By the third morning in Valenford, Drea and Ace had learned the rhythm of work.
It was not the frantic, backbreaking survival of camps and forges where hunger set the pace. This was structured and measured. A bell rang at dawn. Names were shouted. Tasks were handed out on slate boards with chalked checklists. Complete one, report back, receive the next.
Drea liked that.
There was something grounding about crossing a line cleanly and moving on.
She stood at the edge of the lower ring depot with Ace beside her, both dressed in their dark suits, sleeves rolled just enough to work without drawing attention. The foreman handed her the slate without even looking up.
"Dock inventory. Sorting first. Then deliveries."
Drea nodded once and moved.
They worked in silence, the way they always did, no wasted motion, no unnecessary words. Ace read aloud from the checklist while Drea sorted crates by mark and destination, her hands moving swiftly, memorizing weight, balance, grain of wood. He checked seals, noted damages, stacked lighter goods where instructed.
"Next," Ace said softly, tapping the slate.
They carried grain sacks to the granary. Counted barrels of oil. Loaded wagons bound for merchant houses. Each task finished faster than expected, each checkmark added with clean certainty.
Other workers noticed.
Not because she rushed, she didn't, but because she moved differently. Where others strained and cursed, Drea adjusted her stance, shifted weight, lifted with precision. Her body remembered the forge. Remembered leverage. Remembered how to make heavy things obey.
By midday, the foreman squinted at the slate.
"You're ahead," he muttered. "One last job."
He hesitated, then added, "Upper ring delivery."
The words carried weight and gave a heavy thud in her chest.
The upper ring was not for dockhands and refugees. It was cleaner. Quieter. Watched.
The crates were heavy, stone-lined chests filled with imported metal fittings. Two men usually took one.
Drea lifted the first alone.
Ace said nothing, only watched her posture, adjusted his grip on the smaller crate beside her.
They began the climb.
Stone steps wound upward through archways and guarded passages. The air changed as they rose; less salt, more perfume and polished stone. Buildings widened. Streets broadened. Guards stood straighter.
And from the balcony above the transit square, Marcus Ackerman watched.
He had come out to see the city with his own eyes, as he'd promised Rovan. To feel the pulse of Valenford beyond reports and council debates. He watched refugees pass, merchants argue, guards redirect traffic.
Then he saw them.
Two boys, one barely more than a child, moving with unnatural coordination. The taller one carried a crate that should have slowed him, shoulders steady, breathing controlled. His movements were neat. Economical. Almost... trained.
Marcus narrowed his eyes.
That is not desperation, he thought. That is discipline.
When the crate was set down at its destination, Drea straightened, wiped her hands on her sleeves, and nodded once to Ace. Checklist complete.
Marcus descended the steps without haste.
"Excuse me," he said.
Drea turned.
Up close, she recognized him instantly.
Power clung to him, not loud, not cruel, but undeniable. His posture, his clothes, the way guards subtly shifted when he passed.
Upper class. High rank. Dangerous. She noted.
"Yes, sir," she said, voice steady, pitched low.
Marcus studied her face. He saw the sharp jaw she tried to hide, the eyes too old for the body they lived in.
"What are your names?" he asked.
There was the smallest pause.
"Dren," she said finally. "And this is my brother, Ace."
Marcus smiled faintly. "You work well, Dren. Better than most men twice your age."
"Thank you, sir."
"I'm Marcus Ackerman."
Her stomach tightened.
Royal blood. No doubt now.
"I'm in need of capable hands," Marcus continued. "Specifically… for my son."
Drea's pulse jumped. "I'm not interested." The refusal came too fast.
Marcus raised a brow, amused rather than offended. "You haven't heard the offer."
"I don't need to," she said. "We don't stay long anywhere."
Ace glanced up at her but said nothing.
Marcus's gaze softened, noted the way she stood half a step in front of boy without realizing it.
