The capital was alive with celebration, but Garrett moved through it like a shadow.He kept to the edges of the main streets, his steps steady, his eyes scanning the crowd. Beside him, Lily walked close, her small hand gripping the edge of his coat. Her pink hair was tucked under a plain hood. She looked like any other street child following a guardian. No one paid them much mind. That was the point.Garrett had been in the city for two days now, moving between inns and markets, listening more than he spoke. He had contacts here—old ones, from a time when his face was known and his name carried weight. Most of them were retired now. Some were dead. A few still remembered him. He had spent the first day near the outer gates, buying cheap drinks for men who liked to talk after a few cups. The second day he worked closer to the center, where the festival was thicker and people were more distracted. He asked careful questions. He never stayed long in one place.He thought about Lucian as

The inn was quiet when Lucian and Isabel returned from the market.The common room held only one traveler in the corner, nursing a drink and staring at nothing. The innkeeper looked up as they passed. His eyes rested on Lucian’s dark glasses for a second longer than necessary, then he went back to wiping the counter. They climbed the narrow stairs without speaking. The boards under their feet made soft sounds. Neither of them hurried.Lucian closed the door behind them and leaned against the wall for a moment. He pulled the glasses off and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. The market still sat in his head—the shouting, the press of bodies, the way Skylar’s voice had cut through everything like it belonged there. The offer sat with him too. It had not left since they walked away.Isabel set the cloth bag on the table. She took out the small bracelet she had bought earlier and placed it carefully on the surface. She ran one finger along the edge, turning it once, then twice.

Lucian had been training since dawn.He found a quiet courtyard behind the inn, a small space of packed earth and a single wooden post. It was not much, but it was enough. He needed the movement. The familiar rhythm helped clear the noise still sitting in his head from the night before.He started slow, running through the forms he knew by heart. Feet planted. Shoulders loose. Strikes measured. Then he picked up the pace. His fists and the edge of his practice strikes landed against the post with sharp, controlled force. The wood gave a little under each hit. He did not stop.He thought about Skylar. About the way the name had been spoken so casually, like it had always belonged in that bar. About the grin that followed, the one that said I know something you would rather keep buried. Lucian had been careful. He had worn the name Light like a second skin. Skylar had seen past it from the beginning and that knowledge sat under Lucian’s ribs and would not move.He struck the post hard

The room was too small.Lily sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging, hands pressed flat against the mattress. Festival noise drifted through the closed window—laughter, music, the distant pop of something that might have been fireworks or a stall falling over. She could not tell which. She did not care.She was bored.Garrett had left an hour ago. He said he needed to check on something and that he would be back soon. He had given her a book, but the words refused to stay in her head. She had tried counting the cracks in the ceiling. There were only three, and they never changed.Through the window she watched a group of children running between the legs of adults. They laughed and chased each other with sticks and ribbons. One of them tripped, rolled, then got up and kept running like nothing had happened.Lily pressed her face against the glass. The festival stretched out below—bright banners, glowing lanterns, crowds moving like water through the streets. Somewhere out there Bi

The bench was cold. Frost clung to the edges of the wooden slats, thin and white in the grey light of early morning. Lucian sat on one end, dark glasses in place, hands resting on his knees. To anyone walking past he looked like any other young man waiting for the day to start. His posture was relaxed. His breathing was even. Inside, nothing about him was relaxed. He watched the street without turning his head, tracking the few people who passed, noting the way the light shifted as the sun crept higher behind the rooftops. A baker’s apprentice hurried by with a tray of warm loaves. An old woman swept the steps of a shop across the way. A cat slipped between barrels and disappeared. Ordinary things. He catalogued them all the same way he always did—habit more than need.He had chosen this bench for a reason. It sat at the edge of a small square that saw just enough traffic to make a meeting look accidental and not enough to make it crowded. The inn was only a few streets away. The