said, "The situation in the city feels… unstable. As if something is shifting."
Marcus regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. "You've always been sensitive to undercurrents. That may be a strength or a burden." He rose slowly, leaning on his cane. "Perhaps you should rest. Let your mind settle."
Rovan nodded, though his thoughts refused to obey.
Marcus moved toward the balcony doors, pausing with his hand on the frame. "I'll walk the city myself. See what fear looks like today."
Rovan watched him go, sunlight outlining his father's broad shoulders as he stepped out into Valenford's noise and motion.
When the doors closed, Rovan finally withdrew the weapon.
He turned it slowly, tracing the curved engraving with reverent care.
"A refugee," he murmured. "Or something far more dangerous."
Outside, the city churned, refugees blending into crowds, Syndicate agents hiding in plain sight, and somewhere in the maze of streets, a girl who fought like steel and vanished like smoke.
Rovan felt it deep in his chest. Valenford had already been touched.
And whatever had come ashore with the wreck was not finished yet, it just started.