"My son Rovan," Marcus said, "has been… unsettled lately. He needs good company. Honest work. Someone steady. I believe you could provide that."
"No," Drea said again.
A longer silence followed.
Marcus shifted his attention to Ace. "Do you attend school?"
Ace stiffened.
"No, sir," Drea answered quickly.
"I could arrange the best tutors Valenford offers," Marcus said calmly. "In exchange for your service."
"No," Ace said at the same time as Drea did.
Drea looked down at him, surprised. He met her eyes, resolute.
"He doesn't need it," she said. "He knows more than most children his age. I teach him."
"And he won't leave me," Ace added.
Marcus studied them both.
"You cannot provide everything," he said quietly.
The words struck deeper than intended.
Drea felt it then, the truth of this city pressing in. The cost of bread. The guards. The eyes. The future closing in like iron walls.
Here, alone was not enough.
And refusing a man like Marcus Ackerman outright could be dangerous.
She exhaled slowly.
"Give me a day," she said. "If I agree, I'll come."
Marcus nodded, satisfaction flickering in his gaze. He handed her an address.
As he turned to leave, he rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Whatever you choose, Dren… you carry yourself like someone forged, not born."
'This little girl looks like she holds many secrets.' Marcus walked away, smiling.
Drea watched him go, heart pounding.
"This city is dangerous,"Ace whispered.
"I know," she said.
But as she folded the address and tucked it away, she couldn't shake the feeling that danger had already found them.
That night, the room felt smaller.
Drea closed the door behind them and slid the bolt into place, the dull click echoing louder than it should have. The tavern below hummed with drunken laughter and clinking mugs, but up here, the air was still, stale with oil smoke and old wood.
Ace kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the narrow bed without a word. The day had drained him in a way no running ever had. Work was different. It took something quieter, something deeper. He curled on his side, face turned toward the wall, breathing evening out within minutes.
Drea remained standing.
She leaned her back against the door, eyes fixed on the flickering lamp hanging from the ceiling. Its light stuttered and swayed, throwing broken shadows across the walls. Every flicker felt like a choice blinking in and out of existence.
Marcus Ackerman.
Rovan.
The address folded in her pocket.
She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her hands together slowly, as if soot still clung to them. Accepting his offer meant safety, real safety, at least for a time. Food that didn't require counting coins twice. A roof that didn't depend on how quickly she could disappear.
But it also meant visibility.
Attachment.
And those were luxuries she could not afford.
Her gaze drifted to Ace. His face was peaceful in sleep, lashes dark against his skin, fingers curled near his chest like he was still holding onto something. All day she had watched him move beside her, precise, alert, learning the city faster than she liked.
No matter what, she thought, I cannot let him out of my sight.
Not to schools. Not to strangers. Not to promises.
The lamp flickered again, dimmer this time.
Her thoughts slipped backward, as they often did when the night grew quiet.
Her father's hands, broad, scarred, guiding hers over molten metal. The sound of his laughter when a blade cooled cleanly. The mark he taught her to carve only into weapons meant to matter.
Her mother's voice, softer but stronger in its own way. The way she smelled of smoke and soap. The way she used to tuck Drea's hair behind her ear and say, One day, you'll choose your own life.
What if they had lived?
What if there had been no debt? No Syndicate. No running.
She imagined it, small, impossible things. Her father, still at the forge, complaining about his back. Her mother, humming while sweeping the floor. Ace never learning how to hide.
The thought of her mother twisted something sharp inside her chest.
Alive or dead, she wondered for the thousandth time. Taken or gone.
"I'm sorry," Drea whispered to the empty room. To ghosts. To the child sleeping beside her.
The lamp finally steadied, its light softening. Exhaustion crept in, heavy and inevitable. She lay down fully clothed, one arm draped protectively over Kai, listening to the city breathe around them.
Tomorrow would demand a choice.
But for now, she let her eyes close waiting for whatever dawn decided to bring.